When she stopped, I turned away, trying to digest her words. We sat in silence for a while, each of us wrestling with our thoughts. “Anyway, that's the story,” she concluded. “I don't know how much more you want to hear.”
I wasn't sure, either.
“Does Alan still live here?” I asked.
“He's got a room upstairs. Actually, it's the same room he's always had. It's not as hard as it sounds, though. After he's finished feeding and brushing the horses, he usually spends most of his time alone. He loves video games. He can play for hours. Lately I haven't been able to get him to stop. He'd play all night long if I'd let him.”
“Is he here now?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Right now he's with Tim.” “Where?”
Before she could answer, the dog scratched insistently at the door, and Savannah got up to open it. The dog padded in, tongue out and tail still wagging. He trotted toward me and nuzzled my hand.
“He likes me,” I said.
Savannah was still near the door. “She likes everyone. Her name's Molly. Worthless as a guard dog, but sweeter than candy. Just try to avoid the drool. She'll drip all over you if you let her.”
I glanced at my jeans. “I can see that.”
Savannah motioned over her shoulder. "Listen, I just realized
I've still got to put some things away. It's supposed to rain tonight. It shouldn't take long."
I noted that she hadn't answered the question about Tim. Nor, I realized, did she plan to.
“Need a hand?”
“Not really. But you're welcome to come. It's a beautiful night.” I followed her out, and Molly trotted ahead of us, completely forgetting that she'd just begged to come inside. When an owl broke from the trees, Molly galloped into the darkness and vanished. Savannah pulled on her boots again.
We walked toward the barn. I thought about everything she'd told me and wondered again why I'd come. I wasn't sure if I was happy that she'd married Tim—since they'd seemed so perfect for each other—or upset for exactly the same reason. Nor was I glad that I finally knew the truth; somehow, I realized, it was easier not to know. All at once, I simply felt tired.
And y e t ... there was something I knew she wasn't telling me.
I heard it in her voice, in the hint of sadness that wouldn't go away. As the darkness surrounded us, I was acutely aware of how close we were walking together, and I wondered whether she felt the same. If she did, she gave no sign.
The horses were mere shadows in the distance, shapes without recognizable form. Savannah retrieved a couple of bridles and brought them to the barn, hanging them on a couple of pegs.
While she did, I collected the shovels we'd been using and set them with the rest of the tools. On our way out, she made sure to shut the gate.
Glancing at my watch, I saw it was nearly ten o'clock. It was late, and we were both conscious of the hour.
“I guess I should probably get going,” I said. “It's a small town. I don't want to start any rumors.”
“You're probably right.” Molly wandered up, appearing from nowhere, and sat between us. When she lapped at Savannah's leg, she stepped to the side. “Where are you staying?” she asked. “Something or other motor court. Just off the highway.”
Her nose crinkled, if only for an instant. “I know the place.” “It is kind of a dive,” I admitted.
She smiled. “I can't say I'm surprised. You always did have a way of finding the most unique places.”
“Like the Shrimp Shack?” “Exactly.”
I pushed my hands into my pockets, wondering whether this was the last time I'd ever see her. If so, it struck me as absurdly anticlimactic; I didn't want it to end in small talk, but I couldn't think of anything else to say.
On the road out front, the headlights of an approaching car flashed over the property as it sped past the house.
“I guess that's it, then,” I said, at a loss. “It was good seeing you again.”
“You, too, John. I'm glad you came by.”
I nodded again. When she looked away, I took it as my cue to leave.
“Good-bye,” I said. “Bye.”
I turned from the porch and started toward my car, dazed at the thought it was really and truly over. I wasn't sure I'd expected anything different, but the finality brought to the surface all those feelings I'd been repressing since I'd read her last letter. I was opening the door when I heard her call out.
“Hey, John?” “Yeah?”
She stepped off the porch and started toward me. “Are you going to be around tomorrow?”
As she drew near, her face half in shadow, I knew with certainty that I was still in love with her. Despite the letter, despite her husband. Despite the fact that we could never be together now. “Why?” I asked.
