That evening, she spread a cloth on the floor of a farther front room and called again for him to come. At first he balked, sat stubbornly in the hall near his door, staring at her. She lay on the floor of the room and stared right back, more stubborn than he was, waiting. He went to her, finally, felt the heat of the fire. How the crackling warmth caressed him! He rolled before it, bathed himself in heat, and slept.
Later, unsatisfied still, she climbed the stairs, left a morsel of meat on each step. She stood at the top, far above, calling him. He stared up at her. She called and called, but he did not budge.
She gave up late, frowned and turned her back on him, went wherever she went up there. He ducked out his door. He slept fitfully on the porch, near the earth, the trees, the life he knew. He dreamed of shut doors and stairs, steps that went up and up as far as he could see, stairs he climbed until his short legs ached and his heart was close to bursting, until just after sunup when the shrill ringing woke him, woke the whole sleeping world.
18
The phone woke us before daybreak.
Upstairs, Henry groaned and cursed and took his ex-wife’s name in vain. But the second he answered it his tone completely changed. It wasn’t Susan calling.
“Fred,” I heard him say. “Calm down, Fred. Calm down and make sense.” Then: “What do you mean she’s gone? Gone where?” And finally, after a long, listening silence, he said, “Certainly a stroke could explain it. A lot of things could.”
Half a minute later he took the steps two at the time down to my room. I was sitting up in bed when he came. “What’s happened to Bessie?” I said.
Fred hadn’t been calm enough to make perfect sense. From what Henry could gather, Bessie had wandered off sometime in the night. She’d left the front door open and a meandering note about seeing the cabin and the white deer, saying she had to lay eyes on them, tell the wild boy something before she died.
“Fred and the sheriff want our help,” he said. “You and Maud know those woods better than anyone.”
“Course I’ll help,” I said, jumping out of bed, pulling on my jeans, boots, and sweater faster than I’ve ever moved in my life. Henry went upstairs to finish dressing and I heard him on the phone with Harlan. The phone rang again and I heard him say, “Any news, Garland?” so I knew it was the sheriff. Then I heard him dial and say, “Maud, Henry Royster, sorry to wake you at this early hour.”
But I knew right off who was best suited to find Bessie.
I slid down the banister and threw on my coat, plus an extra in case I found her without one. I snatched the flashlight off the kitchen counter and sped out the door. I heard Henry hollering for me to wait, but I kept running. I raced through the woods to the cabin, thankful for the moonlight, calling Wil’s name as I went, yelling, “Wil, where are you? I need your help!” But I got all the way to the trailer without seeing anybody or hearing one human or animal sound.
The night was still and cold, not a leaf stirring. Both the trailer and cabin were pitch-dark and empty, looking like lonely, abandoned places. The only thing I heard was my own sharp breathing.
I started screaming Bessie’s name as loud as I could in every direction, my breath leaving me in clouds. I hollered till I was hoarse, half expecting Wil to appear any minute out of the darkness with Bessie in tow. But there was no one. Nothing. Even the wind was still.
Maud arrived first, calling out ahead so I’d know. A second later Henry stormed up the path with his doctor bag, griping that I’d left without him and taken the only flashlight in the house, sending him to the studio to find another. The sheriff and his deputy came right after that, the sheriff grumbling how we all had serious acreage to cover between the cabin and Fred’s. “If she is between here and Fred’s,” he added, “and hasn’t gotten turned around or heading in a whole other direction.” He said the Padre and others were calling around for volunteers to help us look, but he wasn’t sure when they’d get here. Fred and Harlan were working their way here from Fred and Bessie’s place. The sheriff barked out directional assignments to those present.
The once-silent woods grew noisy with twigs snapping, leaves rustling, and Bessie’s name shouted in every octave. Flashlight beams sliced the darkness. Henry and I headed farther north. I tried to split off alone so Wil might find me, but Henry refused to leave my side. At first it irritated me. Wil wouldn’t show himself with Henry near, and we’d never find Bessie without Wil’s help. But as Henry and I tramped along together in the deep light, stumbling over the same roots and snagging our clothes on the same branches, each calling to the other to watch out for this low limb or that rotted log, I was glad to have Henry beside me. I mean, what did I think I was going to do if Wil wasn’t around when I found Bessie and she was bad off and couldn’t walk? Just what could one scrawny kid do?
Dawn haloed the tree line when Henry and I stopped a minute in the gray light to listen and
