December 24th

The final credits for Miracle on 34th Street rolled onto the screen of Willie’s secondhand black-and-white set. He reached for his TV Guide and sighed. That was it for the night. There was only the sermonette and then “The Star-Spangled Banner.” As much as he hated losing those last ten minutes before he was forced to be alone in the quiet room, he wasn’t going to put himself through that: whoever the band was, they always played the damned thing off-key. There was absolutely nothing left to do. The tiny kitchenette was immaculate. Every scrap of ribbon and colored paper had been slowly folded and put away. The presents for his family, Lester, and the Andersons were stacked up neatly in the corner. Wrapping them had taken hours because he had made sure the paper was cut evenly and tightly molded to the shape of each box. The ends were glued instead of taped so that there would be a smooth, continuous surface. Ribbons were matched to the various colored prints, each crisscrossed with a different design before being looped and shredded to form stars, flowers, and butterflies. And this year he was going to admit to his family that he had wrapped them himself instead of lying about having it done at the department store. He would risk having his brothers ridicule him because it looked like something a woman would do. This was his way of doing things; it had always been his way. And they would just have to accept that or give him back his damned ties, shavers, and gloves. He could keep them for himself since he hadn’t bought himself anything anyway. Or he would return them to the store and get a down payment for the new coat he needed so badly. But he was planning to use the money that he got from Nedeed to buy a coat. Willie wanted to forget that he had to go back down into Linden Hills. When he thought about Christmas Eve, he imagined himself walking up the steps to his mother’s apartment building, loaded down with shopping bags full of gifts. Grinning and banging on the door with his foot because he had a quart of Chivas Regal under each arm for their party. Still, the money for those presents had come from Linden Hills, and the two bottles of Scotch would have to be bought from what Nedeed gave them tonight. He tried to pass over all that and just concentrate on what it would be like spending Christmas with his family. Going down to Nedeed’s was just something to get through without thinking, like he had to get through this night without sleeping.

He got up, shut off the television, and looked down at his clothes. He was so tired that if he undressed, he might be tempted to lie down on the bed. And since the room was cool, he might pull the covers over him and, once he was warm, he might fall asleep. And if he fell asleep, there was no doubt about one thing: he would dream. Willie made a wide circle around the bed and sat on the windowsill, one foot on the floor and the other leg propped up against the pane with his elbow on his knee. The cold of the glass penetrated his shirt and pants, chilling his shoulder and the side of his thigh. Good, this was exactly where he’d spend the rest of the night. There was no danger of falling asleep here. He saw that the snow had already been trampled into a gray mush, lumped with garbage, exhaust fumes, and cinders. The calendar said that there should be a full moon, but it wasn’t visible from his window. Willie could see only a small patch of sky between the buildings that surrounded his one back room. The same snow, the same sky, would be different just a few blocks away in Linden Hills. The snow was still clean down there, and under a full moon that had nothing to block it but bare tree branches, it was probably glistening on those long slopes and wide streets.

Why was he always thinking about Linden Hills? Wasn’t it enough that he spent his days down there? He didn’t have to spend his nights there as well, but it seemed as if he wasn’t allowed to leave it; he even brought it home in his dreams. A tremor went through Willie’s spine. Now, why had he thought that? He didn’t mean to say that; he had meant to say that he even brought it home in his thoughts. He was always thinking about Linden Hills, that was all. So when you think about a place all the time, it’s like you never leave it. He glanced at the bed, frowned, and then sighed very deeply. He was too tired to lie to himself anymore. No, he brought that place home in his dreams. All those dreams this week were about Linden Hills. But you were supposed to dream about things after they happened, not before. Yet it had happened with that woman who killed herself. He had dreamed that she would have no face. No, he was the one who had had no face, but it was still about her. In fact, all those dreams had been about women and none of them had had names until now. He knew her name was Laurel. God, how could he ever forget that name after yesterday?

Now there was nothing left to dream about but Nedeed. What was that woman like down there in Nedeed’s house? He had never heard her name. A whole week in Linden Hills and he had never heard her name. But she was waiting for him, he felt that in his guts; he just had to fall asleep. Willie shuddered. Christ, now he really was turning into a woman—he sounded like somebody’s superstitious old aunt. Wake up, man. This is the twentieth century, and that’s Putney Wayne outside your window. You’re free, black, and twenty. And that’s the way you’re gonna stay. Free to move anywhere in this neighborhood, or in this world that your pocket change allows you. Free to stay as black as you are today unless you decide to fill your bathtub with Clorox. The only thing that’s gonna change is your age. Yes, he would turn twenty-one next year. He had no say about that, but that’s the only thing he couldn’t control. There was no such thing as fate or predestination. He wasn’t too certain about there being a god, but if there was one, he wasn’t up there pulling any strings. People pulled their own strings, made their own fate. If some clown down there in the alley on a holiday drunk came by right now with a gun, shooting up into the air, the bullet would go through his brain. But he had decided to sit at this window. He had turned off the TV, gotten up, and placed himself right here. An inch to the right or left would make all the difference in the world. Life was chance. And dreams were bullshit. It was time to grow up. He wasn’t being drawn into anything. He was going down to Nedeed’s because he needed the money. He could change his mind anytime he wanted to, even up to the last second if need be. And so what? The world would keep turning, the moon would keep rising. And the only difference his going or not going would make would be in his pocket. So the guy was weird. So he’d lied about his wife. That was Nedeed’s problem, not his.

All those people in Linden Hills had problems, which only proved one thing to him: they were part of the human race. Name him one man without a problem, and he’d name the day that the funeral would be held. Willie’s laugh was dry and soundless. He had seen a funeral this week. When that poor slob got married, it was like a death march and Willie was the only one who seemed to know it. And then the real funeral hadn’t been that at all, at least not to that guy Parker. He couldn’t put his wife away fast enough. A wedding that was like a funeral, and a funeral that was already a wedding. If anything was the problem with Linden Hills, it was that nothing seemed to be what it really was. Everything was turned upside down in that place. And he was tired of thinking about it, tired of trying to put all those pieces together as if it were some great big puzzle whose solution was just beyond his fingers. If life was chance, and it could all change with someone moving just an inch to the left or right, there were no answers. Then where was he going? And what had he been doing with his own life until now? He wasn’t going to stay in Putney Wayne, that much he knew. And he wasn’t going to keep bagging groceries until he was fifty years old. There was better for him than that. So was that professor right? Linden Hills would be the place where he’d end up? Where he had to end up?

