Syd awoke alone and naked, in the middle of a big bra.s.s bed. The covers that bunched around him were fragrant with musk and scented sachet.

He tried to move, but his body refused to cooperate. He felt drained, utterly spent. The drapes were drawn, dimming the room, but he could see a ribbon of bright sunlight threading along the seam. He had no idea what time it was. He looked over to the dresser, then to the table beside the bed. No clocks. There was a picture on the nightstand, showing a years-younger Jane, standing next to a smaller, silver-haired woman. Together they looked like before and after versions of the same person; the family resemblance was that strong. They were standing in the woods and hugging each other. They were smiling.

From somewhere downstairs came the clatter of pots and pans, and the smell of cooking. Even better was the fragrant bouquet underlying the food smells. Even more important than food. The smell of life itself.

Coffee.

"Hmmmmm," Syd moaned, thinking G.o.d, this woman is wonderful, may she live a hundred years. He still had no idea what time it was, or how long he'd been out. He sat up, was pleasantly surprised to find that he felt cleaner, lighter somehow, as though he'd been unburdened of a great weight. He realized anew how much scar tissue he'd been carrying around, how crippling it was.

But for the first time in ages, he actually felt freed from it. That in itself was nothing short of a miracle. He could see the headlines now: The blind see! The dead speak! Syd Jarrett learns to let go! Film at eleven . . . h.e.l.l, it was more than a new lease on life.

It was a new life altogether.

"Yahoo," Syd murmured, hoisting himself from the bed. He stood and his bladder ballooned, warning him that if he didn't p.i.s.s in the next sixty seconds, he was going to explode.

Fortunately for all concerned, it was the first door on the right, once he cleared the bedroom. The bathroom, like the rest of the house, was a funky hodgepodge of country-rustic and nineties hip. The floors were rough-hewn hardwood, the fixtures all antique, down to the old-fashioned claw-foot tub. As Syd slid inside, the thought of a romantic bath-by-candlelight posed itself. They both had the day off. Anything could happen.

He hustled over to the john, lifted the lid and let fly. As he peed he noticed a burgeoning magazine rack, blithely perused its contents. Syd had always felt you could tell a lot about the inner workings of a person's mind by studying what they kept around for bathroom reading, and Jane's taste was as eclectic as it was informative: Robert Bly's Iron John and Margot Adler's Drawing Down the Moon side by side with Zippy the Pinhead, Harlan Ellison's The Essential Ellison and Paul Williams's slim-but-deadly Nation of Lawyers. There were a few well-thumbed Bloom County and Far Side compilations thrown in for good measure.

Syd cracked a grin, felt a warm glow blossom in his heart. The more he found out about this girl, the more intrigued he was. He was struck again at how amazing it was that they connected with each other, at how good it felt to actually be friends with the person you slept with. At how good he felt, in general.

He finished, reached down to flush the toilet; as he did, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink. His chest and shoulders were covered with little bite marks and scratches. For once, he could account for all of them. He remembered getting every single one, greatly looked forward to acquiring more.

The handle depressed; the commode rattled and swirled. Syd went to the sink, splashed some cold water onto his face and through his hair, which he finger-combed back. He did a quick check in the mirror, a.s.sessing the damage. He could definitely use a shower, and he definitely looked his age, but all in all he felt pretty d.a.m.ned fine.

Syd stepped into the hall and turned back toward the bedroom to search for his clothes, when the food smells a.s.sailed him again. The coffee was cinnamon-scented and wonderful; there were eggs and potatoes and some kind of sizzling meat. He caught the whiff of fresh-baked bread, and his knees went weak. Oh, man, he thought. This is too much.

He looked at the stairs, was struck with the impulse to go down and jump her right there in the kitchen. The thought of her stirred his loins. Syd turned, a sly smile on his face, and started creeping down.

The kitchen was just off the entrance hall to the right of the staircase. The stairs themselves were old and creaky; Syd paused twice on his way down, once after hitting a particularly noisy plank, the second time when he stubbed his toe. He hugged the wall and held his breath, biting back the urge to curse.

