Jack (Gilead #4)(8)

She said, “Let’s keep walking.”

“Yes. You’re miserable.”

“My own fault.”

“Mine, too. I wanted to show her to you, to see what you’d think. So I took you all that way just to have a look at her.”

“I wish I knew what to think. I’ve seen prettier babies.”

He nodded. “That’s all right. She looks a little better by daylight. But the rain hasn’t been kind to her. She’s pretty well lost an ear. She’s been here a long time. Just short of eighty years, according to the inscription. There isn’t a single word for that look of hers, is there. ‘Terrified’ isn’t quite right.”

“Maybe. ‘Startled’ might be better.”

“There was moss on her lip a few weeks ago. It enhanced her metaphorical value, but it looked—uncomfortable. I used a toothbrush I brought here with me to clean her up a little.” That gentle hand, lifted away, then resting on his arm again, another considered act. “You might want to add the moss back in, for effect.”

“You should be the one writing a poem.”

He shook his head. “Not much rhymes with terror. ‘The Infant and the Armed Man.’ What do you think?”

“I think ‘terror’ is the wrong word. You said it was yourself.”

“Yes. Strange. Error is just an equivocation. But you add that t and you have another thing entirely.” She was quiet, so he said, “Sorry, too much time on my hands. I think about things, very trivial things. To pass the time.”

She nodded. “I do that, too. When I can’t sleep.”

“Another insomniac!”

“Not really. I think I would be one if I could walk out at night, under the moon, everything so quiet. I sit out on the porch step sometimes, in the dark.”

“Well, I could wander by your house one night and find you there and squire you through the city.” He said, “‘Nocturnal.’ I like that word. It sounds like the change there is when the streets are empty and the houses are dark, which is a much deeper thing than just, you know, the absence of light. I could show you. You hear your own footsteps, as if they mattered. I promise I’d have you at your door again when the first bird sings. Owls wouldn’t count.”

She nodded. “We’ll never do that.”

He said, “Sad, isn’t it?”

They walked on for a while. Then she said, “‘The bird of dawning singeth all night long.’ Why is that so pretty?”

“So blessed is the time.” He said, “Maybe. I know that bird. I don’t consider it a friend. It’s saying, Back to purgatory, Boughton.”

She stopped where she was, quiet for a minute. Then she said, softly, “It’s going to wake me up tomorrow. I have to get to school so early, I might as well just stay awake the rest of the night, anyway. Oh, what am I talking about? I’ll barely have time to go home! I won’t be able to pick up the tests I graded. I’ll be walking home at dawn with my hair all in a mess. My shoes ruined. It’s probably going to rain.”

“They don’t open the gates at dawn. Maybe half past seven. When the gardeners come.”

“Walking along the street early in the morning, in the wrong part of town, all in a mess. What’s anybody going to think.”

“I’ll see you home or wherever. Discreetly. From across the street.”

“Oh, good. You’re going to protect me.”

“I’m tougher than I look.”

“No doubt. Pretty much anybody is.”

He laughed.

She said, “I shouldn’t have said that. I know you’re trying to be kind. I’m glad I’m not here by myself, I really am.”

“Thanks.”

“That was mean, what I said.”

“It was a little bit funny, though.”

“I got myself into this. I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

“That’s true enough.”

But she stood there, her hands in her coat pockets and her head lowered. So he said, “We should talk about something. To pass the time.”

“I thought when I got this job I’d never ask for another thing. Sumner High School.”

“It’s a handsome building. I’ve walked past it a few times.”

“I used to have pictures of it that I cut out of magazines. I dreamed about teaching here. When I got that letter, I thought I knew how my whole life would go. And I’ve just thrown it away.”

“Maybe not.”

“If they decide to make this into something compromising, I’m finished.”

“Well,” he said, “we’ve got tonight to get through, in any case. You could slip your shoes off. Keep them a little drier. They’re not doing you any good, anyway, there’s not much to them. A few straps.” She looked at him, so he said, “If that was a rude suggestion, I’m sorry. This is quite a novel situation, even for me.” And he laughed.

“No, it might be best. Better than walking home barefoot tomorrow.”

“That was my thought. There are paths through the graves. The acorns haven’t fallen yet. The hickory nuts.”

She put her hand on a headstone and pulled off her shoes. “Well, there. I guess this will be all right. It’s ridiculous. Ridiculous.”