Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 6. Night

They had walked a long time and both of them were very thirsty, the boy more than the girl, perhaps because she wore a shady hat and his head was bare. He had a hat when they started but lost it crossing the river. That was a long time ago, now, or at least it seemed so to him. His clothes had dried on him and his mouth had dried as well. He wouldn't be so damn thirsty, he thought, if he had taken better care of his hat. Wasn't that just the way? She took care, great care of everything, so she wasn't suffering now, as he was, because her hat shaded her. Or maybe she just wasn't complaining. He reflected that she never complained and his heart stumbled. She might be more thirsty than he was, he'd never know. He despaired a little, of ever taking any kind of care of someone who never complained. How would he ever do a good job? Still. He was so thankful she had her hat, that she wasn't burning up and feverish. He was thankful the sun was setting, was sinking now below the horizon and the air was cooling. He would be glad to stop walking and to lie down, to sleep.

As they walked and walked he ran his mind over all that had passed in the days before; they had made so many choices so quickly, left so much behind. He looked over at her, trying to read her face under the brim of her hat, but her eyes were shadowed and she was watching the dirt go by beneath her feet. He reached for her hand and she took his quickly, squeezed it and slipped hers away. Hot, she said, too hot. He nodded, kicking up the dust as he walked, feeling into the evening for cooler night air sandwiched into the hot, dense daytime air. Come on, he thought, come on cool. Come on dark. Come on, sleep. Come on, come on.

He lay on the blankets chewing the last of the bread and holding her close. Cool, alright, now, too cool to be walking in shirtsleeves. He was grateful, though, very grateful for the soft blue night and the cold desert air and the harshly silver stars throwing themselves across the sky. Grateful for her warm self next to him, grateful in his bones and his teeth and skin and hair that she had come, had chosen so swiftly and surely and completely to come with him. He toyed just briefly with an image of how it might have been otherwise, hovered at the edge of that picture just to frighten himself, as he had when he was very young and played with the idea of ghosts in the cellar, just for fun, just to give himself a thrill. He smiled grimly, finding he could no more look squarely at a picture of himself slogging without her through all the days and days yet to come in his life than his little boy self could stuff the cellar clear full of ghosties and then expect to still run happily down the damp stairs for a jar of preserves. He pulled her close, feeling her warmth, pushing down all that might have been, but wasn't. Thanks be to God, it might have been, but wasn't.

He woke suddenly in the night, stiff, chilled, lost. Where? He was lost and drifting for more time than he would have liked to admit before he pieced it back together. Their talk, the departure and the long walk, and now the two of them here, alone and together. He reached for her, worried she would be cold, and realized she was lying away from him, as far away as she could be, and that she was crying.

She would be, of course she would be, he told himself as ice water shot through him. He closed his eyes, tried not to make a sound, tried not to let her know he was awake, hearing her. Of course she would be crying. After all this, she will cry and cry, he thought. He lay still and tried to make a picture of a happy and prosperous future but his heart shivered and shattered at the sound of her crying. Of course she was crying. She was with him and she might as well be dead. I'll take care of her, he thought fiercely. I'll do a good job. This was the right thing to do. He went over it all again and all again and his heart died while she cried and cried. She'll never tell me, he realized, she'll never tell me that she's miserable. He saw his life stretching out in front of him forever and ever and there was no end to the pain of the things she would never share. He fought down a wave of longing to run and run and leave her there and run til he was done and could never run again. Dead, he thought, we might as well be dead.

She rolled over and there it was, she had caught him in his panic. He lay still and terrified; her wet cheek was against his. You're awake, she said. Yes, he said, his voice breaking twice in the tiny word. I'm awake. She held him tightly and he pulled her close and just kept her there. Say it, he told himself, say it now. Take her back in the morning, as soon as it's light. He took a ragged, tearing breath. I know, she said, you don't have to say it, I feel the same way. Thank you for bringing me. I'm so glad. I can't believe we did it. She snuggled into him, relaxing, her breath slowing. He unwound so suddenly it hurt him, pulled muscles in his back. He lay, picturing the stars burning holes in the sky, and the soft night resting all over the land. Do you mind if I tell you things, she asked softly. I'm thinking I want to. He pulled her even closer, so close some part of him worried he was hurting her but the rest of him just held on and held on. No, he said and he choked a little, I like you to tell me things. I think that's a good idea you have. I'm happy, she whispered and he cleared his throat and tried to tell her how grateful he was. I'm so happy, she said.