A Hidden Place

by Robert Charles Wilson

  It was a Friday night—Saturday morning, he guessed—deep in the hinterland between midnight and dawn. Travis came awake groggily. He felt the house sighing and shifting, the wind talking in the chimney flues. It was a few days into September; the days were as hot and dry as ever but now the nights brought some small measure of relief, moon-cooled winds blowing in across the grasslands. He pulled the sheet more tightly around his shoulders and drew a deep, shuddering breath. Sleep was only a heartbeat away. But the footsteps came again and they were just beyond his door.

  Creath, he thought miserably, and was overcome for a moment with an unbearable sense of oppression. It was late and dark and he felt sapped, powerless. But wait, he thought. The footsteps continued. They were light, delicate, almost inaudible. He would not have heard if they had not hesitated in their rhythm directly outside his door.

  Not Creath’s footsteps. Anna’s, then. And they were headed down the stairs.

  He sat up slowly. The sheet fell away.

  Long moments passed. Then he heard the front door latch rasp open, the screen door yawn and subside.

  His room was dark. Naked, he went to the window and raised the sash an inch.

  Anna Blaise appeared on the front walk.

  She was dressed in a summer blouse and skirt. His first thought was: she must be cold. The wind tousled her hair. Her eyes, shadowed, seemed to give back the obscurity of the night sky. She hesitated a moment at the sidewalk, her head turning back and forth with dreamlike fluidity, like a hunting dog, Travis thought, fixing on a scent. Briefly, she looked up at the window. Her gaze held there a moment, though it was not possible that she could have seen him. Travis did not breathe. Then, slowly, slowly, she began to move westward along DeVille into the black shadows of the box elders.

  He hesitated only a moment. He threw on his pants, laced his shoes, buttoned a rough cotton workshirt. He was as gentle as he could be moving down the stairs, but he was heavier and clumsier than Anna and in his haste some noise was unavoidable. On the dark landing he jammed his knee into a newel post and suppressed a curse.

  “Travis!”

  His Aunt Liza’s voice whipcracked into the silence.

  “Travis, is that you?”

  He froze.

  He hadn’t made it past her bedroom.

  She took him down into the front parlor. It was dark, but she ignored the light switches. In her nightgown and robe, Travis thought, his aunt resembled something amphibian, crudely draped, caught in the midst of some unspeakable transformation. Her double chin spilled over a lacy collar, her teeth were in a glass upstairs, her expression was vacant. Christ God, Travis thought, I have to leave this place— Anna—!

  But his aunt said, “She is not for you, you know, Travis,” with a calm equanimity that made him wonder if she could read his thoughts.

  “No,” she went on before he could answer. “There is no need to explain. I know what goes on in a man’s mind where that woman is concerned.” She sighed. She had settled into Creath’s easy chair, her head cocked in an attitude of icy, bottomless cynicism. The mantle clock ticked out seconds as she regarded him. “You’re not the only one. Did you know that? Oh, yes. There was that Grant Bevis. A married man, a respectable man, owned the hardware store over on Beaumont. He used to come sneaking around here—sneaking after Anna. Wife left him. Took the kids. Still he came.” She smiled humorlessly. “Left town when I threatened to expose him before the church. His letters to her still come in the mail, though. All different postmarks. All the same. His ‘undying love’. Love! As if love entered into it!” Her smile faded. “And of course there is Creath. I guess you know. Don’t shake your head! This is a small household. We cannot truly keep secrets one from another. Maybe Creath believes so. Maybe he has deluded himself into believing so. But it is impossible. I’m not a heavy sleeper, Travis. I know when he goes to her. I know….”

  “If you know,” Travis whispered, “then why—?”

  “Why stay with him? Why stay here in this house?” She laughed suddenly, a shrill bray; Travis worried that it might wake up Creath and bring him down here. “Stand on my entitlements, like that Bevis woman? It got her nowhere, you know. It got her alone and with children to raise in a world that does not welcome hungry mouths. Love, says the vow, and honor, and obey. Maybe love goes. Maybe honor goes, even. But there is that last. I can have that much of a marriage. I can obey.”

