The wind blew throughout the early morning. It banged and clattered and hammered at the store, but Arnold felt safe because he’d been through similar storms countless times before. Light rain fell occasionally, the drops driven before the gusts, and smeared across Arnold’s windows.
Janet called around ten to explain that they’d lost a storm door, and that she would be late. Arnold suggested she stay home until the weather settled. “Nothing happening here anyway.”
He looked out at the deserted street and fretted for the Traveler. The few trees along Bannister Avenue heaved and writhed.
Finally, he could stand it no longer. At a quarter to eleven, he broke with custom, with his own iron law, and locked up. He got his car out of the garage, drove to Fifth Street, and turned right. No other traffic was moving.
He pulled as close to the wind screen as he could get, and climbed out. The wind knocked him over, took his breath away. He struggled upslope, into the trees. They provided no shelter whatever. He cupped his hands around his mouth and tried to shout over the incessant roar. “Traveler.”
But it was hopeless. Twigs, pebbles, debris pelted him. He struggled back to the jogging path, and tried again.
In the distance, he could see more rain coming.
“Traveler.”
The storm howled.
And after a short time, while sheets of rain sliced like knives through the wind screen, Arnold retreated, cold, drenched, breathless, to his car.
He spent a long, dreary, frightening day. He was uncertain about the capabilities of his visitor, or its limitations. He feared the worst, that it might have been overwhelmed by the storm. Heavy rains washed down after the winds had subsided. They beat steadily against the windows over at Clint’s, while Arnold poked at a hamburger and French fries. He stayed in the restaurant, ordering coffee, and then beer, preferring company tonight. And on this evening, most especially, he resented the Traveler. I may have lost you, and there is not even anyone with whom I can talk.
It was still raining steadily when he crossed back to the hardware store, and went up to his apartment to wait out the storm. The ten o’clock news reported it had already ended, but Arnold saw no change until well after midnight. Then, while the night grew suddenly still, he went back once more to the wind screen.
“Hello, Arnold.” The voice reached out to him while he was still on the slope.
“Traveler, are you okay?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Where were you yesterday? I couldn’t find you.”
“I was right here.”
“Why didn’t you answer me?”
Laughter rippled through the wet trees. “Too much competition. The voice of the storm was far louder than mine. But I appreciate your concern.”
Arnold would have liked to clasp the creature, to pound its shoulder, shake its hand. “I wish I could touch you,” he said.
A warm current flowed around him. “You have.”
The ground was soggy. There was no dry place to sit. “I just wanted to be sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine.”
Arnold was still only at the edge of the trees. His shoes and trousers were soaked from the wet grass. “I’m going home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“What about Linda?”
“It didn’t work out.”
“Couldn’t you have done more with the book? That was your wedge, Arnold.”
“I did the best I could.”
“Sometimes you behave as if you’ve lived most of your life in another world.”
The Traveler seemed bigger somehow. As if it had absorbed river and trees. And the town, and even the endless plain beyond. “Look,” he said, “the only way I would be able to get her to come here with me would be at gunpoint.”
“You underrate yourself. You are in fact quite handsome, except when you’re trying to make an impression or are frightened.”
“That’s not what I mean,” he said defensively.
“You should try again.”
“I’ve had enough.”
“You need to stand up straight. You slouch when you’re under pressure. Look her right in the eye. Go for the book. That’s your key.”
“I can’t do any of this. You’re asking me to change the habits of a lifetime.”
“It might help if you gave up the rumpled look. Get your trousers pressed. Maybe invest in a suede jacket. Get rid of the baggy sweater.”
“I like this sweater. I’ve had it a long time.”
“I can see that.”
“And anyway, do you have any idea what a suede jacket costs?”
“Wouldn’t she be worth it?”
“No. I’m not going back there. She walked off and left me sitting on the bench. She has no interest in me.”
“All right, Arnold. This time, I’ll help you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can move warm air. Stimulate her. She will find you very attractive.”
“You wouldn’t do that.” Arnold was horrified. “What are you thinking of?”
His night was filled with visions of Linda. He threw damp sheets off and stared listlessly into the dark abyss over his bed while the wind beat against the side of the house. Where was the Traveler now? Was it perhaps influencing him in some darkly subtle way, as it claimed it could influence the woman? The creature seemed so amiable, but now he had seen how devious it could be.
But there was the delicious possibility that it really could stir Linda’s emotions. Would he accept her on such terms? He tried to imagine those eyes smoldering with passion for him, those lips pressed against his.
Would it be so terrible if he could arrange a fix?
He played and replayed his conversation with her, inserting variations and clever phrases. Employing a casual, self-assured smile. She returns the smile and takes his hand. I’ve been waiting a lifetime for you, Arnold. She is so close he can hear her heartbeat.
He nods. And I, for you.
She is only a gazelle.
He needed to prepare himself for what he hoped was coming. And that meant a trip to Grand Forks.
He arranged to bring Janet and Dean into the Lock ‘n’ Bolt for a day and, on a Thursday morning, headed south on I-29.
