4

I WENT slowly down the hall and there was no sign of Nancy, nor was she on the porch, where I had half expected to find her waiting for me. She had said yes, that I would see her later, that we had a lot to talk about, and I had thought, of course, that she meant tonight. But she might not have meant tonight. She might have meant some other time than this. Or she might have wafted and then grown tired of waiting. After all, I had spent a long time with her father.

The moon had risen in a cloudless sky and there was not a breath of breeze. The great oaks stood like graven monuments and the summer night was filled with the glittering of moonbeams. I walked down the stairs and stood for a moment at their foot and it seemed for all the world that I was standing in a circle of enchantment. For this, I thought, could not be the old, familiar earth, this place of ghostly, brooding oaken sentinels, this air so drenched with moonlight, this breathless, waiting silence hanging over all, and the faint, other-world perfume that hung above the soft blackness of the ground.

Then the enchantment faded and the glitter went away and I was back once more in the world I knew.

There was a chill in the summer air. Perhaps a chill of disappointment, the chill of being booted out of fairyland, the chill of knowing there was another place I could not hope to stay. I felt the solid concrete of the walk underneath my feet and I could see that the shadowed oaks were only oaks and not graven monuments.

I shook myself, like a dog coming out of water, and my wits came back together and I went on down the walk. As I neared the car, I fumbled in my pocket for my keys, walking around on the driver’s side and opening the door.

I was halfway in the seat before I saw her sitting there, next to the other door.

‘I thought,’ she said, ‘that you were never coming. What did you and Father find to talk so long about?

‘A number of things,’ I told her. ‘None of them important.’

‘Do you see him often?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not often.’ Somehow I didn’t want to tell her this was the first time I had ever talked with him.

I groped in the dark and found the lock and slid in the key.

‘A drive,’ I said. ‘Perhaps some place for a drink.’

‘No, please,’ she said. ‘I’d rather sit and talk.’

I settled back into the seat.

‘It’s nice tonight,’ she said. ‘So quiet. There are so few places that are really quiet.’

‘There’s a place of enchantment,’ I told her, ‘just outside your porch. I walked into it, but it didn’t last. The air was full of moonbeams and there was a faint perfume…’

‘That was the flowers,’ she said.

‘What flowers?

‘There’s a bed of them in the curve of the walk. All of them those lovely flowers that your father found out in the woods somewhere.’

‘So you have them too,’ I said. ‘I guess everyone in the village has a bed of them.’

‘Your father,’ she said, ‘was one of the nicest men I ever knew. When I was a little girl he always gave me flowers. I’d go walking past and he’d pick a flower or two for me.’

Yes, I thought, I suppose he could be called a nice man. Nice and strong and strange, and yet, despite his strength and strangeness, a very gentle man. He had known the ways of flowers and of all other plants. His tomato plants, I remembered, had grown big and stout and of a dark, deep green, and in the spring everyone had come to get tomato plants from him.

And there had been that day he’d gone down Dark Hollow way to deliver some tomato plants and cabbage and a box full of perennials to the widow Hicklin and had come back with half a dozen strange, purple-blossomed wild flowers, which he had dug up along the road and brought home, their roots wrapped carefully in a piece of burlap.

He had never seen such flowers before and neither, it turned out, had anybody else. He had planted them in a special bed and had tended them with care and the flowers had responded gratefully underneath his hands. So that today there were few flower beds in the village that did not have some of those purple flowers, my father’s special flowers.

‘Those flowers of his,’ asked Nancy. ‘Did he ever find what kind of flowers they were?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘he didn’t.’

‘He could have sent one of them to the university or someplace. Someone could have told him exactly what he’d found.’

‘He talked of it off and on. But he never got around to really doing it. He always kept so busy. There were so many things to do. The greenhouse business keeps you on the run.’

‘You didn’t like it, Brad?’

‘I didn’t really mind it. I’d grown up with it and I could handle it. But I didn’t have the knack. Stuff wouldn’t grow for me.’

She stretched, touching the roof with balled fists.

‘It’s good to be back,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll stay a while. I think Father needs to have someone around.’

‘He said you planned to write.’

‘He told you that?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘he did. He didn’t act as if he shouldn’t.’

‘Oh, I don’t suppose it makes any difference. But it’s a thing that you don’t talk about - not until you’re well along on it. There are so many things that can go wrong with writing. I don’t want to be one of those pseudo-literary people who are always writing something they never finish, or talking about writing something that they never start.’

‘And when you write,’ I asked, ‘what will you write about?’

‘About right here,’ she said. ‘About this town of ours.’

‘Millville?

‘Why, yes, of course,’ she said. ‘About the village and its people.’

‘But,’ I protested, ‘there is nothing here to write about.’

She laughed and reached out and touched my arm. ‘There’s so much to write about,’ she said. ‘So many famous people. And such characters.’

‘Famous people?’ I said, astonished.