Willie’s head began to throb. He was wrong. If he could ask those questions, then there had to be an answer. But there had been no new poems this week. His poetry had always helped him sort things out. He had asked a hundred questions and he had a hundred answers in his head. He remembered his very first poem. He couldn’t have been more than five years old. He had asked himself one day in school, how can my mother love my father when he makes her cry? And the poem just came while he was tossing that blue alphabet block. A little nothing of a rhyme that he still carried around, but that had been the beginning. He grew up believing that there was a poem somewhere to fit everything. But this past week he couldn’t put it all together. Over and over he had asked himself when the day was through, What does it mean? And there was nothing. Images, snatches of phrases, he had loads of those but nothing to order them. Other people’s work had kept cramming itself into his mind. But where was his? Maybe it was just overload. He had already memorized 665 poems and this last one just wasn’t working but. Would he have to start writing them down? He couldn’t imagine that. Poetry wrote itself for him. If he had to pick up a pen and paper, he just knew there would be nothing to say. And even if he forced himself to jot something down, those strange curves and loops in front of him would be as unreadable as Chinese. His poems only made sense in his ears and mouth. His fingers, eyes, and nose. Something about Linden Hills was blocking that. And to unstop it, he would have to put Linden Hills into a poem. But first he needed the right question, didn’t he? Perhaps he hadn’t been asking the wrong questions all week, just ones that were too big. It would take an epic to deal with something like What has this whole week meant? He’d leave that to guys like Milton. No, just find something small and work from there. Find something immediate, and it would write itself out. Okay, you can’t separate Linden Hills from Luther Nedeed, who seemed to be in the middle of almost everything this week. So what is the question about Nedeed?

Willie knew how to do it. Just close his eyes and let the images swirl about as he emptied his mind. The first line would always come that way. Just close his eyes, relax his mouth, and it would create itself. And once it was there, the first line, the next and the next would be as inevitable as his breath. The process always frightened him a little. The way it would come from nowhere, push itself up from some space inside him, full-blown and demanding to spread. In a way, it was like playing God. The first seeds for everything in the world must have followed a blueprint like this. Fractured roofs and sloping lawns, broken tree branches and wedding cakes swirled in his mind. Crystal chandeliers splintered, doorbells chimed and chimed, sending up echoes that made him shudder. But he kept himself suspended, feeling it grow up from his center, threatening to make him lose his balance and go tumbling to the floor or crashing out through the closed window. Christmas trees of all shapes and sizes. Ruth’s face melting into Lester’s face into Nedeed’s face. Nedeed’s face tightening into a ball and then bursting into liquid circles that curled into fingers, shooting out at him and encircling his brain. Nedeed’s face dripping from the housetops, moving like dark volcanic lava down the slope of Tupelo Drive.

He was almost there. At that terrifying place where his groin contracted and release was demanded before his mind went over the edge. He kept pushing himself toward that dangerous point. He couldn’t stay awake forever. And those dreams would never end until he had the first line. And if he had just that one, he could sleep. He would have made peace with those night images. If they were anything, they were that: the first line unborn. It came with an expulsion, a relief that always felt like ejaculation and, more often than not, brought tears to his eyes. And once it was out of his mouth to be heard by his ears, he knew he was committed.

Willie’s sigh misted the cold windowpane—a round, iridescent fog. He got down from the ledge, the chill stiffening his joints, and he moved like an old man as he undressed. Twenty syllables. Later, they could be arranged to form any pattern he wanted. Usually, the poems ran in a series of stress on the fourth and third, fourth and third. But it wasn’t always necessary and he was too tired to care. The first lines were there, so he could sleep now. Willie pulled the blankets over himself without fear, welcoming the drowsiness he didn’t have to fight anymore. There would be no dreams tonight. Before he drifted off to sleep, he followed a childhood habit, repeating the lines in a soft chant that assured they would be remembered in the morning. “There is a man in a house at the bottom of a hill. And his wife has no name.”

Her name was Willa Prescott Nedeed. After thinking about it for hours, she knew she was safe starting from there. She had owned that first name for as long as she had the face she was now certain that she possessed. The aluminum pot was held firmly on her lap. Thirty-seven years ago she had been born and given the name Willa. It wasn’t thirty-eight years yet, because her birthday was June 14 and that was in late spring. It wasn’t spring yet. It was winter because it was cold down there. She didn’t know how her mother decided upon the name Willa. She remembered asking her once and being told that she just liked the rhythm; it was lyrical and delicate.

She took her first steps to the sound of those two syllables. Pink ruffled dress, matching hair ribbons, and soft-bottom shoes with bells on the laces. “Come, Willa, Willa.” Yes, when she first got off her knees with the exhilarating discovery that her feet could take her anywhere in the world, she directed them toward outstretched arms calling that name and telling her that her final choice of that destination made her a “good girl, good girl.” The shoes kept changing. Saddle oxfords in grade school, maroon loafers in high school, platform heels in college. Her feet were the only part of her body she didn’t grow up despising and she regretted that they had to be covered. So she had always loved beautiful shoes. When no one ever picked her to be partners in Double Dutch, she could stand in the corner of the school yard and stare at her polished toes. The penny loafers that never took her on a date at the drive-in were still rubbed with oil every Saturday night. The French heels that never danced at the senior prom carried her up to the stage where she received her graduation certificates for perfect attendance and civic duty. The applause then was good and loud. Fine, but the name Prescott had come from her father. It had belonged to his father and the father before that. So there was little choice on his part about her last name.

Both of those people were now dead. The people who made Willa Prescott. But Willa Prescott Nedeed was alive, and she had made herself that. She imported the white satin pumps that took Willa Prescott down the aisle six years ago and brought her back up as Willa Prescott Nedeed. Her marriage to Luther Nedeed was her choice, and she took his name by choice. She knew then and now that there were no laws anywhere in this country that forced her to assume that name; she took it because she wanted to. That was important. She must be clear about that before she went on to anything else: she wanted to be a Nedeed. After all, every literate person in the Western world knew it was a good name.

A thousand images now sprang up and threatened to fracture themselves, blurring Willa’s resolve to reach a clear answer to a simple question: How did she come to be exactly where she was? She pushed away what had happened or why it happened. If there was any hope for her at all, it rested solely on the how: How did she get down in that basement? Okay, so far she had the facts that thirty-seven years ago she had been born Willa Prescott and six years ago Willa Prescott married Luther Nedeed, became Willa Nedeed, and Willa Nedeed in a pair of suede boots walked into a white clapboard house in a place called Linden Hills. Yes, keep it simple. Keep on the track, and there just might be hope. She took another small sip from the pot, concentrated, and went on.

Now, she wanted the name Willa Nedeed. She wanted to walk around and feel that she had a perfect right to respond to a phone call, a letter, an invitation—any verbal or written request directed toward that singular identity. And she did that. She became a wife and less than a year later she walked into Hyacinth Memorial, this time with leather moccasins on, and became a mother. She gave birth to a son. The doctor said it was a good, clean delivery. She almost lost control then, but she pressed the pot into her middle and took a deep breath. Yes, she had given birth to a son. That made her a mother. The child was fed and bathed, and kept from harming himself before he understood the danger of sharp objects and hot stoves. He was clothed properly for the weather. He had toys and, later, books—alphabet books because he was just learning to read. She gave him her attention and her time, so he learned to speak and then form sentences. And he began to learn the difference between right and wrong. He was guided and corrected. Now, with that evidence she could be tried by any court in this galaxy or the next and be acquitted as a good mother.

And while she was doing all that, she was also being a wife. She cleaned his home, cooked his meals. His clothes were arranged, his social engagements organized. When he chose to talk about his work, she listened. And she was careful not to bring him petty household problems that might overburden him more than he already was. She accepted without complaint their separate bedrooms and the fact that she spent all those nights alone, that he could be distant and distracted at times, that so much of his life just couldn’t include her. Once again, with that evidence, she could be tried by any court in this galaxy or the next and be acquitted as a good wife.

