Second Nature Part 8

Her arms were around his neck and she circled herself around him until he made her let go and forced her down on her hands and knees. When he moved inside her, she cried out, but not because she wanted him to stop.

He wouldn't let go of her, and that was what she wanted. And later, when they'd gone into the house, and up to her room, they still couldn't stay away from each other.

They did things they could never have spoken of, or known they needed sobadly. And they didn't stop until they were sore, until there was only one star left in the sky.

Outside, the first birds began to call to each other, but fortunately they didn't wake Stephen, and for that Robin was grateful. The sky in the east grew milky and pale, but she could hold on to this night just a little while longer, at least until daylight made it impossible. She could believe whatever she wanted, she could believe whatever she wished. He was turned with his back to her, and just watching him sleep made Robin s.h.i.+ver, although the heat was still rising, as it would continue to do until the rain came, late in the afternoon, a sudden, drenching storm that would wash away every bit of blood under the pear tree, until it was almost possible to forget what it was they'd found in the garden.

Now THAT it had happened to him, Stephen understood why the black wolf would have once had reason to kill him. When he was small, Stephen had hated to let the big dog out of his sight. He trotted after her and made a nuisance of himself, until at last the black wolf let him know there were times when he was not wanted. The lesson was harsh and quick: the black wolf charged and pinned Stephen to the ground, showing his teeth so close to Stephen's face that for months afterward he dreamed he was being eaten alive and woke whimpering and feverish.

That the black wolf had tolerated Stephen at all was a measure of his restraint, and now Stephen wished he had studied that restraint better, because he himself seemed to have none of it.

He wanted Robin constantly, when Connor sneaked out at night Stephen couldn't even wait for the door to close behind the boy before he went to her room. When she worried that they might be overheard, convinced that Connor was asleep in his bed, it took all his control not to betray the boy and just tell her they were alone. He kissed her until she stopped talking, he kept her there in bed until she didn't give a d.a.m.n who overheard. He was jealous of everything she touched: The towels she smoothed as she folded them into the laundry closet. The sweetpea vines she cut back beside the Feldmans' toolshed. The ground coffee she measured into the paper filter. One morning, when he was alone in the house, Stephen went into her bedroom and examined the clothes in her dresser. He found a photograph of Roy, an old one, taken years before, when Connor was a baby, and he tore it in half for reasons he didn't understand, and all the rest of that day he felt embarra.s.sed by what he had done, and he tried to patch Roy back together again, using glue and tape, with no luck at all.

Whenever he went running, in the dusk that came earlier every day, he ran flat-out, so that people sitting on their front porches didn't know if they'd seen him or just a shadow cast by a cloud. He ran until his lungs hurt, hoping to extinguish some of what was burning him alive.

Sometimes, when he got to Old d.i.c.k's house, he stood by the sink and drank water straight from the faucet, gallons it seemed, and still he was on fire. Instead of reading from the newspaper, he now read poems from the musty volumes no one had opened for decades, meaningless words, no sense in them at all, and yet some of those poems made his throat tighten with longing.

"What are you trying to do?" Old d.i.c.k shouted whenever Stephen began to read poetry. "Kill me?" He held up the Tribune's sports page.

"Here's beauty," he spat. "Here's truth." Out of the hundred questions Stephen might have asked the old man he finally chose the one that most disturbed him. There was almost no light left, Stephen put down his book and moved his chair so that he could see Old d.i.c.k's face."Can what you feel inside kill you?"

"Absolutely," Old d.i.c.k said. "Bet on it. It'll tear you right up and burst your blood vessels."

"If you want two things?" Stephen asked.

"You're f.u.c.ked," Old d.i.c.k said.

"That's what I thought," Stephen admitted.

Old d.i.c.k reached for his gla.s.ses. What he wouldn't give to change places with this fellow for one day, or a day and a night, a week--what he wouldn't give for that. Stephen was wound up about something, and it was exquisite to see, all that pain and emotion. By now, Old d.i.c.k often found himself waiting for the sound of Stephen running along the gravel driveway, he yelled at Ginny if she left out crackers as a snack, rather than the good chocolate-dipped cookies from England. On rainy days he found himself fretting, he was so completely out of sorts, thinking he was bound to be disappointed, that he coughed up blood. But the rain didn't bother Stephen, he ran in fine weather or foul, and if he happened to leave a pool of rainwater on the carpet, Old d.i.c.k didn't seem to care. And now, although he was enjoying Stephen's agony--almost feeling it himself, somewhere deep in his chest--there was something else he was feeling, too, and it came as such a surprise to finally have mercy in his heart that he began to cough, and he didn't stop until Stephen got up and pounded him on the back.

