.

The weeks passed. I didn’t really have anything to do, for the first time that I could remember. No work to fret over, no need to study. But strangely or not, I didn’t miss it and felt no need to be doing. If I wanted to tackle one of the items on my “fixit” list, I did it, but often I was more than content to let it be. I got myself a used car down in Portland. Out in the middle of nowhere, Ubers are as scarce as subways. Mostly it sat in the garage.

There was a path along the top of the ridge; Sue Gallagher told me all the residents used it, and no-one fussed about the trespassing so long as people kept to the path. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. But my house was at the end of the path anyway and few people came all the way out. I was more than happy to use the walk myself, though. Heading west and south, I was able to take it all the way to a state park, some five miles away.

I had lived in New York a long time. It was strange to take the walk and see no people, or very few. To hear no traffic. No noise at all, really, except the cry of seagulls, the occasional crash of wave on granite, and that deep sound, like breathing, as the ocean advances and retreats, advances and retreats.

Equally unfamiliar were the smells. The ocean smell and the smell of pine. The smell of wood fires in the early morning, when smoke would curl up from fireplaces, sharp against the crystal air.

So I walked, and wandered. I got up the energy to sand and restain the Adirondack chairs on the blue slate patio off the back door of the house, and the small trestle table between them. After the job was finished I would spend hours there, just watching the ocean and feeling what little warmth the sun could still provide as the calendar moved deep into October.

Sue and I had gotten better acquainted. I was still awkward; I’m always that way, though, when I have to deal with people in an unstructured situation. But it no longer bothered me when she called me Philip, and I didn’t stutter when I called her Sue.

So it wasn’t too strange, in my new existence, that I helped her bag up all the leaves from the big red maple in the front of her yard. She invited me in afterwards for some breakfast, just the two of us.

“Pa doesn’t come downstairs anymore,” she told me. “I bring everything up to him.” She dished pancakes with fresh blueberries, sausage and two eggs onto an enormous plate and passed it to me. “There you go.”

I thanked her and brought the plate to the farm table in the kitchen, which had a view out the back. She made herself a more modestly portioned plate and joined me, plopping a small pitcher of warm maple syrup between us, an area of the table that was dark with rings from decades of meals — coffee rings and syrup rings and who knows what all. I had a strangely whimsical thought — strange for me, anyhow — that the table would probably have a lot of stories to tell, if it could talk.

“This is more food than I usually eat before dinner time,” I observed.

“I can tell,” she laughed. “Why, you’ve got no flesh on your bones at all!”

She was smiling and laughing, so I was pretty sure that was not intended to be a criticism. I probably still sounded a bit defensive, though, when I explained that food had just never been a big priority for me. “My dad used to tell me that food was fuel. I guess that’s how I’ve always thought about it.”

“Did your Mom feel that way, too?” She was smiling, still. The tone of her voice was, what? Teasing? But, not a mean sort of teasing. I didn’t think it was mean, anyway.

I shook my head. “No. Mom would spend some time on it. Like you, I guess. You kind of remind me of her, some.”

Her expression changed briefly. Maybe that had been the wrong thing to say?

I plunged on, hoping to recover. “I think it bothered her, that Dad and I would just gulp it down, then do the clean-up.”

Her smile was back. “Well, I can certainly understand that! Where do they live, your parents?”

“They’re both dead.” The phone call had come when I was in my dorm room, studying for my finance exam. The woman from the police department, telling me about the jackknifed tractor-trailer that hit their car. The following week had been a nightmare that never seemed to end. Identifying the bodies. Trying to figure out what to even do with them. Doctors and lawyers and accountants and the people from the funeral home . . . .

People from here, people from there. People, people, and more people. But the only people I’d ever been able to talk to, the only people who’d ever given a good goddamn about me, were gone and I was all alone and always would be. Always and always and always . . . .

“Philip? Philip?” A touch on my wrist jolted me out of my daymare.

“I’m sorry,” I said abruptly, starting to stand. “I should – ”

“No, you shouldn’t,” she said, overriding me. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried. Please . . . finish your breakfast.” She rose quickly. “Do you like coffee, or tea?”

I sank back into the chair, feeling lost and a bit confused. “Tea?”

“You just sit still and eat a bit more, then. I’ll get you a cup.”

She fussed about the kitchen without saying anything, for which I was grateful. After a minute, I started picking at the food, figuring that I should be polite. It was fine, I suppose. I really didn’t think much about food. Maybe if I ate more of it, I’d be set until dinner time.