All right, she was still safe. But now she had to be extremely careful when she took it from there. Willa Nedeed was a good mother and a good wife. For six years, she could claim that identity without any reservations. But now Willa Nedeed sat on a cot in a basement, no longer anyone’s mother or anyone’s wife. So how did that happen? She stared at the concrete steps leading up to the kitchen door. It happened because she walked down into this basement. That was simple enough; that was clear. In a pair of canvas espadrilles, she walked down twelve concrete steps away from her home and into a room that was cold and damp. Willa had to squeeze her eyes tightly so she would see only those steps. It was so easy at this point to see the cots and shelves of food, the clothes and blankets that awaited her. So very easy to recall the bitter argument that was planned up to the final outburst that manipulated her down those steps. The sound of the bolt as it slid into place. The intercom that kept clicking on and off with insane messages about adultery, the complexion of the child, and lessons to be learned. As important as it was, none of that was really at the center of exactly how it happened. It happened because, taking one step at a time, she descended those basement steps. And since the Prescotts conceived a baby girl with healthy leg muscles and tendons, she had started walking down them from the second she was born.

If she took it a millimeter beyond that, her thoughts would smash the fragility of that singular germ of truth. Its amber surface quivered in her mind, a microscopic dot of pure gelatin, free from the contamination of doubt or blame. That action was hers and hers alone. The responsibility did not lie with her mother or father—or Luther. No, she could no longer blame Luther. Willa now marveled at the beauty and simplicity of something so small it had lived unrecognized within her for most of her life. She gained strength and a sense of power from its possession. Her back straightened and she looked around the basement, replaying each moment spent there through this new and awesome reality. There was regret—oh God, there was that—lying in the shrouded body of her son. But that too became her sole possession as the soft amber cell began to spread on its way to setting up roots in the center of her being.

Upstairs, she had left an identity that was rightfully hers, that she had worked hard to achieve. Many women wouldn’t have chosen it, but she did. With all of its problems, it had given her a measure of security and contentment. And she owed no damned apologies to anyone for the last six years of her life. She was sitting there now, filthy, cold, and hungry, because she, Willa Prescott Nedeed, had walked down twelve concrete steps. And since that was the truth—the pure, irreducible truth—whenever she was good and ready, she could walk back up.

A full winter moon, hanging low in the sky, illuminated the curving road in front of Willie and Lester as they made their way down the final slope of Linden Hills. They were leaving the high walls and hedges of Tupelo Drive behind them, and the tall pines that blocked the view of the cemetery disappeared. A short wooden fence allowed the moonlight to shine on the even rows of lime headstones that ran to the bottom of the hill on both sides of the Nedeed home. The white clapboard house seemed ringed by light as the moon washed over the frozen circle of water surrounding it. The wind was strong at their backs, and they had to lean against it and lock their legs to keep from sliding down the icy road.

“I don’t blame that guy for not wanting to tackle this last turn,” Lester said. “With those lousy tires that gypsy cab woulda been stuck here till spring.”

“It sure is quiet down here.” Willie pulled his neck deeper into his collar. “And did you notice, there are no more streetlights. If the moon wasn’t out, we could never find this place.”

“Well, it’s not like there are a whole lot of choices,” Lester said. “The road ends here and eventually even a blind man would have to stumble onto that house since it’s the only one down here.”

“Yeah, and you’d think they’d want an easier way to leave home than driving all the way back up this hill. Tupelo Drive could have kept right on into Patterson Road. I know that’s what runs behind Nedeed’s house. And with him having a business and all …”

“His business is right at his front door.” Lester pointed to the cemetery as they passed. “See how low he built that fence? He probably just hauls the bodies over.”

“Aw, come on.” Willie laughed.

“Naw, I guess not having the roads intersect just gives him privacy. Nobody’s got any reason to come down here unless it’s to see him. And he doesn’t need hedges or anything ’cause of that lake.” Lester shook his head. “A strange dude.”

“To say the least.”

They walked in silence for a few moments.

“You know, Willie …” Lester watched where he placed his feet. “I get the feeling that you know a lot more about Nedeed than you’re letting on. I mean, all that crazy business yesterday about him seeing that woman who killed herself. And then the day before that, your freaking out about coming here tonight. Remember, I’m in this with you, too. And if there’s something I should know, why don’t you just come out with it?”

“Look, you know a lot more about Nedeed than I do. I never laid eyes on the man before this week. I didn’t want to say nothing about those footprints ’cause I wasn’t really sure. And even on an outside chance they were what I thought they were, I didn’t even know what it all meant.”

“Yeah, but why did I have to find out from Braithwaite? I mean, if he didn’t say anything, I really believe you never would have told me.”

“That’s not true, Les. It’s just that everything got a little wild yesterday—with the cops and people and all. And when you think about it, what have I seen that you haven’t this week? I haven’t been anyplace you haven’t been. God, we might as well have been married, as much time as we’ve spent together.”

“That’s no lie. The only thing we didn’t do is sleep together.”

Willie cringed, and Lester noticed it. “How have you been sleeping lately, Willie? Still get those dreams?”

“Naw, I slept like a baby last night—honestly. And I finally figured out what it was. I haven’t been able to make up any new poems this week and it was bothering me.”

“Are you kidding me? How’d you expect to find the time to do that? I’d get home and be too tired to even eat, some nights. Ya know, it even got to the point where my mom asked me if I was working too hard. I must have looked pretty bad for her to tell me to slack up. And yet people wonder why black folks ain’t produced a Shakespeare.”

“Well, I don’t have any hopes of being that. But I think I can come pretty close.”

“Then you better find an easier way to make a living. Or come up with some scheme to hit it big quick so you can sit up in one of these cushy pads on Tupelo Drive and compose your masterpieces.”

“Yeah, but do you remember us meeting any poets down here? You’d think of all the places in the world, this neighborhood had a chance of giving us at least one black Shakespeare.”

“But Linden Hills ain’t about that, Willie. You should know that by now.”

“So where’s the answer for someone like me, Shit?”

Even as Willie asked, he knew there would be silence. He glanced back over his shoulder and the sight almost made him stop walking. Infinite rows of rectangular and round windows were sending a mellow glow out into the night. All of Linden Hills stretched up in a magnificent array of colors. The snowy incline was blazing with reds, blues, and greens forming designs everywhere, from circles to each pattern of the constellations. Tiny electrical stars flickered in the bare tree branches and outlined the driveways and roofs. A lump formed in Willie’s throat. God, it was so beautiful it could break your heart.

“Maybe,” Lester said softly, “maybe there’s a middle ground somewhere. For me as well as you. I know I can’t keep living off my mother forever. And it costs money to keep up a house even if there’s no mortgage. There’s repairs and property taxes. But …” He sighed. “But I don’t know why it must be one or the other—ya know, ditchdigger or duke. But people always think that way: it’s Linden Hills or nothing. But it doesn’t have to be Linden Hills and it doesn’t have to be nothing—ya know, Willie? I mean, in spite of all the propaganda and those ads and crap that Nedeed floods the world with, there are other places to live. But it’s sorta easy to forget that. I mean, what’s so special about this place? Just look at it. This is the end of Linden Hills and look at it.”