The noises from the kitchen continued unabated. The meat was still sizzling away, effectively covering his stalking sounds. Syd was two steps from the door. The sizzling stopped, and there came the sound of a pan being lifted from the stove. A shadow moved across the kitchen floor, giving away her position. Syd grinned, antic.i.p.ating the look on her face, as he coiled himself, preparing to spring.

Syd leapt around the corner, arms outstretched, let loose with a fearsome snarl . . .

. . . and came face-to-face with an old woman holding a hot frying pan.

"Oh s.h.i.t!!" he gasped, hands scrambling to cover his exposed crotch. The old woman looked at him, utterly unfazed. She was gaunt and stooped, with leathery skin and long silver hair pulled into a thick braid that hung halfway down her back. Her eyes were Jane's eyes: kind and dark and sharply focused, the sort of eyes that took in everything and missed nothing. She c.o.c.ked her head, curiously regarding the naked madman standing in the middle of her kitchen.

"I'm sorry!" Syd blurted. "I thought you were someone else!"

The old woman raised her eyebrows, gave him a quizzical look. Syd turned fifteen shades of red, started backing toward the door. "I, uh, I was just, um . . ." He backed up, stumbled against a chair, reached out for balance, exposed himself again. "Sorry!" he said, covering up again.

The old woman shook her head. "We were beginning to wonder if you'd sleep all day." She proceeded to carry the pan to the table, set it down. As she turned, Syd recognized her: a somewhat older version of the woman in the photograph. "My name's Mae," she said. "I'm Janey's gramma."

"Syd," Syd replied sheepishly. "Syd Jarrett."

Mae nodded. "Janey's told me all about you."

"Ah," Syd said, feeling like a complete idiot.

Mae turned her attention back to the table, sparing him further embarra.s.sment. Syd saw it had been set for one. "Thought you might be hungry," she said, very matter-of-factly. "Janey's out for a walk, just yet. She'll be back shortly. How do you like your coffee?"

"Uh, black," Syd said. "One sugar."

"Mmm-hmmm," Mae replied. She turned back to the counter, where a Mr. Coffee sat. Syd remained frozen in place, afraid to get up or move. She poured a steaming mugful for herself, then got a fresh mug down from the cupboard for him. As she did, the tiniest flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt flitted across her features.

"Best you find your clothes," Mae said, "'fore your food gets cold."

"Yes ma'am," Syd replied, easing his way toward the door. He bolted upstairs, found his pants and shirt balled up in the corner of the bedroom where he'd thrown them. By the time he came back downstairs his embarra.s.sment had receded to a manageable level. Gramma Mae served him a steaming plate of food and retired to another part of the house without saying anything more.

Syd seated himself, feeling simultaneously awkward and strangely accepted, a guest being treated with casual, comfortable neglect, almost like family. The breakfast nook was sunny and filled with plants; bundles of drying herbs hung from the eaves and rafters, filling the air with their aromatic scents. The woods outside the window were thick and lush and alive, and sparkled with a thousand shades of green and gold and russet brown.

All in all, it was the kind of room that invited hours of peaceful contemplation on the essential goodness of life, and like the rest of the house it resonated with a sense of rootedness, of home and hearth and family. Syd found himself fending off the bittersweet longing for something like that in his own life. . . .

Then his stomach growled, drawing him back to the present. He scooped up a fragrant forkful, brought it to his lips.

And it was delicious.

31.

The day that awaited was warm, laced with the sweet smell of green things growing and an underpinning of moist, verdant earth. It was mid-afternoon, almost three-thirty, and Jane still wasn't back.

Syd had finished eating and then washed his dishes, killing time until she returned. After tending to his needs Gramma Mae had disappeared, leaving Syd to his own devices. But as he rinsed and racked the last plate, he began to feel more than a little bit awkward lounging around by himself. He decided to get some fresh air, maybe actually take a little walk. Maybe use the time to figure out how he was going to broach the subject of his little secret.

There was a trail off to the side of the house that looked promising. Syd took a deep breath and ambled off, picking his way through the vibrant greenery. He hadn't gone more than twenty yards before the house had completely disappeared from view, lost in the wild sprawl of trees.

The path sloped down, turning twisted and rocky as it threaded across the mountainside. Syd hiked along, weaving around moss-laden storm-fall and scuttling over craggy outcroppings. As he did he was struck by how it felt to be outside again: familiar, yet unsettling, like coming home after a long journey to find everything you owned moved three inches to the left.