Old d.i.c.k caught his breath and waved Stephen away. As he struggled to sit up straight, the money in his mattress s.h.i.+fted beneath his frail weight.

"Love won't kill you, if that's what you're thinking," he said.

"Although if you have a choice, go for s.e.x without it.

Far superior and less complicated."

Stephen looked down at the carpet.

"No choice," Old d.i.c.k judged, correctly. "Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he said cheerfully. "I envy you."

In what the old man determined was an enviable state, Stephen ran back to Mansfield Terrace through the rain, not noticing the cars on the street or the dogs that dared to chase him, snapping at his heels as he outdistanced them. By now, he had imagined, he would have already begun the journey home, but the atlas lay on the floor of the guest room closet, unopened since the night Homer died. He could not go home and still have Robin, but he was greedy, even though he knew that if he held on to both, he'd be pulled apart, until all that was left of him was scattered, like stars, across the dark s.p.a.ce that separated what he wanted most.

And now as he ran, he wondered if he had asked Richard Aaron the wrong question. Perhaps it was knowing you had to give something up that could kill you. Certainly this knowledge forced him to run with a fierce speed that he couldn't control, not any more than he could control his reaction when he realized Roy was following him again.

This time he couldn't just go on, acting as if he didn't know he was being tracked. Instead he turned and ran toward the car, straight at the headlights, not caring, at that instant at least, if Roy ran himdown.

Roy had to brake suddenly. He skidded up on the curb, then threw open his door and got out.

"Are you crazy?" he called. "Are you out of your mind?" He blinked in the rain, not yet aware that Stephen was still headed straight for him.

Before Roy understood what was happening, Stephen had put both hands on Roy's chest, he shoved him, hard, so that Roy reeled backward, smas.h.i.+ng up against the car.

"Hey!" Roy said.

Stephen approached Roy again, and again he shoved him, but this time Roy's back was up against the car and there was nowhere for him to go.

They stood face to face, breathing hard, ignoring the rain that was drenching them to the skin.

"You're looking for a lot of f.u.c.king trouble, " Roy said. He had bitten his own lip, and now he wiped at the blood. "Jesus," he said.

"Don't follow me anymore," Stephen told him.

Stephen turned and started to walk down the middle of the road, he could feel something roaring in his ears. He heard Roy coming up behind him, and he was ready when Roy grabbed him. Quickly, Stephen broke away, the hair on the back of his neck rose.

"You're living in my house, aren't you?" Roy said." You're living under the same roof as my kid and my wife."

"She's not your wife," Stephen said.

Roy felt a pain in his side, just below his chest. He took a step backward. The rain was coming down harder, it could blind a man if he looked straight up into the sky, it could confuse him, too, even leave him speechless, particularly when faced with the truth, and that was why, long after Stephen had disappeared down the street, Roy was still standing there, right in the center of the white line.

A secret is always hard, a stone wedged just beneath the skin. A constant reminder that won't go away, a secret invokes longing, it takes on a life of its own. In order to keep one well, certain things have to be done backward: Laughter instead of tears, a slow walk when the urge is to run.

Always deny what is most important, at least in the presence of others.

And so it was possible to be together every night and then, each morning, pretend that the night before hadn't happened. Robin and Stephen were tentative with each other in daylight, more distant than polite. If Stephen was at the refrigerator getting himself some juice and Robin had to get to the sink to wash the dishes, she'd step around him, or sometimes just forget the dishes altogether and let them pile up. When they were out on a job, she'd curtly direct him to the work that needed to be done first, then set about by herself hauling manure or chopping at twisted branches, even if it was far too much for one person alone.

"Why are you so p.i.s.sed off at Stephen?" Connor asked her one night after they'd all eaten dinner in silence and Stephen had gone upstairs, to read, he'd said, although Robin knew it was to wait for her."I'm not," Robin told him, her voice unreliable.

"Could have fooled me." Connor shrugged.

Maybe she should have said, Look, I'm crazy about him, I'm absolutely insane with it, but instead she cleared the table and rubbed at her throat, as if the secret were buried right there, above her collarbone.

Every once in a while she almost gave it away. The last time she'd seen her father-inlaw--they'd happened to pull into the Mobile station on Cemetery Road at the same time-the Doctor took one look at her and asked if she was feverish.

