Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 7. Tea and Curry

He started to tell her but she left the room.
He watched where she had gone and thought about that for a while, long enough to eat a shrimp and something on crunchy toast with sun dried tomatoes, and then walked briskly after her out onto the patio.
She was nowhere to be seen.
That was a poser. Momentarily stumped, he dithered in front of another table of food, trying to remember how it had gone before and felt fairly sure he had gotten all the way through the first two times, at least, and most of the way through the next several times. She had not walked away from him til he had been telling her for a couple of weeks, and he couldn't remember her ever disappearing completely.
He made up his mind, walked all the way around the garden, searching carefully, practicing and improving what he had to tell her and ended up back in front of that same table without once spotting her. He ate bean dip and corn salsa and thought some more. The restroom. Had to be. Off he went.

She was loading a plate with green curry and raspberry cheesecake when she heard him coming. This was unbelievable, just unbelievable. She hovered, moving back and forth between possible escape routes and then grabbed a big glass of ice water and headed to the library, where she set her food on the host's desk, shut the door, sighed happily and started scanning book spines. She'd been in here once before and had longed then to spend more time with these books. She was stuck til the people who gave her a ride decided to call it a night, but she could happily wait it out in here with the books. One thing for sure, she wasn't going back out there as long as he was floating around, waiting to tell her. No. Never again. If she ran out of food, she thought she could slip into the garden or the kitchen without being seen, if she were careful. There were food tables everywhere. She would be fine. She took her plate and a stack of books and curled up in a big chair from which she could see anyone coming through the library door. She paused, staring out over the book in her hands, then got up and turned her chair around, pushing it back out of sight of the door and moving a little table over for her books and the curry. She decided she'd rather not be able to see who was coming in the door after all since it meant they could also see her. She climbed into the big chair and for good measure tucked her feet up under her. There. Hidden. Nothing showed. She opened a book and took a big bite of the curry. Through the open windows she could hear the music and see little lights all over the garden. Lovely.

She was asleep when he finally thought to come looking for her in the library. He was talking and talking as the silent host held the door and then turned on a lamp, saying the same things he had said to everyone for the last two hours. He just needed to tell her, he was only wanting to tell her, but he couldn't find her anywhere. No one seemed worried, which he could not fathom, and no one was helping him find her, which was driving him crazy. He couldn't understand it, for the life of him he couldn't understand it. Now he had thought of hunting her in the library, he was sure she would be here, he knew how much she loved books.

The host stood back and let him look around book stacks and peek into corners and under the desk. He talked about her the whole time, saying and saying the things he was needing to tell her. He walked and searched and talked and talked and finally walked swiftly out of the room, down the hall and out the front door. Through the open window the host could hear him talking and talking as he strode through the soft, dark garden and down the street. The host watched quietly, arms folded, standing near the open window, back to a chair that faced out into the dark garden, waiting til all the words faded. His attention had been fastened on the stack of book resting on a little table pulled close to the big chair, and he crossed to them now, turning them softly over, wondering at them. He bent and picked up a book that had fallen to the floor and turned it over and over in his hand, shaking his head and smiling in delight. Then the host set the book back down gently and closed the windows, turned the lamp very low and spread a blanket over the girl sleeping in his big chair. He took her empty plate with him to the kitchen.

When she woke it was light and birds were singing in the wet garden. The host had left a cup of peppermint tea on the little table next to her and next to the books she had left piled on the little table was a new stack of books with a note on top. The note told her the host had looked at the books she had chosen and thought she might enjoy these, as well, that he had informed her friends he would give her a ride home himself, and that he hoped she wouldn't mind. She picked up the cup of tea; it was hot. She walked to the window, open again now, and looked outside. The host was standing under an apple tree; its branches, heavy with tiny green apples, reached down to brush the top of his head, his hair. He looked up and there she was, standing startled and sleepy at the window. The host raised his hand to her silently and she put up her hand in a tiny wave, then checked her hair and smiled back, shy. The host smiled, looked around at the early morning, the garden and the sky, and began to walk happily to toward the house.

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.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 5. Lions

It was the boy who made the breakfast and the girl who woke up to eat it.
She looked at the food and said, this looks good. Yes, he said, it does and I made it for you.
What is it? she asked and he said, I made it up out of things in the fridge. Just now. Oh! she said, well, what a way to start the day, and he said, yes.

They ate the food and then he said hopefully, let's take a nap and she said no, we're going to the zoo. So they woke the children and fed them cereal because she told him the children would not understand the food he had made up and they might quarrel. All day. After cereal they loaded everybody into the car and drove to the zoo parking lot where the boy and girl, the father and mother, began to pay for things. The first thing they paid for was an empty space to put their car and their oldest daughter said, you know why this is a good parking place? it's so near the zoo. And their oldest son said, yes, it's good for dad to come once in a while and remind us those tricky parking spots right up close to the zoo can be used after all. Their youngest daughter said, I can read the zoo sign clearly from here! and the boy, their dad, said, that's enough, and the girl, the mother, said, alright you people, don't even think about cotton candy after that, but she was laughing and there was never even a chance she was going to pay for cotton candy anyway.

The boy and the girl got their children out of the car and paid to take them through the zoo gates with a hand stamp apiece and then everyone went back through the gates to the car to put sun screen all over them and then back through the gates into the zoo which was good because the revolving zoo gates were the best part of the whole day. In fact, they lost the youngest son to the gates for three whole rounds and the boy, the dad, got testy and said, how about you go look at animals and I'll just stand here and watch him go round and round all day, but the girl, the mom, was watching the zoo workers watching all of this and she said to the youngest son, come out of there right now or no train ride for you. Then the oldest son made a daring and dangerous dash into the gates when the opening passed by him briefly and he hauled out his brother, holding him much more tightly than was necessary and making him cry. The other children defended the oldest son to their parents on grounds that the youngest son was endangering their train ride and that he always spoiled everything for everyone. The boy and girl looked at each other and sighed at the terrible, secret, absolutely unadmittable rightness of that accusation and suggested beginning at the lions and ending with the penguins.

Later, in the shade, while the sticky children ate the snow cones the boy and girl had paid for and left most of the corn dogs and fries they had also paid for and which had cost the same amount as seats and refillable popcorn for all of them at a first-run movie, the boy watched the girl for a long time. What are you thinking? he asked her. She looked over at him and smiled. Was I thinking? she asked. Yes, he said, there was a shadow on your brow. She laughed at that, she always laughed at him when he said that. It made her think of cloud shadows crossing massive stone foreheads at Mount Rushmore. I don't know, she said, zoos always make me sad. He looked at his hands and said nothing; he knew that and wondered about it privately to himself every time she wanted to come. He could think of better things to pay for with half his brain tied behind his back, but he never said so. Their children liked the zoo, snow cones and revolving gates. She was still looking away, beyond the zoo walls, over the tops of the mountains where nearly all the snow was gone now, melted in the summer sun. Lions, she said, lions looking at the children, looking through thick glass at things to eat. Penguins, she said, swimming round and round and round as fast as they can. Swimming in a circle. Swimming back on themselves. He looked at her and his breath caught. He opened his mouth and closed it and closed his eyes and put his face down. He held his mouth shut. Held himself still. Lions, she said, and penguins. He was just waiting for her to breathe. She shook her head. Her eyes were liquid, hot and bright. That was me, she said, in that terrible empty voice and he withdrew into himself. That was me, she said, before you.

He looked so fast, so fast it cricked his neck. She was smiling at the mountains, her eyes were liquid. Hey! he said to the happy children, run wash your hands and we'll go buy one thing at the zoo shop.