"I was wondering if you'd like to drop by. Around ten. I'm sure
Tim would like to see you...."
I was shaking my head even before she finished. “I'm not sure that's such a good idea—”
“Could you do it for me?”
I knew she wanted me to see that Tim was still the same man I remembered, and in a sense, I knew she was asking because she wanted forgiveness. S t i l l ...
She reached out to take my hand. “Please. It would mean a lot to me.”
Despite the warmth of her hand, I didn't want to come back. I didn't want to see Tim, I didn't want to see the two of them together or sit around the table pretending that all seemed right in the world. But there was something plaintive about her request that made it impossible to turn her down.
“Okay,” I said. “Ten o'clock.” “Thank you.”
A moment later, she turned. I stayed in place, watching her climb onto the porch before I got in the car. I turned the key and backed out. Savannah turned on the porch, waving one last time. I waved, then headed out to the road, her image growing smaller in the rearview mirror. Watching her, I felt a sudden dryness in my throat. Not because she was married to Tim, and not at the thought of seeing them both tomorrow. It came from watching Savannah as I was driving away, standing on her porch, crying into her hands.
Twenty
The following morning, Savannah was standing on the porch, and she waved as I pulled in the drive. She stepped forward as I brought the car to a stop. I half expected Tim to appear in the doorway behind her, but he was nowhere to be seen.
“Hey,” she said, touching my arm. “Thanks for coming.” “Yeah,” I said, giving a reluctant shrug.
I thought I saw a flash of understanding in her eyes before she asked, “Did you sleep okay?”
“Not really.”
At that, she gave a wry smile. “Are you ready?” “As I'll ever be.”
“Okay,” she said. “Just let me get the keys. Unless you'd like to drive.”
I didn't catch her meaning at first. “We're leaving?” I nodded toward the house. “I thought we were going to see Tim.” “We are,” she said. “He's not here.”
“Where is he?”
It was as if she hadn't heard me. “Do you want to drive?” “Yeah, I guess so,” I said, not bothering to hide my confusion but somehow knowing she'd clear things up when she was ready.
I opened the door for her and went around the driver's side to slide behind the wheel. Savannah was running her hand over the dashboard,, as if trying to prove to herself it was real.
“I remember this car.” Her expression was nostalgic. “It's your dad's, right? Wow, I can't believe it's still running.”
“He didn't drive all that much,” I said. “Just to work and the store.”
“Still.”
She put on her seat belt, and despite myself, I wondered whether she'd spent the night alone.
“Which way?” I asked.
“At the road, take a left,” she said. “Head toward town.”
Neither of us spoke. Instead, she stared out the passenger window with her arms crossed. I might have been offended, but there was something in her expression that told me her preoccupation had nothing to do with me, and I left her alone with her thoughts.
On the outskirts of town, she shook her head, as if suddenly conscious of how quiet it was in the car. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I guess my company leaves a lot to be desired.”
“It's okay,” I said, trying to mask my growing curiosity.
She pointed toward the windshield. “At the next corner, take a right.”
“Where are we going?”
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she turned and gazed out the passenger window.
“The hospital,” she finally said.
I followed her through seemingly endless corridors, finally stopping at the visitors' check-in. Behind the desk, an elderly volunteer held out a clipboard. Savannah reached for the pen and began signing her name automatically.
“You holdin' up, Savannah?” “Trying,” Savannah murmured.
“It'll all turn out okay. You've got the whole town prayin' for him.”
“Thanks,” Savannah said. She handed back the clipboard, then looked at me. “He's on the third floor,” she explained. “The elevators are just down the hall.”
I followed her, my stomach churning. We reached the elevator just as someone was getting off, and stepped inside. When the doors closed, it felt as if I were in a tomb.
When we reached the third floor, Savannah started down the hallway with me trailing behind. She stopped in front of a room with a door propped open and then turned to face me.
“I think I should probably go in first,” she said. “Can you wait here?”
“Of course.”
