on the corner. He stood behind a pump and watched until the last trace of blue had disappeared down the road, then he pedaled ferociously away from town.
A mile later, where the fast-food restaurants gave way to farmers’ fields, he stopped by a meadow of Queen Anne’s lace and dropped his bike in the grass. His heart was pounding, his hands sweaty. At the edge of a barbed wire fence, he stared out across the pasture, and wondered if Margaret had noticed him. Surely she would have stopped and stared. He could still see her silhouette, an arm’s length away, and how strange it felt, to be fleeing from neighbors, cringing at all human contact. His exchange with the checkout girl had been his first scrap of conversation in seven days. With no telephone at the cabin, no television or computer, the bedside clock radio was his sole companion, its reception so weak all he could pick up was the local country music station. He preferred the sound of whippoorwills and even the cawing of these crows that now gathered before him, hopping among the goldenrod.
• 13 •
Two weeks later as he sat on the deck, thumbing through a newspaper from the general store, David came across the announcement of his memorial service. Saturday, four P.M., Jefferson Chapel. In lieu of flowers, donations were being accepted at the Rural Development Medical Clinic.
He read the item three times, wondering if he could get away with another trip to town. The service didn’t appeal to him so much as the idea of seeing Sarah, and trying to gauge her feelings. But going to town was risky. His Wal-Mart escapade had left him stu pidly fearful, dreading a knock at the door—Margaret or Sarah or Carver. But as each day had passed in solitude, he had become more convinced of his invisibility. The human brain manipulated visual data into objects that were comprehensible and expected. No one had expected to see him at Wal-Mart, just as no one would be looking for him at his own memorial service.
The next day he packed his knapsack with bottled water, a bag of trail mix, and a paperback novel. He had shaved his beard several days earlier, but his sunglasses and baseball cap made him confident. Most of the people who knew him would be inside the chapel. If he came late and kept his distance, the chances of detection were slim.
At five minutes to four he arrived in the woods at the edge of the college campus. Leaning his bike against a pine tree, he followed a circuitous route, shying away from the busy quad with its imposing perimeter of brick buildings from which a colleague might suddenly emerge. When the stone chapel appeared, he veered to the opposite side of a hedge twenty yards to the left. There he stretched on his side in the grass, pulled the book from his knapsack, and tipped his head toward the pages so that the ball cap shadowed his face. Behind his sunglasses he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds floating through the chapel windows. “Amazing Grace,” “Be Still My Soul,” a collective recitation of the Twenty-first Psalm, then a long stream of speakers, distinguishable only as alto, tenor, and bass. A half hour passed before he heard the young reverend, his volume higher than the others, using words like Christ, redemption, and heaven . A breathy flute whispered Gounod’s “Ave Maria” and the air was hushed in benediction, broken by the organ’s cry of “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
He turned and looked through the leaves as the human record of his life emerged from the chapel doors. First Sarah and her sister, Anne, arm in arm; then Anne’s husband and two daughters, followed by Nate with his latest blonde. The reverend gathered them into a receiving line as the congregation passed—administrators, faculty members, several student patients. His squash partner, his dentist, the owners of his favorite restaurant. Three cousins, two college roommates, most of Jackson’s medical community. He felt a grim satisfaction at the size
A mile later, where the fast-food restaurants gave way to farmers’ fields, he stopped by a meadow of Queen Anne’s lace and dropped his bike in the grass. His heart was pounding, his hands sweaty. At the edge of a barbed wire fence, he stared out across the pasture, and wondered if Margaret had noticed him. Surely she would have stopped and stared. He could still see her silhouette, an arm’s length away, and how strange it felt, to be fleeing from neighbors, cringing at all human contact. His exchange with the checkout girl had been his first scrap of conversation in seven days. With no telephone at the cabin, no television or computer, the bedside clock radio was his sole companion, its reception so weak all he could pick up was the local country music station. He preferred the sound of whippoorwills and even the cawing of these crows that now gathered before him, hopping among the goldenrod.
• 13 •
Two weeks later as he sat on the deck, thumbing through a newspaper from the general store, David came across the announcement of his memorial service. Saturday, four P.M., Jefferson Chapel. In lieu of flowers, donations were being accepted at the Rural Development Medical Clinic.
He read the item three times, wondering if he could get away with another trip to town. The service didn’t appeal to him so much as the idea of seeing Sarah, and trying to gauge her feelings. But going to town was risky. His Wal-Mart escapade had left him stu pidly fearful, dreading a knock at the door—Margaret or Sarah or Carver. But as each day had passed in solitude, he had become more convinced of his invisibility. The human brain manipulated visual data into objects that were comprehensible and expected. No one had expected to see him at Wal-Mart, just as no one would be looking for him at his own memorial service.
The next day he packed his knapsack with bottled water, a bag of trail mix, and a paperback novel. He had shaved his beard several days earlier, but his sunglasses and baseball cap made him confident. Most of the people who knew him would be inside the chapel. If he came late and kept his distance, the chances of detection were slim.
At five minutes to four he arrived in the woods at the edge of the college campus. Leaning his bike against a pine tree, he followed a circuitous route, shying away from the busy quad with its imposing perimeter of brick buildings from which a colleague might suddenly emerge. When the stone chapel appeared, he veered to the opposite side of a hedge twenty yards to the left. There he stretched on his side in the grass, pulled the book from his knapsack, and tipped his head toward the pages so that the ball cap shadowed his face. Behind his sunglasses he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds floating through the chapel windows. “Amazing Grace,” “Be Still My Soul,” a collective recitation of the Twenty-first Psalm, then a long stream of speakers, distinguishable only as alto, tenor, and bass. A half hour passed before he heard the young reverend, his volume higher than the others, using words like Christ, redemption, and heaven . A breathy flute whispered Gounod’s “Ave Maria” and the air was hushed in benediction, broken by the organ’s cry of “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
He turned and looked through the leaves as the human record of his life emerged from the chapel doors. First Sarah and her sister, Anne, arm in arm; then Anne’s husband and two daughters, followed by Nate with his latest blonde. The reverend gathered them into a receiving line as the congregation passed—administrators, faculty members, several student patients. His squash partner, his dentist, the owners of his favorite restaurant. Three cousins, two college roommates, most of Jackson’s medical community. He felt a grim satisfaction at the size
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