When he suggested rose hip tea to ward off the flu, Robin felt so giddy that she had to turn away or she'd laugh out loud. She couldn't even talk to Mich.e.l.le on the phone anymore for fear of blurting it out.

This is what's happened to me, she wanted to say. You won't believe it.

She took cool baths and tried not to think about the future, but she knew he wasn't hers alone. There were nights when he couldn't stand being confined, when he left her to go to the window, and the way he looked out at the yard, the way he seemed to see right through the dark, frightened Robin. Sometimes, when he couldn't bear the heat of the house and the closeness of the walls, he went out for a walk. He followed the marshes, then pa.s.sed by the ginkgo trees in the center of town, going only as far as the bridge where the weeping willows grew.

One night he came upon a deer that was so tame and unafraid of people she went on eating the ivy that grew beside the Dixons' driveway.

Stephen stood there motionless, the way he'd been taught, but inside, his heart was pounding. In the dark, the deer's black nose looked soft and wet, it was the best place to latch on if you wanted to take her down quickly. The deer breathed out warm puffs of air as she chewed ivy, flanks s.h.i.+vering from the pure joy of eating.

When the wind s.h.i.+fted, the deer looked up at him, leaves hanging from her mouth. Stephen looked right back, not breathing at all now. If he'd been hungry, if he'd had nothing to eat but beetles and mice, his stomach would now be churning in antic.i.p.ation, he would have had to keep from rus.h.i.+ng. The deer, in her stupidity, began to walk toward him, her hooves making a sad clacking sound on the concrete. Stephen watched the deer's mild approach and was horrified, revolted by everything he had done and now considered doing again. You might lose the taste for blood and bones once you were well fed, but not your appet.i.te for the chase.

You didn't forget the way your legs felt just before you began to run, as if a spring were coiled inside, with a time clock all its own.

The moon was in the center of the sky. It was white as snow, white as the bones ravens have picked clean. Stephen waved his arms in the air.

The deer stopped and studied him with eyes as big as teacups.

"Go on," Stephen said. "Run."

But this deer was used to the tone of a human voice, which sounded a little like music, and she calmly sniffed the night air. When Stephen clapped his hands, the noise echoed like a shot. The deer jumped over some azaleas and ran across the lawn, leaving small hoofprints in the gra.s.s. Stephen closed his eyes and leaned up against the Dixons' car.

He put his hands on his knees and breathed deeply. Some secrets weremuch harder to keep than others, especially ones you kept from yourself.

Up in his bedroom, Matthew Dixon, who had begun to pack and would be leaving in only a few days for his soph.o.m.ore year at Cornell, watched this whole encounter from his window. It had been interesting enough to pull him away from his computer terminal, although he had just managed to access several calling-card numbers he would soon put to good use, making as many long-distance calls as he wished without ever having to pay the charges. He felt almost as if he had caught something, the way he did when he tricked feral cats into coming right to him by setting out open cans of tuna. He was smart enough to know that something had just happened there in his driveway. He had learned a great deal about people by scrolling through their lives, as he often did when he gained entry to private files. With a few choice facts he could predict what people would do. What bills someone would hold off paying, for instance, when going bankrupt.

How long it would take until a person realized his money card had been accessed-- by the mysterious creature Matthew became at the keyboard in order to make unauthorized withdrawals from an account. But Matthew never would have predicted that Stephen would frighten the deer away, or that he'd stand in the driveway until he was certain she was gone.

When Stephen went home, he took the same route as the deer, but where the deer had gone on toward Cemetery Road and the woods just beyond, Stephen crossed the Carsons' lawn. Most of the neighbors were already asleep, but in the Carsons' driveway, Marco Polo faced Stephen with his great rolling bark. Stephen stopped where he was, beside the hedge of lilacs. He crouched down and called the dog to him. Still, the ba.s.set hound continued to bark. He simply wouldn't budge. Marco Polo was old, he slept on the couch and was spoiled with dog biscuits and saucers of cream, but he certainly wasn't a fool. Any dog knows the difference between a man and a wolf. And long after Stephen had gone inside the house, and had begun to walk down the hall to Robin's room, Marco Polo went on barking, his face pointed upward, toward the moon.

Kay no longer kept sugar and flour and English breakfast tea in the gla.s.s canisters along her kitchen counter. She had replaced all that with sh.e.l.ls collected from every trip she had taken since her divorce, including that first tearful vacation to Sanibel Island, when she'd wept over each conch and sand dollar and reached out for Stuart every night for a week as she slept, out of habit and perhaps just a little regret.