  She’ll be gone now, Travis thought. Gone wherever she is going.

  “She can see into him,” Liza was saying. “She thinks to conceal it from me, but I know. I know. There is something in Creath that is drawn to her. Something left over from his childhood. Something stupid and foolish in him.” She added, a whisper, “I know that part of him. There was a time when he would look at me that way. The way he looks at her. But that was a long time ago. Years gone, Travis. Years gone. She has no right.”

  “Who is she, Aunt Liza?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighed again, remembering, as if she were not fully awake. Her voice took on a distant quality. “It was Creath’s doing. An odd thing. He doesn’t ever stop for hitchhikers or tramps. We were driving back from your mother’s place … that last time we visited, when it became obvious we could not visit ever again. It was late, it was after midnight, and we were on the road coming into Haute Montagne—there was no traffic—and Creath was tired of driving. And suddenly there was this woman. She stood on the sandy margin of the road. Just stood there. Not thumbing. Not doing anything. Standing. And—Travis, she had no clothes on. Can you credit that? A naked woman on the verge of the highway, white as a statue in the moonlight?” She clucked. “I thought there must have been an accident. I would have urged Creath to stop … but he had already slowed down, he was pulling over before the words were out of my mouth. ‘Get a blanket,’ he says. ‘There’s one in the trunk.’ I did so. I covered her up. Creath was just staring at her like a man struck blind … and she was staring at him. I covered her up with that old woolen blanket and I led her into the car. We—took her home.”

  She let her breath in and out, a papery sound. Travis had forgotten—almost—about following Anna. He stared at Liza now, her face round and pale in the faint light that filtered through the lace curtains from the street.

  “I don’t know what it is!” she whispered. “I truly don’t! The way she looks, maybe. Something in her eyes. Something in the raw smell of her. She does something to men … makes them helpless. They go to her. And she—she—”

  “Aunt Liza,” Travis said placatingly.

  “No!” Her voice was shrill again. “Don’t comfort me, Travis Fisher! Don’t place yourself above me—or Creath!” She groped her glasses into place. Her eyes were suddenly magnified. “Don’t pretend you weren’t down here following her, following her wherever she goes these moonlight nights! Some nasty place. You and the Wilcox girl getting along just fine, yes? But here you are. Sniffing after that dirty creature.”

  The accusation was unfair, Travis thought. But he felt an involuntary rush of guilt nevertheless. His cheeks burned.

  “Travis,” his aunt said, “listen to me. I grew up with your mother. To me she was always Mary-Jane—my little sister. I lived with her and I watched her go bad. Not as bad as she ended up. But bad inside her. Bad to the bone, Mama used to say. Bad like a rotten tooth. She would not do what she was told. Took a pleasure in contrariness. In her own wicked shamelessness. We warned her about that man who became your father, oh, yes. He is rootless and insincere, Mama told her. Mary-Jane, we said, you must not squander your life on him. But she did. She ran off west. And he left her. Left her gap-toothed from all the times he got drunk … left her with you to feed. She could have come home anytime. Could have! But would she? No! Not Mary-Jane. Anything but admit defeat.”

  Travis squirmed on the sofa.

  “You have that heritage,” Aunt Liza said, her eyes blazing. “You must be aware of it, Travis. Know it, or it’ll hurt you. You have your father’s blind anger
and your mother’s stupid passions. Leave that woman alone! She is nothing you know or understand. You don’t need her … whatever your body might tell you.”

  He said faintly, “Aunt Liza, I—”

  “Go up now.” She sank back into the easy chair as if some sustaining energy had been consumed. “Go up and sleep and don’t let on to Creath that we talked.”

  The trail was cold. Anna was gone. He went upstairs, dazed.

  He slept almost instantly … and was still asleep in that hour before dawn when Anna Blaise crept silently back into the house, cold blue fire playing like sheet lightning about her body.

