scrupulously neat, and almost all windows except for the wall behind the double bed. Howell slipped from his robe, leaving Andrew holding it awkwardly while the old man eased himself into bed, grunting from the effort.
“Just put it there—” Howell pointed to the door. Andrew hung the robe on a hook. He tried to avoid looking directly at Howell, but there was little else: the black windows, a bureau, a closet door. Above the bed a framed NASA photo of the moon. Andrew pretended interest in this and leaned over Howell to stare at it. In the white margin beneath the moons gray curve someone had written in a calligraphic hand:
Come on all you
Lets get busy
for the speedy trips
to all planets and
back to earth again.
“Huh,” said Andrew. Behind him, Festus shambled into the room and, grumbling, settled himself on a braided rug.
The old man winced, twisting to stare up at the photograph. “You like that?” he said.
“Sure,” said Andrew, shrugging. “What’s it mean? That poem or whatever. You write that?”
Howell smiled. He was so thin that it was hard to believe there was a there beneath all the smooth quilts and blankets. “No, I didn’t write that. I’ll show you where it came from, though; tomorrow maybe. If you want. Remind me.”
“Okay.” Andrew waited: to see if Howell needed anything; to see if he would be dismissed. But the old man just lay there, eyes fluttering shut and then open again. Finally the boy said, “Good night,” and left the room.
It took Andrew a long time to fall asleep that night. He sat on the window seat, staring out at the snow- covered fields as he fingered the amulet around his neck. He didn’t know why he’d stayed this long. He should have left as soon as he could that morning, waited for the old man to fall asleep (he slept all day: he must be really sick, to sleep so much) and then crept out the back door and disappeared into the woods.
Even now … He pulled at the amulet, holding it so tightly it bit into the ball of his thumb. He should leave now.
But he didn’t. The wrinkled white face staring up from the double bed reminded him of his mother in the coffin. He had never noticed how many lines were in her face; she really hadn’t been that old. He wondered how long Howell had been sick. He remembered the astronaut he’d seen at the library that summer, a disappointment, really. Andrew had been expecting a spacesuit and something else: not ray guns, that would be dumb, but some kind of instruments, or moon rocks maybe. Instead there’d been an old man in Izod shirt and chinos talking about how the country had failed the space program. Andrew had fidgeted until his mother let him go outside.
It must have been the same man, he thought now. Major Howell, not really any more interesting now than he’d been then. He hadn’t even walked on the moon. Andrew dropped the amulet onto his chest and pulled a blanket about his knees, stared out the window. Clouds drifted in front of the rising moon. At the edge of the woods there would be rabbit tracks, fox scat. A prickle of excitement ran through him at the thought, and he lay back upon the narrow bed. He would leave tomorrow, early, before Howell got up to let the dog out.
He didn’t leave. He woke to Howell calling hoarsely from the bedroom. Andrew found him half-sitting on the side of the bed, his hand reaching pathetically for the nightstand where a glass of water had been knocked over, spilling pill bottles and inhalers and soggy tissues onto the floor.
“Could you—please—”
Andrew found Howell’s inhaler and gave it to him. Then he straightened out the mess, put more water in the glass and watched as Howell took his pills, seven of them. He waited to see if Howell wanted anything else, then let Festus outside. When the boy returned to the bedroom, Howell was still sitting there, eyes shut as he breathed heavily through his nose. His eyes flickered open to stare at Andrew: a terrified expression that made the boys heart tumble. But then he closed them again and just sat there.
Finally Andrew said, “I’ll help you get dressed.” Howell nodded without opening his eyes.
It didn’t take Andrew long to help him into a flannel robe and slippers, and into the bathroom. Andrew swore silently and waited outside the door, listening to the groan of water in the taps, the old man’s wheezing and shambling footsteps. Outside, Festus scratched at the back door and whined to be let in. Sighing, Andrew took care of the dog, went back to the bathroom and waited until Howell came out again.
