Читать книгу Thirty Girls - Susan Minot - Страница 9

SHE STEPPED OUT of the plane and over the accordion hinge of the walkway to continue up the tunneled ramp. One always felt altered after a flight. There was the pleasant fatigue of no sleep and one’s nerves closer to the surface as if a layer of self had peeled off and gotten lost in transit. The change was only on the surface, but the surface was where one encountered the world. Her surface was ready for the new things that would happen in this new place, ready for anything different from what she’d known.

There was a soggy tobacco smell at the gate and loose rugs with long rolls no one had bothered to smooth out. She stood in a line of crumpled people holding their carry-ons and inching forward to wooden tables where clerks slowly stamped passports after a sliding look from the picture to the face.

She was finally away. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt the expansion, the air humid, the door opening, dawn light reflected off a hammered linoleum floor as she descended an old-fashioned staircase to the black carousel empty of baggage. There was a long row of bureaux de change with one short counter after another empty and behind them a large plate-glass window with palm trees being eaten by a white sky. Lackadaisical drivers were leaning on the hoods of their cars, half glancing around for a fare. Dark-haired men strolled in short sleeve shirts, women in thin dresses moved slowly. Everything mercifully said, This is not home.

The first time she saw him he flew.

They were in Lana’s driveway, unloading alabaster lamps she’d had copied on Biashara Street when a white Toyota truck pulled up and a young man with shoulder length hair opened the door. He leapt over the roof of the truck and landed in a bowl of dust.

Lana gave him a big greeting, embracing him as an old friend, as she embraced everyone. She stepped back to study him, hands on his shoulders. He had on a dirty white hat with a zebra band around the crown. Nice, she said, flicking the brim. Jane, come meet Harry.

Jane set down her crate. Harry, Jane, said Lana. Jane, Harry.

Cheers, Harry said in a flat tone. His chin drew in and he regarded Jane with a strange stoniness, as if she were an intruder who ought to explain herself. The impulse to explain herself was an urge Jane Wood struggled to ignore, so getting a look like that unnerved her. At least that was how she explained the unnerved feeling.

My friend from America, Lana said. She looked back and forth between them. Her bright gaze took in things quickly and let them go, just as fast.

Harry leaned forward and kissed Jane’s cheek, surprising her. Karibu, he said.

The phone rang inside the cottage and Lana dove to get it, swerving past the crates crowding the foyer.

We’re going for sundowners, she called over her shoulder. You must come.

With Lana, there was always a must.

A short time later Jane found herself crammed in the back seat of a dented station wagon driven by a paint-spattered neighbor of Lana’s named Yuri. They were headed to the top of the Ngong Hills.

The suburb of Karen flickered by. Its dirt driveways and high concrete walls topped with curling barbed wire hid the airy houses Jane had seen with their long shaded verandas and scratchy lawns. Abruptly the station wagon came to a sort of empty highway, drove on it for a while, then tilted off up a steep rutted road, laboring at a tipped angle. At the top they righted themselves over a lip and arrived at a wide sloping field of tall grass which dropped sharply to a vast smoky savannah banked in the distance with low gray hills.

Striped cloths were spread on the ground and Jane noticed the sunset behind too was striped with grimy clouds. Lana unpacked a hamper and poured vodka and orange juice from a thermos and they drank from dented silver flutes while watching the sky and leaning on each other. A warm wind blew up from the valley.

Jane knew none of them save Lana and even she was a recent acquaintance, met a year before in London on a film set Lana was decorating. If Jane was ever in Kenya, she must come visit. When the possibility actually arose, Jane found Lana and discovered how many guests and strangers took Lana up on her invitation. She was a tall striking girl with a cushioned mouth and flashing eyes. She was also a splendid recliner, as she was demonstrating now, surveying the scene before her like an Oriental odalisque, radiating enjoyment. Her pillow at the moment was a large American man named Don who appeared to be relishing his position of support despite an awkward pose requiring that he brace an arm against a nearby rock. His unwrinkled khaki pants and new white running shoes extended off the blanket into the dry grass. Lana was telling him about a project she had set up where students looked after orphaned wild animals. She must take him there tomorrow, she said, patting his red and white striped shirt, as if knowing money were packed in his chest. Yuri had brought along a dimpled girl in army boots. Jane thought she heard her say she was pre-med, which was surprising. Yuri and Harry were talking about flying. They paraglided here, at a spot farther down the escarpment where the updraft was better. The French fellow wearing a bandana was a photographer named Pierre. Pierre was also staying at Lana’s, on the couch in the living room. His low-lidded eyes regarded everything with amusement. He was snapping pictures of the army-boot girl who seemed not self-conscious in the least.

