Where by Kit Reed Page B

its generous porches and wide steps coming down to greet you, you’d never know there was anything wrong on Kraven island. The air’s just as sweet as it was yesterday— God, was it only yesterday?— but the island has gone silent. The gulls are gone. Even the insects and lizards inhabiting the marsh are still. One explosion too many, Davy thinks, because he’s strongly aware that on the other side of Kraven island, authorities from every island and hamlet are dragging the lake. As if his friends and neighbors— his lover!— turned into lemmings, rushing down to the lakefront in a body because they got up at dawn today for no known reason, thinking to hurl themselves in. Lemmings. As if.
    People like us don’t wander out of their houses, ditch their cars, partners, house pets, rowboats or whatever at the exact same hour, struck by the exact same death wish, simultaneously going out of their universal group mind and out of our lives. Impossible, Davy thinks, but who knew that everybody he cares about would up and vanish, every fucking one of them gone from here, WHAM! Gone soon after he sneaked out of Merrill’s bed and left. Oh shit, I should have left a note. As soon as he’s done at Ray’s he’ll go home and apologize.
    She’ll be all ruckled up and pissed off at me, like, “Where have you been all day? What took you so long?”
    If he’s so sure Merrill’s back home, more or less where he left her, why is he here on Ray Powell’s front walk, waiting to be told?
    Davy heads up the wide steps, thinking, Ray will know what happened. He always does. They’re closer than he was to his father, as in, a friend Pop’s age; they can hang out without family baggage getting in the way. Ray’ll find dry clothes for his creeped-out friend, standing out here barefoot and shivering in his briefs. His belly clenches. There will be food. So what if everybody else up and took off? He can always count on Ray.
    The front door stands open to let in the breeze. Ray would never take off without closing it, so he’s definitely home. The screen is latched, no problem, Ray’s always glad to see him, no matter how late it is, all he has to do is ring and Ray will come down from his third-floor office and open up. They can sit down over leftovers: whatever Ella made for his supper and Ray will explain everything. Davy comes to himself with a start. How long have I been standing here?
    He yells. “Ray!” He tries the bell.
    Here’s the problem: from here, Ray’s house doesn’t smell the same, which is even worse than the silence. Ella DeVine’s usually in there after supper, making biscuits before she leaves; she lives on Poynter and comes back at noon to fix his lunch. Shit, when did I eat? His naked belly contracts. Oh, there’ll be biscuits, yes, but what’s cooking, really? Nothing tonight. He can hear the bell ringing deep inside. He takes his finger off the button and pounds on the doorframe, yelling, “Ray, it’s me.” After too long, he follows with, “Are you deaf?” In the end, he has to punch a hole in the screen and undo the latch. Maybe Ray really did go deaf while he wasn’t looking, he thinks hopefully. It’s been a while. As soon as I clear the door he’ll jump up from the supper table and apologize, he tells himself, padding down the long, empty hall to the dining room, maybe he really is going deaf. Ray’s the one person on Kraven that he can count on, especially now.
    Better not walk in on Ray gasping, “Thank God you’re here.” Ray would be mortified, so he calls, extra loud, in case:
    â€œRay? Yo, Ray, it’s me! Just so you know, I’m near naked.” Shivering in the twilight breeze, he notices the dreadful symmetry of the carpets on the polished floors in the long front hall, the sinister butterfly pattern on Ray’s wallpaper in the waning