They were now at the edge of Nedeed’s lake and Willie did look, long and hard. The house was unbelievably simple compared to the ones farther up. The only thing that gave it an aura of distinction was the huge frozen lake it seemed to be built on. The moon showed up the plain, boxed lines of the wooden planks immaculately preserved under white paint. The three-sided open porch held a double swing and that was the only decorative feature besides the long shutters on each of its windows. Even with its three stories, it could have been dwarfed easily by any home on Tupelo Drive. It sat there quiet and unlit, almost shrinking under the expansive wash of moonlight.

“There are no lights on. Do you think he’s home?”

“Oh, he’s home,” Lester said. “He always struck me as the type who likes to sit in the dark.”

The side view was as unspectacular as the front, even though they could now see the funeral home and chapel across the drawbridge that let them over the lake. Up close, Willie searched in vain for any sign that might set the house apart as belonging to a legend. And there definitely wasn’t a shred of evidence that it sheltered a monster. Why, it was nothing but a house. But then what had he expected, since Luther Nedeed was nothing but a man.

Luther stood at his den window, watching the lights smolder and glow up the slope of Linden Hills. That window had given him a view of his land in the spring when the trees took on a pastel powdering of green; in the summer when the leaves were deep and glossy just before autumn turned them into bursts of red and gold. But there was nothing to compare to this beauty. The bright lights forming intricate patterns in the naked branches were the work of human hands, decisive not capricious, so it would be assured of always looking that way. There was a deep sense of comfort for him in that certainty. He wished that he could stand there all night and not have to turn and face the upheaval within his own home. This was the one season he looked forward to all year. A time to rest and tie up all the loose ends. To do nothing from now until January 6 but read all the books he had neglected, sleep until noon, and take long quiet walks away from the Tupelo Realty Corporation and the funeral home. His assistants dared not call him about anything short of an earthquake or flood during this time.

In his mind’s eye the darkened rooms came alive with mellow candlelight and gleaming crystal. Swags of berried juniper draped the banisters and doors, their velvet bows sprinkled with rosewater and glitter. Tubs of small decorated cedars lined each side of the hallway. And there were wreaths everywhere: holly entwined with golden tansy from the front door, rings of purple-leaf sage and lavender for the windows, the punch bowl sitting in a crown of pennyroyal and rue. His father giving him small sips and later a whole cup of the brandy punch as the smell of roast goose and baked ham drifted from the back kitchen. Mountainous platters of molasses cookies and sweet potato buns, warm and moist from the oven. And once, even a molasses-cake house, whose roof lifted off to reveal cut rock- and ribbon candy. Long, unhurried talks with his father before the fireplace, knowing he wasn’t going to leave the house for days. There was nothing but a feast of time to work out the questions that puzzled him while the man was relaxed and the embers slowly burned down.

Luther sighed and turned away from the window. The burning logs in his den seemed to highlight every empty space and corner that should have been filled with anything except darkness. The silent and shadowed room threatened to rise up and condemn him. But how could that be? He ran his eyes along the mahogany wainscoting, down the plastered walls, over the hardwood floor. The deep, open hearth of the fireplace, the blackened andirons. He knew every plane of that room, every irregular surface, each crack and stain in the wood. It would have been easier to separate the elements in his breath than to separate his soul from the material in that house, than to separate that house from that hill.

He walked over to the rolltop desk and removed a folded gold case. The four portraits unhinged in his hands. This man had come to Linden Hills with only a cardboard suitcase and a dream. No one helped him to haul or smooth the logs for the shack that stood on this very ground. He ate nothing but wild turnips and cornmeal biscuits for six years—six long years—because the price of a brood hen was also the price of a load of bricks. And this man poured the cement for so many of the foundations up there with his own hands. And this one gambled every dime he had to keep this community afloat during the Depression. And this one personally hauled coal for his tenants during the worst blizzard in forty years, losing two toes from frostbite. Yes, they had hauled wood and coal, hauled every official of Wayne County into court, received no thanks, and asked for none.

Luther’s blood pounded in his temples as he stared at his face again and again. He couldn’t imagine where he would be, or what he would do, if he wasn’t here. But he didn’t have to, because he was—again and again. So what was he to have done? To accept her child was to deny himself. He snapped the case shut as the past week reeled out in front of him. He truly didn’t know how much longer he could go on. If he could just touch what was wrong up there, crystallize it so it would be fought, he wouldn’t be afraid—regardless of how immense the opponent turned out to be. But he felt himself flailing at the wind. He couldn’t control this chaos forever by himself, and there was no son this Christmas Eve. No comfort. He felt old and tired. He was so very tired of the people up there. What good had he actually done this week? Winston Alcott was coming to Tupelo Drive and he would leave the same way Laurel Dumont had; Luther could already see it. Give Winston four or five years and he’d break down. So what had he accomplished by forcing that marriage? He had bought himself a little time, that’s all. He had temporarily filled another home. They didn’t understand the importance of a family, of life. All of those sacrifices to build them houses and they refused to build a history. Father, forgive me, Luther almost whispered aloud, but sometimes I wish you had left me another dream.

The tall balsam fir stood naked and alone in the center of the room. The sharp pungent smell of its needles scratched at the back of his throat and he swallowed hard. At least he would have his tree for the holidays. He had driven fifty miles to get it. He couldn’t understand why people substituted those hateful plastic imitations for this. Christmas began with a trip to the woods in search of just the right balsam: symmetrical branches, a healthy bark, and firm needles, his father always said. But times had changed. He had gone to a tree farm, which was the closest he could get to a patch of woods. He had fixed his purchase into the iron, three-legged stand he’d brought down from the storage room along with the wooden boxes of ornaments. Yes, they were the same as he remembered so his tree would be exactly as he remembered. And there would be three pairs of hands to decorate it, two dark and one fair. When it was finished, he could sit back in his chair and not have to think about whose hands they really should have been. That wouldn’t come to him unless he allowed himself to think about the lack of aromas from the kitchen, the lack of a child’s voice and his own answering in return. He could spend the holidays in his chair and know that at least one thing hadn’t changed.

Luther brought in the bowl of brandy punch and arranged three cups around it. This one recipe he knew by heart: one part lemon and orange juice, one part cognac, two parts dark Jamaican rum, three parts peach brandy. He had doubled all the ingredients and added apple and pear slices. He would have this and cheese and crackers for dinner. He paused before drinking his third cup. Cheese and crackers for Christmas Eve. Did she know what she had done? He took the fourth cupful back to his chair, sat down, and stared at the fire. Cheese and crackers for Christmas Eve. And strangers in his home. Strangers handling ornaments that belonged to his family. He wanted to go down those stairs and just shake her. Did she know what she had given up? His blood was warming rapidly. They were the fifth generation of Nedeeds in this house, the fifth, and the first not to have a Christmas Eve together. There was no reason for this, none. She could have come up long ago. He had forgiven her. It was his fault anyway; he had chosen that woman and was willing to accept the responsibility of that choice. It was an error in judgment, one that his father would never have made, but unfortunately, he had. But it wasn’t irretrievable; it’s just that the child had died. Luther frowned and sipped slowly. He had truly never meant for it all to get so out of hand. This compounded feeling of futility was new to him as he wavered between self-pity and anger. Anger won out. He was not going to sit there brooding; the past was gone. And if he had to do it all again, he would do nothing differently. He had every reason in the world to act as he did, and under the circumstances, he had been more than just. The boy wasn’t a Nedeed, that’s all there was to it. And there’s only so much a man can be expected to take.

