In the mid-afternoon, Arlene, wearing baggy chinos and a green T-shirt, stepped from the door of the trading post, shielded her eyes against the lowering sun, and peered at the rise. She spoke to someone inside and then walked toward Wilander at an unhurried pace, hands in her pockets. She stopped on the incline a few feet below his rock and said, Terry says you’ve been sitting here a couple hours. You okay? It was in Wilander’s mind to assure her of his well-being, because she was intolerant of weak men, a by-product, he assumed, of a previous relationship; and yet she was also, if her depictions of former lovers were accurate, attracted to weak men—he did not want to think of himself as weak, nor did he want to play on her weakness for the weak or engage her intolerance by planting the idea that he might be on the verge of another collapse; but the way she looked, sensual and motherly at once, her breasts enticingly defined by the green cotton, a hint of sternness in her face, roused in him a childlike need for consolation. He caught her hand and pulled her down beside him.
—What is it? she asked, slipping an arm about his waist.
—I’ve just had a hell of a day.
She leaned into him, her breast flattening against his arm, and that yielding pressure was enough to break the last of his resolve, turning him toward confession.
—I’ve been having this dream, he said. It’s an awful dream, terrible, not like a dream at all, really. It’s more like a place I’ve been given to see. Hardly anything happens. But it keeps coming back and…I’m not sure what to make of it.
He described the dreams, focusing on the one he had dreamt that morning, and when he had done, she said, You need to get off that ship.
—I don’t think it’s the ship, he said, feeling an odd flutter of alarm.
—I wasn’t talking about the ship itself. I’m talking about the isolation, and those crazy bastards you’re isolated with.
—I suppose you’re right. But, uh…that’s where I’m stuck.
—You could move in with me. On a temporary basis. Until we can find you your own place. That is, if you’re planning to stay in Kaliaska.
Surprised, he said, That’s very generous…and flattering. But Lunde wouldn’t approve.
—Lunde! The way you talk about him, it’s like he’s your lord and master. Your Moses.
—He’s been generous to me, but he’s not my master. Just an old man who runs a temp agency.
—But what do you know about him? This is such a weird thing, this job! He may be using you for something illegal. A swindle, maybe. Maybe he’s using your residency to establish a claim or…I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right.
—Whatever his motives, I need the job. And he specified that we had to live on the ship.
Arlene roughed up the ground with the toe of one sneaker and stared down at the furrow she had dug. What I’m saying, why don’t you tell Lunde you quit? I can use you fulltime at the store.
—I can’t do that! He said this more vehemently than intended and tried to compensate for his bluntness by saying, I’d feel I was shirking my responsibilities.
—You’re starting to sound like the people you’re complaining about.
—I don’t mean my responsibilities to the job. If that were all it was, I’d move in tonight. You know that, don’t you?
She sat with her folded arms resting on her drawn-up knees; a breeze moved some strands of hair that had been tucked behind her ear down to feather her cheek, and he gently brushed them back. She gave no sign that she noticed his show of affection, her eyes pinned to the trading post, where a group of teenagers on their way home from school, identifiable by their energy and the pink and red and turquoise packs on their backs, were jostling one another.
—The other men seem to be deteriorating, Wilander said. I’m worried what might happen if I leave.
—Are they having bad dreams as well? Arlene asked coolly. Is that a symptom of their deterioration?
—I haven’t asked…but I get your point.
—Do you?
He slipped his left arm about her waist, the knuckle of his thumb grazing the underside of her breast. We’re still trying to see whether we fit together, he said. You agree?
A pause, and then she nodded.
—I’ve wanted to say certain things, he said, but it was too early to say them. I’m not sure I have grounds to say them, given where I’ve been the past few years.
—You know that doesn’t matter!
—But now, I think we’ve reached a point where somebody has to say something. You know, make a declaration. Would you agree with that?
—Yes…maybe.
—Well, I’m going to take a stab at it, okay?
As he talked, Wilander believed he was speaking from the heart, but at the same time he had the suspicion that everything he might say would become true and by giving voice to only a handful of potential truths, he was being effectively dishonest and thus, perhaps, obscuring the thing he wanted to express—this supposition was informed by the last occasion upon which he had spoken at length, when, coerced by the dictatorial priest who managed the North Star Men’s Christian Refuge into offering public testimony regarding his devotion (completely specious) to Jesus Christ, he had experienced a similarly confusing interrelation between intent and performance, having brought a number of lost souls forward into the Lord’s embrace, despite entertaining substantial misgivings about the benefits of Christianity to the disenfranchised. Yet as he talked that afternoon, telling Arlene that he wasn’t arrogant enough to predict where the relationship would lead, though he hoped it would lead to deeper intimacy, to an unfailing union, his emotions fell in line with his words, or at least he no longer perceived so wide a distinction between them as he had during his impromptu sermon at the mission, and his tone grew impassioned, and he accompanied his message with caresses that, while intended to comfort and persuade, served also to inflame him. It was as if by admitting to love—to the desire for love, at any rate, since he did not mention the emotion directly—he surrendered to a thirst that had been half-wakened in him and now, thanks to his admission, was fully alive, fervently demanding. He wanted to be inside her, not later, but at that precise moment; he wanted to shuck off her chinos and sit her down on his lap and bury himself in the heat and juice of her, to touch her between the legs as they made love in view of the teenagers crowding together in front of the trading post, and was almost at the point of exploring her opinion on the subject—no one, he thought, would be able to see what they were doing at the distance—when Arlene lifted her hand, hesitantly, and touched his cheek. He kissed her fingertips, her wrist. It’s not you making me reticent, he said. It’s me, my lack of confidence.
—I know. It’s just…I know.
—There’s another thing I’d better tell you. It’s really the most important thing.
She waited.
—I think you’re hot.
She made a sputtering noise, an unsuccessfully stifled laugh, and shook her head vigorously, saying, I must be crazy! God!
—No, I’m serious. He grinned. You’re very hot.
—Thank you. She composed herself and said, I haven’t heard you talk that way before.
—Which way is that?
—Saying I was hot.
—It’s Terry’s influence. He’s mentioned a couple of times he thinks you’re pretty hot for an old babe.
—He said that? I’ll have to give him a raise. She toed the trench she had dug in the earth. I guess you want to take things more slowly.
—I worry I’m going to have problems if I go too fast. I don’t feel solid yet.