‘Kim!’ you cry. ‘Kim.’
She says your name, but you can’t hear it. She wants to run but instead she opens the window and, sobbing, stands back as you climb up and into the light.
You close the window and stand, swaying there, only to find her far across the room, her face half turned away.
You try to think of something to say, but cannot, and then you hear her crying.
At last she is able to speak.
‘Six months,’ she says. ‘You’ve been gone that long. When you went away I cried. I never cried so much in my life. But now you can’t be here.’
‘I am!’
‘But why? I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘Why did you come?’
‘I was lost. It was very dark and I started to dream; I don’t know how. And there you were in the dream and I don’t know how, but I had to find my way back.’
‘You can’t stay.’
‘Until sunrise I can. I still love you.’
‘Don’t say that. You mustn’t, anymore. I belong here and you belong there, and right now I’m terribly afraid. It’s been so long. The things we did, the things we joked and laughed about, those things I still love, but—’
‘I still think those thoughts. I think them over and over, Kim. Please try to understand.’
‘You don’t want pity, do you?’
‘Pity?’ You half turn away. ‘No, I don’t want that. Kim, listen to me. I could come visit you every night, we could talk just like we used to. I can explain, make you understand, if only you’ll let me.’
‘It’s no use,’ she says. ‘We can never go back.’
‘Kim, one hour every evening, or half an hour, anytime you say. Five minutes. Just to see you. That’s all, that’s all I ask.’
You try to take her hands. She pulls away.
She closes her eyes tightly and says simply, ‘I’m afraid.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve been taught to be afraid.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes, I guess that’s it.’
‘But I want to talk.’
‘Talking won’t help.’
Her trembling gradually passes and she becomes more calm and relaxed. She sinks down on the edge of the bed and her voice is very old in a young throat.
‘Perhaps…’ A pause. ‘Maybe. I suppose a few minutes each night and maybe I’d get used to you and maybe I wouldn’t be afraid.’
‘Anything you say. You won’t be afraid?’
‘I’ll try not to be.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I won’t be afraid. I’ll meet you outside the house in a few minutes. Let me get myself together and we can say good night.’
‘Kim, there’s only one thing to remember: I love you.’
You climb back out the window and she pulls down the sash.
Standing there in the dark, you weep with something deeper than sorrow.
Across the street a man walks alone and you recognize him as the one who spoke to you earlier that night. He is lost and walking like you, alone in a world that he hardly knows.
And suddenly Kim is beside you.
‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘I’m better now. I don’t think I’m afraid.’
And together you stroll in the moonlight, just as you have so many times before. She turns you in at an ice-cream parlor and you sit at the counter and order ice cream.
You look down at the sundae and think how wonderful, it’s been so long.
You pick up your spoon and put some of the ice cream in your mouth and then pause and feel the light in your face go out. You sit back.
‘Something wrong?’ the soda clerk behind the fountain says.
‘Nothing.’
‘Ice cream taste funny?’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘You ain’t eating,’ he says.
‘No.’
You push the ice cream away and feel a terrible loneliness steal over you.
‘I’m not hungry.’
You sit up very straight, staring at nothing. How can you tell her that you can’t swallow, can’t eat? How can you explain that your whole body seems to be solid, like a block of wood, and that nothing moves, nothing can be tasted?
Pushing back from the counter, you rise and wait for Kim to pay for the sundaes, and then you swing wide the door and walk out into the night.
‘Kim—’
‘It’s all right,’ she says.
You walk down toward the park. You feel her hand on your arm, a long way off, but the feeling is so soft that it is hardly there. Beneath your feet the sidewalk loses its solidity. You move without shock or bump, as if you’re in a dream.
Kim says, ‘Isn’t that great? Smell the lilacs.’
You sniff the air but there is nothing. Panicked, you try again, but no lilac.
Two people pass in the dark. They drift by, smiling to Kim. As they move away one of them says, fading, ‘Smell that? Something’s rotten in Denmark.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t see—’
‘No!’ Kim cries. And suddenly, at the sound of those voices, she starts to run.