But it was cold down there. The thought came from nowhere as Luther drained his cup and ran his fingers along the rim. And she was just as alone as he was. There was something so terribly wrong about people being alone on Christmas Eve. But he just couldn’t let her up now. It was too soon after the child’s death. By the new year, yes, definitely by then, she would have fully understood how very precious life was. He wouldn’t have his family ending up like the Dumonts, who were totally lost to Linden Hills. Her husband could never be persuaded to come back, to start again, after such tragedy. The thought depressed him. If his own wife died, could he start again? He would have to—the whole laborious process—because there must always be Nedeeds. There must always be Christmas and celebration. There must … Luther got up from his chair and headed for the kitchen. He turned the water valves on under the sink full force before pressing the intercom: “It’s Christmas Eve, Mrs. Nedeed.” He sighed, and then went to answer the doorbell.

Willa’s sleep was deep and dreamless. Arms folded under her head, face muscles relaxed, she breathed in. In, past the brain cells, where memory mingles with desire and night images are formed. In, past the heart tissues that beat out the rhythms of human limitation. Well past the bottom of the lungs that are only involuntary slaves for continuing existence. She breathed in to touch the very elements that at the beginning of time sparked to produce the miracle some called divine creation and others the force of life. An unconscious journey in toward the power of will that had crept alone in primordial muck eons before being clothed with fins, scales, wings, or flesh. Then she breathed out. Out, past cells that divided to form ovaries, wombs, and glands. Out, past the crumbling planetary matter that formed the concrete for that room. Out, toward the edge of the universe with its infinite possibility to make space for the volume of her breath. She breathed in and out, her body a mere shelter for the mating of unfathomable will to unfathomable possibility. And in that union, the amber germ of truth she went to sleep with conceived and reconceived itself, splitting and multiplying to take over every atom attached to her being. That nucleus of self-determination held the tyrannical blueprint for all divisions of labor assigned to its multiplying cells. Like other emerging life, her brain, heart, hands, and feet were being programmed to a purpose.

It was a birth accompanied by the sound of thunder from the metal sink in the corner. She stretched her arms and arched her back while fluttering her eyelids to awaken full grown into a sphere defined by the words It’s Christmas Eve, Mrs. Nedeed. Not dissimilar from the bursting of other larvae that are immediately affirmed into a season and a direction: moths uncurl and begin to fly, tree crickets to chirp, army ants to march. Willa rose from those stained and rancid bedcovers to begin keeping house.

She stripped the sheets and blankets from the cot, shook them out for a quick airing, and then remade her bed. She smoothed the sheets and tightly folded and tucked the blankets into the corner. Gently, she lifted the child from his cot and placed him on hers, careful not to wrinkle the surface. Then she started on his bed. Yes, she was Willa Nedeed and so this was the end of the month. It wasn’t the most perfect existence to begin with, or even the best time of the year. But it was all she had. She held the cereal bowls and spoons under the running water until the crusted food was soft and then scraped them clean with her fingernails, drying them on the hem of her dress before stacking them on the metal shelves. She moved without hesitation or any sign of stumbling, her mind locking into the point of the universe she was positioned in. She awoke Willa Prescott Nedeed on Christmas Eve. And after she straightened the basement, she was going to start on the rooms upstairs.

“Gentlemen, come in.”

As they stepped over the threshold and Luther closed the door against the freezing wind, Willie breathed in the heated air of the long hallway. The walls were unadorned, the hardwood floor shellacked and covered by a simple runner that led straight ahead toward the staircase. Their coats and knitted hats were hung on a petaled coatrack, the dark mahogany matching a small tea table in the corner. No wreaths, no flowers, no pictures. He had hoped there might be family portraits on the wall, but they were probably upstairs or in the darkened rooms to his right.

“I appreciate your coming in spite of the weather. I believe the temperature has dropped terribly outside.”

“It sure has,” Lester said, his face red and lips trembling, “and there’s a mean wind.”

“I anticipated that, so there’s something in here to warm you before we begin. You don’t have to worry about getting back, I’ll drive you both home.”

“That’s real nice of you, Mr. Nedeed.”

As they walked down the hall toward the den, Willie was certain that no matter what Nedeed said, his family had been gone for a long time. He didn’t miss perfume or cooking odors, but the scents that are carried from the sparks of light switches going off and on, the oil from fingerprints left on door frames, the friction of leather soles against wood, static electricity on a comb, breath on a mirror. Those things brought living smells to a house that took months to fade. And this hallway and those darkened rooms smelled empty.

Luther’s den was another matter. The high stone fireplace, the heavy walnut tables, the fringed Oriental rug, the leather furniture. The air definitely came alive, but Willie felt out of place. Not because of any excessive luxury—the furnishings, while meticulously preserved, were still scarred and worn, but they seemed to suspend him in another time. Why, it was like walking into a movie set for Wuthering Heights.

“Gentlemen, please.” Luther handed them each a small cup of the brandy punch, enunciating each syllable of the address as if he meant just that: gentle men. And this was a room for heavy murmured voices, tweed cloth, and aged tobacco. Even the huge aquarium with those strange ugly fish couldn’t dispel that.

“I suppose you plan to spend the rest of the evening with your families. You, Mr. Tilson?” Luther sat down and sipped his drink.

“Yeah, and it’s gonna be good to rest after this week. I worked my … I mean, I’ve really worked quite hard.”

“And you, Mr. Mason?”

“You can call me Willie.”

“Fine,” Luther said. “And you can call me Mr. Nedeed.” He waited, and they supposed he wanted them to laugh, so they did.

“Yeah,” Willie said, “I’m going to my mother’s place. We have a big family. I guess you’ll be alone for the holidays, huh?”

“Yes, I will;”

“That’s too bad. Will your wife be back for New Year’s Eve?”

“I’m hoping so.”

That was the second question, and Willie realized that Nedeed wasn’t going to volunteer any information beyond exactly what he was asked. This was a man you just didn’t get personal with, and a third question on the same subject would be considered rude and followed by a pointed evasion, letting him know that it was none of his business. And if he couldn’t bring himself to say, Hey, Luther, old boy, exactly where is your wife?—how could he find out what he wanted to know most of all, her name? Lester would be the one to ask that right out if it ever occurred to him, but he was sitting there busily slurping his punch.

“Hey, this stuff is pretty good,” Lester said. “Mind if I have another? Your cups are kinda small.”

“Please help yourself.”

While Lester went to the sideboard, Luther seemed quite content to sit and watch Willie.

“Your fireplace is nice.” Willie got up to avoid Luther’s eyes. “You don’t often see them this big.”

“It was built along with this house. At that time carpenters were still allowing for the fact that some families actually cooked in them.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen that in magazines.” Willie put his hand on the mantel and stared at the burning embers. A log crackled and broke, sending up blue and orange sparks. There was a hollow hum to the pulsating air as it spiraled up the chimney; it sounded like the beating of a human heart. There is a man in a house at the bottom of a hill. And his wife has no name. When he took his hand from the mantel there was a light film of dust on his fingers. Willie rubbed his thumb slowly over his index finger to remove it. For some reason, the texture made him want to cry.

