Ash Wednesday (42 page)

"Oh," she'd said nonchalantly, "sorry," then turned and walked back into the living room while he stood pouring hot water over the edge of his cup. He set down the cup and scooted as quickly as his aching legs could carry him back into the bedroom for a robe. Then he made coffee for them both while she scrambled some eggs. When she asked about the night before, he didn't tell her much. Her questions were phrased delicately so that he got the impression her interest stemmed from something other than mere curiosity. He told her that there was bad blood between him and the man who had beaten him, but did not elaborate. As he talked, however, he found himself wanting more and more to tell her everything—the accident, the guilt, the way it had transformed him into someone only barely approachable by others. And one by one pieces slipped out, until he stopped himself, pulled back from touching her with more than mild interest.

Although he did not realize it, he had already touched her with far more, or she would not have stayed the night. Alice Meadows was fascinated by Jim Callendar. In him she saw the burdens and pains of guilt as plainly as she saw the sun in the sky. He knows, she had thought. He knows what I know. So she kept the morning's conversation flowing smoothly, effortlessly, and when the eggs were gone, the coffee drained, she did not want to go. But having slept in her clothes, she felt soiled and unattractive, and said that she should go back to her place and change, but that she'd enjoyed the talk, and couldn't they get together that evening to chat some more.

He had seemed surprised by her boldness, but also strangely pleased, and they agreed to meet for dinner. Alice drove back to the
Reardons
', called the Holiday Inn off of 283, and reserved a room. She packed, called Ellen
Brouther
to tell her she was leaving, and drove to the motel, gently berating herself for changing her plans and not returning immediately to New York.

But there was something about this man (and she realized that she did not even know his name, nor did he know hers) that held her. In the back of her mind lurked the thought that all those years of what she had suffered could not have been futile, even if her return to Tim Reardon's side
had
been. Perhaps she had returned for a different reason. Tim had been beyond her help, her compassion coming years too late, so perhaps her return had been for someone else, for some purpose she did not as yet understand. Like the ship
Rachel
, searching for her own lost children, had found instead only Ishmael, so perhaps she had come to repay Tim Reardon, but would instead reclaim the sad and lonely man she had rescued the night before.

They made further arrangements over the phone, and that evening he picked her up and drove her to a restaurant in Lansford. It was, she thought, like a first date should be—tentative, shy, probing, and fun for all that. At the bar of the Holiday they had a nightcap, and decided to see each other the next day as well, Jim offering to cook dinner. Alice agreed on the condition that she buy the food.

She came to his house the next afternoon with porterhouse steaks, two dozen fresh oysters, and an assortment of vegetables. They cooked, laughed, ate, and afterward drank just a little more than they needed to. Then she told him why she had come back to Merridale, told him about Tim Reardon and staying at the house, told him that she had been mentally on her way back to New York when she had met Jim and, because of him, had decided to stay for a while.

The teasing manner that had come on him with the drinking had slowly disappeared, and his face grew sober, almost stern. "Did you stay," he asked, "because you pity me?"

"No," she answered. "I don't pity you. I just think that we're very much alike."

"Why?"

She struggled to put it into words. "I lost someone. And because of that I felt bad, for too long a time, I guess. I think you've lost someone too, and I don't think it's your wife."

His jaw started to tremble, and he took his drink and drained it.

"If it's true," she went on, "if I'm right, that can't help.”

“Then what can?" he whispered harshly.

"I can . . .”

"I don't need pity."

" . . . and you can help me."

"How?"

"I'm not home yet by a long shot. I've been . . . caged up too long to get free right away. Last Friday night I thought I could, but I'm scared to go cold turkey. I thought I could because at that very moment everything was right and I felt free. But those times don't last, and every moment isn't perfect." She touched his cheek. "But I feel good with you, like I know what you're feeling and you know how I feel. There aren't many people who understand, who you can even talk to."

He smiled weakly. "You make us sound like a couple of emotional junkies."

"Maybe." She shook her head. "But we don't have to be."

They drifted into each other's arms as gently and easily as if a tide pushed them. Later neither remembered moving to the bedroom, undressing, and in the morning when they awoke, it all seemed right and natural, and the one's arms were the most comforting and peaceful haven the other had ever known.

And now they were together, and he had told her what he had not thought he would tell, and she kissed him, not saying a word, not having to, for he knew she understood. They lay pressed together for a long time, and made love once again before rising and remembering that it was Christmas Day. Later Alice Meadows drove back to the Holiday Inn, packed, checked out, and drove home.

To Merridale.

This is the time of tension between dying and birth . . .

—T. S. Eliot, "Ash-Wednesday"

Christmas came and went in Merridale much as it did every year. There were perhaps fewer trees put up, not as many strings of lights stretched across eaves and around porch posts, but there was caroling and gift giving and candlelight services in the churches. Cards were signed and sent, and turkeys were carved with nearly as much flair as in years before. For most, the initial horror had fled, and although they did not seek the revenants' presences, neither did they go as far out of their way to avoid them. The face of death, if not death itself, was slowly becoming a commonplace in Merridale.

