The monkey grinned up at him.
Outside in the night, a black capful of wind shook the motel.
Hal's brother Bill and Bill's wife Collette met them at Uncle Will's and Aunt Ida's the next day. 'Did it ever cross your mind that a death in the family is a really lousy way to renew the family connection'?' Bill asked him with a bit of a grin. He had been named for Uncle Will. Will and Bill, champions of the rodayo, Uncle Will used to say, and ruffle Bill's hair. It was one of his sayings ... like the wind can whistle but it can't carry a tune. Uncle Will had died six years before, and Aunt Ida had lived on here alone, until a stroke had taken her just the previous week. Very sudden, Bill had said when he called long distance to give Hal the news. As if he could know; as if anyone could know. She had died alone.
'Yeah,' Hal said. 'The thought crossed my mind.'
They looked at the place together, the home place where they had finished growing up. Their father, a merchant mariner, had simply disappeared as if from the very, face of the earth when they were young; Bill claimed to remember him vaguely, but Hal had no memories of him at all. Their mother had died when Bill was ten and Hal eight. Aunt Ida had brought them here on a Greyhound bus which left from Hartford, and they had been raised here, and gone to college from here. This had been the place they were homesick for. Bill had stayed in Maine and now had a healthy law practice in Portland.
Hal saw that Petey had wandered off toward the blackberry tangles that lay on the eastern side of the house in a mad jumble. 'Stay away from there, Petey,' he called.
Petey looked back, questioning. Hal felt simple love for the boy rush him ... and he suddenly thought of the monkey again.
'Why, Dad?'
'The old well's back there someplace,' Bill said. 'But I'll be damned if I remember just where. Your dad's right, Petey --it's a good place to stay away from. Thorns'll do a job on you. Right, Hal?'
'Right,' Hat said automatically. Petey moved away, not looking back, and then started down the embankment toward the small shingle of beach where Dennis was skipping stones over the water. Hal felt something in his chest loosen a little.
Bill might have forgotten where the old well was, but late that afternoon Hal went to it unerringly, shouldering his way through the brambles that tore at his old flannel jacket and hunted for his eyes. He reached it and stood there, breathing hard, looking at the rotted, warped boards that covered it. After a moment's debate, he knelt (his knees fired twin pistol shots) and moved two of the boards aside.
From the bottom of that wet, rock-lined throat a drowning face stared up at him, wide eyes. grimacing mouth. A moan escaped him. It was not loud, except in his heart. There it had been very loud.
It was his own face in the dark water.
He was shaking. Shaking all over.
Except the water had come back. Like the monkey.
This time the memory would not be denied. Hal sat there helplessly, letting it come, trying to go with it, to ride it like a suffer riding a monster wave that will crush him if he falls off his board, just trying to get through it so it would be gone again.
He had crept out here with the monkey late that summer, and the blackberries had been out, the smell of them thick and cloying. No one came in here to pick, although Aunt Ida would sometimes stand at the edge of the tangles and pick a cupful of berries into her apron. In here the blackberries had gone past ripe to overripe, some of them were rotting, sweating a thick white fluid like pus, and the crickets sang maddeningly in the high grass underfoot, their endless cry:
