Gravity Box and Other Spaces (33 page)

The woods were so dense, so encompassing.

“Peter—?”

“We should leave, Peter,” Sheriff Edmunds said. “We're intruding.”

“You think they did what?” Peter fidgeted at Elyssa's tone of voice. Her brow creased and a vein throbbed along her temple. She continued, “Come on! So they were faster than you. You lost them. You can't seriously suggest they turned into trees.”

“I can't think of any other explanation.” Peter shook his head. Edmunds stood by the kitchen door, arms folded, watching them.

“I'm very good at tracking things,” Peter said. “It's what I did.”

“That was desert,” Elyssa said. “These are woods.”

“Doesn't matter. I'm telling you, I didn't lose them. They—” Peter bit back. It was ridiculous. People did not transform into
trees
. It was impossible. But the track ended every time at the base of a laurel. He looked over at Edmunds. “You haven't said much, Sheriff.”

Edmunds shifted, cleared his throat. “I come down here to talk to you. Craig and Danny came into my office. I had a talk with them, but I think you should know they're not letting this drop.” He jerked his head in the direction of the studio. “They were all gathered around that statue of your wife?”

“Yes—”

“Old Man Higgins, did he leave you anything, some papers or a notebook, when he sold you the place?”

“No. Not that I'm aware of anyway. You know what they are, don't you?”

Edmunds looked uneasy. “Saletcroix is kind of special. You might not think so at first glance, but there's things here that don't exist anywhere else. People like Mr. Higgins, some of them been here all their lives, and you might wonder why.”

“Jesus,” Elyssa said, “you think they turned into trees, too.”

“This property here,” Edmunds continued, “has been a refuge for them. Might be the last place on Earth where they live. Higgins was the caretaker for—hell, all his life. His father, grandfather, on back. I'd have to look it up to see who owned it before them.”

“Dryads,” Peter said, amazed at his own recognition.

“What?” Edmunds said.

“Ancient Greece,” Peter said. “Mythology. Dryads. Tree nymphs. I—” He glanced at Elyssa. “When I studied art, back before I left school, we did a semester on Hellenic forms. Lot of philosophical stuff, but it all related to ideals and a little math and a lot of mythology. Spirits associated with places or things.”

“Sounds right,” Edmunds said. “We've got other names for them, but it's the same idea.”

“This is crazy,” Elyssa said.

“Anywhere else,” Edmunds said, “it would be. But as I said, Saletcroix is—unique. This has been a sanctuary for them for a long time.”

“How long?” Peter asked.

Edmunds shrugged.

“So what do they have to do with Craig and Danny?” Elyssa said.

“Craig Newhouse comes across like a bored asshole who thinks it's fun to hunt,” Edmunds said. “But he's a collector, and he's pretty good at it. Sometimes he goes away for a few weeks, a month. I don't know what he's doing then, but when he's here, he preys on what's local. He has buyers for what he collects. He's not stupid, not by a long-shot, but he plays the part.”

“That sounds like it should be illegal,” Elyssa said.

“By what statute? Endangered species act? You have to register the species. Besides, part of the trouble with policing a place like Saletcroix, you don't really know what all's here. Hard to say something's missing when it spends all its life hiding. Believe me, if I could catch him at it—”

“You can't honestly expect us to believe—” Elyssa began.

“No, ma'am,” Edmunds said, “I don't expect you to believe anything. I don't often believe myself, but I still
have to deal with what's in front of me.” He looked at Peter. “Old Man Higgins sold you this place: He must've seen something in you that made him trust you. He's old. Maybe he's just tired, and maybe he's just giving up. Nobody else around here even was offered a chance to buy. Might be no one else knows what's living here except Craig Newhouse. This is worth some money to him; he's not gonna quit. So you have a choice to make. If you decide to stay, you might have more responsibility than you bargained for. I sure wouldn't blame you for packing up and going back where you came from.”

“So you just came to tell me about Craig and Danny?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry for disturbing your, uh, gathering.”

“How much help can I depend on you for?”

“As much as I can reasonably give. I'd be glad to lock Craig up on some charges that would stick. He raped and beat his girlfriend about three years ago, but she wouldn't press charges, and I couldn't hold him. She moved out of the valley. So until I can arrest him for something serious enough to put him away for a while, all I can do is be ready in case. I don't have enough people to cover everything all the time.”

“I see. Thank you, Sheriff.”

Edmunds went to the door. “By the way, your work?”

“Yes?”

“Really fine, Mr. Malon. Really very fine.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, call if you need me.”