The sky dimmed and the air chilled and they packed up. They took the bumpy road back to Nairobi as it darkened. Harry sat slumped in the back seat beside Jane. She learned his last name was O’Day. He asked her what she was doing here.

What indeed, she thought. Writing a story. Getting away. She could say all that.

Seeing the world, she said.

She’s taking us to Uganda, Lana shouted back over Édith Piaf’s voice warbling out of the dashboard. Her long bare legs were draped over Don’s lap and extended out the window. After drinks everyone was feeling jolly.

Jane told Harry she was there to write a story on the children kidnapped by the LRA in northern Uganda. Lana had matter-of-factly said she’d go with her and that morning Pierre asked if he might come, too. He was in between assignments—there was no famine or war to cover at the moment—and he wanted to try shooting some video, not what he usually did. He mostly shot stills.

It’s not really my subject, she said. At all.

What’s your subject?

Desire.

It sounded totally pretentious, but what the hell.

And death.

Death should fit, he said mildly.

Death always fits. She smiled.

They both faced forward. In the front seat Lana was whispering in Don’s ear. Jane saw her tongue come out and lick it.

Things are hectic in Uganda, Harry said.

Have you been?

Not yet.

We haven’t exactly figured out how we’re getting there.

I am working on it, Lana said. I might have a possible driver.

Good, Jane said and a for a moment felt a pang of homesickness, which was odd since she did not want to be home in the least. She wanted to be as far away from back there as possible. Clutching at straws, she said.

You’ll figure it out, Harry said. You look like the kind of person who does.

She turned her squished neck to him to see if he meant it. Jane was sufficiently bewildered by what kind of person she was, so it was always arresting when someone, particularly a stranger, summed her up. His face, very close, had a sort of Aztec look to it, with flat cheeks and straight forehead and pointed chin. Jane couldn’t tell how old he was. There was no worry on his face. He was young. His expression was, if not earnest, still not cynical.

What do you do with yourself? she said.

Little of this, little of that.

She laughed. What at the moment?

I’m thinking about going to Sudan to look after some cows.

Really?

He shrugged. Maybe. Did anyone ever tell you you have a very old voice?

Voice?

The sound of it, he said. It’s nice.

Watch out! Lana screamed. The car jerked and swerved. Gasps of alarm rose from the passengers.

Not to worry, Yuri said in a calm voice, straightening the wheel which he steered with one hand. I saw the little bugger. He was trying to get hit.

Lana Eberhardt rented a cottage off the Langata Road. It was green with a rumpled roof where furry hyraxes nested and screeched through the night. In the three days that Jane had been in Nairobi, she had learned the cottage served as a crucial landing place in the constellation of the drifting populace.

Plans were made for dinner. Pierre got into a Jeep for the liquor run. He was tall and slow-moving, as if his attractiveness to women did not require he ever rush. This manner, combined with a French accent, made everything he said sound both frivolous and direct. Don drove off taking Lana in a shiny white rental car to some people called the Aspreys to see if they’d caught fish over the weekend. Their phone was out. Some time later they returned with a large cooler stocked with fish. The Aspreys themselves followed eventually, a short swarthy man and a woman in a shiny green wrapped affair with a plain face who carried herself with such flair and confidence she looked positively radiant. They had with them a beautiful freckled woman named Babette who someone said worked in an orphanage in the Kibera slum. She was dressed blandly in shorts and T-shirt and was all the more beautiful because of it. Other guests trickled in: a man named Joss Hall biting on a cigar and his wife Marina in a long Mexican skirt. There was a silent unshaven journalist whose name Jane didn’t catch. Harry O’Day had gone and not returned. Someone said he was sorting out job prospects. Pierre arrived with the liquor and a curly-headed blond woman with a fur vest and bare arms. He spent the evening leaning close to her with merry eyes. At eleven everyone finally sat down to dinner and more people appeared and wedged chairs in. A couple could be heard out in the garden shouting at each other, and Joss Hall came striding out of the shadows, with his head low, as if avoiding blows. Jane found herself glancing toward the doorway to see if that person Harry might reappear, but he did not walk in.

