Chapter Five
September crawled on, the cries of the trains acquiring that special autumn melancholy, and at first Liza Burack believed she might have contributed toward the salvation of her sister’s son.
If not the salvation of his soul (he refused to go to church with her, claimed his mother would not have approved), then at least his worldly salvation. She had savored the thought, troweling in her backyard garden those long last-of-summer afternoons. I have helped save him, she would think, down on her knees among the gladioli and the fragrant black earth. It was a good thought and in those moments she could almost believe it made everything worthwhile… her fall from grace with the Baptist Women, her sister’s death-in-sin, even Creath’s terrible and unacknowledged private weakness. Even that. I have helped save him.
But she lay awake now in the postmidnight silence of the bedroom, her eyes like beacon Lights, moonlight shining on her oaken dresser and Creath beside her like a dead weight; and when she heard Anna’s small footsteps on the landing and then, a few moments after, Travis’s—then she knew she had in fact lost.
She started up after him. By God, she thought, he doesn’t understand! If he understood he would not be chasing after her! If he understood—!
But no. She had told him once. And she had known by his eyes that he did understand. This was no normal woman and his feelings for her were not normal feelings.
And yet he had chosen to follow her.
Strange words flashed in her mind.
Witch. Demon. Succubus.
She went to the door of the bedroom, opened it a crack. There went Travis, a black shadow past the stairwell. And there, hear it now, the click and whine of the front door.
Liza Burack sank back into the bed, defeated.
Travis is lost, she thought, the sound of her own thought grown singsong as sleep too long denied crept up from the overheated crevice of the blankets… Travis is lost, is lost, is lost…
She dozed dreamlessly, and the nightwind came in her window like a tide.
Talk to her, Nancy had said. Follow her.
It had sounded so simple.
Travis paced down the moon-bathed street, making good on the promise at last, and it seemed much less so.
Anna Blaise moved ahead of him like a shadow, a lithe and graceful dancer in a shadow ballet. For long moments Travis would walk blindly, certain that he had lost her… then she would appear again half a block away, gliding through the umbra of a tossing willow.
Travis wore a thick cotton workshirt and a jacket over that, and a jet of autumn air set him shivering. Anna wore only a blouse, a skirt, navy blue go-to-church clothes (though that was something she did not ever do), shadow-colored.
He followed her, a sick excitement rising in him. There was, at this hour, simply no reasonable destination for a woman like Anna. The town was asleep. Travis had overheard talk at the ice plant about a roadhouse called Conklin’s out beyond the granaries, that a man could get a discreet drink there after midnight… but it was late now even for that, and in any case Anna was headed the wrong way, toward the nearer margin of town, toward the railway tracks.
Far out DeVille Street the blacktop faded to dirt. There were no houses here, no trees but scrub oak, nothing beyond but farmland and prairie grass.
Travis slowed when Anna slowed. She had come to the place where the railway crossed the road, moonlight glinting off the hard arc of the tracks. She stood suddenly still—and Travis dove down, feeling foolish and ashamed, into the high grass in the gully by the road. When he peered ahead through a thicket of buckbrush he was able to see Anna Blaise outlined against the morning stars like a sentinel, her bare arms shining, her head moving left and right in that oddly sensual hunting-dog motion. Christ God, Travis thought, if she sees me—
But her attention was focused elsewhere.
Her arms were stiff at her sides, her head erect.
Listening, Travis thought.
He was suddenly aware of the small hairs prickling at the back of his neck. His breath caught in his throat.
Far off in the depths of the night a small-hours freight express sounded its whistle. Westbound, he thought, tracking over the curvature of the earth—it sounded that distant.
Anna Blaise was marble and ice, listening.
Travis felt the day’s warmth seeping into him from the dry earth under his belly. Crickets chirruped in the gully all around him. He gazed at Anna and thought: Why, she reminds me of somebody.
She reminded him of, of—
—he closed his eyes, fumbling for the memory—
—of his mother.
Deep currents stirred in the prairie grass.
The night obscures her features, he thought. It was that profile that did it: the head held high, a gesture both defiant and somehow hopeless. It made Travis think of his mother in a way he had not thought of her for years. He remembered—so vividly now he could taste it—a night like this, that first chill of autumn cutting through the air, when he was no more than six years old.
He had been in bed, awake when he should not have been. The farmhouse was quiet. The effect however was not of peace but of foreboding, of imminent danger: because Daddy was out late, which meant Daddy was drinking, which meant he could come home any minute full of a sour and implacable hostility.
Travis could not sleep with this turmoil of emotions in him: the relief of his father’s absence, the threat of his return. He lay in bed listening to the trees talk outside his window and attempted to recreate in his mind the plot of Treasure Island, which Mama had been reading to him that night. He had almost achieved sleep when he heard the front door slam.
That other, quiet, sound might have been Mama’s indrawn breath in the bedroom across the hall.
He covered his ears when the shouting began. At the first thump and stifled cry, he buried his head under the pillow.
Mama, he thought, oh, Mama…
And when it was over she came to him.
She did it always. It was her way of saying It’s okay, Mama’s okay, not needing the words or the ugly admissions they might contain.
She sat in the wooden chair by the window with the paper blinds pulled up and out of her way. “How that wind does torment that old tree,” she said, not even checking to see if he was asleep, knowing, maybe, that he was not. Her voice was choked with recent weeping, but beneath it there was still that quality Travis associated indelibly with Mama, silk and sighing, a good sound.
Then, just when her voice had begun to comfort him back to sleep: “Oh, Trav, look!”
He sat up, squint-eyed, and went to the window.
She held him on the lap of her old print dress, her bony knees under him. The sky beyond the window was vast, clear, wild with stars. The limbs of the willow moved as if in semaphore.
“See, Travis?” Mama said. “Shooting stars!”
He thought at first they were fireflies. But they moved too quickly and too purposefully and they did not flicker. Shooting stars, he thought, sleepy now. Falling stars. Pieces out of the autumn night.
He had fallen asleep thinking of Mama: of the starlight playing on the bruise that lay like a veined map on her cheek; thinking of how when he grew up he would protect her, would not let any harm come to her; and thinking of those two shooting stars, how they had moved across the dark sky, east and west, as if twinned from a common source.