sorting shadows from flesh, not thinking, filled with loss and desire.
She deserved more than that. She deserved more than him abandoning her and then staggering upstairs an hour later in order to paw her when what she wanted to do was sleep. He’d had his chance, and had screwed up.
He turned around and went quietly back downstairs, drifting into the kitchen. He passed the flower arrangement on the table. The flowers were fresh and smelled wonderful. Nona had probably loved them, and him for sending them. It was the sort of thing husbands and lovers did. He hadn’t given her much of a chance to say so, though.
The moon shone through the window in front of the house. He went out through the door, onto the porch, where the night was still and cool. His hand slipped and the screen door banged shut. He held his breath, listening. Crickets chirped. Two night birds called to each other from the trees across the street. He pulled his bathrobe tight, wishing he had worn his slippers. There was just the hint of a misty chill in the air, and he could smell damp concrete and vegetation.
A junebug thumped against the screen door, almost next to his ear, and he ducked away in surprise. It lay there on the ground, next to the welcome mat, kicking its spindly little legs and revolving topsy-turvy on its back. He expected it to fly off, but it didn’t, and he found himself thinking up and discarding names for it and wondering what kind of a creature it was that waited for good weather in order to fling itself futilely at window screens.
He knelt next to it. The beast made a frightful buzz, trying to scare him off, maybe. He poked at it with his index finger, and it grabbed his fingertip and clung there, quieting itself, seeming to sense that it was in a safe harbor at last. He picked it up and turned his hand over, and it crawled a couple of paces up toward his knuckle, holding on. He wondered idly what he’d do with the thing.
“What’s happening, Lyle?” he asked it, thinking up the name on the spot. The bug wouldn’t speak to him. “Do you need a house?” he said. “Someplace to live?” He looked around for an empty flowerpot.
The porch light blinked on just then, dim and yellow. Nona stood behind the screen. She was rumpled from sleep and she looked curiously at him standing there in his bare feet, apparently talking to a bug. The silent night lay like an ocean between them, as if each of them spoke in a tongue that the other couldn’t begin to understand.
Perhaps because she mistook his silence for sullenness, she turned around and walked away toward the stairs, and he was left alone, holding the junebug, for which he had found it so easy to feel compassion.
“Wait!” he shouted. He wouldn’t let her get away, not this time. He flicked his finger toward the lawn, and the bug flew off dizzily into the night. He hurried across the living room to where Nona waited for him at the foot of the stairs, holding the basket of purple flowers.
Nets of Silver and Gold
My wife and I were traveling along the Normandy coast when we met John Kendal in St. Malo. It was in a hotel café—the name of the place escapes me. He sat before a tremendous plate of periwinkles, all heaped into a little seashell monument. With a long needle he poked at the things, removing the gray lump inside each and piling it neatly on the opposite side of the plate. He worked at it for the space of half an hour, and in that time I had no idea it was my old childhood friend Kendal who sat there.
So intent and delicate were his movements that he gave the impression of someone suspicious that one of the periwinkles held a tremendous pearl, which would, at any moment, come rolling out of the mouth of a dark little shell on his plate.
It wasn’t until he paused for a moment to sip his wine that I looked at his face and knew who he was. People change a great deal over the years, but Kendal, somehow, hadn’t. His hair was longer and wilder, and he
She deserved more than that. She deserved more than him abandoning her and then staggering upstairs an hour later in order to paw her when what she wanted to do was sleep. He’d had his chance, and had screwed up.
He turned around and went quietly back downstairs, drifting into the kitchen. He passed the flower arrangement on the table. The flowers were fresh and smelled wonderful. Nona had probably loved them, and him for sending them. It was the sort of thing husbands and lovers did. He hadn’t given her much of a chance to say so, though.
The moon shone through the window in front of the house. He went out through the door, onto the porch, where the night was still and cool. His hand slipped and the screen door banged shut. He held his breath, listening. Crickets chirped. Two night birds called to each other from the trees across the street. He pulled his bathrobe tight, wishing he had worn his slippers. There was just the hint of a misty chill in the air, and he could smell damp concrete and vegetation.
A junebug thumped against the screen door, almost next to his ear, and he ducked away in surprise. It lay there on the ground, next to the welcome mat, kicking its spindly little legs and revolving topsy-turvy on its back. He expected it to fly off, but it didn’t, and he found himself thinking up and discarding names for it and wondering what kind of a creature it was that waited for good weather in order to fling itself futilely at window screens.
He knelt next to it. The beast made a frightful buzz, trying to scare him off, maybe. He poked at it with his index finger, and it grabbed his fingertip and clung there, quieting itself, seeming to sense that it was in a safe harbor at last. He picked it up and turned his hand over, and it crawled a couple of paces up toward his knuckle, holding on. He wondered idly what he’d do with the thing.
“What’s happening, Lyle?” he asked it, thinking up the name on the spot. The bug wouldn’t speak to him. “Do you need a house?” he said. “Someplace to live?” He looked around for an empty flowerpot.
The porch light blinked on just then, dim and yellow. Nona stood behind the screen. She was rumpled from sleep and she looked curiously at him standing there in his bare feet, apparently talking to a bug. The silent night lay like an ocean between them, as if each of them spoke in a tongue that the other couldn’t begin to understand.
Perhaps because she mistook his silence for sullenness, she turned around and walked away toward the stairs, and he was left alone, holding the junebug, for which he had found it so easy to feel compassion.
“Wait!” he shouted. He wouldn’t let her get away, not this time. He flicked his finger toward the lawn, and the bug flew off dizzily into the night. He hurried across the living room to where Nona waited for him at the foot of the stairs, holding the basket of purple flowers.
Nets of Silver and Gold
My wife and I were traveling along the Normandy coast when we met John Kendal in St. Malo. It was in a hotel café—the name of the place escapes me. He sat before a tremendous plate of periwinkles, all heaped into a little seashell monument. With a long needle he poked at the things, removing the gray lump inside each and piling it neatly on the opposite side of the plate. He worked at it for the space of half an hour, and in that time I had no idea it was my old childhood friend Kendal who sat there.
So intent and delicate were his movements that he gave the impression of someone suspicious that one of the periwinkles held a tremendous pearl, which would, at any moment, come rolling out of the mouth of a dark little shell on his plate.
It wasn’t until he paused for a moment to sip his wine that I looked at his face and knew who he was. People change a great deal over the years, but Kendal, somehow, hadn’t. His hair was longer and wilder, and he
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