Race you to the gates! their youngest son shouted as he ran to the drinking fountain to rinse one hundred per cent natural blue snow cone off his hands. No, stupid, the oldest son said, not yet. That's enough, the boy, the father, said. Zoo shop! the oldest daughter yelled, eating the last of the fries. The train, you promised, the youngest daughter politely reminded the boy, her father. Yes, he said and he smiled at her, yes, the train and then the shop. Gates! the youngest son shouted, racing back to them, hands and arms and front sopping and mouth and cheeks bright blue. Don't worry, the girl, the mother, said as she led him back to the fountain to do something about his face, we'll pay careful attention to the gates, and she smiled at the boy, the father. He gathered up the expensive food, eating the corn dog ends, happy, happy. Planning dinner made up out of what he had seen in the fridge that morning. Heaps, heaps of cereal for children, who would not understand.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 4. Sugar

The little boy and the little girl were hunting for Easter eggs. There were lots and lots of eggs, they knew, somewhere, no one could remember where. Could be anywhere. They kept looking everywhere but they couldn't find eggs. Their mother had told them this was the day for eggs so they hunted. The eggs would be full of chocolate when they found them, full, or maybe the eggs would have money in them. They hoped it would be chocolate; you can't eat money and they were getting hungrier and hungrier.

The rabbit watched them from the long grass by the garden. Again. Every year. Every year with the eggs. The rabbit was mystified by the eggs and by the children who hunted and hunted for so long before they found the eggs right under their feet. Why scatter eggs just to gather them again? Especially if you had such a hard time finding them? The rabbit himself wanted nothing to do with hunting or with eggs, he planned to eat baby lettuces in the garden. As was sensible. The rabbit watched the little boy and the little girl disappear between the trees and forgot about them. No one else saw them go.

They hunted and hunted but after a very short while only the little girl was hunting for eggs, the little boy was hunting for anything that looked familiar to him. He knew he should know just where they were and it bothered him very much that he did not. When he stopped walking and looked and looked around him, the little girl stopped too. She stood quietly by him, leaning just the smallest bit toward him, her head tipped a very tiny way toward his. She waited for him to finish looking. She knew he had a good sense of direction and that she herself did not. Their mother found that out a long time ago. So the little girl waited while he looked around. She was pretending to be patient. After a little time he said, I don't know which way to walk, but I'll know as soon as the sun moves and it isn't noon anymore. We can look for eggs til then, and the little girl was very serious and nodded. Chocolate.

They hunted around one more thick stand of trees while time passed and the trees slowly grew the smallest of shadows and just as the little boy was looking up from those shadows to say he knew the way back, the little girl said, I smell cookies and fudge, and instead of saying the way home the little boy said, look! They stood very still and very close and looked carefully through the trees at the place they had come, at the house made of cake and candy and doughnuts. The trees were quiet and still and nothing was moving or talking. They stood still and amazed though not surprised, their empty baskets, slightly askew, hanging from their crooked arms. Amazed to see the house, not surprised to see it because after all, it must be somewhere and here where they were was somewhere. The little girl was very hungry now, much more hungry than when they had begun to hunt, hungrier than ever in her whole, whole life and she felt this was a terrible moment. She waited while the little boy thought and thought. He folded his arms so the basket stuck out at a stiff angle, tipped his head to one side with his heavy thoughts, looked at the icing and the spun sugar and the peppermints and the rows of lollipops and the brownie bricks and the nuts and raisins and he narrowed his eyes. It was the raisins that did it for him. What sort of normal person put raisins on the outside of cookies for children? Real mothers never did that anymore, he knew. Raisins were pure storybook. His own mother put raisins in oatmeal and in curry and on her own salad and many of them, most of them, ended in a pile on the edge of your bowl. He looked up at the sun and then he said out loud, sometimes people are in a tight spot. He had heard that in a book, a tight spot. He said it again. Sometimes people are in a tight spot, he said, and they have to do something dangerous. The little girl nodded and made her face look serious. We may have to walk back home for a long time, even though now I know the way. We need food because we're starving, so we will quickly grab just one thing. Yes, the little girl said, one thing and then we run. They knew this story. She's old, the little girl reminded the boy as they walked carefully over the green coconut grass and the crushed rock crystal candy path to the house. No frosting, the little girl said, we haven't had breakfast.