“Now, this one is truly a prize.” Luther gently held up a gilded cornucopia. The gold paper cone was netted with silver threads and trimmed with lace. Incredibly tiny glass-blown fruit and nuts filled the center. He extracted an apple on the tips of his fingers. “I’ll have to hang this one myself.”

It was about the twelfth time he’d said that in an hour and Lester winked at Willie. Luther had handled most of the glass figurines that now adorned the tree, only trusting them with the tin snowflakes and papier-mâché peacocks. Even then he told them exactly where to position the ornaments on the branches, often going over to move something a fraction of an inch forward or back.

Willie held one of the exquisite birds in his hand. The brilliant colors were finely drawn and the spun-glass tail fanned out over his palm. “Where do you want this one, Mr. Nedeed?”

“Oh, anywhere, anywhere.” Luther intently unfolded a miniature steamship from tissue. “You have a good eye for balance, Mr. Mason. I trust you.” He looked up and smiled. “What do you think of this?” The embossed cardboard boat was an exact replica of the original. Tiny silver chains, strung from the deck to the stacks, had silk flags attached to them, and he fluffed out the cotton simulating smoke.

“It’s unbelievable.” Willie shook his head. “I’ve never seen a tree like this.”

“That’s because the world is in love with plastic today.” Luther hooked the steamship on a branch. “Through no fault of your own, you were born into an existence of the cheap and prefabricated. Each one of these ornaments took hours to create and a lifetime of craftsmanship to perfect. So of course, it’s extraordinary.”

“My tree at home doesn’t look too bad,” Lester said, “and we’ve got green balls just like this.” He bounced the globe on his palm.

Luther quickly snatched it from him and gave him a paper bell. “Here, put this up. This ornament was hand-blown in Germany and hand-dipped in lacquer to achieve this unique color. My great-grandfather bought them, so I doubt that you have anything quite like this.”

“Hey, look, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just saying that there are all kinds of ways to decorate a tree.”

“Why don’t you help yourself to some more punch?” Luther nodded curtly toward the sideboard. “And would you please bring me a cup while you’re at it.”

Lester winked at Willie again as he passed him. It was Nedeed’s third drink since they’d been there, and he’d obviously been drinking before they came in. Willie wished that Lester would stop trying to irritate the man. The sooner they got done, the sooner they could leave. There was something a little eerie about the way Nedeed kept going on about that tree. The way his eyes changed when he looked at it. And he kept staring at their hands, almost timing his so the three of them reached for the branches together. Maybe he did miss his family. Willie had to admit that Nedeed was right: this tree was going to be beautiful. But as it began to take form, it only added to his sense of frozen time. The glass icicles and beads, the wooden and paper toys. Yeah, those things meant a lot because they were passed down, but shouldn’t there be at least a few things bought this year, if not this century?

“No, not there, Mr. Mason.” Luther stopped him from hanging a crocheted stocking. “We have to leave sufficient space for the candles, and I prefer to have the metal trinkets near them.”

“You mean there’s gonna be candles on this tree?” Lester asked.

“There have always been candles on our trees. I couldn’t imagine Christmas without them. And just wait until you see what that type of light does to some of these ornaments.” He spun a mirrored diamond on its string.

Willie frowned. “But isn’t that dangerous, Mr. Nedeed?”

“Not if you know what you’re doing. And I plan to position them all myself.”

“You’re gonna string popcorn and that kind of stuff, too?” Lester asked.

“When I was a child we would some years. Or there would be sugared fruit and nuts.” Luther sighed and sipped his drink. “But not this time. No, for now this will have to be enough.”

Willie pried the lid off the last wooden box. Tiny houses were layered in cotton.

“Ah, yes.” Luther brightened. “I had almost forgotten about those.” He picked up a log cabin complete with a stone chimney. “Did you know, gentlemen, that there’s a story behind each of these? My great-great-grandfather lived in just such a …” And he began to tell them as they filled up the rest of the tree.

Meticulously, Willa Prescott Nedeed folded and packed away the torn books and clothes. She buttoned each blouse, snapped each purse, and arranged the scarves and hats in neat layers. When she had filled one trunk, she closed it securely and began with another. She recovered what pages were left whole from the cookbooks and diaries, smoothed them out, and stacked them away. Tiny shreds of paper left the floor, ripped photographs. She had worked steadily and mechanically for an hour, so it was almost done. She pressed Priscilla McGuire’s album on top of the last box, folded the cardboard lid slowly, and took one final look around. Everything down here was in place. Beds made, dishes washed, the metal shelves dusted, the floor picked clean.

She went over to her child, bent down, and lifted him up. The stiffened limbs fit snugly into the curve of her body. The chin rested on her shoulder, cushioned by the lace veiling that dangled onto the floor between her knees. For a brief moment she squeezed the small back. She was so sorry for what she had done. He had barely had a chance to live. He was just learning to write his name. His father had said that he didn’t care what she called him, so she had taught him to spell Sinclair. Willa headed for the concrete steps. The kitchen was next.

Luther was placing the final candles on the tree, their dull creaminess a pleasing contrast to the metallic snowflakes and stars. He used just enough to provide a perfect counterbalance to the array of birds, fruit, flowers, and toy houses. The deep green balsam had become a fragrant haven for his cardboard paradise. He stood back from it and nodded his head. “Now for the crowning touch, gentlemen. We position the top globe, light the candles, and our night is done.” He glanced around the floor at the scattered boxes. “Where did you put my tree top?”

“We haven’t moved anything,” Lester said. “We’ve only handed you what was here.”

Luther began to rummage through the cotton and tissue paper. “Well, it must be around. It was packed with all the rest. A round globe with webbed edges—the thing is huge. You must have seen it.”

They helped him search through the clutter.

“See, Mr. Nedeed, it’s not here,” Willie said.

“Well, then where is it?” He glared at them as if they’d hidden it.

“Look, Mr. Nedeed,” Lester said, “we haven’t left your sight since we’ve been here. Maybe you just forgot it when you brought in this other stuff.”

“I brought seven boxes down from the storage room. Each year everything is packed away in exactly seven boxes.”

“Well, there’s only six boxes here.” Willie’s eyes scanned the floor again.

Luther counted behind him, and then searched under the sofa and wing chair. “Yes, you’re right. How could I have made an error like that?”

Lester smirked. “Too much punch.”

“It better be upstairs.” Luther spoke while staring at the top of the tree. “It just better be upstairs.” He headed for the door to the kitchen. “Wait here.”

Lester whispered, “Ya know, Willie, I think you were right. That guy had murder in his eyes. Did you see the way he looked at us? Who’d wanna steal any of this old-fashioned junk? And if he’s cooked this up just to get out of paying us, I’ve got news for him.”

“No.” Willie sighed. “It’s just that those things mean the world to him.”

“Damnation!” They heard Luther rattling around loudly in the kitchen.

“Just listen to that.” Lester shook his head. “He doesn’t even curse like other people.”

Luther hurried back into the den. “The bulb’s blown up in the storage room and I can’t find my flashlight. I’m going to need your help. You, sir,” he said, pointing at Willie, “bring two candles.”

As he followed Luther through the door into the kitchen, Willie shrugged his shoulders at Lester, who pointed to his head. At the end of the room were two adjacent matching doors. The right one was bolted and the left was flung open.