By the time she returned to the table with a tea pot and a couple of cups, I had myself back under control. We talked about the weather, which even I knew to be a safe topic. I talked about some of the projects on my fixit list and asked if she could recommend a handyman for a couple that were a bit much for me.

“Hmmm? No,” she said. “I don’t know anyone like that. Pa might have had a guy, but of course he wouldn’t remember now.”

We talked long enough to be polite, and I made a point of washing up all the dishes. Just like old times, when Mom used to cook. But I was still feeling unsettled when I went back to my place, and I didn’t get much done the rest of the day. I made it to my normal bedtime by force of habit and will alone.

After several weeks of living in the house, I had its sounds committed to subconscious memory. The sound that the wind made when it came up from the south and sliced against the loose shutter on the side window. The sound of the ocean when it was rough, and when it was calm. The normal creaks the house made, settling and shifting. The rattle of the water pipes when I used the shower. The sound of the fourth step in the staircase, when you hit the tread in the middle.

It was the fourth stair’s distinctive creak that roused me from my trouble sleep, my eyes popping open with a start. They darted toward the doorway, panicked, but then darted right back again, opening to their widest aperture.

The dark-haired woman had been sitting at the desk again, but she was rising and moving toward the door, towards the sound that had broken my sleep. The ivory nightgown clung to her lean body, the lace at the hem of the skirt swirling around her bare ankles.

Before I could say a word, a man appeared at the open door to the bedroom. Tall – very tall – with hair as dark as the woman’s. Coal-black and thick and curling, framing a strong face with dark, smoldering eyes under heavy, bushy brows.

The woman flung herself at him, clutching him as if he were about to disappear. Her head barely came up to his chin. Strong arms encircled her, powerful hands on her back, and the man bent to plant a kiss on top of her head.

There were no words. No sound. I wanted to jump up. To demand answers. But I felt unable to move, or to speak. My eyelids felt heavy – felt heavy again?
No!!! Not this time! I pushed myself to try to get up, to try to scream. All that came out was a croak. “How . . . ?”

They were gone.

Gone as suddenly as a light flees a room when you shut off the lamp at night time. Slowly, carefully, I sat up and got out of bed. There was no one there. No one at all. The desk was empty. I walked down the stairs and turned on the light. No one was below, either.

I felt a terrible headache coming on, so I took a couple Advil then grudgingly went back upstairs. The fourth stair creaked, as it always did. The same noise that had gotten me out of bed. Exactly the same, the only sound I had heard the entire time. But I had no answers and no better idea than to return to bed and try to go back to sleep. I didn’t hold out much hope that sleep would come, but I surprised myself. I was out almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

With the coming of daylight, I had to dismiss the whole thing as just another bad dream. A bizarre one, certainly, but my sleeping brain had been serving up some doozies from time to time as far back as I could remember. And I’d been unsettled all day yesterday. A shrink would probably say there was a connection. Not that I would ever go see one.

I felt much better after a good hot shower – thank goodness the old man had installed a decent-sized water heater, and the regulator on the shower provided lots and lots of pressure. Good enough that I might even tackle something else on my fixit list today. I started going over it in my head, deciding on a project for the day.

I froze. The ivory nightgown was hanging on the hook behind the door. The same nightgown I had put in a plastic bag with Dick Kelly’s old jeans and flannel shirts, and taken to the dump.

The same one the woman had worn, just last night.

~o~O~o~
It was Tuesday, and the dump wasn’t open on Tuesdays or Wednesdays. I didn’t have enough stuff in the house to justify a dump run anyway. But I grabbed the nightgown off the hook, feeling something like a jolt of electricity, of energy, when my hand encountered the unfamiliar fabric. Stomping downstairs, I found a garbage bag and buried the thing in it and took it out to the small one-car garage that was attached to the house.

I knew I’d gotten rid of that nightgown. Knew it. I had a distinct memory of taking it off the hook weeks before; of putting it in a plastic bag. To say that I was shaken by its reappearance was putting it mildly. Either my mind was playing tricks on me and I wasn’t remembering things I had done . . . or my mind was playing different sorts of tricks on me.

Neither alternative was working for me, I decided.

I got dressed in some work clothes, and had a go at silencing that damned fourth stair. First I tried hammering some more nails in, along the sides. That did nothing. I decided to try screws instead, on the theory that they would grip better than nails.

No luck. The stair still squeaked. Maybe the tone was just a little sharper, but nothing more than that. I pulled out my phone and did a search on YouTube. That’s when I moved “fix the stair” to that part of the list that was going to require outside help. It was apparently a very involved job. Who knew? Well, not this city boy, that’s for sure.