Syd took in the sights and smells, weighed them against his own mixed feelings and marveled at how the play of light and shadow could simultaneously be so innocent and so foreboding, so ripe with threat. All of nature, for him, had taken on a strangely sinister cast: where before he would have heard nothing but the birds and insects and blameless wind rustling leaves overhead and sending them skittering beneath his feet, now he was acutely aware of the countless desperate daily struggles for existence going on around him. A million myriad forms of life, each locked in its own private fight for survival in the food chain. Syd caught a glimpse of a field mouse, darting from the safety of an elm and disappearing under a log. He wondered if it slept in fear, and if its dreams were haunted by the sound of snapping jaws.

Then a twig cracked as loud as a rifle shot right behind him. Syd turned, startled, and Jane was there: bopping down the path in Sneakers and a loose Indian cotton print dress.

"Hi, stranger," she said, wrapping her arms around him, giving him a big hug. As she kissed him he felt the pleasant tautness of her flesh under the sheer fabric, caught the scent of rose oil and wildflowers, the faint muscular tang of sweat underneath. It only took him a second to relax and respond fully, but it was enough for her to pick up on.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," he answered a little too abruptly, then looked away, shaking his head. "I was just thinking back on the last time I was out in the woods." He didn't elaborate. She let it slide, instead wrapped his arm around her shoulder and began to stroll. "So where you been all morning?" he asked.

"Oh, out and about," Jane said. "I stopped back at the house-I must have just missed you." She b.u.mped hips with him, nudging him off the path. "I figured you probably needed the rest."

"Oh, yeah," Syd replied, letting out a chagrined chuckle. "Yeah, I guess I did." There was an awkward pause. Tell her, said the voice in his mind. "Listen, about last night . . ." he began. "Urn, I don't usually go to pieces like that. . . ."

"You mean you don't have a nervous breakdown with every girl you go to bed with?" Jane chided. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Yeah, right," Syd said, his face flush with embarra.s.sment. "It's just been a long time since I felt that good, and it brought back some memories I'd kinda buried. . . ."

He stopped, not knowing if he could continue. Jane gave him an understanding squeeze. "S'okay," she said, meaning you don't have to talk about this right now. "Just so you know, I had a pretty great time, too." She nodded, gravely serious. It cracked the tension, brought a smile to his face.

"Much better," she said. "You know, you're kinda cute when you're embarra.s.sed." She reached around and grabbed his a.s.s "Even Gram thinks so."

"Oh, G.o.d," he groaned. "She told you."

Jane shrugged. "She tells me everything."

"Oh, G.o.d," he repeated, mortified.

"Don't worry about it," Jane added. "Gram's seen naked men before."

He winced, tried to change the subject. "So," he said, "is it just you and her here?"

"Yep," Jane nodded. "I came here after my folks died." She said it plainly, and it made Syd aware of exactly how little he knew about her, how much he wanted to know more.

"I'm sorry," he said. "How . . ." he stopped, unsure of whether he should ask.

"Hunting accident," she replied. "We were up in the Poconos, and they got shot by a bunch of drunken a.s.sholes." She shook her head sadly. "People can be so f.u.c.king stupid."

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea . . ."

"Yeah, well," she sighed. "It's not something I usually talk about."

She grew quiet, and Syd sensed that they were in delicate territory. He said nothing, but drew her a little closer; she responded, leaning into him as they walked.

Just ahead the trail ended and the trees opened up, revealing a spectacular view of the valley below. She took his hand, led him over to a rock ledge next to a big gnarly oak. As they sat Syd scooted up until his back was against the tree, then Jane hopped up and leaned into him.

"This is my favorite spot," she said. "You can see practically the whole valley."

Syd looked out, saw that, indeed, the whole town was visible on the middle horizon: nestled in the folds of the green earth, its grim industrial decay rendered picturesque by distance. The huddled houses and squat buildings became magical, pristine; the mill works' gray smokestacks thrust skyward, still and silent; sunlight gleamed diamond-like off a thousand empty windows. The river snaked below them like a fat golden ribbon, shimmering and alive.

