Second Nature by Alice Hoffman Page B

he knew how great the distance was. With the use of a magnifying glass, he had found Cromley on a map, but Cromley was a town, with a hospital and a post office, and where exactly he’d come from he had no idea. His sense of direction was based not on miles or lines drawn on paper, but on the land itself: the rock in the shape of an eagle, the meadow bordered by streams, the place where the rabbits hid in late summer, where the brambles grew taller than a man.
    He couldn’t rush it, he knew that now. He had only just learned to look both ways before crossing a street, especially at night. Last week, he’d narrowly missed being hit when he was running down the road and a set of blinding headlights had appeared before him. After that, he stayed close to the curb. He was so fast now that nothing could have stopped him if he had known the way back home. Or maybe he still would have taken the same old route to Robin’s.
    It was always dark by the time he reached Mansfield Terrace. Marco Polo sat in his driveway and barked as Stephen ran past, and in spite of Stephen’s natural dislike for dogs, he paid no attention. He pretended not to notice when Roy’s car was parked on the corner, just waiting for him to make a mistake. He had no choice but to ignore everything except the fact that he was almost there, running right into the moment he had been thinking about all day, when he walked through the door and saw her, and each time he did he could not believe that men could feel this way and act as though they felt nothing at all.
     
 
The birds began to avoid the Dixons’ yard; they would light on the redwood fence or along the telephone wires, but they wouldn’t go any farther. The bird feeder spilled over with millet and seeds that went untouched. The blueberries on the bushes at the rear of the house were never disturbed. Patty Dixon wondered if it was the weedkiller they’d used in the spring, strong stuff that Robin had advised against, because earlier in June, Patty had found five sparrows dead on the grass, and now the birds simply wouldn’t come back, and the birdhouses her husband, Lou, had made in his workshop were all empty.
    Patty was known for her cheerful attitude; she was determined to look on the bright side. She conferred with Robin, then ordered bushes the birds wouldn’t be able to resist: honeysuckle and winterberry, sweet raspberries and holly. One hot morning, when the birds in other people’s yards had already set up a racket, Stephen dragged over the new bushes, their roots still wrapped in burlap. He dug holes all along the fence, adding lime and manure, pausing only to drink some of Patty Dixon’s homemade lemonade. Sitting out on her patio with Michelle, Robin could hear him working in the Dixons’ backyard.
    “Stephen’s all wrong for you,” Michelle said. Robin made a face pretending she didn’t understand, but Michelle waved her hand, as if clearing the air between them. “You’re not going to tell me, so I might as well say it straight-out. You’re on the rebound—that’s what’s going on here.”
    “Nothing’s going on here,” Robin insisted.
    “Remember who you’re talking to. I know you.”
    “And you’re acting as my guidance counselor?” Robin said.
    “Look, I was never one of Roy’s fans, but I think he’s changed.”
    “Please,” Robin said.
    “I mean it. He phoned me,” Michelle admitted. “It just didn’t sound like the same old Roy. He’s asked me to keep an eye on you.”
    “See,” Robin told her. “He hasn’t changed one bit. All he knows is how to sneak around.”
    “I think you’d be making a mistake. You’d get hurt.”
    “Stephen is living here,” Robin said. “That’s all.”
    “In other words, shut up.”
    “Shut up,” Robin agreed.
    She offered Michelle more coffee, and Michelle raised her cup.
    “I can’t give my advice away,” Michelle said. “Lydia barely speaks to me. Last Friday, she didn’t come home till after two in