He took the scenic route home. Following the winding coast road past clapboard houses of white, yellow, red. Every second house an antique shop. How did they all stay in business? Clam shacks, seafood restaurants with waiting lines out to the street, the marina with a dozen blue tarpaulins pulled tightly over pleasure yachts. The white steeple of the Unitarian Church. The occasional view out over the marshes to a strip of blue evening ocean, and the dark hump of Hog Island. This was the part of town everyone came to see. The part he actively avoided for the touristy feel, and for certain unpleasant memories. It was beautiful, actually. He should drive this way more often.
At a roadside farm stand he pulled over, not ready to be home. They had put away their produce for the day, and there was a sign that announced No More Corn. But there was a big pile of early pumpkins. Many striped with green. It made Will unaccountably happy to see them. He dug Muriel’s number out of his wallet and tapped it into his phone.
“She’s awake. She knew who I was and seemed to understand what had happened.”
“That’s great, Will. Could she remember anything?”
“Wasn’t clear,” he replied. “She didn’t seem agitated. I sent your regards, told her how worried you were.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing. But she smiled.”
“Well,” Muriel said. “Okay, I’ll take a smile. How are you holding up?”
“Fine.”
“You eating?”
“Oh yeah.” In fact, he’d had nothing but hospital sandwiches for two days. And bad coffee. He could use some real food. “How’s your mom?”
“Truthfully, not so good,” Muriel said. “I need to stick around.”
They talked a little longer and disconnected. Now came the hard part. But it would not get easier, and somehow sitting here staring at pumpkins and the little duck pond in the green dell below made him calm. He dialed his father’s number from memory. Hoping for interference or an answering machine. Instead he got the old man.
“Don’t beat around the bush,” Joe Conner said.
Will did not, reciting the facts as efficiently as possible. Keeping his voice neutral. Sounding more like a doctor than the doctor had. His father said nothing while he spoke, and for a while afterward. Will pictured him. Short and muscled, in the Jimmy Duffy mold. Standing in the gleaming kitchen of his big house, squeezing the receiver hard enough to crack it. Always one step away from blowing up. The guy went through phones.
“Good,” Joe finally said. “That sounds good. No sign of brain damage? I mean, more than usual.”
It wasn’t funny, but it was the kind of thing his father said. Even his mother was always claiming her brain was addled from “all those drugs I took” whenever she couldn’t remember something.
“She can move her feet and hands,” Will replied. “Answer simple questions. She knew who everybody was. More than that will have to wait for tomorrow.”
“They’ll keep her a few more days?”
“Yeah.”
Then a pause and a deep breath.
“You need me to come out?”
“No,” Will replied immediately. “I got it covered.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay then,” Joe said. “Just as well, ’cause it’s busy as heck here, and Patty would kill me if I had to run off and deal with this.”
That was Will’s cue to ask how Patty was, but he really didn’t give a damn. Any more than she did about Joe’s first family.
“I wish you had brothers or sisters to help you,” the old man mumbled, sounding like someone else. Will didn’t know how to answer.
“That seems unlikely at this late date. But I’ll talk to Ma about it.”
“I don’t mean that Joey and Tricia aren’t your family,” his father said quickly.
“I didn’t take it like—”
“They talk about you a lot.”
“Dad, they met me once.”
“But they remember. They get the books you send. And the, ah, the CDs and stuff. They always ask how you are, when you’re going to visit again.”
The words were rushed and eager, and Will felt a sudden tenderness for his father he could not have imagined even moments before. They were not close. They spoke twice a year. The kids would be teenagers now, wrapped up in their all-consuming teenage lives. Not thinking about some half brother they didn’t know.
“You should come out for Christmas,” Joe said.
“Yeah? And what about Ma?”
“Right. I guess that wouldn’t work.”
You know damn well it wouldn’t. That’s why you offered.
“Look, I have to go. I’ll call when there’s more news.”
“Call in a few days, news or not. And Will, you be... You know, you’re always...”
“Okay, Dad.”
He was driving somewhere with Christine Jordan. Which was awkward, because she was dead. She kept smiling at him and tossing back her brown hair. He smiled too, but there was a thick sadness within him. He adored Christine, and was amazed to discover that she liked him too. It was good having her near again, and he did not want the ride to end. But it was also wrong. The dead could not come back. At some point he would have to tell her, and he dreaded it. The knowledge took all pleasure from the moment. He felt old. His hands on the steering wheel looked worn and knobby. Was he old now? He couldn’t remember? She was young and lovely and smiling at him. Just seventeen. She would never be any older.