They sat there for a time in silence, watching nature unfold. The day was perfect, the scenery breathtaking. The sky was a pure cobalt blue, the clouds casting fat shadows on the floor of the valley, the coming moon a faint ghost overhead. A hawk swooped and soared not a mile away, riding the thermal currents coming off the mountainside. It was hundreds of feet above the valley floor but level with the two of them, hanging effortlessly in the sky.

"It's so beautiful," Syd sighed. "Hard to believe it's so ugly up close."

"That's why I like it here," Jane said. "You can't see all the bulls.h.i.t." She nodded to herself. "I think everything looks better from a distance."

Syd grew quiet, torn between enjoying her presence and trying to ignore the voice in his head. You have to tell her, it said. You have to do it now. He leaned forward, tried to hide in the solace of her smell. She was so beautiful.

This felt so good. This was a mistake. It was unspeakably selfish of him to hide the truth, unthinkable to reveal it. She would think he was joking, or think him deranged. She would hate him.

Then she would fear him. . . .

In the sky above, the hawk banked and dove, descending on some unsuspecting prey. Syd wondered if its intended victim could feel it coming.

"h.e.l.l-o?" Jane's singsong sliced through his silence, brought him back. "Anybody home?"

"What? Oh. Sorry."

"If you're gonna keep going away like that," she told him, "the least you could do is rub my shoulders." He could hear her smiling.

"No problem," he replied, and Jane tilted her head forward as he brought his hands up and under her hair, then settled back as he began to knead the soft skin there. She gave out a little growl of pleasure, and Syd felt a horrible rush of sadness well up in his soul. You can't have this. He wanted her so badly. You can't ever have this. . . .

"Tell me what you're thinking," Jane said.

Her tone was earnest, softly insistent. It invited the truth.

"I don't know . . . I guess I was thinking about why s.h.i.t happens . . ." he said. As poetic replies went, it fell way short of the mark. ". . . wondering why life goes the way it goes." He stopped, overwhelmed by his own inability to articulate his feelings. "I guess maybe I was wondering why we never got together before."

"I never would have gone out with you before," she said. Her candor threw him a little.

"I was always attracted to you," he confessed.

"I always noticed you," she acknowledged. "But I still wouldn't have gone out with you."

Syd paused, letting her words sink in. It begged the obvious question. "So why are you with me now?"

"Like I said," she told him. "You've changed."

She thought about it a little more, elaborated. "The whole time I was growing up, my folks never stayed in one place more than a couple of months. We were always either just leaving someplace or just arriving someplace else. Kind of a hippie-nomad thing, I guess. G.o.d knows we weren't exactly the normal American family unit. . . ." Jane picked at a blade of gra.s.s, stared into the distance. "Anyway, I never got a chance to get close to anyone but them. When they died, I was alone. . . ."

"So why'd you come here?"

Jane gave an offhand little shrug. "Guess I got tired of being alone," she said.

Maybe it was the way they were touching: the intimacy of physical contact softening the pain of opening up. Or perhaps it was the presence of the scenery, providing them with a mitigating focal point, allowing for a heightened sense of perspective. Or even just that it was a continuation of his healing process, the next step in unburdening himself of years of brittle ego-armor.

For whatever reasons, it was his turn. Syd took a deep breath, fumbled for the words.

"I've really f.u.c.ked up my life," he said. Jane went very still in his arms, listening. "It's like there's this thing inside me that knows that there's more to life than what everyone tells you," he said. "More than just being a good little robot and playing by the rules and doing what you're told. I've always known it. Only I never knew what to do about it.

"I mean, I tried to find it when I was a kid, and I just got into trouble. Like people don't want you to know about it, and they punish you for trying to let it out."

Quit weaseling, the voice warned. Tell her.

Jane nodded, listening.

"I tried to bury it, just do what everyone told me was the right thing: get a job, get married, have a normal life. . . ." He laughed, putting bitter emphasis on the word. "Then," he said, "when you least expect it, someone comes along and shows you what it is you've been denying all along."

"Nora," she said, her voice flat, very small.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Nora." It was the first time he'd spoken her name in ages. It felt strange on his tongue.

"So what is it she showed you?"