EYES I DARE NOT
Together they pass out of the forest just as the morning mists are burning away. In the rich light the grassy hillsides beyond the woods give the impression of being part of a tanned and velvety human torso. Gail reaches out one hand as if to stroke the distant hills.
They speak softly, occasionally intertwining fingers. They have discovered that full mindtouch brings on the blinding headaches that have plagued each of them since awakening, so they talk … and touch … and make love in the soft grass with only the golden eye of the sun watching them. Afterward, they hold each other and whisper small things, each knowing that mindtouch is possible through means other than telepathy.
Later, they walk on, and in midafternoon they cross a rise and look past a small orchard at a vertical glare of white clapboard.
“The farm!” cries Gail, wonder in her voice. “How can it be?”
Jeremy feels no surprise. His equilibrium remains as they pass the barn and other outbuildings and approach the farmhouse itself. The building is silent but intact, with no signs of fire or disturbance. The driveway still needs new gravel, but now it goes nowhere, for there is no highway at the end of it. The long row of wire fence that used to parallel the road now borders only more high grass and another gentle hillside. There is no sign of the neighbors’ distant homes or of the intrusive power lines that had been set in behind the orchard.
Gail steps onto the back porch and peers in the window with the slightly guilty manner of a weekend house browser who has found a home that might or might not still be lived in. She opens the screen door and jumps a bit as the hinge squeaks.
“Sorry,” says Jeremy. “I know I promised to oil that.”
It is cool inside, and dark. The rooms are as they had left them—not as Jeremy had left them after his weeks of solitude while Gail was in the hospital—but as they had left them before their first visit to the specialist that autumn a year ago, an eternity ago. Upstairs, the afternoon sunlight falls from the skylight he and Gail had wrestled to install that distant August. Jeremy pokes his head into the study and sees the chaos abstracts still stacked on the oak desk and a long-forgotten transform still scrawled on the chalkboard.
Gail goes from room to room, sometimes making small noises of appreciation, more often just touching things gently. The bedroom is as orderly as ever, the blue blanket pulled tight and her grandmother’s patchwork quilt folded across the foot of the bed.
After making love again, they fall asleep between the cool sheets. Occasionally a wisp of breeze billows the curtains. Gail turns and mumbles in her sleep, frequently reaching out to touch him. Bremen awakes just after dark, although the sky outside the bedroom window holds the lingering twilight of late summer.
There has been a sound downstairs.
Jeremy lies motionless for a full moment, trying not to disturb the stillness even by breathing. For the time being no breeze stirs. He hears a sound.
Jeremy slides from the bed without waking Gail. She is curled on her side with one hand lifted to her cheek; she is smiling ever so slightly. Jeremy walks barefoot to the study, crosses to his desk, and carefully opens the lower right-hand drawer. It is there, wrapped in old rags, under the empty folders he had laid atop it the day his brother-in-law had given it to him. The .38 Smith & Wesson is the same one Jeremy had thrown into the water that morning when he had come across Vanni Fucci in Florida—the nick in the stock and dullness along the lower part of the barrel is the same—but it is here now. He lifts it, breaks the cylinder, and sees the brass circles of the six cartridges firmly in place. The roughened grip is firm against his palm, the metal of the trigger guard slightly cool.
Jeremy tries to make no sound as he moves from the study to the head of the stairway, from the stairway through the dining room to the door to the kitchen. It is very dim, but his eyes have adapted. From where he stands he can make out the pale white phantom of the refrigerator and he jumps when its recycling pump chunks on. Jeremy lowers the revolver to his side again and waits.
The screen door is slightly ajar and now it swings open and then closed again. A shadow slips across the tile.
The movement startles Jeremy and he takes a step forward and lifts the .38 a second before he lowers it again. Gernisavien, the tough-minded little calico, crosses the floor to brush against his legs impatiently. Then she twitches her tail, paces back to the refrigerator, looks up at Jeremy meaningfully, and crosses back to brush against him with even less patience.
Jeremy kneels to rub her neck. The pistol looks idiotic in his hand. Taking a long breath, he sets the weapon on the kitchen counter and uses both hands to pet his cat.
The moon is rising the next evening by the time they have a late dinner. Electric lights in the house do not work, but all other electricity seems to be flowing. The steaks come from the freezer in the basement, the ice-cold beers from the refrigerator, and the charcoal from one of several bags left in the garage. They sit out back near the old pump while the steaks sizzle on the grill. Gernisavien crouches expectantly at the foot of one of the big, old wooden lawn chairs despite the fact that she has been well fed only moments earlier.
Jeremy is wearing his favorite pair of cotton chinos and his light blue work shirt; Gail has slipped into the loose, white cotton dress she often wears on trips. The sounds tonight are the same they have heard from this backyard so many times before: crickets, night birds from the orchard, variations of frog sounds from the darkness near the stream, and an occasional flutter of sparrows from the barn. They set one of their two kerosene lanterns on the picnic table as they prepare the meal, and Gail lights candles as well. Later, as they eat, they douse the lantern so as to better see the stars.
Jeremy has served the steaks on thick paper plates and their knives make crisscross patterns on the white. Their meal consists of the steaks, wine from the still-well-stocked basement, and a simple salad from the garden with ample fresh radishes and onions.
Even with the crescent moon rising, the stars are incredibly clear. Jeremy remembers the night they had lain out in the hammock together and waited to catch a glimpse of the space shuttle floating across the sky like a windblown ember. He realizes that the stars are even clearer tonight because there are no reflected lights from Philadelphia or the tollway to dim the sky’s glory.
Gail leans forward even before the meal is finished.
Jeremy takes a sip of wine. “What’s wrong with just being home, kiddo?”
Jeremy concentrates on turning a radish in his fingers. It had tasted salty and cool.
Gail looks toward the dark line of trees at the edge of the orchard. Fireflies blink there.
“I remember dying,” she says softly.
The words hit Jeremy like a blow to the solar plexus. For a moment he cannot frame his thoughts.
Gail continues, although her soft voice is husky. “We’ve never believed in an afterlife, Jerry.”
“No, no, kiddo,” says Jeremy, and moves his dish and glass aside. He leans forward and touches her arm. “There’s another explanation.…” Before he can begin it, the floodgates give way and they are inundated with the images he has held from her:
“Oh, Jerry, my God … my God …” Gail has recoiled in her seat and now covers her face with her hands.
Jeremy comes around the table, grips her upper arms firmly, and lowers his cheek to hers.