A knocking came and went. He thought at first it was the engine, but couldn’t sustain the illusion. The car was gone, Christine was gone and he was staring at another strange ceiling. The green sofa was to his right, the bluish-black painting of the raven above it. His mother’s work. She had been into ravens for a while. To his left the window was full of night. Will was on his back on the beige carpet of the living room. He had lain down here after coming home. For a minute, to rest. His spine and the darkness told him it had been more like hours. The knocking had stopped, but someone was in the house.
Sam entered the room. Someone else might be alarmed to find him on the floor, but her expression was only mildly curious.
“Do you need help?”
“Standing? I might.”
“Tell me when you’re ready,” she said, crouching beside him. She wore jeans and a yellow cotton sweater, and her eyes looked him up and down, settling on his face.
“I thought I locked the door,” said Will.
“You did.”
“Muriel give you a key?”
“I figured you might need me,” she answered, “that’s all.”
She helped him to sitting position, then stood and headed for the kitchen.
“You still hate going up those stairs, huh? Is there any food in this house?”
“I don’t know,” Will mused, surprised by her strength. How easily she had lifted him. Maybe shifting and hauling old people around at the nursing home did that. “I’m sorry. Are you hungry?”
“No,” She gave him a faintly annoyed look over her shoulder. “You are.”
They determined quickly that his mother’s refrigerator could furnish nothing edible, and Sam invited him over to her place. Will accepted. Not bothering with a jacket, which he soon regretted. It was a chilly night, autumn taking hold. He moved warily, looking around at dark clumps of bushes, the swaying oaks. She didn’t wait for him, but walked ahead, like a scout. Her pale sweater was a beacon in the darkness. There was strength in the deliberate way she moved. He liked watching her. Liked the way her ass swayed in those jeans. Will laughed quietly at himself. He was too tired to feel embarrassed, but it was odd to think about Sam that way. She was not like other women, or like any other creature he knew. Yet she was a woman. Surely, underneath the fear and fascination, he had once harbored a childish crush for the mysterious girl next door. Her porch light guided them through the pines. He had a memory of hiding here as they played flashlight tag with four or five other kids. Sam behind him, breathing on his neck. Waiting to be caught by the light beam, or to race off and find a new hiding place. She waited on him now, holding back a spiky bough so it would not slap him in the face.
“That was fun, huh?” she said in the darkness. “Those nights.”
“You mean playing tag out here?”
“That was the only time I did stuff with the neighborhood kids. And only because you made them include me.”
He did not remember, but she might be right. Memories were flooding in again. Danny Larcom stuck in the apple tree. Brendan Duffy with the flashlight, shouting obscenities to make them laugh and give away their hiding places. Arthur the cat rushing after him, wanting in on the game. Samantha’s budding chest pressed against his back, her arms around him, her lips at his ear. Telling him things. Apologizing for something. And then someone else was in the pine grove with them. Someone they could sense but not see, and a terror seized them both. The memories became more real than what was around him, and Will stopped, unable to move. Sam took his hand.
“You’re in a bad way, William. Come on.”
The house was as he remembered it. Narrow hallways and large, wood-paneled rooms with high ceilings. Old bookcases stuffed with ancient, dusty volumes were jammed anywhere they would fit. The corridors, living room, study, even the airy dining room. Only the kitchen was free of them.
“I think this is still edible,” Sam said, dragging a frozen grayish-purple slab from the freezer and dropping it in a bowl of warm water.
“Did one of your ancestors kill that?”
“Margaret Price brought it with a bunch of other groceries. I can’t remember when.”
“Does she think you can’t shop for yourself?” Will asked.
“She doesn’t think anyone can do anything for themselves.” Sam bent down to rip open a big paper bag of potatoes. “I’m surprised she hasn’t been after you.”
“She has,” he confessed. “Drove by this morning. She seemed appalled that no one had been assigned to care for me. Wait.”
She had been about to stab the potatoes with long silver nails. He took them from her warm hands and brought them to the sink to wash.
“Do you have a brush?”
“The dirt’s good for you,” she answered, fishing a little brush shaped like a bear out of a drawer and handing it to him.