Since then, she'd traveled to Puerto Rico and Cancun, to Boca and Bermuda and a Club Med on a pink island so tiny it had never been given its own name. Each time she returned from a trip she filled another gla.s.s canister with mementos, although now when she searched a beach for sh.e.l.ls she was quite systematic and not at all teary. She knew exactly what was worth keeping and what she might just as well toss back into the sea.

Kay planned to visit every d.a.m.n beach she'd ever dreamed of when she was married to Stuart and he was too busy to do anything as frivolous as enjoy himself or pay her the least bit of attention.

There was a beach in Hawaii with black sand where sh.e.l.ls in the shape of children's ears washed onto sh.o.r.e, and another in Baja where the sand sang beneath your feet and abalones had the sheen of opals.

Gregor, the housepainter, had told her about the beach of his childhood, a cove on the Black Sea where the sh.e.l.ls were as big as cats: put one under a pillow at bedtime and it would whisper and purr all night long, so that upon awakening you might know much more than you did the day before.Kay was in the kitchen, considering the pamphlets she'd picked up at the travel agency, when she noticed that Stuart was leaving.

He came to the back door. Kay could see him quite clearly through the window, he had shaved and showered, and his clothes were clean and pressed. His overnight bag was slung over his shoulder, and he carried the bucket and mop Robin had bought him. He slipped the key to the third-floor office under the doormat, and then he did the oddest thing: he went right up to the door and kissed it, with a kiss so tender Kay found that she'd begun to cry. Suddenly, she had the feeling that she didn't have the faintest idea who Stuart was, and that she never had, and that she probably would never see him again. When he had gone, Kay took the key from beneath the mat and went up to the third floor.

She was shocked to discover just how tidy Stuart had left the rooms.

The cobwebs were gone, and the refrigerator had been washed with warm water and baking soda, when she went to the window she could smell the vinegar he'd used to clean the gla.s.s. He hadn't left a dirty dish or a ring around the old bathtub, and he certainly hadn't left a note.

After Stuart had been gone a few days, Kay called him, just to tell him she'd decided on a trip to Jamaica, where a new hotel had been built so close to the ocean that false angel wings and blue-eyed scallops were sometimes found in the teapots. She phoned his apartment, where the message machine didn't answer, then tried the hospital, where she was put on hold and later informed that he couldn't be reached. She had that feeling all over again, that he was gone completely, and yet every once in a while she had the distinct sense that he was near, an impression based, she believed, on the sort of radar that comes only after having slept beside someone for nineteen years. She thought she saw him out of the corner of her eye when she was on line at the market, only to discover that the aisle where she'd imagined he'd been browsing was empty. Could that be Stuart, on the steps of the church?

Was that his shadow slipping in between the library doors as they closed? Kay grew more and more edgy, but perhaps that was only because Gregor was starting to bore hen-he was a crossword fanatic and had the ability to ignore her for hours while studying clues. "Alpha's opposite," he'd mutter to himself.

"Hepburn's forte," he'd muse. "Pride goeth before this," he'd whisper into his beer.

After several more days of trying to contact Stuart, Kay phoned Robin, who seemed unconcerned when she heard that her brother couldn't be reached.

"Oh, he'll turn up," Robin said cheerfully. "You know Stuart." But in fact, that was the point. Kay wasn't quite sure that she did. She began to worry in earnest: He was dead in a ditch. He was homeless and drunk, surviving in alleys on cat food and rainwater. He had ended it all by hanging himself, perhaps from the lowest branch of one of the oaks on his grandfather's old estate, and wouldn't be found until spring. Kay began to dream about him, slow, languid dreams in which he was a young man, a boy really, serious and sweet, but absolutely deaf to her whenever she called his name.

As for Stuart, he hadn't been giving much thought to his dreams.

He wasn't even certain if he was dreaming at all, though anytime his patients had offered that as an excuse to avoid self-examination he'd never believed them. He was sleeping more soundly than he'd imagined possible, here, in the fisherman's shack where he'd spent so much timeas a boy. Since then, dozens of other boys had made use of the shack, they'd run away from home, for an afternoon or an evening, they'd had pirate clubhouses and, after they'd turned fourteen, secret beer bashes as well. Lovers had been here, on nights when they needed privacy, and they'd listened to the wind in the marsh gra.s.s and sworn that someone was sighing.