The interstate highway between the border and Grand Forks is a long, straight, unremarkable run of eighty miles. The countryside is flat and featureless, broken only by the small city of Drayton, with its smokestack, at the halfway mark. The road was filled with puddles, and the gray sky literally sagged into the prairie.
Arnold arrived at about eleven, treated himself to a big lunch at the Village Inn, and headed for the mall. He was an impatient shopper, and by two o’clock had bought two pairs of jeans, a few sport shirts, and a pair of shoes. And a suede jacket. The jacket was tan, perhaps a trifle conservative for Arnold’s taste, but the saleslady admired it, and it did seem to possess a stylish flare. It cost three hundred dollars.
He splashed back into Fort Moxie in the late afternoon and impulsively turned north on Fifth Street, passed Floyd’s, and drove slowly to the library. The rain had turned to a light drizzle.
Lights were on in the Greek temple. A couple of kids stood talking in the colonnade. The bench that Linda favored seemed to have attracted a yellow nimbus. But of course it was empty.
He spent the weekend reading Our Mutual Friend. He read over meals, read through long afternoons, read deep into the night. All other projects went on hold. He wasn’t doing it simply for her, he told himself, but because it was a classic, a book everyone should read.
He assumed she would not go to the park over the weekend, but the point was rendered moot by the weather, which remained cold and dreary. He found out her last name at Clint’s, simply by asking friends that he’d heard so many good things about the new fourth grade teacher. Eventually Cal Evers, who had a kid in her class, gave him a last name: Tollman. Linda Tollman. “Jeff loves her,” he said.
It had gotten late enough in the seaso
n that there might be no more pleasant days. If that happened, he would have no choice but to call her. Fortunately she was in the phone book. But he knew that would never work.
In the late afternoons, he trekked through the dismal weather up to the wind screen, and huddled cold and wet beneath an elm that provided purely symbolic shelter, where he and the Traveler talked.
Arnold grumbled about his task, but the Traveler refused to entertain his objections. It spoke instead about the sculpting of some particularly interesting peaks in the Canadian Rockies. And about the clash of air currents near some coastal areas. (The thing was unclear which coastal areas. Somewhere in the west.) And it commented unfavorably on the planet’s deteriorating atmosphere.
“Unbalanced. I would say there are too many people.”
“I assume,” said Arnold, “that it’s a phase most cultures pass through.”
“Think of it more as an intelligence test. Most species have a good record of taking care of their worlds. Degradation is common among Simian-types, though.”
They talked about nuclear weapons: “Very few species have seen any point in building them.”
And about organized religions. “They provide consolation to beings who find themselves living in an unfriendly universe.”
And, ultimately, about Linda Tollman. “Arnold, do it for me.”
“I can’t believe you really care. You’re just insisting on this to embarrass me.”
“No. I would think you know me better than that. Do you want the truth?”
“That would be a good idea.”
“I’ve already tried to speak with her. There’s an elm outside her apartment. But it isn’t flexible enough.”
“You can’t make yourself understood?”
“She thinks she has animals in the attic.”
“Why did you want to speak with her, Traveler?”
“Because she’s an exquisite creature. And highly intelligent. I wish only that she should know I exist. And that I admire her.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s what you should be doing.”
“I’m trying.”
“Good. I’m trying, too.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“May the better man win.”
“You’re not a man.”
“Consider for a moment the sheer joy I could provide a female of your species.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Use your imagination, Arnold. I’m not solid, but keep in mind I can be in a host of places at once.”
Late Sunday, when he was shivering in the damp cold and getting ready to go home, Arnold asked, suddenly, “When the time comes for you to leave, will you have any advance notice?”
“I’m not sure, Arnold.”
“Will there be a chance to say goodbye? Or will you just not be here one night?”
“I just don’t know. Does it matter?”
“I suppose not.”
The skies did not clear until Tuesday morning. The sun came out about noon, the streets dried up, and they got their first warm day in a week. At a little after four o’clock, Arnold, wearing his tan suede blazer, rolled into the library parking lot. It was his first visit in a couple of weeks. He didn’t want to be perceived as a stalker.
Her bench was empty.
A burst of wind rocked his car. When he got out, it pulled at his clothes and caught his hair. “You’re here, aren’t you?” Arnold said, looking from side to side, as if the Traveler might materialize. He kept his voice down. There were people in the lot, kids with books, an impatient-looking young man behind the steering wheel of a Ford pickup, a group of children throwing a ball around.
The wind moved against him in a seductive manner. “Hey,” he whispered. “Her. Not me.”
And wind responded. “She’s coming.”
Ripples raced across the grass.
Ten minutes later Linda arrived. She stood across the street, dressed in crisp green, with a gold jacket. She started to cross, walking with long, confident strides. A pickup approached. She paused, let it go through, and came on again.
Teenagers occupied most of the benches. Only one, down near the cavalryman statue, was empty. The wind rearranged her hair. Linda shook it back into place, walked to the bench, and sat down. She opened her briefcase, took out her book, which was The Old Curiosity Shop, and looked around. Looked around. For him, possibly?