“Hand me one candle,” Luther said, “and then you follow behind me with the other. Hold it high so there will be enough light.”

The narrow, twisting stairwell was only wide enough for one adult body. There wasn’t even space to form shadows as Willie tried to maneuver up the steep wooden steps, each one high enough to reach his kneecap. When they reached the top, as short as Luther was, he had to stoop in order to move around in the storage area. Willie’s candle sent quivering shadows across the dusty overcoats, work boots, fishing gear, and boxes. Luther finally found what he was looking for.

“Yes, here it is. I had forgotten how large this packing case was. This will take a little strategy.”

He told Willie to blow out his candle and back up a few steps. Then Luther inched the box down the staircase toward him, and each of them lifted one end. “Now, if we coordinate ourselves, we can get this down. Each time I move, you move back one.”

Tightly clutching his end of the crate, Willie began to descend the steps slowly.

Willa’s foot touched the bottom of the concrete stairs. She began to climb, feeling each joint in her knees as they lifted her closer to the door. She held on to the child tightly as each step took her farther above the stale air in the basement. There was no doubt about her path. It was coded into her being: twelve steps to the door, then into the kitchen. After cleaning that room, she would start on the den. Then up the hall toward the staircase to the bedrooms. She would begin with hers, move to Luther’s, and then on to the child’s.

But first each step was bringing her closer to the kitchen and the disorder whose oblivion was now inextricably tied to her continuing existence. Each step, repeated a million times and millions of feet away on much lusher ground as the wingless queen amidst a horde of army ants trudged on, watching the deadly tarantula, the sleeping crocodile, the rifle-bearing hunter eaten away in front of her eyes. While the only thing stopping Willa was simply a bolted wooden door.

Willie stumbled on the next to last step and felt his body flying through the door into the kitchen. “Oh God!” Instinctively, he grabbed onto the box and it was snatched from Luther’s hands and went down the steps with him. He tried to turn and cushion the crate with his body, but its sharp edge jammed into his sides as he rolled and hit his head against the sink. When his eyes cleared, Luther was standing over him.

“You fool.” The evident pain in Luther’s voice softened his words as he knelt over the crate, tearing away at the cover.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry, Mr. Nedeed. I’m really sorry.”

Willie was totally unheard as Luther, perspiring and his breathing labored, unwrapped the globe.

“Mr. Nedeed, really, I’m so—” Willie grimaced, holding his side as he got to his knees.

Luther was visibly trembling. “It’s all right,” he whispered as he slowly turned the globe. “It’s all right.” Then he focused on Willie. “Forgive me.” He stood up. “But you have no idea what you almost did.”

“Oh, I do.” Willie was trembling as well. “And I’m so sorry. But those steps are so steep and—”

“Let’s forget it. Bring the box.” Luther’s eyes never left the globe as he headed for the den.

Quickly, Willie picked up the crate and cotton, his bruised head pounding. He shut the storage door with his foot. Since his arms were full, he braced the crate against the two doors. Reaching under it, he felt the metal bolt slide toward the left as he turned, rushing to follow Luther. A slow chill breeze trailed behind him from the basement door as it crept open.

Miraculously, the bolt slid back when Willa reached for the knob, saving her from crushing her face into the door. She shifted the child in her arms and pushed it open. The brightness of the kitchen was blinding and she leaned against the sink, squeezing her eyes shut to ease the pain. Red and yellow sparks burst under her lids, and she waited patiently for them to subside. She took deep breaths so her lungs could become accustomed to the air, feeling the warmth seep as far down as her trembling stomach muscles. Slowly the shapes became clear to her watery eyes as she batted them rapidly, bringing in the smeared cherrywood cabinets, the greasy, porcelain double-sink, the chrome faucets, the crumbs and dirty dishes on the counter-tops and kitchen table. By the time the room had focused down to the spotted tiles on the floor, the crumbs on the table had already vanished under a wet sponge. One arm was wrapped securely around the child, while the other methodically attacked all the grease and dirt within its reach. Plates and cutlery slid into the racks of the dishwasher; the damp mop, wedged up into one armpit, snaked over the tiles. Accustomed to working quietly so she wouldn’t disturb any activity in the next room, she moved through the kitchen, leaving every surface wiped clean. Finally, satisfied that there was nothing else to do there, she straightened up and headed for the den.

“Now you gentlemen can turn around.” Luther’s globe was in place and lit on the tree. A short fat candle sat in its center, the light radiating through the webbed spokes in dazzling bursts of color. Surrounded now by candles, the tin snowflakes and stars rotated on their silver threads in the heated air as the golden edges of the cardboard ornaments melted into their lacy trims. “And you will finally see what I meant.” Luther’s eyes shone under the light.

But when Willie turned around, he saw what Willa saw. There in the mirror next to the open kitchen door was a woman, her hair tangled and matted, her sunken cheeks streaked with dirt. Her breasts and stomach were hidden behind a small body wrapped in sheer white lace. The wrinkled dress was caked under the arms with dried perspiration, the sagging pantyhose torn at the knees and spotted with urine.

“Luther”—her voice was cracked and husky as Willie’s hand went toward his tightening throat—“your son is dead.”

Luther spun around to the kitchen door. As the woman crossed the threshold, dragging the lace between her legs, Willie wanted to scream. It wasn’t terror or shock; he just needed desperately to open his suffocating windpipes and scream so he could breathe again. Reality is based solely on the senses. And he could feel the tissues in his mouth and nasal passages drying up from a lack of air, depriving him of taste and smell while, in that split second, he was also being forced to surrender faith in his eyes. And when Luther turned back to them, face muscles immobile, voice incredibly even, “Gentlemen, thank you for your help. Your checks will be in the mail,” he lost total faith in his ears as well.

Suspended in a world where reality caved in, Willie now stood out on the front porch, the raw wind biting into his body, with no memory of how he had left that house.

That same blankness was reflected in Lester’s bewildered face. They neither touched nor spoke as the wind shrieked between them, carrying the silent questions behind their widening eyes. Even if they felt they could now trust their voices, there would have been nothing to say. Where were the guidelines with which to judge what they had left behind that door? They stood there frozen in a space of time without a formula that lost innocence or future wisdom could have given them. There would have been no question of smashing in that door if their world were still governed by the rules of cowboys and Indians, knights and dragons—black and white. But their twenty years immobilized them in a place where they were much more than boys, but a long way from being men. There was no way of telling exactly how long they might have stood still in that cutting wind if they hadn’t heard the crash.

Luther Nedeed made two mistakes that cost him his life: he thought Willa was leaving the house, and he read the determination in her eyes as madness. She was heading for the piles of boxes and loose paper in the corner by the hall door. But she kept walking when he called her, walking when he touched her, so he blocked her path with his body. That brought them face-to-face. He had never encountered the eyes of a lone army ant, marching in defiance of falling rocks and rushing water along the great Amazon, the wingless queen who cannot fly from danger, blindly dragging her bloated egg sac as long as at least one leg is left uncrushed; so the dilated pupils in front of him registered insanity. Her fist lashed out and caught him across the Adam’s apple, making him bend and choke. As she brushed past him, he sprang up, grabbed her tightly behind the shoulders, pulling her away from the door. He was trying to force her down into the chair. But that leather chair was back toward the kitchen, and the kitchen led to the basement door, and the door opened on twelve concrete steps leading to the morgue. She had cleaned those rooms. Every cell in her body strained against his hands and he found himself being pulled toward the hall.