Everyone who had used the shack, and had thought of it as his or her own, had left something behind: charred firewood and fishhooks, c.o.ke bottles and heer cans, homework that had never been turned in, tubes of lipstick, blankets that had grown moldy over time, intertwined hearts etched into the walls with burning-hot coals. Stuart cleared most of the mess away in a matter of hours, and then set to work with his mop and dust rags.

The weather was still warm and fine, so he tied one of the rags around his forehead to make certain that sweat wouldn't drip into his eyes.

After all the trash was sorted and ready to be carried to the dump, and the old wooden floor was so clean it squeaked under his feet, Stuart walked through the marsh gra.s.s to the beach and threw himself into the water, and all the rest of the day he licked his lips, enjoying the taste of salt.

Why shouldn't he buy wood putty and new panes of gla.s.s at the hardware store? Why not have a mattress and army blankets and a Coleman stove delivered right to the road above the beach, even though the deliveryman insisted it wasn't a proper address? He dug a latrine and bought a wheelbarrow to cart away the trash, he used the public phone near the town green to phone the New York Times cla.s.sifieds and place an ad to sublet his apartment, then bought fresh coffee and bread at the bakery and ate his lunch on the beach, where the sea gulls snapped up any crumbs. Now that he had all the time in the world, time itself had become a different thing. He could blink and there was a fish on his line. He could turn around twice and the sun would already be setting.

He ate one of the peaches he'd bought at the market for supper, a piece of fruit so delicious he s.h.i.+vered with every bite. And when the sun went down, and the air grew cool, that complicated August air that evoked both summer and autumn, he looked upward, waiting. The sky was inky and immutable, and then, quite suddenly, it cleared. When he saw the stars it was as if he were seeing each light for the very first time. What could be more beautiful? Nothing in heaven, nothing on earth. He sat studying the night until his neck ached, and still he felt he couldn't get quite enough of the sky. He didn't bother to cover the windows in the shack with pillowcases, as he had planned, and he fell asleep in a wash of starlight, that deep, dreamless sleep that made him smile even before he closed his eyes.

And that's the way they found him, when they rushed through the door, already tangled together, their hands all over each other. They hadn't managed to sneak out for the night in more than a week, and they were more desperate for each other than ever. Soon the school term would begin and they'd have to pa.s.s in the hallways, satisfied with only a whisper and the promise of later.

"Have you missed me?" Lydia asked, after she'd pulled her T-s.h.i.+rt off.

Connor nodded yes, he would have agreed to anything to please her.

"Have you thought about me every minute we've been apart?" she wanted to know.

Connor put his arms around her. When he swallowed, his head rang, hewas ready to explode. Lydia kissed him, then pulled away.

"Every second?" she whispered.

"Oh, Jesus," Connor said.

When he saw Stuart in the shed he couldn't catch his breath, but instinctively he pushed Lydia behind him to protect her, although from what he wasn't exactly sure.

"It's my uncle," Connor told Lydia.

"Is he dead?" Lydia peered at Stuart. "We should check his pulse."

She was, Connor thought lovingly, the most practical girl in the world.

As Lydia fumbled to slip her T-s.h.i.+rt back on, Connor went to kneel beside the body. Stuart was still smiling, and because Connor had never seen him look anything but anxious, he a.s.sumed his uncle was dead.

"Oh, man," Connor said. "I think he is."

Lydia came up beside Connor and took Stuart's wrist into her own capable hands. "I wish I hadn't lost my Swatch," she said.

Stuart's eyes fluttered, then opened. He looked at Con l nor, then at Lydia, who, in her hurry, had put her s.h.i.+rt on inside out. He would have asked what they were doing there, if the answer hadn't been so apparent.

"I've taken over your shack," Stuart guessed. "I've put you out.

"He's alive," Lydia announced, proudly, as though she had personally brought him back from the other side.

"Yeah," Connor said without much conviction. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and now he could see the improvements his uncle had made--no more garbage or broken gla.s.s, no more hideaway for him and Lydia. "You're planning on staying here?"

Connor asked his uncle.

Stuart raised himself up on his elbows. "Let me put it this way," he said. "I'm not planning."

When people on the island heard the news about Stuart they clucked their tongues and shook their heads and swore they'd known all along he'd wind up this way. What could anyone expect with a family like his? Of course he was now talking to bluefish on the beach and reading old novels Lydia Altero got him from the free bin at the library.