Levi’s and boots were soaked. She looked out over the fog. The tops of the tallest dunes were like round islands in a white and silent sea, with the real sea hidden beneath the fog. But the evening breeze was strengthening, and when the fog began to lift, a line of dark shapes moved out of it along the edge of the shore; Mr. Grady had the beginners out for an evening class. She watched as they drew closer, the children riding sedately at the water’s edge, and grinned to herself, knowing that when they were more experienced and the weather grew warmer, Mr. Grady would let them ride bareback into the breakers; she could imagine them screaming and laughing as the waves washed over their bare feet. The grass was like wet silk in her hands as she parted it to see better… .
… and suddenly the grass was gone, her hands were clutching metal, the iron railing of a balcony; she was looking down on a city, red roofed with great trees blowing, the sky a boiling mass of dark clouds, and beyond the city, a silvered bay shone. Close to her the shining leaves of a great tree tapped and rattled against the railing. She had been crying, there was a wet handkerchief in her hand and her cheeks were wet and salt; the tempest that she knew had shaken her, the fury and tears, lay within her as real, but as incomprehensible, as if she had begun reading in the middle of a book. Behind her, the glass doors stood open to the red bedroom. She wanted to look, but she could not bring herself to. It was there, behind her, but this was the first time she had come to it like this, from the balcony. Was it the same room? Or would there be some subtle change? She stood irresolute, staring at the glass doors, until a few huge drops of rain began to fall. And very soon it was raining in a drenching torrent, hammering the leaves like gunshot. She drew back under the roof of the house and even the tree was blotted out in the downpour, the balcony awash; rain blew through the open doors onto the oriental carpet; she flew to close the doors, saw the room in minute detail, and, unwilling to go in, turned back to huddle against the wall.
The drenching ceased as suddenly as it had begun; the falling sheet of water drew away slowly, as if a great hand were pulling it back, until it was only a silver curtain falling far out over the bay. Near to her the wet rooftops glistened red in the suddenly bright sun, then began to steam with the sun’s heat.
A woman’s voice began to call from within the house, then there was a sudden pounding on the inner door; she had a sharp picture of a tall woman with silver hair, and furious tears started again; she refused to stay here and be patronized! She grabbed the closest branch of the big tree, swung into it, and began to climb down through the slippery wet, dark green flickering world. She knew exactly where to put her feet, as if she had done this a hundred times. Water ran down her face, and jagged scraps of light flashed between the dark luminous leaves. Some creature near to her scrambled, rustling, and was gone.
When she reached the lawn, she ran down the sidewalk past the shops and into a narrow side street. The smell of rotting garbage came at her suddenly; the sun was hot on her back, and the wet pavement steamed in the heat; the houses were dilapidated, their colors faded to muted patches of turquoise and olive; the tall grass in front of them was bent now from the weight of the rain, the roofs dripped, and soaking laundry hung limp from the porch and balcony railings; the sound and glint of water filled the street.
In a narrow doorway a boy stood watching her.
Another boy slouched against a door, and two bigger boys came into a sideyard carrying sticks, their faces dark with interest. A spasm of fear ran through her. One started toward her, then another.
Fear gripped her. She faced them, saw their faces, and fled.
Sand and grass flickered by her once, and her hair was caught in the sea wind. Then she was running in the hot street, the gutter smell thick in her nostrils, dodging dark-haired, brightly dressed people. Once as she rounded a corner, she thought she heard the surf again, but the noise turned into crowds of people gathered in an outdoor market; she ran beside raw meat hanging in great bloody carcasses and saw the boys leap into the crowd behind her; she ducked into an alley so narrow she could have touched both walls at once, a dim alley that stunk of cess. It’s cobblestones were slimy. The space at the end was clear for a moment, then the five boys burst in screaming one word over and over, and Bethany turned cold with fear.
She stood watching them, terrified. Then suddenly a thrill rose up in her: instead of cowering, she jeered. They yelled with rage and were almost on her when she opened a wooden door beside her, stepped through it, and bolted it behind her.
She stood inside laughing while they pounded and swore. She was in a small dingy room with a dirt floor that had been swept to hard smoothness. There were wooden boxes for chairs, a crude unpainted table, and in one corner, a narrow wooden cot made up with a sheet. A door at the back led into what appeared to be an inner garden. Then suddenly she was on the grass tower, flicking in and out briefly, then in another place: she could see the shabby room through it for a minute, then she was standing in a big square room bright with windows and furnished with yellow tapestries and yellow furniture, and with rows of books beside a fireplace. Its colors glowed like sunlight, and it smelled of apples.
But in a moment she was back in the drab little room, smelling the stench from the alley. A woman was standing before her, an old black lady. She was very slight, not much taller than Bethany. Her faded cotton dress came nearly to her ankles and she was barefoot; her feet, all the bones of her body, seemed unusually delicate and beautiful; her skin was drawn and wrinkled, her kinky gray hair cut short like a little cap, and her face was long and thin and the bones of it were lovely; her eyes were as black as Bethany’s own, and angry. “You have been at it again, you tease those boys and one day they will catch you and—”
“Not me! Never me!” Bethany shouted, and laughed scornfully at the old woman so a look of hurt came into the woman’s dark eyes and Bethany was sorry. But still underneath she felt glee.
“Look at your dress,” the old woman said quietly. “I must wash and mend it.”
Bethany looked down at the red dress, the one with the piping around the hem, the one she had dreamed, and saw that it was torn. When she looked up, the woman’s dark eyes were staring into hers with love and exasperation, and her words had turned to another language—then she faded. Bethany could see the garden through her. Then it faded, too. Nothing went quickly, there was just the soft fading; for a second in time there was black emptiness.
Then she was on the grass tower, wearing her Levi’s. She ran her hands down their roughness, clutched a handful of grass desperately as if it would hold her there, then stood for a long time staring blindly into the wind and seeing that other world.
Other world—but what other world? For days after that she puzzled about it, worried at it, knowing she ought to try not to think about it, but incapable of that. She was unable even to talk to Reid about it without getting shaky. Marylou said she looked pale; Colin asked her a hundred times what the matter was. Then, the day she forgot half the groceries she was supposed to buy, Aunt Bett said with tense irritation, “Child, if you don’t stop this daydreaming, I’m going to call Dr. Loren. You’re acting as witless as a sick dog.”
Dr. Loren! Bethany gave the grocery sack a shove and turned away in disgust. Still, Aunt Bett had reason enough to be angry; she had been cross and forgetful and done everything wrong, not answering when she was spoken to and letting her homework go completely. She was addlebrained enough to make a saint cross, she guessed, let alone Aunt Bett. But she couldn’t seem to help it, the visions and the dreams would come; it was no wonder she’d forgotten the bread and soup and mustard. Aunt Bett should be glad she’d gotten anything at all. What would Aunt Bett think if she knew? Bethany looked at Aunt Bett, stricken, wanting to tell her, but knowing she never could. Aunt Bett, seeing her confusion, put her arms around her, and Bethany found herself shaking with sudden, uncontrollable sobs. “Child, child, whatever is it? What ever is the matter?”