They pulled off a whole apple pie from right above the mailbox. It left a big hole and strawberry jam filling gushed out. It was like they had pulled off a scab. The pie broke between their hands as they pulled and they stuffed the pieces in their empty baskets and ran. They ran and ate pie and ran and the little girl suddenly darted away under the trees. She crawled around for a minute and held up three Easter eggs. She was always best at finding things, she was the first one their mother asked when something was missing. They followed eggs back to their garden and as they went the sun shifted and it wasn't afternoon anymore, it was morning again, the morning of hunting for eggs. Their mother met them between the beans and the carrots. She was pretending she hadn't come looking for them. The little girl held up her basket for her mother to see it full of eggs she had found, full. The little boy dropped his basket and ran to their mother and wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her stomach. She leaned down when he whispered, I don't like to be in charge. Me neither, the mother whispered back, and she smoothed and smoothed his hair. Breakfast? she asked them. Bacon, the little girl said.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 3. Balls

They threw the ball back and forth as they walked around trees and between buildings, negotiating the busy people. Catch was her favorite game and she was happy, easy, tossing the ball back and back to him as they went. He felt silly at first, self conscious, stiff, too old for this sort of thing. It felt like having a very private conversation in loud voices on a crowded bus, this game between the two of them played around, over and in spite of people who were going studiously to class or seriously to work or hungrily to meals or wherever they were going to whatever they were doing, none of whom, in any case, were playing. She just kept her eyes on him, threw the ball right to him, every time, and he never missed or looked stupid and after a half mile or so he relaxed.
Relaxed.
Got cocky.
Threw too hard and she missed. Rather, she didn't miss, the ball missed her by a good ten feet and she stood still to watch it go by. Looked at him, eyebrows raised, jogged over to the low bushes where it had disappeared.

He yelled at her, sudden and harsh.

She froze, her outstretched fingers barely brushing the leaves, fingers curved and spread, the familiar shape of the vanished ball visible in her empty hand.
What? she asked, her eyes fastened on him in fright.
Don't! he said, and said it in the cross and frightened tone of one forced to warn, and with barely enough time, against an obvious danger. Like this: Don't step blindly into the street, Don't play with fire, Don't walk barefoot in the trash lot, Don't drink anything marked poison or it is sure to disagree with you sooner or later.
Like that.
Don't what? she asked, hand still holding the space of the absent ball but wilting a little now, her eyes narrowing, all her focus on him. Don't what?
The first thrill of his sudden fear was fading and he could be irritated, put out. She shouldn't do silly things. She should know better.
You don't just do that, he said. And he meant, though he did not say it, that she knew the rest of what he meant very well.

She looked at him for a moment longer, straightened up and twisted her head just a little bit. That twist said that whether or not she took his meaning, she was not going to close the gap, was not going to fill in what he hadn't wanted to spell out for the two of them, she was going to make him say all of whatever he had to say.
Don't just do what, exactly? she asked in a neutral tone that also said lots and lots of things she didn't spell out.
He had walked over and was standing next to her now. You don't just stick your hand into bushes, he said in a quiet and private and grown up tone and he did not add that this was a thing every sane person knows. He didn't have to.
Why not? she asked in that same tone.
He sighed, making words had become a burden. Snakes, he said. Obviously, he added silently.
She looked from him to the bushes, quickly, then back at him as if he were crazy and then at the bushes as if he were crazy. The bushes were fine, the crazy was all his.
Snakes? No. You mean spiders? she asked, giving him a chance.
No, he said, snakes. Snakes. You don't just reach into a bush.
Her eyebrows were up and now her head was tilted again, a downward tilt that managed to cast into serious doubt his whole life experience. He stiffened, defensive. Look, where I come from we would never reach into a bush like that, he said, voice rising, because of snakes. Because that would be dangerous and stupid, he didn't say out loud.

She bent quickly, her whole arm going into the bushes, retrieving her ball. Well. You're not from around here, are you? she asked, and tossed her ball high into the air. She stepped away to catch her own toss, took another step to toss it again and then another to catch it. A stranger caught her eye as she caught the ball and she tossed it right to him, surely and easily. He took it out of the air and tossed it back, underhand, a low hard softball pitch. She took a step to catch it and a step to toss it back. A pitch to the stranger and another pitch back to her.