Then he reached for the child. The moment his fingers touched the wrapped body, making a fraction of space between it and Willa, her arms loosened for one to shoot around his neck, the other his waist, and the three were welded togther. Luther tried to wrench free, but they breathed as one, moved as one, and one body lurched against the fireplace. The trailing veil brushed an ember, the material curling and shrinking as orange sparks raced up its fine weave. There was no place in her universe to make sense out of the words, “My God, we’re on fire.” No meaning to his struggle except that it was pushing her back into the kitchen. And now no path to the clutter by the door except through the lighted tree. They went hurling against it, the top smashed a side window, and the December wind howled in.

“Something’s happening in there.” Willie grabbed Lester’s arm. “We’ve gotta do something.”

“What are we gonna do, Willie?” Lester snatched his arm away. “Just tell me that, huh?” His whole body was trembling, and the tears in his eyes didn’t come from the wind. “He’s not gonna let us back in there.” Lester turned and kicked the door viciously. “Son of a bitch!”

“We could call the cops.”

“And tell them what? Who’d believe us? Christ, I don’t believe it myself.”

“But she’s in there, Les.” Willie took him by both shoulders. “Don’t you understand? She’s in there.”

“I know, Willie, I know,” he whispered, not knowing anything except that the look on Willie’s face had turned him into a stranger.

“Come on, we can tell them that Nedeed killed the kid.” Willie jumped over the banister and down onto the lake.

“But he didn’t kill him.” Lester swung over after him. “You know that.”

“I don’t know nothing, but we’ve gotta do something.”

They ran, skidding and sliding across the frozen water. They had just reached the edge when they heard a dull roar and, glancing back, saw smoke billowing from the side of the house as the den draperies went up in flames.

“Oh my God, the place is on fire!”

“That fucking tree. There’s no fire alarm down here. We’ve gotta get up to Tupelo Drive.”

But Willie had already started back across the lake.

“No, White!” Lester pulled him back.

“What do you mean, no?” Willie shoved him in the chest. “She’s in there.”

As he ran toward the house, the den window shattered and flames shot out, crawling up to the porch roof. An arm grabbed him around the neck and he fell to his knees. He smashed his elbow back into Lester’s stomach, twisted around, and threw him against the ice. “Get your hands off of me!” When he was tackled from the front, he beat at Lester’s jaw and mouth. A blow to the side of Lester’s nose split it open, but the next one slid across his cheek because it was now covered with blood. It took a knee up into his stomach to send Lester flat on his back. Willie was free and he charged toward a porch that was totally consumed in flames. A weight slammed against his spine and he spun crazily across the ice with Lester riding him. Willie’s right arm was wrenched up and his chin forced back into a hammerlock.

“For God’s sake, White, look at it!” Warm blood and tears ran down Willie’s ear.

The front door burned through, sending flames fed by the relentless wind curling all the way up to the third-floor windows. With his chest forced against the ice, his chin jammed into the air, Willie listened as the roar of hot and cold blasts caved in the porch roof. It fell as if moving through solidified air, charred ashes fanning out on the snow in loops and curves that matched the arc of red embers against the smoke. The air kept beating in a dull hum, a deliberate rhythm and pattern that branded itself on his mind. Something inside of him ended there, but the nightmare was still to begin.

Racing up that steep incline, his lungs burning. Falling and tearing his coat and trousers, his palms and knees seared by the icy concrete. Tasting blood in his throat, feeling it wet on his blistered knuckles as he yelled and banged at the lighted houses along Tupelo Drive. Faces appearing and disappearing—the unopened doors. The lights going off, the draperies parting. The lights going off, the shades going up. The lights going off … going off … going off …

“They hear us,” Lester’s breath was coming in short, painful heaves through his bruised nose.

“But they’re not opening the doors.”

“They’re scared, White. Don’t worry. Somebody will call.”

“They’re at those windows, Shit. Look at them, they’re at those windows.”

Willie stumbled up and down the middle of Tupelo Drive, confused and dazed.

“Tell me I’m dreaming, Shit. Please, tell me I’m dreaming—they’re watching it burn.”

But as Lester anchored his hands on both sides of his friend’s neck, the white clapboard house blazing in front of him, those darkened windows looming at his back like gutted eyes, he knew that only real life could be this insane.

“No, White. Somebody will call.”

“Yeah, they’ll call.” Willie backed away from him. “You bet your ass they’ll call.” He bent and picked up a huge rock, ran to a picture window and shattered it. He grabbed up another and was headed for the next house when Lester wrestled it from him.

A shade went down and a light on.

“Yeah, you see? They’ll call now, lousy bastards!”

They heard sirens up on Linden Road. “White, I told you they were coming.” But it was two police cars, racing at a dangerous speed down the icy slope. Lester took Willie’s arm. “We’ve gotta get out of here.” They ran back toward the burning house. With nowhere to hide, they jumped the low fence and crouched behind the gravestones.

Lester didn’t own a watch, so he couldn’t tell how much time had elapsed before the fire trucks actually got there, and he didn’t know how long it took them to extinguish the blaze. But he was certain that Willie had cried through the whole thing. Excited voices had carried into the cemetery, mingling with the muffled sound of Willie’s, as the firemen cursed the lake that sent their tires skidding, cursed the wind and the frozen hydrant caps, while the men scattered about breaking what few windows were left in the back, ice caked on their eyelashes, beards, and gloves as tons of water poured over the house. Lester had expected to see three bodies brought out, but one massive bulk was covered and carried to the ambulance. He couldn’t feel the ends of his toes or fingers any longer but he stayed bent over in the snow, waiting for Willie to get done. Lester kept his back turned away, not daring to move or speak; this was something Willie had to complete, feeling that he was totally alone.

When the trucks finally left, the Nedeed home was a pile of charred wood, one side completely gone and the others only represented by high pointed spikes. The water was freezing over them, so that under the moonlight, tiny droplets glistened as they rolled down the three jagged shafts. But Willie still kept his forehead pressed against the crumbling gravestone. He gripped the ancient monument, crying as only a man-child could. Tight, defiant tears that fought each touch of the night air for the validity to exist in such number and depth.

Finally, a hand touched Lester’s shoulder. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah.” He got up and beat his knees to circulate the blood as sharp pains shot through his joints.

They stepped over the fence and, without looking at the ruins, headed for the rear of the yard.

“We better go this way and just climb the chain fence in the back,” Lester said. “We’ll be out on Patterson Road.”

“Yeah.”

There was silence until Willie told the biting wind, “They let it burn, Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Silence again. Suddenly, Lester stopped walking. “But they let it burn, White.”

“Yeah.”

“No, don’t you see—they let it burn.”

A deep sob caught in Willie’s throat as he told the wind once again, “They let it burn, Shit.”

“Yeah.”

They let it burn

Each with his own thoughts, they approached the chain fence, illuminated by a full moon just slipping toward the point over the horizon that signaled midnight. Hand anchored to hand, one helped the other to scale the open links. Then, they walked out of Tupelo Drive into the last days of the year.