One thing I could do today, and damned well would, was to put some extra locks on the doors, front and back. Before I went off to the hardware store, I made a list of what I needed from the grocery store as well. No need to make two trips. Then I locked up the house as best I could, got in the car and drove into town.

The hardware store was an intimidating place. It was old, for starters. The kind of place that has bins of nails and bolts, where the floorboards are broad old pine planks, polished and blackened over decades and decades of use, and old men in checkered shirts and suspenders are the only ones who know where anything can be found.

I’d been in several times already. The old guys were helpful, and they’d guided me to good options as I started to purchase basic tools for the first time in my life. As an apartment dweller in New York City, I hadn’t needed them much. A good hammer; a set of screwdrivers; a rake, a shovel, clippers. They told me I’d want a chainsaw sooner or later; I decided “later” sounded better. I hadn’t needed one yet, and I was A-okay with that.

“Good morning, Mr. Beauchamp.” The guy behind the counter smiled toothily. Cartwright, his name was, and he was from a generation that did not take liberties with first names unless invited. “What brings you in today? Time for the chainsaw?”

I smiled back, but I feared it was a nervous and distracted smile. “No, thank you, Mr. Cartwright. Just need to get something for the doors. Chains, bolts, something.”

His face assumed an expression which seemed consistent with concern. “Everything alright out there? No break-in or anything?” Of course, Mr. Cartwright knew where I lived. It was a small town; the fact that there was a new resident in “the Kelly house” out on Ridge Road was a matter of communal knowledge almost instantly. Another thing it had taken a while for me to get used to.

“Ah . . . no. No. Nothing like that,” I said. “Just, you know. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“That’s right,” he said, nodding knowingly. “You came from New York CIty.” I could hear the capital letters in his voice. “I expect you’re used to locks and deadbolts and all that. ‘Course, out here, you have to worry about the animals that go on four feet, if you take my meaning.”

“Well, maybe,” I said, happy to use the explanation that seemed natural to the old guy, though I’d felt a lot less safe since I left the city. “I just feel happier knowing I’ve got something solid on the doors.”

“Right, right,” he said. “Better safe than sorry. Now, your best bet would be a genuine deadbolt. You’ll need some more advanced tools for those, though. Got to drill through the doors, if you follow me. Straight through, no wobbles, or it won’t line up proper, like.”

“Ah . . . do you have anything a bit more, basic, maybe?”

“Sure. Let’s see what we’ve got.” He walked me back to an aisle that was indistinguishable from any other area in the store, which would have taken me half an hour to find on my own. He talked as we walked. “If you’re just looking for something that you use when you’re home, there are lots of easy to install choices. Chain bolts, barrel bolt latches, that sort of thing. They’re easy, because you don’t need to be able to open them from the outside. So you don’t need to drill through the door.”

I nodded. “Yeah, that’s really all I’m looking for, I think. I don’t much care if someone breaks in when I’m not around. I don’t have a lot to steal.”

“Premises protected by poverty? Yeah, I get that, Mr. Beauchamp. I surely do.”

It wasn’t really what I’d meant, but I didn’t see any reason to argue the point. Plenty of poverty in rural Maine; I didn’t need to make trouble by telling people I was well off.

We arrived in the designated area, and he helped me pick out a couple of latches that could be installed with just a screwdriver. “Be a lot easier if you bought a proper drill, Mr. Beauchamp. Make a pilot hole first. The cordless ones are real easy, like.”

The screws didn’t look all that big to me, so I figured I could do without the drill for now. Like the chainsaw, I found them all a bit intimidating. While he was ringing me up, I asked if he knew someone who could do odd jobs – plumbing, carpentry, basic electrical.

“Oh, sure,” he said easily. “Everyone ‘round here calls Dave Micklewaithe. He’s my son-in-law, so you know, but he’s good and reliable and don’t gouge no-one. He’s alright. Even if he did go and steal my favorite daughter!” His eyes twinkled at the memory.

I got the number for his reliable, but thieving, son-in-law, went off to the grocery to restock the larder, and returned home. Once there, I popped my hatchback, grabbed the groceries first, and carried them to the door to the kitchen.

But I was overcome by a completely irrational urge. Cursing myself for an idiot, I put down the groceries, and opened up the black garbage bag, just to make sure that the nightgown was still where I had placed it. The creamy silk shimmered in the low light. Almost without volition, I reached a finger down and stroked it gently, again feeling a jolt of electricity.

