“You’re here, Ann, and you’re not.” Tom turned her carefully, this way and that.
“Yes.”
“Why did you come with me?”
“I didn’t want to,” said Ann.
“Why, then?”
“Something made me.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.” Ann’s voice was faintly hysterical.
Now, now, hush, whispered Cecy. Hush, that’s it. Around, around.
They whispered and rustled and rose and fell away in the dark room, with the music turning them.
“But you did come,” said Tom.
“I did,” said Cecy and Ann.
“Here.” And he danced her lightly out an open door and walked her quietly away from the hall and the music and the people.
They climbed in and sat together in his open car. “Ann,” he said, taking her hands, trembling. “Ann.” But the way he said her name it was as if it wasn’t her name. He kept glancing into her pale face, and now her eyes were open again. “I used to love you, you know that,” he said. “I know.”
“But you’ve always been distant and I didn’t want to be hurt.”
“We’re very young,” said Ann. “No, I mean, I’m sorry,” said Cecy. “What do you mean?” Tom dropped her hands. The night was warm and the smell of the earth shimmered up all about them where they sat, and the fresh trees breathed one leaf against another in a shaking and rustling. “I don’t know,” said Ann.
“Oh, but I know,” said Cecy. “”You’re tall and you’re the finest-looking man in all the world. This is a good evening; this is an evening I’ll always remember, being with you.” She put out the alien cold hand to find his reluctant hand again and bring it back, and warm it and hold it very tight.
“But,” said Tom, blinking, “tonight you’re here, you’re there. One minute one way, the next minute another. I wanted to take you to the dance tonight for old times’ sake. I meant nothing by it when I first asked you. And then, when we were standing at the well, I knew something had changed, really changed, about you. There was something new and soft, something … ” He groped for a word. “I don’t know, I can’t say. Something about your voice. And I know I’m in love with you again.”
“No,” said Cecy. “With me, with me.”
“And I’m afraid of being in love with you,” he said. “You’ll hurt me.”
“I might,” said Ann.
No, no, I’d love you with all my heart! thought Cecy. Ann, say it for me. Say you’d love him!
Ann said nothing.
Tom moved quietly closer to put his hand on her cheek.
“I’ve got a job a hundred miles from here. Will you miss me?”
“Yes,” said Ann and Cecy.
“May I kiss you goodbye?”
“Yes,” said Cecy before anyone else could speak.
He placed his lips to the strange mouth. He kissed the strange mouth and he was trembling.
Ann sat like a white statue.
Ann! said Cecy. Move! Hold him!
Ann sat like a carved doll in the moonlight.
Again he kissed her lips.
“I do love you,” whispered Cecy. “I’m here, it’s me you see in her eyes, and I love you if she never will.”
He moved away and seemed like a man who had run a long distance. “I don’t know what’s happening. For a moment there … “
“Yes?”
“For a moment I thought” He put his hands to his eyes. “Never mind. Shall I take you home now?”
“Please,” said Ann Leary.
Tiredly he drove the car away. They rode in the thrum and motion of the moonlit car in the still early, only eleven o’clock summer-autumn night, with the shining meadows and empty fields gliding by.
And Cecy, looking at the fields and meadows, thought, It would be worth it, it would be worth everything to be with him from this night on. And she heard her parents’ voices again, faintly, “Be careful. You wouldn’t want to be diminished, would you married to a mere earthbound crea-ture?”
Yes, yes, thought Cecy, even that I’d give up, here and now, if he would have me. I wouldn’t need to roam the lost nights then, I wouldn’t need to live in birds and dogs and cats and foxes, I’d need only to be with him. Only him. The road passed under, whispering. “Tom,” said Ann at last.
“What?” He stared coldly at the road, the trees, the sky, the stars.
“If you’re ever, in years to come, at any time, in Green Town, Illinois, a few miles from here, will you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Will you do me the favor of stopping and seeing a friend of mine?” Ann Leary said this haltingly, awkwardly.
“Why?”
“She’s a good friend. I’ve told her of you. I’ll give you her address.” When the car stopped at her farm she drew forth a pencil and paper from her small purse and wrote in the moonlight, pressing the paper to her knee. “Can you read it?”
He glanced at the paper and nodded bewilderedly.
He read the words.
“Will you visit her someday?” Ann’s mouth moved.
“Someday.”
“Promise?”
“What has this to do with us?” he cried savagely. “What do I want with names and papers?” He crumpled the paper into a tight ball.
“Oh, please promise!” begged Cecy.
” … promise … ” said Ann.
“All right, all right, now let be!” he shouted.
I’m tired, thought Cecy. I can’t stay. I must go home. I can only travel a few hours each night, moving, flying. But before I go …
” … before I go,” said Ann.
She kissed Tom on the lips.
“This is me kissing you,” said Cecy.
Tom held her off and looked at Ann Leary and looked deep, deep inside. He said nothing, but his face began to relax slowly, very slowly, and the lines vanished away, and his mouth softened from its hardness, and he looked deep again into the moonlit face held here before him.
Then he lifted her out and without so much as good night drove quickly down the road.
Cecy let go.
Ann Leary, crying out, released from prison, it seemed, raced up the moonlit path to her house and slammed the door.
Cecy lingered for only a little while. In the eyes of a cricket she saw the warm night world. In the eyes of a frog she sat for a lonely moment by a pool. In the eyes of a night bird she looked down from a tall, moon-haunted elm and saw the lights go out in two farmhouses, one here, one a mile away.
She thought of herself and her Family, and her strange power, and the fact that no one in the Family could ever marry any one of the people in this vast world out here beyond the hills.
Tom? Her weakening mind flew in a night bird under the trees and over deep fields of wild mustard. Have you still got the paper, Tom? Will you come by someday, some year, sometime, to see me? Will you know me then? Will you look in my face and remember where it was you saw me last and know that you love me as I love you, with all my heart for all time?
She paused in the cool night air, a million miles from towns and people, above farms and continents and rivers and hills. Tom? Softly.
Tom was asleep. It was deep night; his suit was hung on a chair. And in one silent, carefully upflung hand upon the white pillow, by his head, was a small piece of paper with writing on it.
Slowly, slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, his fingers closed down upon and held it tightly. And he did not even stir or notice when a blackbird, faintly, wondrously, beat softly for a moment against the clear moon crystals of the windowpane, then, fluttering quietly, stopped and flew away toward the east, over the sleeping earth.
The End