  Friday next he drove Nancy back to the stand of oaks on the highway out of Haute Montagne. The prairie spread out around them, grain fields whispering toward a meager harvest. With the motor of the old Ford off and the shrilling of the locusts all around, they might have been a thousand miles from home.

  Tonight was special, Travis thought. He felt a special wildness in Nancy. She would glance at him, glance away, and then her eyes would find him again.

  Her eyes, when the contact held, were very blue and very wide.

  Travis himself felt victim to a kind of unfocused randiness. Nancy’s warmth next to him on the lumpy seat of the Ford stimulated a painful and persistent erection. He wanted her so badly that his knuckles had gone white on the steering wheel.

  He guessed it was understandable. He had fallen into the rhythm of his work at the ice plant, and the days passed easily enough—more easily than the nights. Often, though, he would stop what he was doing, shake his head like a man coming out of a dream, and a deep panic would flood him. He imagined himself growing old in Haute Montagne, growing fat and sedately cruel, growing into the shape of Creath Burack like rubber poured into a steel mold. He felt at such times that he must push back at the barriers that confined him—push, or go mad.

  He guessed Nancy felt the same way. She had been pushing a long time. There was that bond between them.

  He stopped the car and they climbed into the truck bed and made pillows of empty burlap sacks. Travis touched her lightly. She’s anxious, too, he thought. She wants to touch. Push down the walls. But she lit a cigarette, her hand shaking, and waved the match at the darkness. Her lips trembled as she exhaled. “Tell me about Anna.”

  He told what there was to tell. For a time even Travis was distracted by it, the memory of Liza and of Anna’s nightwalk welling up in him like a cold sea-current.

  “Strange,” Nancy whispered.

  “Passing strange,” Travis said.

  “Obviously” Nancy said, “she needs our help more than ever.”

  “She hasn’t asked for it.”

  She looked at him from behind the glowing tip of her cigarette. “You think I’m butting in.”

  “No …”

  “You do. Admit it.”

  “No. Rushing in too fast, maybe. Remember, Nance, we still don’t know anything about this girl. She was out on a highway, naked. Creath picked her up. Maybe she wanted it that way. Maybe she likes things the way they are.”

  Nancy scrunched down in the shadowy pickup bed, drawing herself inward, musing.

  “Before I got this diner job,” she said, “I would go over with sewing. Mama would send me over. I’ve seen the girl, Travis. Seen her up close. I’ve looked her in the eye.”

  He nodded. “So have I.”

  “Have you? And you can sit there and suggest maybe she likes what she’s doing?”

  Well, no, he couldn’t—not honestly. There was that desperation in Anna Blaise like an underground fire; it was impossible to miss. But he said, “There’s more to it than we know.”

  “Bound to be. That’s why we have to find out.”

  “How?”

  “Talk to her. Follow her.” She exhaled a cloud of smoke, tossed the butt out into the roadway, a small cometary arc. “See where she goes.”

  She could not have missed the attraction Travis felt toward Anna. Travis was a poor liar. And yet, he thought, she is capable of suggesting this.

  Maybe it was her way of testing him. Or, he thought, of testing herself.

  He thought of what she had said in the strawberry fields last month: I believe it’s possible to love more than one person….

  “It’s chilly these nights,” she said suddenly. Far off, the westbound train wailed. Travis pressed up close to her, put his arm around her protectively. Her cotton dress was like silk under his big hand. She turned toward him, and they kissed, and there was something in the urgency of it that made Travis aware that she had decided to go all the way with him tonight.

  He touched her small, perfect breasts. After a time his hand worked up under her dress. He was almost feverish with the wanting, and when she laid herself back against the burlap sacks and he entered her it was like an electric shock of pleasure. He climaxed rapidly. Nancy shuddered under him and he realized, distantly amazed, that she must be experiencing some equivalent fulfillment. Gasping, he told her he loved her.

  Maybe he did. It was not a lie; she would have recognized a lie. But he was far less certain than he made himself sound.

