snow. She is coated with it; even her eyelashes are heavy.
'Lisey?' From inside the drooping white umbrella.
'Yes, Scott?'
'Can you see me?'
'Nope,' she says.
'Come a little closer, then.'
She does, stepping in his tracks, knowing what to expect, but when his arm shoots out through the snow-covered curtain and his hand seizes her wrist, it's still a surprise and she shrieks with laughter because she's a bit more than startled; she's actually a little frightened. He pulls her forward and cold whiteness dashes across her face, blinding her for a moment. The hood of her parka is back and snow slides down her neck, freezing on her warm skin. Her earmuffs are pulled askew. She hears a muffled flump as heavy clots of snow fall off the tree behind her.
'Scott!' she gasps. 'Scott, you scared m—' But here she stops.
He's on his knees before her, the hood of his own parka pushed back to reveal a spill of dark hair that's almost as long as hers. He's wearing his earmuffs around his neck like headphones. The pack is beside him, leaning against the treetrunk. He's looking at her, smiling, waiting for her to dig it. And Lisey does. She digs it bigtime. Anybody would, she thinks.
It's a little like being allowed in the clubhouse where her big sister Manda and her friends played at being girl pirates— But no. It's better than that, because it doesn't smell of ancient wood and damp magazines and moldy old mouseshit. It's as if he's taken her into an entirely different world, pulled her into a secret circle, a white-roofed dome that belongs to nobody but them. It's about twenty feet across. In the center is the trunk of the willow. The grass growing out from it is still the perfect green of summer.
'Oh, Scott,' she says, and no vapor comes out of her mouth. It's warm in here, she realizes. The snow caught on the drooping branches has insulated the space beneath. She unzips her jacket.
'Neat, isn't it? Now listen to the quiet.'
He falls silent. So does she. At first she thinks there's no sound at all, but that's not quite right. There's one. She can hear a slow drum muffled in velvet. It's her heart. He reaches out, strips off her gloves, takes her hands. He kisses each palm, deep in the center of the cup. For a moment neither of them says anything. It's Lisey who breaks the silence; her stomach rumbles. Scott bursts into laughter, falling back against the trunk of the tree and pointing at her.
'Me too,' he says. 'I wanted to skin you out of those snowpants and screw in here, Lisey—it's warm enough—but after all that exercise, I'm too hungry.'
'Maybe later,' she says. Knowing that later she'll almost certainly be too full for screwing, but that's okay; if the snow keeps up, they'll almost certainly be spending another night here at The Antlers, and that's fine with her.
She opens the pack and lays out lunch. There are two thick chicken sandwiches (lots of mayo), salad, and two hefty slices of what proves to be raisin pie. 'Yum,' he says as she hands him one of the paper plates.
'Of course yum,' she says. 'We're under the yum-yum tree.'
He laughs. 'Under the yum-yum tree. I like it.' Then his smile fades and he looks at her solemnly. 'It's nice here, isn't it?'
'Yes, Scott. Very nice.'
He leans over the food; she leans to meet him; they kiss above the salad. 'I love you, little Lisey.'
'I love you, too.' And at that moment, hidden away from the world in this green and secret circle of silence, she has never loved him more. This is now.
7
Despite his profession of hunger, Scott eats only half his sandwich and a few bites of salad. The raisin pie he doesn't touch at all, but he drinks more than his share of the wine. Lisey eats with better appetite, but not quite as heartily as she thought she would. There's a worm of unease gnawing at her. Whatever has been on Scott's mind, the telling will be hard for him and maybe even harder for her. What makes her most uneasy is that she can't think what it might be. Some kind of trouble with the law back in the rural western Pennsylvania town where he grew up? Did he perhaps father a child? Was there maybe even some kind of teenage marriage, a quickie job that ended in a divorce or an annulment two months later? Is it Paul, the brother who died? Whatever it is, it's coming now. Sure as rain follows thunder, Good Ma would have said. He looks at his slice of pie, seems to think about taking a bite, then pulls out his cigarettes instead. She remembers his saying Families suck and thinks, It's the bools. He brought me here to tell me about the bools. She isn't surprised to find the thought scares her badly.
'Lisey,' he says. 'There's something I have to explain. And if it changes your mind about marrying m —'
'Scott, I'm not sure I want to hear—'
His grin is both weary and frightened. 'I bet you're not. And I know I don't want to tell. But it's like getting a shot at the doctor's office…no, worse, like getting a cyst opened up or a carbuncle lanced. But some things just have to be done.' His brilliant hazel eyes are fixed on hers. 'Lisey, if we get married, we can't have kids. That's flat. I don't know how badly you want them right now, but you come from a big family and I guess it'd be natural for you to want to fill up a big house with a big family of your own someday. You need to know that if you're with me, that can't happen. And I don't want you to be facing me across a room somewhere five or ten years down the line and screaming 'You never told me this was part of the deal.''
He draws on his cigarette and jets smoke from his nostrils. It rises in a blue-gray fume. He turns back to her. His face is very pale, his eyes enormous. Like jewels, she thinks, fascinated. For the first and only time she sees him not as handsome (which he is not, although in the right light he can be striking) but as beautiful, the way some women are beautiful. This fascinates her, and for some reason horrifies her.
'I love you too much to lie to you, Lisey. I love you with all that passes for my heart. I suspect that kind of all-out love becomes a burden to a woman in time, but it's the only kind I have to give. I think we're going to be quite a wealthy couple in terms of money, but I'll almost certainly be an emotional pauper all my life. I've got the money coming, but as for the rest I've got just enough for you, and I won't ever dirty it or dilute it with lies. Not with the words I say, not with the ones I hold back.' He sighs—a long, shuddering sound—and places the heel of the hand holding the cigarette against the center of his brow, as if his head hurts. Then he takes it away and looks at her again. 'No kids, Lisey. We can't. I can't.'
'Scott, are you…did a doctor…'
He's shaking his head. 'It's not physical. Listen, babyluv. It's here.' He taps his forehead, between the eyes. 'Lunacy and the Landons go together like peaches and cream, and I'm not talking about an Edgar Allan Poe story or any genteel Victorian we-keep-auntie-in-the-attic ladies' novel; I'm talking about the real-world dangerous kind that runs in the blood.'
'Scott, you're not crazy—' But she's thinking about his walking out of the dark and holding the bleeding ruins of his hand out to her, his voice full of jubilation and relief. Crazy relief. She's remembering her own thought as she wrapped that ruin in her blouse: that he might be in love with her, but he was also half in love with death.
'I am,' he says softly. 'I am crazy. I have delusions and visions. I write them down, that's all. I write them down and people pay me to read them.'
For a moment she's too stunned by this (or maybe it's the memory of his mangled hand, which she has deliberately put away from her, that has stunned her) to reply. He is speaking of his craft—that is always how he refers to it in his lectures, never as his art but as his craft—as delusion. And that is madness.
'Scott,' she says at last, 'writing's your job.'
'You think you understand that,' he says, 'but you don't understand the gone part. I hope you stay lucky that way, little Lisey. And I'm not going to sit here under this tree and give you the history of the Landons, because I only know a little. I went back three generations, got scared of all the blood I was finding on the walls, and quit. I saw enough blood—some of it my own—when I was a kid. Took my Daddy's word for the rest. When I was a kid, Daddy