“The skin is good for you,” Will said, scrubbing gently under cool water. The task was soothing. His hands looked strong, useful. Not old and knobby. “I don’t know about the dirt.”
“Did she warn you to stay away from me?” Samantha asked. “Margaret?”
He waited too long to answer. There was no point in lying to Sam anyway.
“Not exactly.”
“She thinks I’m dangerous.”
“Strange was the word she used.” Will placed the potatoes on the counter.
“Dangerous is what she meant,” Sam answered calmly, stabbing the potatoes a little more fiercely than necessary. “A lot of them think that.”
“Prices don’t like Halls,” he said, the words out of his mouth before Will had registered thinking them. Sam gave him a surprised look, or as close as her face got to surprise.
“Haven’t forgotten all that seven families gossip, huh?”
The Seven Families. How long since he had heard the phrase?
“I don’t know where that came from,” he said. “Something somebody told me. Maybe my mother.”
“Or Margaret Price,” she said. “They were the leading families once. Up in Maine, maybe all the way back to England.”
Her grandfather. Of course, it was old Tom Hall who told them this stuff. Will could hear his deep, rumbling voice, broken up by long pulls on his pipe. The click of teeth on the enamel mouthpiece, and the sweet smell of the smoke. The family chronicles were imparted with a smile or wink, as if it was not meant to be taken seriously. The lessons on Greek and Roman history and philosophy—the professor’s courses at Dartmouth—were the important ones, but the family stories remained buried in Will’s brain. Wars, voyages, feuds. Evil pacts with witches, brave or cowardly men and women.
“Natural they would butt heads back then,” Sam continued. “But it’s not true anymore, about them hating each other.”
“Tell Margaret.”
“Maybe she still feels that way. About me, anyhow. Although she did bring me food I didn’t ask for. But your mother is a Hall, and Margaret seems to like you fine.”
“She condescends to me the same way she does everyone,” said Will.
“Imagine that. You being a professor and all.”
Will thought he heard an edge to her words. He was probably imagining it, but he didn’t like the silence that followed.
“I wish I could remember those stories,” he said.
“Ask me,” Sam replied, disgust creeping in that he was not imagining. “I remember every damn thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Wow,” he deadpanned. “What a useful skill.”
“You kidding? It’s a curse. You want a beer, William?”
They emptied most of a six-pack of Harpoon IPA, talking. About his Mom, about their lives since high school. There were silent stretches too. Will had gotten used to silence, living alone, and Samantha had always been good with it, so it felt companionable, not awkward. When the potatoes were done, she decided the meat was ready to fry. The kitchen got so smoky Will had to open the windows, but the steak was surprisingly good.
“You’re hungry enough that anything would taste good,” Sam said. “Anyway, thank Margaret, not me.”
“It has to be a good cut, that’s true, but you also need to cook it right. You’ve clearly mastered the art.”
“Jimmy liked steak. I don’t eat it much myself.”
Will reached for his beer, then put it down again, shaking his head.
“I still can’t picture you and Jimmy Duffy together.”
“Well, don’t strain yourself. There’s nothing to picture anymore.”
“I’m sorry, that sounded—”
“I was waitressing at The Clam Digger.” She cut him off. Determined to get this story out without being interrupted. “He came in all the time. With the other cops, that was their place. He was nice to me, didn’t treat me like a weirdo. We were both lonely. Had nothing else in common, really, but it worked out for a while. Then I had a baby that died. And things kind of fell apart after that.”
“Oh, Sam. I didn’t know.”
“It didn’t live more than a couple of days. I knew it wasn’t going to. I wouldn’t let him name it. He was so angry about that. Then I had a miscarriage the next year. That was it—I was done. And we were alone again. In the same house, you know? But alone. So I left.”
“And he hasn’t accepted it.”
“Not in two years,” she said, staring at the table. “Maybe not ever.”
“He must really love you,” Will replied, knowing he shouldn’t say it. But the truth of it had struck him forcefully through her words. She looked at him a long time.
“He wants a son more than anything,” Samantha said. “And I can’t give him one. So maybe you’re right. Maybe he does.” She stood again. “You want to split that last beer?”
“Sure. Unless you have something stronger.”