‘There are,’ she said, ‘Belle Simpson Knowles, the famous novelist, and Ben Jackson, the great criminal lawyer, and John M. Hartford, who heads the department of history at…’

‘But those are the ones who left,’ I said. ‘There was nothing here for them. They went out and made names for themselves and most of them never set foot in Millville again, not even for a visit.’

‘But,’ she said, ‘they got their start here. They had the capacity for what they did before they ever left this village. You stopped me before I finished out the list. There are a lot of others. Millville, small and stupid as it is, has produced more great men and women than any other village of its size.’

‘You’re sure of that?’ I asked, wanting to laugh at her earnestness, but not quite daring to.

‘I would have to check,’ she said, ‘but there have been a lot of them.’

‘And the characters,’ I said. ‘I guess you’re right. Millville has its share of characters. There are Stiffy Grant and Floyd Caldwell and Mayor Higgy…’

‘They aren’t really characters,’ said Nancy. ‘Not the way you think of them. I shouldn’t have called them characters to start with. They’re individualists. They’ve grown up in a free and easy atmosphere. They’ve not been forced to conform to a group of rigid concepts and so they’ve been themselves. Perhaps the only truly unfettered human beings who still exist today can be found in little villages like this.’

In all my life I’d never heard anything like this. Nobody had ever told me that Higgy Morris was an individualist. He wasn’t. He was just a big stuffed shirt. And Hiram Martin was no individualist. Not in my book, he wasn’t. He was just a schoolyard bully who had grown up into a stupid cop.

‘Don’t you think so?’ Nancy asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I have never thought about it.’

And I thought - for God’s sake, her education’s showing, her years in an eastern college, her fling at social work in the New York welfare centre, her year-long tour of Europe. She was too sure and confident, too full of theory and of knowledge. Millville was her home no longer. She had lost the feel and sense of it, for you do not sit off to one side and analyse the place that you call your home. She still might call this village home, but it was not her home. And had it ever been, I wondered? Could any girl (or boy) call a bone-poor village home when they lived in the one big house the village boasted, when their father drove a Cadillac, and there was a cook and maid and gardener to care for house and yard? She had not come home; rather she had come back to a village that would serve her as a social research area. She would sit up here on her hilltop and subject the village to inspection and analysis and she’d strip us bare and hold us up, flayed and writhing, for the information and amusement of the kind of people who read her kind of book.

‘I have a feeling,’ she said, ‘that there is something here that the world could use, something of which there is not a great deal in the world. Some sort of catalyst that sparks creative effort, some kind of inner hunger that serves to trigger greatness.’

‘That inner hunger,’ I said. ‘There are families in town who can tell you all you want to know about that inner hunger.’

And I wasn’t kidding. There were Millville families that at times went just a little hungry; not starving, naturally, but never having quite enough to eat and almost never the right kind of things to eat. I could have named her three of them right off, without even thinking.

‘Brad,’ she said, ‘you don’t like the idea of the book.’

‘I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘I have no right to mind. But when you write it, please, write it as one of us, not as someone who stands off and is a bit amused. Have a bit of sympathy. Try to feel a little like these people you write about. That shouldn’t be too hard; you’ve lived here long enough.’

She laughed, but it was not one of her merry laughs. ‘I have a terrible feeling that I may never write it. I’ll start it and I’ll write away at it, but I’ll keep going back and changing it, because the people I am writing of will change, or I’ll see them differently as time goes on, and I’ll never get it written. So you see, there’s no need to worry.’

More than likely she was right, I thought. You had to have a hunger, a different kind of hunger, to finish up a book. And I rather doubted that she was as hungry as she thought.

‘I hope you do,’ I said. ‘I mean I hope you get it written. And I know it will be good. It can’t help but be.’

I was trying to make up for my nastiness and I think that she knew I was. But she let it pass.

It had been childish and provincial, I told myself, to have acted as I had. What difference did it make? What possible difference could it make for me, who had stood on the street that very afternoon and felt a hatred for the geographic concept that was called the town of Millville?

This was Nancy Sherwood. This was the girl with whom I had walked hand in hand when the world had been much younger. This was the girl I had thought of this very afternoon as I’d walked along the river, fleeing from myself. What was wrong, I asked myself.

And: ‘Brad, what is wrong?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Is there something wrong?

‘Don’t be defensive. You know there’s something wrong. Something wrong with us.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ I told her. ‘It’s not the way it should be. It’s not the way I had thought it would be, if you came home again.’

I wanted to reach out for her, to take her in my arms - but I knew, even as I wanted it, that it was not the Nancy Sherwood who was sitting here beside me, but that other girl of long ago I wanted in my arms.

We sat in silence for a moment, then she said, ‘Let’s try again some other time. Let’s forget about all this. Some evening I’ll dress up my prettiest and we’ll go out for dinner and some drinks.’

I turned and put out my hand, but she had opened the door and was halfway out of the car.

‘Good night, Brad,’ she sad, and went running up the walk.

I sat and listened to her running, up the walk and across the porch. I heard the front door close and I kept on sitting there, with the echo of her running still sounding in my brain.