I wake to find a dark shape spread above me, shaking me. I lash out, carry my fist through it hard. It falls to one side, dully strikes the floor.
I grope under the bed but find nothing to strike it with a second time. Stumbling from the bed, I turn on the lamp, my fist aching.
My wife is on the far side of the bed, on the floor, unconscious, a discolored mark rising from her forehead.
“Jesus,” I say. “I thought you were the devil.”
I lift her onto the bed and stroke her face until she starts to regain consciousness. She looks at me without knowing me, tries to scramble free.
I hold her still.
“I’m here,” I say. “I’m here.”
She stops struggling, looks at me oddly.
“What happened?” she asks.
“You’re safe,” I say. “Close your eyes.”
When she does, I get out of the bed and take a washcloth from the bathroom. I soak it with water and wring it out, then fill it with ice in the kitchen. I take it back to the bedroom, apply it to her forehead. She winces, then starts to cry.
“You hit me,” she says.
“What makes you think I hit you?” I ask.
“I watched you,” she says. “Why did you hit me?”
“I was hardly awake. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“I didn’t know you could hit so hard.”
I shrug. “I wasn’t awake.”
She closes her eyes.
“Leaning over me like that,” I say. “I thought you were the devil.”
She doesn’t respond, just lies there with the washcloth pressed to her forehead, shaking.
“Are you crying?” I ask.
“It hurts,” she says. “It really hurts.”
I lie down next to her, throw an arm across her, my upper leg passing over her hips.
“I need to sleep,” I say. “I have a full day tomorrow.”
She is, I can feel from the way her belly vibrates, from the wet smell of her breath, still crying. I don’t say anything. I pretend I am falling asleep. And then I do fall asleep.
“Are you awake, honey?” she asks.
I don’t say anything, don’t move.
“Are you awake?” she asks again.
“Starting to be,” I say.
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I am awake now.”
“I need to talk to you. I need you to tell me everything will be okay.”
“Everything will be okay.”
“Don’t just say it: talk about it.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“You were saying the most awful things in your sleep,” she says. “Things I couldn’t bear to hear. And in the strangest voice.”
“What was I saying?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says.
“Then why did you wake me?”
“I don’t want to say them.”
“Tell me,” I say. “They didn’t mean anything, but I want to know.”
“It was about that poor girl who was killed in the woods,” she says. “You were talking dirty to her.”
“That’s nonsense,” I say. “You’re crazy.”
“You were telling her what you were going to do with her. You talked dirty and then you told her you would kill her.”
“It was a dream,” I say. “It doesn’t mean a thing.”
“It frightened me,” she says. “I couldn’t believe you would say what you said, even in your sleep.”
“Look,” I lie. “Maybe I can’t help thinking that if I had reported the brother to someone none of this would have happened. Maybe I feel responsible for her death because of that.”
We lie still for some time, touching without moving.
“Maybe that’s it,” she says. “I might be able to live with that.”
“It was an awful thing her brother did,” I say. “And then to kill her over it.”
I roll over in the bed, toward the wall.
“There is something else I want to ask you,” she says.
“What?”
“When you came home the night the girl was murdered the knees of your pants were muddy. Your shoes too. There was some blood as well. Not much, but it was there.”
I am fully awake now.
“That’s not a question,” I say.
“Why, darling?” she asks. “Can’t you tell me why?”
“Why?” I say. “I stopped on the way to the church to play football with some kids, that’s why.”
“You were late, you said. You said you couldn’t stay and take the baby out of the bath.”
“Just a play or two,” I say. “On the way. It didn’t slow me down any. They threw me a pass downfield and I slipped.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Don’t you believe me?” I ask. “Do you think I would still be the provost if I could lie? Do you think God would tolerate it?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“You have to put your faith in God,” I say. “And in his earthly representatives. Doubt not, fear not.”
“Who did you see that night?” she asks. “For the appointment, I mean.”
“I was at the church.”
“Who did you meet at the church?”
“I can’t say,” I say. “The interview was confidential. Someday, when things are less sensitive, I’ll tell you all about it. But you’ve already proven you can’t keep a secret.”
“Don’t say that,” she says.
“You’ll have to trust me.” I take her in my arms, feel the bones in her back. “You have everything to lose and nothing to gain.”
“Promise me you had nothing to do with that girl’s death.”
“I had nothing at all to do with that girl’s death,” I say. “May God strike me down if I am lying.”
She is silent long enough that I think she must have fallen asleep. I am falling asleep myself when she says:
“I think you ought to see someone.”
“What do you mean?”
“A psychiatrist. You are feeling things you shouldn’t be feeling.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“It’s coming out in your sleep,” she says. “It isn’t healthy. You need somebody to work through this with you.”
I consider. If I keep talking in my sleep, I will give enough of the truth away that she will have a hard time dismissing it.
“Do it for me, honey,” my wife says.
“Okay,” I say. “Anything for you.”