First they were leaving Tuesday, then Wednesday was better, then Friday. Pierre was waiting for some film that hadn’t arrived at the dukka in Karen on Friday. Lana had found them a driver, a German named Raymond, but he couldn’t leave till Sunday. No one was in a hurry; everyone had a loose time frame. They could wait.

Jane was napping on the Balinese bed in the back garden and woke to Harry’s face. He was wearing the white hat with the zebra band around it.

You want to come flying?

What?

Go on a mission. It’s only eight, nine hours’ drive.

Jane felt away from normal life, sleeping in a borrowed dress, living in a guest room. It was easy to say yes. You just went places here. You went with a stranger. Were you interested in him? Was he interested in you? You didn’t ask, even if you wondered. Jane always had so many questions rocking about in her head, it was nice to be in a place where people weren’t asking those questions. People here just did things. You just went.

She hardly knew where she was. Some nights she ended up sleeping at other people’s houses, missing a ride after the dinner party. The night before, she’d lost her key and Harry had taken her to his friend Andy’s adobe cottage, where they slept on the floor in front of a fireplace. Another paragliding guy with a beard was on the couch. Jane had not slept much, feeling Harry’s proximity.

What do I need to bring?

Nothing, he said.

But she went to the guest room and put some clothes in a bag. She peeled bills from a wad of cash and hid the rest with her passport behind some books. Her journal fell open and pictures fanned out on the floor. Harry picked them up and handed them back to her, sitting patiently while she wrote Lana a note saying she’d be back tomorrow or the next day. She took a white Ethiopian wrap Lana had lent her and got into Harry’s truck with him.

They drove through the Nairobi traffic with the Ngongs’ slate-gray peaks zigzagging above and headed west, up hills feathered with crevasses and past scribbled bushes and thin trees, and lit out on a spine-slamming potholed road.

They passed through the crossroad din of Narok, rattling with muffler-less cars. Yellow storefronts sat in a line beside blue storefronts. There were many groceries: Deep Grocery, Angel Food, Ice Me. People walked among goats or sat on piled tires; dust rose up. Then the colorful blur passed and suddenly the open windows framed a parched beige landscape smelling of smoke and dry grass. After long stretches of uninterrupted brush and flat dirt they’d find a scattering of huts with people on the side of the road, usually children, turning with slow, aimed faces to watch the vehicle pass.

Harry didn’t talk much, but after eight hours in a car she did learn some things.

The main thing for Harry was flying. Work was what you did to pick up a few shillings between missions. He’d had a few jobs, relief work in the north, construction work at a safari camp in Malawi. At home he could usually count on being hired by a German chap who put up electric fences for private houses in Langata. He spent a while too with a bloke trying to save wild dogs in the Tsavo desert. That had been a cool job, he said, nodding.

But mainly he flew. When he first started paragliding he would drive everywhere in the truck till he realized a motorcycle was better for the out-of-the-way places. And out-of-the-way places were the point. The whole continent of Africa was open to him, he’d only scratched the surface. A recent trip to Namibia over the baked desert clay was awesome. Sometimes he went with a mate, usually Andy, but he’d also go alone. His parachute folded up into a rucksack which he strapped to his bike.

She asked him questions; he answered them.

He’d go for days or weeks. Alone, he ate raw couscous, too lazy to cook. By the end of a trip he’d be living on vitamin pills and returned with burnt skin, weighing pounds lighter. His motorcycle got stuck in muddy swamps. Once, deep sand in the desert sputtered out the motor. There was the time he broke his collarbone landing on rocks which made the two-day drive home not so fun. Another time he dislocated his shoulder, but Andy was there and snapped it back.

Many places that he flew he could look in every direction and see no sign of people. Now and then a little cluster of huts was there blending into the brown earth or a thin wire of smoke rose out of the trees. But wildlife was everywhere. Elephants looked like tiny gray chips. Herds of gazelles were a swarm of flies on pale ground when you saw them from above. He looked down on the back of eagles with their stiff wings unflapping as he followed them down the thermal from behind.

Then Harry had a question. Who’s the man in the blue shirt? he said.

Jane looked at the unchanging landscape, thinking he meant someone on the road. Where?

In your book that fell out.

Oh. That’s my ex-husband.

You were married?

I was.

What happened?

Got divorced? she said brightly. Then, Got divorced. She felt him waiting for more. It was hard for Jane to stay silent if she felt someone wanted more. Two years ago, she said.

Harry rubbed his teeth with his tongue. You still love him? She looked at him, surprised. You keep his picture.