He stood, a thousand things passing through him. His hands stuck out a bit from his sides. They darted the smallest fraction of an inch toward every toss that did not come to him, and he watched her move a little and a little away.
Hey, he thought, hey. I want to play.
I just want to play.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 2. Panic

One morning a boy looked up and around and didn't see his girl. He looked and looked and shouted and shouted but she was not thinking of hearing him or standing where people could see her so he was very lost from her.

He tried not to panic.

He thought he would make her a treat, the sort of thing he knew she liked very much.
He baked and baked.
The sun was going away when he took the treats out and spread them under the trees and by the stream and among her flowers and carefully on the edges of the bookcases and delicately in her favorite shoes and down along the path to her friend's house and balanced some on the sleeping baby.
But she wasn't hungry just then, and she was thinking of other things so she did not come for the treats or clean up the crumbs til after he had fallen asleep on the living room floor, his hands all sticky.

The next day he thought he might try with flowers.
He bought some and he took some and he made some and he tied them in strings and wreaths and ropes and swags and bundled some in bunches and some in pairs and some all by themselves. He took all those flowers and laid them on her bed and everywhere in the refrigerator and twined them about the children and pressed them between the pages of the telephone book and heaped them all about the sewing machine. He got so tired from all that flower arranging that he fell fast asleep across the sofa and one chair and she had to be very quiet and careful when she gathered up all the petals.

The next day he remembered she loved music.
He sang in the shower and on the street corner and while he waited for the toast to pop and in his taxi where the driver made requests which he obligingly took, though he knew those songs were ones she particularly disliked. He sang to the birds in her garden and to the children while they watched television which made them turn the volume very loud. He sang a sincere thanks to the postman for the package and to the policeman for the speeding ticket and to the clerk for his change. He sang himself hoarse and silent and went to bed early and she left him a cup of honey lemon tea to drink when he woke in the morning.

He tried poetry.
He wrote with erasable markers in blank verse on the blender and on the back door. He wrote rhymed couplets on her jeans and all around the rim of the pickle jar. He wrote Italian sonnets in mustard on the children's sandwiches which they wiped off with napkins and reminded him for the millionth time that they did not eat mustard. With the erasable markers he wrote heartfelt doggerel fit for the finest, fanciest, glitteryest greeting card a mother-in-law ever resented all over the bed sheets, about which she swore quietly when she did the wash the next day.

He sent presents.
Chocolates in heart-shaped boxes. Shoes with high heels and shoes with no heels. Dresses a flattering half-size too small. Wigs, luxurious and blond. Engravings and signed first editions. Cashmere throws and designer perfumes and tickets to exotic places. A pedigreed lapdog and a case with a padlock to keep it in. A house in the country and a yacht on the ocean and a castle in the sky. An empty honey pot, a wishing ring, a flying horse and a magical bird in a golden cage. She sold all of it on eBay and put aside the money for the kids' college fund, except for the magical bird, which she let out of the cage and carried to the garden to set it free. But it sat on her head and sang a song of days long gone by and asked her, with tears in its eyes, to let it stay and to also keep the cage so it could sleep there at night, as that was the only really safe place for a magical bird to sleep. She agreed and carried the cage and the bird to her bedroom where she found him, dead to the world, sleeping on her side of the bed, his wallet empty and his credit utterly exhausted.

In the morning she called a meeting.
He sat across from her, trying not to panic.
She asked him what on earth he was on about and he asked where in the world she had been.
He told her he loved her and she pointed out that she had been thinking of other things and he asked her why she stood where no one could see her and she had no answer for that, no answer at all.
Now he was not even trying not to panic.
He asked her if it was over and she told him it was.
No more looking for her,
no more treats,
no more traps,
no more bribes,
no more sleeping when there was work to be done.
He put down his head and that was the end of the meeting. She went to feed the bird.
He mowed the lawn and she went to the bank. She had a large deposit to make.
He sent her a text and she answered almost at once.
She made chocolate cake and he grilled steaks.
She pushed him off her side of the bed and slept in the middle, to hold the ground.
He forgot to look for her and she sometimes stood where people could see her.
He let her flowers grow in her garden where she liked them and she made sure the children played nicely with him and with each other and he sang softly to her the songs she loved the best and which the magical bird didn't know. The bird didn't know any new stuff.