She flashed her appreciation, then turned away. She drew a long breath before entering the room. “Hey, honey,” I heard her call out, her tone bright. “You doing okay?”
I didn't hear any more than that for the next couple of minutes. Instead I stood in the hallway, absorbing the same sterile, impersonal surroundings I'd noticed while visiting with my father. The air reeked of a nameless disinfectant, and I watched as an orderly wheeled a cart of food into a room down the hall. Halfway up the corridor, I saw a group of nurses clustered in the station. Behind the door across the hallway, I could hear someone retching.
“Okay,” Savannah said, poking her head out. Beneath her brave appearance, I could still see her sadness. "You can come in. He's ready for you."
I followed her in, bracing myself for the worst. Tim sat propped up in the bed with an IV connected to his arm. He looked exhausted, and his skin was so pale that it was almost translucent.
He'd lost even more weight than my father had, and as I stared at him, all I could think was that he was dying. Only the kindness in his eyes was unaffected. On the other side of the room was a young man—late teens or early twenties, maybe—rolling his head from side to side, and I knew immediately it was Alan. The room was crowded with flowers: dozens of bouquets and greeting cards stacked on every available tabletop and ledge. Savannah sat on the bed beside her husband and reached for his hand.
“Hey, Tim,” I said.
He looked too tired to smile, but he managed. “Hey, John. Good to see you again.”
“You too,” I said. “How are you?”
As soon as I said it, I knew how ridiculous it sounded. Tim must have been used to it, for he didn't flinch.
“I'm okay,” he said. “I'm feeling better now.”
I nodded. Alan continued to roll his head, and I found myself watching him, feeling like an intruder in events I wished I could have avoided.
“This is my brother, Alan,” he said. “Hi, Alan.”
When Alan didn't respond, I heard Tim whisper to him, "Hey, Alan? It's okay. He's not a doctor. He's a friend. Go say hello."
It took a few seconds, but Alan finally rose from his seat. He walked stiffly across the room, and though he wouldn't meet my eyes, he extended his hand. “Hi, I'm Alan,” he said in a surprisingly deep monotone.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, taking his hand. It was limp; he pumped once, then let go and went back to his seat. “There's a chair if you'd like to sit,” Tim said.
I wandered farther into the room and took a seat. Before I could even ask, I heard Tim already answering the question on my mind.
“Melanoma,” he said. “In case you're wondering.” “But you'll be okay, right?”
Alan's head rolled even faster, and he began to slap his thighs. Savannah turned away. I already knew I shouldn't have asked. “That's what the doctors are for,” Tim replied. “I'm in good hands.” I knew the answer was more for Alan than me, and Alan began to calm down.
Tim closed his eyes, then opened them again, as if trying to concentrate his strength. "I'm glad to see you made it back in one piece,“ he said. ”I prayed for you the whole time you were in Iraq.“ ”Thank you," I said.
“What have you been up to? Still in the army, I guess.” He nodded toward my crew cut, and I ran my hand over it. “Yeah. Seems like I'm becoming a lifer.”
“Good,” he said. “The army needs people like you.”
I said nothing. The scene struck me as surreal, like watching yourself in a dream. Tim turned to Savannah. "Sweetheart—would you walk with Alan and get him a soda? He hasn't had anything to drink since earlier this morning. And if you can, maybe you can talk him into eating."
“Sure,” she said. She kissed him on the forehead and rose from the bed. She stopped in the doorway. “Come on, Alan. Let's get something to drink, okay?”
To me, it seemed as if Alan were slowly processing the words. Finally, he got up and followed Savannah; she placed a gentle hand on his back on the way out the door. When they were gone, Tim faced me again.
“This whole thing is really hard on Alan. He's not taking it well.”
“How can he?”
“Don't let the rolling of his head fool you, though. It's got nothing to do with autism or his intelligence. It's more like a tic he gets when he's nervous. The same thing when he started slapping his thighs. He knows what's going on, but it affects him in ways that usually make other people uncomfortable.”