He’s dead.

He looked at her to see if this was true. Really?

Yup.

Whoa, he said under his breath. What happened?

OD.

That’s hectic.

Happens when you’re an addict, she said.

Yes, he said.

No, she agreed. It was bad.

They drove in silence.

How long were you married for?

Three years, but we were together for eight. He was in a clean period when we got we married. She laughed. As if that mattered.

Harry watched the road, tilting his head to show he was listening.

We weren’t together when he died, she said. But it was still … She didn’t finish.

What was his name? Harry said.

Jake.

Harry appeared thoughtful.

That was, Jane thought, all she was going to say about Jake. At least at the moment. Maybe she’d say more later. Some other time, when she knew him better. She might say more, if she thought he cared. But why would he want to know, really, was her first thought. And did she really want to tell him all that? Jake slipping back only a week after the little wedding, the wrenching final break, how she didn’t go to the funeral because the new girlfriend didn’t want her there. She’d had a hard enough time explaining it to herself without having to describe it to someone else. How do you describe hearing your husband say, I think I made a terrible mistake? And what more can you add about yourself if after hearing this you find that no vow of loyalty could have bound you more fiercely to him than this expression of rejection?

What about you? she said to Harry. You have a girlfriend?

His shoulders rose in a slow shrug. Sometimes, he said. Sort of. His face was placid.

Does she have a name?

He turned and smiled at Jane. Nope.

Open aluminum gates marked the entrance to the Massai Mara and a soft red road led them down a steep hill to the game reserve. They drove onto a flat green plain striped with thin shadows. In the distance a wall-like cliff rose on the western side.

They drove along the eastern edge among leafy trees. There she is, Harry said. To the south an escarpment curled like a giant wave about to break, dwindling off to the west and ending in a hazy bluff.

Harry pointed to some thornbushes which on closer examination turned out to be zebra sitting with ears up in a striped shade. Jane stared fascinated, feeling she was in a storybook, though she was to learn that zebra were not particularly impressive to Africans. Elephant, on the other hand, were by all standards worth driving off track for, as Harry did when he spotted a small herd low in a riverbank. The truck wove its tires through lumpy grasses and stopped, motor off and ticking, giving them a clear view of enormous wrinkled creatures, legs darkened by mud, swaying and bumping against one another. One lifted a trunk like a whip in slow motion and sprayed water. When a large female started flapping her ears, staring directly at the truck and making a throaty trumpet sound, Harry knew to start the engine and back up.

They passed the entrance to a safari camp and its wooden sign hanging on rope with the yellow recessed words Kichwa Tembo. Elephant Head. There were a number of commercial camps in the Mara, but Harry was taking her to a private house, owned by an anthropologist who’d married her Maasai translator and so had claims on the land. At the southern corner of the plain the red road tilted up, turning pale and chunky with white rocks. They lurched up a short vertical hill then hugged the side in diagonal slashes of switchbacks. Harry gripped the steering wheel as if he were wrestling something wild. They passed Maasai encampments he told her were called bomas, circular walls of tangled branches containing small huts and cattle which had to be protected from wildlife. On a day’s notice the boma would be dismantled and reassembled somewhere else where there was fresh grass.

Are we close? she said. But she wasn’t impatient. She felt happy and free. The land was majestic and riding beside him she had the feeling she was where she ought to be. It was not a feeling Jane had often.

Just up here, Harry said, and Jane didn’t care if they ever got there or ever stopped.

The white road ran along a naturally terraced area of the escarpment. Down to the right was a tunnel of greenery inside which flowed the Mara River. There was no road at all when Harry turned right down a slope of flattened grass strewn with hulking boulders at the end of which sat a stone house with a tin roof.

They got out. The air was loud with the sound of water rushing by in the river. They went to a door surrounded by a wrought-iron cage with a large padlock on it. No one appeared to be home. Jane sat for a moment in a chair left outside at a green painted table. The river surged by below, the color of café au lait, battering low branches that bounced against the white waves. Above the river a woolly ridge dark as a rain forest rose up against a yellowish sky. It was late afternoon. On the table a wineglass held a coin of red liquid and a dish had the last bits of a tart crust. Harry was digging around in the back of the truck, hauling out the backpack.

They walked straight up, first in the shade then passing the line into the sun. Jane followed Harry’s large backpack. They came to a narrow footpath. Halfway up they passed a thin woman, chest wrapped in a plaid red and blue shuka, walking down. Her head was shaved and her long earlobes hung with loops and beads. She was barefoot, probably around eighty, walking without hesitation. Jambo, they said and she nodded, passing by.