You catch her arm. Silently you struggle. She beats at you. You can hardly feel her fists.
‘Kim!’ you cry. ‘Don’t. Don’t be afraid.’
‘Let go!’ she cries. ‘Let go.’
‘I can’t.’
Again the word: ‘Can’t.’ She weakens and hangs, lightly sobbing against you. At your touch she trembles.
You hold her close, shivering. ‘Kim, don’t leave me. I have such plans. We’ll travel, anywhere, just travel. Listen to me. Think of it. To eat the best food, to see the best places, to drink the best wine.’
Kim interrupts. You see her mouth move. You tilt your head. ‘What?’
She speaks again. ‘Louder,’ you say. ‘I can’t hear you.’
She speaks, her mouth moves, but you hear absolutely nothing.
And then, as if from behind a wall, a voice says, ‘It’s no use. You see?’
You let her go.
‘I wanted to see the light, flowers, trees, anything. I wanted to be able to touch you but, oh God, first, there, with the ice cream I tasted, it was all gone. And now I feel like I can’t move. I can hardly hear your voice, Kim. A wind passed by in the night, but I hardly feel it.’
‘Listen,’ she says. ‘This isn’t the way. It takes more than wanting things to have them. If we can’t talk or hear or feel or even taste, what is left for you or for me?’
‘I can still see you and I remember the way we were.’
‘That’s not enough, there’s got to be more than that.’
‘It’s unfair. God, I want to live!’
‘You will, I promise that, but not like this.’
You stop. You turn very cold. Holding to her wrist, you stare into her moving face.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Our child. I’m carrying our child. You see, you didn’t have to come back, you’re always with me, you’ll always be alive. Now turn around and go back. Believe me, everything will work out. Let me have a better memory than this terrible night with you. Go back where you came from.’
At this you cannot even weep; your eyes are dry. You hold her wrists tightly and then suddenly, without a word, she sinks slowly to the ground.
You hear her whisper, ‘The hospital. Quick.’
You carry her down the street. A fog fills your left eye and you realize that soon you will be blind.
‘Hurry,’ she whispers. ‘Hurry.’
You begin to run, stumbling.
A car passes and you flag it down. Moments later you and Kim are in the car with a stranger, roaring silently through the night.
And in the wild traveling you hear her repeat that she believes in the future and that you must leave soon.
At last you arrive and Kim has gone; the hospital attendant rushed her away without a good-bye.
You stand there, helpless, then turn and try to walk away. The world blurs.
Then you walk, finally, in half darkness, trying to see people, trying to smell any lilacs that still might be out there.
You find yourself entering the ravine just outside the park. The walkers are down there, the night walkers that gather. Remember what that man said? All those lost ones, all those lonely ones are coming together tonight to destroy those who do not understand them.
You stumble on the ravine path, fall, pick yourself up, and fall again.
The stranger, the walker, stands before you as you make your way toward the silent creek. You look around and there is no one else anywhere in the dark.
The strange leader cries out angrily, ‘They did not come! Not one of those walkers, not one! Only you. Oh, the cowards, damn them, the damn cowards!’
‘Good.’ Your breath, or the illusion of breath, slows. ‘I’m glad they didn’t listen. There must be some reason. Perhaps–perhaps something happened to them that we can’t understand.’
The leader shakes his head. ‘I had plans. But I am alone. Yet even if all the lonely ones should rise, they are not strong. One blow and they fall. We grow tired. I am tired…’
You leave him behind. His whispers die. A dull pulse beats in your head. You leave the ravine and return to the graveyard.
Your name is on the gravestone. The raw earth awaits you. You slide down the narrow tunnel into satin and wood, no longer afraid or excited. You lie suspended in warm darkness. You relax.
You are overwhelmed by a luxury of warm sustenance, like a great yeast; you feel as if you are buoyed by a whispering tide.
You breathe quietly, not hungry, not worried. You are deeply loved. You are secure. This place where you lie dreaming shifts, moves.
Drowsy. Your body is melting, it is small, compact, weightless. Drowsy. Slow. Quiet. Quiet.
Who are you trying to remember? A name moves out to sea. You run to