But he wasn’t easily visible from her position. She started to read.
The park and the people coming and going with their hands filled with books, and the neat little frame houses lining Gunther Street, and the bottomless blue sky, all served as backdrop for her. The world centered on the bench and the green-eyed woman.
Arnold’s breathing was uneven.
Linda had to have other men in her life. Hunks, probably. What chance did he have?
And she would be annoyed to see that he was still pestering her.
Walk away. Go home. Forget it.
And pay the coward’s price. As he always had.
Warm air flowed across him. The Traveler.
He stepped out onto the pavement, and started in her direction. Keep hands loose at sides. Try to look self-assured.
Don’t stoop.
She glanced his way, appeared not to recognize him. He drew closer, slowing, determined to stay with his strategy. He strolled past her, stopped as if he’d just noticed something. “Isn’t that The Old Curiosity Shop?” He spoke slowly, deliberately, forcing his voice into a low register, striving to hold down the panic that was rising on all sides.
“Why, yes,” she said. She looked at him again. Her brow furrowed. He saw recognition ignite in that green gaze. Felt a soft warm breeze move at his side. “Have you read it?”
“No,” he said. “I haven’t gotten to it yet. I like Dickens. Just finished Our Mutual Friend.” He tried to smile casually. But his lips and mouth felt tight. Encouraged, he took a step toward her.
She was using a cereal coupon as a bookmark. She inserted it in her page, but did not close the book. “It’s a good novel. One of his best.”
He wasn’t sure which one she was referring to. But he charged ahead. “I agree. It’s unforgettable.” That had a ring of repetition about it, but it was too late now.
“I love Dickens,” she said.
“So do I.”
“What was it you found particularly memorable?”
That was easy. “Bella Wilfer,” he said. “I think I fell in love with her.” That sounded a bit daring.
She smiled at him and the day grew warm. Hormones poured into his blood.
Linda made room, without being asked this time. They talked about Mr. Boffin and Silas Wegg and the evils of arranged marriages. “Dickens never disappoints,” she said.
And she was just starting The Old Curiosity Shop. Did that mean there was after all no male dominating her time? “What else have you read by him?”
What indeed?
A light autumn breeze scattered leaves across the grass.
What Dickens movies had he seen? What summaries out of Cliff’s Notes could he remember? He’d started to watch Nicholas Nickleby on TV recently, but he’d gotten bored and switched to a cop show. Great Expectations he remembered vaguely from high school. It had a convict and a kid.
He felt her eyes on him, felt it all slipping away. He was about to try his luck with the convict when he saw the obvious escape: “Scrooge,” he said. “The Christmas Carol. Despite all the times I’ve read it, and seen it, it still just blows me away.”
She nodded. “‘Marley was dead.’” There was a wisp of disapproval in the remark, but whether of his choice, or Marley’s behavior, or something that had escaped his notice, he didn’t know. Possibly she had hoped for something a little more exotic. Edmund Drood maybe, the one Dickens hadn’t finished. But what, other than the fact of its incompletion, did Arnold know about Edmund Drood?
They talked at length about the author and his work, a dialogue tha
t consisted of pointed remarks by Linda, and fully-realized generalizations by Arnold, coupled with strategic nods and affirmatives. At his earliest opportunity, he switched the conversation into a safer channel.
Linda (they were by then on a first name basis) described her work as a fourth grade teacher, and Arnold mentioned that he owned the Lock ‘n’ Bolt. They talked about the state of American education and the failure of government at every level to support the schools, and Arnold commented on the condition of the economy, and how lucky they were in Fort Moxie to be able to attract good teachers. “It’s a safe town,” he said. “Temperature runs between ten and forty below most of the winter. No gangs hanging around, I’ll tell you.”
She openly admired his suede jacket, and he good-humoredly held out the sleeve for her to touch.
Shadows lengthened, and they talked about what it took to get kids to read, the problems in the Middle East, and how the weather was turning cold. Linda rubbed her hands together and suddenly announced that, speaking of the cold, it was getting late, and she should be going.
Arnold, realizing the moment of truth had arrived, threw caution to the wind. “Linda, can I persuade you to have dinner with me?”
She got to her feet, and appraised him with no attempt at concealment. “Tonight?”
“If you’re available.”
“Yes,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “I’d love to.”
The Depot, over in Minnesota on route 75, was de rigeur for food and romance. It featured soft music, dark corners, a fireplace, and flickering candles in red wine bottles. Prices were moderately high, but on this night that was not a consideration.
They ordered chablis, and Linda shrugged out of her jacket. She was new to Fort Moxie, having moved up from Fargo, she explained, to take the fourth grade job at the Thomas Jefferson school. She enjoyed the work. Loved the work. And Arnold began to sense that he had a clear field.
“We’re not usually so lucky,” he said, riding his crest. “Remote place like this, people are more inclined to move out than in.”
The wine came. She gallantly offered a toast. “To Arnold, Fort Moxie’s resident Dickens scholar.”
A Voice in the Night Page 36