It didn’t take long to reach the top, and it felt as if they’d gone higher when they did. Soft wind blew and looking over the valley Jane had the sensation she’d never been able to see so far. Perhaps it was true.

Harry dumped out the sack and harness. He took off his shirt and put it back in the sack. As he unrolled the parachute it swelled out like foam. He shook it, then stepped into the harness attached to the thin ropes. His helmet was round and white, making his head look too big for his body. He stood a short distance from the edge with feet planted apart. Past the tall grass at the edge, the plain stretched miles below, brownish green but bleached of color. Behind Harry on the ground the chute flowed out like a wedding train. He pulled at it to free it from twigs and thorns, shaking at a dozen thin lines which all branched out into shorter lines attached to the chute. The likelihood of a tangle seemed immense. A harness of black straps fit over his shoulders and chest and wrapped around his thighs, arranged so that airborne he’d be seated. He stood for a while, staring out, listening. He looked at the clouds, gazing overhead, waiting for a gust. A white mist blew over them, dimming the sun and dampening Jane’s face, a low cloud whitening everything. The wind puffed the sheet behind him. His arm kept reaching back to fluff the light fabric, while he stayed face-forward. Wind filled the sail, lifting it, seeming to push him forward. He took a few quick steps. Jane was aware of the absence of the motor roar that usually accompanies a liftoff as Harry stepped off the edge onto air.

The fabric snapped behind him like a boat sail filling with a gust and he shot backward up over her head. He hovered there for a moment then swung back out over the escarpment drop. Jane heard a satisfied sort of whoop. She watched him, holding her hair away from her eyes, as his feet dangled past her and she learned that the person remaining on the ground could also receive a lifting sensation at takeoff. That is, she did. The flying was totally silent. In the air, Harry had said, you didn’t hear the sound of wind because you were moving at its speed. You were the wind.

The thermals wound in the invisible shape of corkscrews. She watched his figure soar out over the giant bowl of the world, soon catching the spiral in a wide slow circle as if up a spiral staircase. His sail was long and narrow, puckered like a giant earthworm. Very quickly his figure was quite far away.

To the west clouds were stacked with sculptural definition beside the lowering sun. The clouds, the clouds, she thought. Piled and beautiful, they were both indifferent and inviting. They had that paradox of nature you saw also in the sea, a thing appearing eternal even as it changed every second. Harry was now a miniature action figure under a sideways parenthesis. For a while longer she watched him sail, feeling weightless herself, floating by proxy. She didn’t need to fly to feel she was floating. She had a knack for channeling other people’s experiences. You left yourself behind and there was relief.

Harry was a white dot.

The vastness of the savannah below reminded her how tiny a speck she was too and yet at the same time offered her the illusion that she could reach across and touch the bluff miles away. Warm wind blew in small gusts against her and the dot seemed to pull her toward it into the sky. In dreams when she was flying she could never make out exactly how it was working. She swooped through doorways, looped over trees, but felt that at any moment the miracle might stop and down she’d plummet. She’d think in the dream, I better concentrate on staying up, but that wasn’t necessary. You just stayed up. You didn’t know what was keeping you up. It wasn’t in your control. It just happened. Like life. She thought how in her dreams she too flew in loops the way Harry was now, riding the thermals, following the shape of DNA.

A white sun perched on the western ridge. When it dropped behind, the light would go. Harry had told her to walk down before dark. Night-time was the kingdom of the animals. You didn’t want to be out there then with them. She entered into the shadow sloped across the hill, taking steps sideways, sliding a little, going down and yet still having the buoyant feeling of drifting over a vast plain. What had taken them thirty minutes to climb took her ten minutes to descend.

On the way down she kept the corrugated roof of the house in sight with the white truck beside it, the lightest thing in the gathering dusk. Darker vehicles were also parked there now. She reached the bottom and walked quickly on a dark road. When she saw a bright little fire going in front of the house it showed how dark it was. Closer she saw piled branches crackling inside a circle of stones. In front of the fire was the round table where two men and a woman were sitting with bottles and a crossed pair of army boots. She was greeted by the people with no surprise at seeing a strange woman emerge out of the dark. A fellow with a thin ponytail stood up and offered her his chair of twisted saplings. Karibu, he said. It was Andy. She sat.

