snapping a few lower limbs where they impeded its progress, shuddering the trees. From it came the eerie, silvery cry, sewn through with sorrow and longing, that had awakened me each morning during our visit to Roseland, the cry that never had been that of a loon. Such a poignant sound issuing from a creature so large was more chilling than it had been when it came from an unknown source in the night. This thing, if it could be better seen, might have been the size of an elephant, although it was nothing that had ever walked the Earth before. For a moment it loomed at the edge of the woods, a sickly white behemoth, its thick cankered folds of flesh revealing extreme malformation, enough like a swine to be related to the freaks, but even more bizarre than the most badly deformed of those smaller beasts. Given a few minutes, perhaps it would have surged fully into the sunlight, or maybe it would have continued to shelter in the shadows in the same way that the worst monsters of our nightmares never quite reveal themselves. The things in dreams are often aspects of ourselves that we cannot face directly, and perhaps this land leviathan, aware of its horrific nature, could not bear to fully expose itself to itself, and needed shadows the way that any guilty soul needs its justifications.
As the time-management machinery self-destructed, the full tide receded from the shores of our time. The creature in the woods faded away into the future where the sky lowered yellow and was shot through with rivers of soot.
Across the vast lawns, the topography changed as underground rooms and passageways collapsed upon themselves. The steel shutters flew up at all the doors and windows of the main house as we hurried toward it. Windows burst and glittered down upon the terraces.
The original carriage house, separate from the main residence, was remodeled in 1926, as it became clear how rapidly the automobile would come to rule the highways. The keys to the various estate vehicles hung on a Peg-Board.
I chose a Cadillac Escalade. Boo leaped through the closed tailgate, and after I opened it, Raphael followed him.
To Annamaria, I said, “What happens to Tim when we’re past the walls of the estate?”
The boy clung to her as she said, “Nothing happens. He lives and thrives.”
“But he said—”
“What was is not anymore, young man. And now we shall see what will be.”
Now was not the time to have one of our baffling conversations. I slid behind the wheel, and she got into the backseat with the boy.
As we drove past the house, it began to implode and to collapse into its foundations, into whatever secret rooms might lie beneath it, and thick plumes of smoke rose from some deep fire.
Perhaps following the final effects of the disintegrating machinery, no more would remain of Roseland than could be found of the House of Usher after it sank into its fetid marsh.
As we drove past the portico at the front of the house, Mr. Hitchcock was standing beside the driveway. He waved at me, and I waved back. I almost stopped to tell him that I was ready for him now, but I really wasn’t quite yet.
He smiled broadly at the sight of Roseland in ruins. Cloyce must have been as nasty a studio chief as he was a nasty human being.
The gatehouse had fallen into a hole of its own, most likely taking Henry Lolam with it.
I was about to get out of the Escalade to throw open the gates, when the perimeter walls began to collapse and seemed also to melt in upon themselves. The gates tore loose of the molten stone and crashed to the ground. I drove over them and away, as fast as I dared, eager to be gone but equally eager not to draw the attention of any police I might pass.
Before I’d traveled fifty yards, Madra raced past me on the magnificent stallion, white nightgown flowing over the horse’s black flanks. She glanced back once, and I saw her smile before she and the Friesian galloped out of this world into the next.
Ancient oaks flanked the two-lane road. Through the gaps in the great black limbs, rain abruptly fell in torrents from the clouds that had been gathering all day. For a moment, fear gripped me again as the world blurred away beyond the windshield, but when I turned on the wipers, the world was still there.
I drove down through the hills to the Coast Highway and turned south. The gray sea folded up into the gray sky at the horizon, which was obscured by mist, and silver rain slanted through the day, as the tires sizzled across the puddled pavement.
Fifty-three
We abandoned the escalade in a supermarket parking lot, and we rented a three-bedroom cottage by the month in a quiet town along the coast. Yellow bougainvillea draped half the roof, and the front porch faced the sea.
Of other renters, the owner would have required identification, but Annamaria’s smile, her touch, and cold cash charmed us into our new home.
Roseland started as a big story but quickly became less of one as Homeland Security seemed to exercise authority that was definitely unconstitutional. Rumors on the Internet pegged the place as a den of terrorists bent on some nefarious plot. The military personnel and scientists that were camped out on the grounds and probing through the ruins lent credence to that theory.
During the first month in our new haven, I slept in my room, and Tim stayed with Annamaria, afraid to sleep alone. He was not the same person as he had been. He was still the boy who had read thousands of books and been formed by them, but he never spoke of Roseland, as if he had no memory of it. He spoke sometimes of his mother, of how he missed her, but he seemed to think she had died in a fall from a horse, and of his father he knew nothing.
I didn’t ask Annamaria how this change in Tim had been effected because I was afraid that she would tell me, at length, and that I would not understand a word she said. As time goes by, I find that I am increasingly satisfied not to chase mysteries that my sixth sense does not absolutely require me to chase.
Tim was excited to discover that his hair was growing. He said that it had never grown before, though he admitted that was a strange assertion. We made a celebration of his first trip to a barber by following it with a session at an arcade, and ice cream.
After that, he slept alone in his room.
Here by the sea, I wrote these memoirs in what psychologists call a flow state. The words spilled from me as though I were taking dictation.
The dogs do the usual doggy things. Because Raphael can see Boo as clearly as I can, he has a playmate, but my ghost dog has all the advantages in their games.
I dream no more of Auschwitz and do not fear dying twice.
I dream of Stormy, of the years we had together, which were years rich in experience, and of how it might be when at last we are together again, though that is a thing that can only be seen in dreams.
My journey isn’t yet at an end. Sooner than later, I will be called to the road again. I learn by going where I have to go.
Annamaria says I’ll know when we must move on because I will wake in the night to hear the ringing of the pendant bell that I wear around my neck.
She is now in her eighth month, but she’s grown no larger. When I worry that she should have prenatal care, she tells me that she has been pregnant a long time and will be pregnant longer still, whatever that means.
Two nights ago, at dinner, in the center of the table, one of those large, waxy-petaled flowers floated in a shallow green bowl. She said she plucked it from a tree in the neighborhood, but though I’ve gone on a few long walks in search of it, I’ve not yet found that tree.
I asked her to show me the trick with the flower. As it turns out, she showed it to Tim back in Roseland. But she says it is not merely a trick, and the time for her to show it to me will come when I know the real name for it. Go figure.
Our friend Blossom, from Magic Beach, who calls herself the Happy Monster, phoned to say she will join us in another week. She was gravely disfigured as a child, when her drunken father set her on fire. Why so often childen,