  Doubt had crept into him even as he performed the act. He loved her, at the very least, for what they had done together, but even that was compromised: it had been too easy, he thought, she gave herself too easily. Women ought not to do that. He looked away as she straightened her skirt. What disturbed him, and what he found hard to admit even to himself, was that the face that had flashed in his mind in that moment of climax had been, not Nancy’s, but Anna’s: her pale china skin; the eyes huge and dark, violated but aloof; her strangely unassailable purity burning in him like fire.

  Chapter Five

  September crawled on, the cries of the trains acquiring that special autumn melancholy, and at first Liza Burack believed she might have contributed toward the salvation of her sister’s son.

  If not the salvation of his soul he refused to go to church with her, claimed his mother would not have approved), then at least his worldly salvation. She had savored the thought, troweling in her backyard garden those long last-of-summer afternoons. / have helped save him, she would think, down on her knees among the gladioli and the fragrant black earth. It was a good thought and in those moments she could almost believe it made everything worthwhile … her fall from grace with the Baptist Women, her sister’s death-in-sin, even Creath’s terrible and unacknowledged private weakness. Even that. I have helped save him.

  But she lay awake now in the postmidnight silence of the bedroom, her eyes like beacon lights, moonlight shining on her oaten dresser and Creath beside her like a dead weight; and when she heard Anna’s small footsteps on the landing and then, a few moments after, Travis’s—then she knew she had in fact lost.

  She started up after him. By God, she thought, he doesn’t understand! If he understood he would not be chasing after her! If he understood—!

  But no. She had told him once. And she had known by his eyes that he did understand. This was no normal woman and his feelings for her were not normal feelings.

  And yet he had chosen to follow her.

  Strange words flashed in her mind.

  Witch. Demon. Succubus.

  She went to the door of the bedroom, opened it a crack. There went Travis, a black shadow past the stairwell. And there, hear it now, the click and whine of the front door.

  Liza Burack sank back into the bed, defeated.

  Travis is lost, she thought, the sound of her own thought grown singsong as sleep too long denied crept up from the overheated crevice of the blankets…. Travis is lost, is lost, is lost….

  She dozed dreamlessly, and the nightwind came in her window like a tide.

  Talk to her, Nancy had said. Follow her.

  It had sounded so simple.

  Travis paced down the moon-bathed street, making good on the promise at last, and it seemed much less so.

  Anna Blaise moved ahead of him like a shadow, a lithe and graceful dancer in a shadow bal
let. For long moments Travis would walk blindly, certain that he had lost her … then she would appear again half a block away, gliding through the umbra of a tossing willow.

  Travis wore a thick cotton workshirt and a jacket over that, and a jet of autumn air set him shivering. Anna wore only a blouse, a skirt, navy blue go-to-church clothes (though that was something she did not ever do), shadow-colored.

  He followed her, a sick excitement rising in him. There was, at this hour, simply no reasonable destination for a woman like Anna. The town was asleep. Travis had overheard talk at the ice plant about a roadhouse called Conklin’s out beyond the granaries, that a man could get a discreet drink there after midnight … but it was late now even for that, and in any case Anna was headed the wrong way, toward the nearer margin of town, toward the railway tracks.

  Far out DeVille Street the blacktop faded to dirt. There were no houses here, no trees but scrub oak, nothing beyond but farmland and prairie grass.

  Travis slowed when Anna slowed. She had come to the place where the railway crossed the road, moonlight glinting off the hard arc of the tracks. She stood suddenly still—and Travis dove down, feeling foolish and ashamed, into the high grass in the gully by the road. When he peered ahead through a thicket of buckbrush he was able to see Anna Blaise outlined against the morning stars like a sentinel, her bare arms shining, her head moving left and right in that oddly sensual hunting-dog motion. Christ God, Travis thought, if she sees me—I But her attention was focused elsewhere.

  Her arms were stiff at her sides, her head erect.

  Listening, Travis thought.

  He was suddenly aware of the small hairs prickling at the back of his neck. His breath caught in his throat.

  Far off in the depths of the night a small-hours freight express sounded its whistle. Westbound, he thought, tracking over the curvature of the earth—it sounded that distant.

  Anna Blaise was marble and ice, listening.