Tusker? Jane was handed a bottle and introduced. The fire was warm on her legs.

The girl named Julia worked at a nearby tourist camp. The one with the boots on the table was Cyril from England.

They asked her where she was from and she asked them and soon they were talking about the baby leopard that had fallen through a torn patch in the roof last week. It landed on Annabel’s mother in her bed. Inside the stone house Jane could see more people crossing back and forth making dinner.

It was looking for food, said the girl, her white teeth glowing in the dusk. She wore a safari shirt and a short skirt. But it did freak her mum out a bit.

A bit, Jane said.

What did she do with it? said the fellow with the boots.

Shooed it out the window, said the girl, blowing cigarette smoke toward the fire. Poor thing didn’t want to be there either.

Maybe I better go get Harry, Andy said.

He’s not back? Jane said. Beyond the fire was blackness and the rushing of the river.

Well, Joss went to meet the plane, he said vaguely. I’ll go see. He gently moved off to be engulfed by blackness after which they heard the sputtering of a motor.

Inside Jane met their hostess. Annabel wore a ripped green evening gown and had red hair arranged in a loose triangle on her head. A long table was being set among rocks and feathers and bones. Jane was given the job of picking wax from Moroccan candlesticks and pouring salt into oyster shells, fossils from the river.

Hours later the table was crowded with plates of grilled meat and glistening bottles and candle flames. There were stories of men falling out of the sky, of cars breaking down crossing streams, of mothers running off with young lovers. A steady rain drummed on the roof above them. Jane sat beside a man in a polo shirt who was pointing out the absurdity of monogamy. Look at the animals, he said. Need I say more?

Annabel stood, pouring wine into everyone’s glasses, her smile showing wine-stained teeth.

You have someone back home? he asked her.

Kind of, she lied. She thought of the painter she’d liked lately though nothing had gone on between them.

Don’t let a man put you in a cage, he said. Ever.

Julia mentioned that it was her birthday as if she’d just remembered it, and everyone shouted and gave her toasts. Some time later Annabel handed her a present wrapped in a banana leaf and tied with a brown Hermès ribbon.

Much later Jane found herself outside in a pitch dark pouring with rain beside strangers pushing a car stuck in the muddy hillside. She gripped the door handle, her bare feet sunk in mud. The car would rev in a great burst, roll forward an inch then rock back down, inert. Try it again! they yelled. Another rev, another group shove, and it wasn’t budging an inch. People shouted, insulting each other, laughing. The rain was loud, slapping on the slick grass, but still Jane could hear the low constant roar of the river. The jaunty thump of music played from a tape inside where lanterns shone from yellow windows, casting dim smudges. Otherwise everything was black.

Jane could hardly see her hands. The shirt of the person beside her showed because it was light-colored. They kept heaving and shoving against the car. Suddenly it jerked forward, pulling out from everyone. Jane stumbled, managing somehow not to fall. A headless figure with a white shirt slid by as if on skis and grabbed her upper arm. Harry pulled her along so she skated at his side for a moment on the slick ground before they both toppled over into spattering mud. His arms were cupped around her, and they rolled in this clasp down the slope, somersaulting. The face was close and dark with darker spots where the eyes were and when its mouth came near she kissed it, kissing water and rain and bits of grit on his lips, thinking, I’m kissing Harry. She felt his chest warm through his soaked shirt. In her mind were images of the dinner and the faces around the candlelit table, of driving that day on the red snaking road, then of Harry lifting up into the orange air over her. They’d had a lot of wine and her thinking was far off and hazy but one thought did come—this is the way you found a person, crashing into him in the dark, without decision, without knowing where you were going—and even in that abandon she still managed to locate little worn areas of worry pulsing, but with no words to them. Worry didn’t stand a chance against this sliding and this person she was holding. The slope of the hill evened out and they stopped rolling and kept kissing and she had a laugh in the back of her throat with the thought, I’m kissing Harry. She kept thinking it as worry faded. She saw his hands on the steering wheel, his profile and his placid masklike face.

Wet hair plastered her forehead and his cheeks and their bodies pressed against the length of each other on the wet ground. She felt triply alive, as if delivered from an austere place where it was now apparent she’d been for a long time. How had she stayed there so long? Now she had his warm arms and her back was chilled. The rain kept streaming over them and behind in the deeper darkness the sound of the river was rushing and thundering. Harry was a close new thing which she knew very little about and yet at this moment found it seemed to offer her everything.