Shaking my head to clear it, I closed up the garbage bag, brought in the groceries and put them away. Then I started my project. It quickly became apparent why Mr. Cartwright had tried to sell me a drill, as it proved far harder than I had thought to push the screws into the very solid front door. By the time I was finished, my hands were red and sore and I was sweating despite the autumn chill in the air.

Lunch, certainly, before I tried to do the back door! Anything to give my poor aching hands a break. PBJ on white, some water to wash it down. Nothing exciting; exciting is overrated anyway. I lingered over the icewater, my eyes turned to the sea. A gull was riding the ridge thermal, doing a lazy 180 as it hit the outcropping just north of my house and heading back the way it came.

I got up to clear my plate and hesitated, then slipped out the garage door. The bag was where I had left it. The nightgown was still in the bag . . . still silky smooth, charged with electricity. Slowly, gently, I pulled it from the bag and lifted it to my cheek, feeling the cool of the fabric, breathing in a faint, elusive scent. I stood for a moment, mesmerized, my eyes closed, just somehow soaking in the experience of the garment, before shaking my head, thrusting it back into the bag, and getting back to work.

Once I had new locks on the doors, I kept myself busy by taking a long walk, striding quickly along the ridge path, watching the whitecaps as the wind picked up from the south, allowing the sounds of the sea to soothe my troubled spirit. I hadn’t felt right since remembering my parent’s death yesterday. It had been twelve years. Surely I should be over all of that after twelve years!

At the end of the day, I added to my night time ritual by going around and locking each of the new locks that I had installed. I washed, brushed my teeth, and made sure that the nightgown was not hanging on the door. Once I was satisfied, I stripped down to my T-shirt and boxers and slipped into bed.

I felt like I was barely asleep when a loud “thump” got my attention – the south wind had pulled a shutter loose and it whacked loud against the clapboard. Something else I would need to deal with . . . later. I turned my attention back to the mirror to finish removing my makeup, when the “thump” sounded again.

I sighed and rose, smoothing my nightgown against my thighs as I moved toward the window. But movement outside caught my eye. A man stood on my patio, looking up at me, and our eyes met. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a look that could burn the frost off of any heart.

A man? No. My man.

I walked to the closet and slipped a long, fleece robe over my thin nightie, belting it tightly, then slid my bare feet into my warmest pair of slippers. Then I was down the stairs and at the back door. It took me a moment to figure out why the door refused to open, but once I did I slipped the new bolt back and walked down the two steps to where he waited for me.

I crossed to where he stood and put my head against his broad chest, waiting until I felt the warmth of his encircling arms. The feeling of one-ness that happened whenever he touched me. The feeling that I was whole and complete, loved, understood, and cherished.

We spoke no words. None even occurred to me. It was enough that he was here, with me. I felt his kiss on the top of my head, then he turned to stand by my side, one arm holding me tight against him at the waist. He walked me down toward the ridge and when we reached it we stood, arm in arm, watching the waves crash in the light of the moon, as the south wind lifted my long black hair.

I don’t know how long we stood there, he and I, content to be together, enjoying the closeness we always felt in each others’ company. Hours, maybe. I should have been cold, chilled to the bone, but I was warm instead. Warm and content.

At the first hint of pale light in the east, he pulled me around and escorted me back to the house . . . my house. By the back steps, he took me in his arms again and kissed me deeply, sweetly, and I returned the kiss in a way that left no doubt as to my own feelings. He stepped back, holding both my hands. Then he lifted them, kissing first one, then the other, before letting me go, and walking away down to the path.

I stayed where I was, watching my love until he was gone from sight. Finally feeling the cold, I went inside and back to my bedroom. After finishing my toilette and returning to bed, I fell at once into a deep and dreamless sleep, a smile on my lips.

~o~O~o~
Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz. My phone alarm woke me, which it almost never does. I keep regular hours, and am typically awake ten minutes before the alarm is set to go off at 8:00 a.m. I don’t need an alarm in Maine, of course. I’m not working any more; I have no need to don my suit, catch the subway and head to the financial district with all the rest of the drowsy commuters. There is nothing at all that I absolutely have to do. But keeping a regular schedule has always helped me cope with a chaotic world, so I do it even without any particular need to drive me.

I felt unusually refreshed. Maybe I had slept better, deeper than usual. I sat up and popped out of bed to get the alarm, but tumbled to the ground an instant later with my legs all tangled, confused and off-balance. Glaring at the treacherous sheets, only to discover their complete innocence.

My legs were tangled up in the nightgown!

To be continued