She kept walking past the refrigerator and out of the room. He saw her shadow move into the dark study, and pictured her grandfather in the squeaking leather chair. Speaking tightly through the clenched pipe. Judging only by the tales left to us from Plato—click, suck, smoky exhale—we’d be forced to conclude that Socrates was an insufferable ass who got exactly what he had coming.
Sam came back into the room with a mostly full bottle of Maker’s Mark in her hand.
“I remembered Grandpa always kept a bottle in his desk,” she said, rummaging for glasses in the cabinets over the counter.
“And you haven’t raided it before now?” Will asked. “How old is that?”
“A few years. Does bourbon go bad?”
“Not in my experience.”
They did not speak again until the first pair of shot glasses were empty.
“That is good,” said Sam. “I didn’t remember liking it. So Will, how are you?”
“Better now,” he replied. “Thanks for dinner. And the booze.”
“How is New York?”
“Loud. Hot. I didn’t get away this summer. Fall should be better, if I ever get back. I like my students, and teaching is a good distraction.”
“You could teach someplace else,” she suggested, refilling their glasses.
“My mom’s always saying that. Wants me to come back here.”
“Lots of colleges around these parts.”
“I couldn’t live here again, Sam.”
“I know,” she said gently. Did she? “This place haunts you.”
Will leaned forward to take the glass, avoiding her eyes. He couldn’t deny the sentiment, but wished she had chosen a different word.
“I have a tricky relationship with home. A lot of people do.”
“Is it better in the city? Do you feel free of it there?”
“Free of what?” he asked.
“The burden,” she replied. “The haunted feeling.”
“That was your word.”
“How is it you’re not married?”
“Come on,” he laughed nervously. “You can’t make something of that. Lots of people aren’t married.”
“Not good-looking guys in their thirties,” she replied, her gaze not leaving him. “With good jobs. Okay, you could be a womanizer.”
“Or gay.”
“Right. But you’re neither of those things.”
“No,” he agreed. “So what’s my problem, Doctor Hall?”
“You’re haunted. You have been since you were five, and it’s screwing up your life.”
He was getting annoyed now. She was a perceptive, intuitive woman, but she had not known him in more than a decade. It was arrogant of her to think she could diagnose his troubles. He tossed the rest of the bourbon back and closed his eyes against the burn. When he could speak again he looked at her.
“Thanks for this, Sam. Dinner, being around. Everything. I really appreciate it.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No, I just need sleep. Can’t seem to get enough.”
“You can talk to me now,” she pressed on, quietly but firmly. “Or somebody else later, but you’ll have to talk about this.”
“Stop.”
“It would be better if it was me. I can help you.”
He stood up and was suddenly dizzy. Drunk again. Well done, William. He looked around for his jacket, remembered he hadn’t brought one. He could just walk out, but that would be childish. She had been kind to him. Will went over and squeezed her shoulder.
“Good night.”
She didn’t reply, didn’t even move as he left the kitchen. And yet somehow she was behind him when he reached the front door.
“It doesn’t matter that time has passed,” Samantha said to his back. “Stuff has happened to us, okay. Some bad stuff. It doesn’t change anything between us.”
“It changes everything. We’re different people.”
“We’re connected.”
“How?” he demanded, wheeling on her. She was closer than he thought. Less than a foot away, and his shoulder nudged her back. “How are we connected?”
“I called you and you came. That night, in the field. I summoned you.”
Her face was calm as ever, but her voice was high and tight. He could smell fear even through her whiskey breath. It was costing her something to force these words out. Which didn’t make them any less nuts.
“The house had been hit,” he said. “There was yelling and screaming. I was panicked. I was running for my life.”
“Yes, right to me.”
“I was just running. I had no idea where or why.”
“But you knew when you saw me,” she persisted. “You knew to come to me.”
“I saw the lantern.”
“You knew I would protect you, even though you had no reason to believe that then.”
“Sam.” His anger was gone, and he was exhausted. He could have fallen down on the threadbare carpet and slept right there. The blue disks of her eyes were huge and close, swallowing him.
“I was inside my circle,” she said firmly. “I performed all the steps perfectly. And you came to me, just like I imagined. The thing is...” Her voice faltered and she broke eye contact. She must have taken a step back, but it seemed more like she simply shrank. “The only thing is, you didn’t come alone. Something came with you, out of that house.”
If she spoke any words beyond those, Will did not hear them. He went out the door without closing it behind him. Rushed down the wooden steps and raced through the darkness for home.