And she told all that was in her heart to the magical bird, which was what she had needed all along. He was happy that she liked his present.
Like it? she said, I love it!
He slept with a smile and the bird sang a song of days long gone by while she ate chocolate cake and watched the children and the flowers growing in her garden.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 1. Making Up the World

Once there were two people, a boy and a girl, who loved each other very much.

When the spring came the boy said to the girl, let's plant beans and corn and tomatoes. But the girl was afraid, she said the ground was too wet and the sun was too cold. So they did other things, things that needed doing, and the ground dried and the sun was very hot and there were no beans or corn or tomatoes that year in their garden.

When it was summer the girl said to the boy, let's take our towels and go swimming. But the boy was afraid, he said the river was running too high and the water was too cold and the girl didn't know how to swim. You might get hurt, he said. So they did other things, things that needed doing, and the river slowed and fell and grew sluggish and warm under the hot sun and no one got a tan or learned to swim that year.

When the fall came the boy said to the girl, let's rake all our leaves into a huge pile and jump in them all day and roll around together and when it gets dark let's invite all our friends and set our leaves on fire and roast hot dogs and marshmallows. But the girl was afraid, she said, I think every single thing you just suggested is against the law and you can't cook a hot dog on a leaf fire. So they did other things, things that needed doing, and the leaves blew into the neighbors' yards and there was no jumping or rolling or flaming of marshmallows that year.

When the winter came the girl said to the boy, let's go sledding and see who can go the fastest. But the boy was afraid, he said, I had a bad dream about sledding with you, what if that dream came true? I don't think I could live in that world, baby. So they did other things, things that needed doing, and a storm came in the night and blew and blew and covered all their doors and windows with snow so they could not get out for months. They ate beans and corn and tomatoes from cans they had brought from the store and they were warm enough under all that snow but it was very dark, all the time; their windows were blank white faces. They had lots and lots of things that needed doing and the time went by and by while they moved slowly and safely and there was no sledding that year.

Then the boy found himself staring at the wall or the window, it made no difference which, a thing that needed doing hanging loose in his hands. The girl found him in the dark and said, I'm trying and trying to remember something important but I can't remember what it is, and she was crying. He said, what were you doing when you tried to remember? and she said, I don't know, I lost the thing that needed doing, and he said, I can't remember either, and they went to sleep afraid.

When they woke the next time the world had shifted and they couldn't think where they were or what had happened to their house. She could see him, that he was old now, and he looked at her and wondered how long it had been since the last time she had slept at all. They walked carefully in the rooms and the girl said, what has happened to the walls? and the boy said, baby, those are the windows and that is daylight, and she said at the same time, is that the sun? because they had forgotten. They went softly and bravely out their door into a ruined world. Their trees were smashed and splayed and the river was roaring and tearing the banks apart and the garden was broken and bent from the heavy snow. The girl turned her face away and said, I think I might die here, what can we ever do about this? and the boy took the girl's hand and said, don't be alone. Please don't be alone.

The girl looked at the pieces of their world for a long time, and at the boy and then at the sun and said, I never want to eat corn or beans again, but I do love tomatoes. Let's plant some peppers and some basil too, and the boy said, I'm going to build us a boat that will carry two, and the girl said, there is a place here for a ring of stones that can hold a fire hot enough to cook meat, and the boy took a deep breath and said, if we go on the sled, can I sit in front? Can you sit behind me and be safe? And she was silent til she asked, in the back? You want me to be in the back? And they both cried and he said, can I hold you tight if you go in front? And she smiled at him and said, I will never leave you alone. Then they began the things they wanted to do and it was all that long day of sun before they slept again.