“Thank you,” the old man said. His voice was faint, and he trembled as he supported himself with one hand on the sink, the other against the door frame.
“Its okay, Major Howell,” said Andrew. He took Howell’s elbow and guided him into the living room. The old man was heavy, no matter that he was so thin; Andrew was terrified that he’d fall on the flagstone floor. “Here, sit here and I’ll get you something. Breakfast?”
He made instant coffee and English muffins with scrambled eggs. The eggs were burned, but it didn’t really matter: Howell took only a bite of the muffin and sipped at his tepid coffee. Andrew gave the rest to Festus.
Afterward, as Howell sat dozing in the armchair by the fireplace, Andrew made a fire. The room filled with smoke before he figured out how to open the damper, but after that it burned okay, and he brought in more wood. Then he took Festus outside for a walk. He wore Howell’s parka and heavy black mittens with NASA stenciled on the cuffs. The sunlight on the snow made his eyes ache as he tried to see where Festus ran up the first slope of Sugar Mountain. He took off one glove, unzipped the neck of the parka and stuck his hand inside. The amulet was still there, safe against his chest. He stopped, hearing Festus crashing through the underbrush. Would the dog follow him? Probably not: he was an old dog, and Andrew knew how fast a fox could run, knew that even though he had never hunted this spot it would be easy to find his way to a safe haven.
Then the wind shifted, bringing with it the tang of wood smoke.
Festus ambled out of the woods, shaking snow from his ears, and ran up to Andrew. The boy let the amulet drop back inside his flannel shirt and zipped up the parka. He turned and walked back to the house.
“Have a nice walk?” Howell’s voice was still weak but his eyes shone brightly, and he smiled at the boy stomping the snow from boots too big for him.
“Oh, yeah, it was great.” Andrew hung up the parka and snorted, then turning back to Howell, tried to smile. “No, it was nice. Is all that your property back there?” He strode to the fireplace and crouched in front of it, feeding it twigs and another damp log.
“Just about all of it.” Howell pulled a lap blanket up closer to his chin. “This side of Sugar Mountain and most of the lakefront.”
“Wow.” Andrew settled back, already sweating from the heat. “It’s really nice back there by the lake. We used to go there in the summer, my mom and me. I love it up here.”
Howell nodded. “I do, too. Did you live in the city?”
Andrew shook his head. “Yonkers. It sucks there now; like living in the Bronx.” He opened the top button of his shirt and traced the string against his chest. “Once, when I was a kid, we heard an astronaut talk here. At the library. Was that you?”
Howell smiled. “Yup. I wondered if you might have been one of those kids, one of those times. So many kids, I must have talked to a thousand kids at the school here. You want to be an astronaut when you were little?”
“Nah.” Andrew poked at the log, reached to pet Festus. “I never wanted to be anything, really. School’s really boring, and like where I lived sucks, and … ” He gestured at the fire, the room and the door leading outside. “The only thing I ever really liked was being up here, in the woods. Living in The Fallows this year, that was great.”
“It’s the only thing I liked, too. After I stopped working.” Howell sighed and glanced over at the pictures covering the wall, the sagging bookcases. He had never really been good with kids. The times he had spoken at the school he’d had films to back him up, and later, videotapes and videodiscs. He had never been able to entertain his son here, or his friends, or the occasional visiting niece or nephew. The pictures were just pictures to them, not even colorful. The tapes were boring. When Peter and his friends were older, high school or college, sometimes Howell would show them the Nut File, a manila envelope crammed with letters from Rubber Man Lord of Jupiter and articles clipped from tabloids, a lifetime of NASA correspondence with cranks and earnest kooks who had developed faster-than-light drives in their garages. Peter and his friends had laughed at the letters, and Howell had laughed, too, reading them again. But none of his visitors had ever been touched, the way Howell had. None of them had ever wondered why a retired NASA astronaut would have a drawer full of letters from nuts.
“Andrew,” he said softly; then, “Andrew,” as loud as he could. The boy drew back guiltily from the fire,