The rest of the country looked at Merridale as relatives would at a terminally ill old uncle—too obvious to ignore, too frightening to think about for too long a time.
Newsweek
's end-of-year issue heralded Merridale as the year's top news story, calling it a puzzle that might never be solved, and running pictures of the town and one of Clyde Thornton. But most of the other magazines and nearly all other media ignored it. The attempted influx of sightseers had slowed to the point where several of the roadblocks were taken off of the rural roads.

Merridale did, however, become immortal in the lexicon of sick humor. Ads in the back pages of
National Lampoon
offered T-shirts with the legends "Jacques
Brel
Is Alive and Well and Glowing in Merridale" and "Merridale Is for Lovers (who just lay there)." Merridale jokes had a brief lifespan, demonstrating none of the staying power of Polish or elephant jokes. The problem seemed to be that what was happening in Merridale was too chillingly inexplicable for the world to laugh at or to even think about for long.

So Merridale was, in essence, expunged from the mass mind of the world. Had the world not so ignored it, humanity might have been better prepared for what ultimately came. But it was easier to look away.

~*~

"Good morning."

"Good morning."

Jim kissed Alice on the cheek, and they got up and dressed and had breakfast. For over a month his mornings had begun in this way, and they had not yet lost their freshness, their novelty, and he doubted they would. He wasn't sure, even now, why she had stayed. All he knew was that he was glad she had. She'd brought something new to his life, something that he hadn't missed simply because he'd never had it before. He was writing again, and better than ever. His editors were glad to see his work, and asked to see other ideas as quickly as he could turn them out. Not one mentioned his infamous return address.

Alice was writing too, working on a play she'd been promising herself to try for several years, a light, romantic comedy set in a small town in the thirties. She spent much of her time in the Merridale and Lansford public libraries researching for period color, and the rest of her time working on a draft of the first act.

She had called her agent a week after moving in with Jim, and had learned that a Pond's commercial she had appeared in had gone national. Residual checks totaling over $26,000 were being held for her. When he asked when she was returning to New York, she told him that she'd been having some long-standing personal problems that could only be dealt with by coming back to her old hometown, adding that they'd been nearly solved, but the experience had been traumatic enough that she needed a little more time to wind down. He tried to talk her into coming back immediately, but she gently refused. After she hung up, she realized that the money meant little to her. It would allow her to keep the rent paid on her New York apartment for as long as she chose to stay in Merridale and it assured her that she would not have to start sponging off of Jim. From the first day she was in his house on Sundale Road, she made it clear that she would share all expenses—mortgage payments, food, utilities, the works—and when Jim balked, she threatened to leave. That had made him agree quickly enough, and even a week later he grew pale at the thought of her leaving, when she told him of her agent's attempt to lure her back.

But now over a month had passed, and she was still with him. The time had been good, though naturally there were a few uncomfortable moments, coming mostly when other people invaded the island of two they had become. The first began when Alice ran into Kay Rankin in the Weis Market. Kay, who had thought that Alice had left town, was amazed to find her still there and would not let her go until she had the whole story, after which she invited Alice and Jim to dinner. Alice started to decline automatically, but paused, thinking, as had her predecessor, Beth, that it might be a good idea to get Jim into some company other than her own. Even as she accepted, she knew that it could be a mistake.

It was. Jim went solely to please her, and hardly opened his mouth the entire evening. Occasionally he would glance up at Bob Rankin with a
rabbity
fear in his eyes, and then look quickly down at his plate. Kay's yammering conversation was incessant and one-sided, as though trying to make up for the lack of it in her guests. Bob was as taciturn as Jim, and several times Alice caught him looking at Jim strangely.

"What was wrong?" she asked on the drive home.

Jim gave a breathy laugh and shook his head. "I don't think they liked me very much."

"You didn't give them much of a chance."

"They didn't give
me
much of one either. Did you see how Rankin looked at me when we walked in?"

"
You
looked like a kid who'd just broken the cookie jar.”

“What do you mean?"

She sighed. "Sometimes you don't just walk. You slink.”

“I can't help that."

"I know you can't."

"You can't . . . free me from what I am."

"I know that too. Only you can do that."

"Then why do you stay?"

"To see if I can help you free yourself." He started to interrupt, but she went on. "Because if you can, I think I would love you."

They drove silently for a moment. "You know I already love you," Jim said.

"Yes. I think you do."

"But I still can't leave. Not even for you."

"I didn't ask you to. I don't expect you to." She reached over and put her hand on his knee. "I don't want you to. Not until you're ready."

As she said that, Jim felt a soft peace steal over him, and knew without doubt that she did understand him, and that all she had said and all he had felt was true.