Edmunds stepped out. A minute or so later they heard a car start and roll away.

“Dryads?” Elyssa said. “This is a joke, right?”

Peter looked at her but said nothing.

“What about this Craig Newhouse?”

“What about him?” Peter said.

“Forewarned and all that.” She shook her head. “I can't believe we just had a serious discussion about—dryads! Do you know how crazy that sounds?” She made a cutting gesture with her hands. “You're coming back to Chicago.”

“What?”

“No more arguments! I won't see you caught up in some back-country feud! And over what? Imaginary tree people?”

“So what's your theory?”

“I don't have one! Maybe it's some kind of backwoods mating ritual! It doesn't matter because I'm not risking everything on—on—”

“On what?”

Her eyes brimmed with angry tears. “On wondering when you're going to come back to me.”

“I'm right here.”

“Yeah, but exactly where is right here? I waited for you to come back, and when you stepped off that plane in one piece I felt so lucky. But you didn't come back. Not all of you. Bits and pieces. It's like parts of you were trailing behind all the way to Iraq, drifting back on breezes, one at a time, but not everything. It's been two years since you left Iraq, and I still don't have you back. Now this, whatever the hell it is. I want you home.”

“I can't.”

“Can't what? Whatever it is locked up inside your head, I'm tired of waiting.”

Peter's insides seemed to liquefy and then turn solid around a new shape. “So?”

“Come home to me. Or call it quits.”

“Is that's what you want?”

“No! It's never been what I want! I want you to trust me. I want you to talk to me. I want you to share—”

“We've been over this.”

“No, we haven't. You've been over this, in your own head. I never get more than a bullshit ‘You wouldn't understand' non-answer.”

“I never said that!”

“You never had to. But it's been there every time. You give me that pained look and that coddling sympathy, like you're being noble and sacrificial and taking care of me. You act like I'm the one who needs help. Well, stop it. Stop being a man for five minutes and let me help you for a change.”

“There are people here who need help.”

“There are always people who need help. There's an endless supply. You can't help them all.”

Conflicting impulses chased about his head, fragments of answers, partial reactions to her words, all infused with anguish at the thought she would divorce him and never see him again. He hated being inarticulate, so he tended to speak little, and he knew he often left too much unsaid. He hated explaining himself, but that was different. There was simply so much he did not understand and every time he was forced to explain himself it felt like he was making it up on the spot.

Elyssa sighed deeply, a sound filled with exasperation he knew was his fault. She walked toward the door to the hallway.

“It's not—” he began.

She stopped. “Not what?”

“I'm not shutting you out.” He waited for her to say something. When she remained silent, waiting, he said, “I don't know how. You want me to share. But I don't know how.”

“Before Fallujah you did.”

“Yeah, well. That cut something out, and it hasn't grown back yet.”

She moved around behind him and crossed her arms over his chest, head against his back. He started to take her hands away, but caught himself. Too often he had pushed her away, he knew, and in spite of the distance he had been putting between them, he wanted her close. He made himself relax.

“Just tell me,” she said.

“I wish I could.”

“Can you give me one good reason why you can't?”

He closed his eyes. “It's—I don't want to remember it. I don't want to go through it again. I don't want anyone else to have to go through it. I want to forget. I can't do that if I talk about it.”

“You can't if you don't.”

“That's just it. It's become so much a part of me that if I give it to you I don't know if there will be anything left of me.”

She squeezed and kissed his neck, then came around in front of him. Her eyes glistened.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“That's more than you've given me since you came home.”

“It's not enough.”

She stroked his face. “No. But for now it'll do. It's something.”

He took her hand and kissed the palm. She snagged the collar of his shirt and tugged.

“Come on,” she said, drawing him out of the kitchen, down the hall, to the bedroom.

It was the first time they had made love here. It felt like coming home.

Early morning light drifted through the bedroom window suffusing the room with comforting warmth. Peter stretched, contented with the physical memories of the night before. It had been a long time. In fact, after the first frantic month after his discharge, when it seemed they could not get enough of each other, sex became more and more infrequent. Once he came down here and began working, it had ended completely, until yesterday.

He reached for Elyssa. He found nothing but rumpled sheets. Peter sat up and surveyed the room. Clothes were scattered on the floor. With a lingering regret, he rolled out of bed, grabbed his jeans, and followed the smell of fresh coffee to the kitchen. He poured a cup, then wandered through the house looking for her. Failing to find her, he went outside and to his studio.

He found her there, with three of the dryads.

Peter caught his breath, becoming very still, melting into the edges of the door. All of them were naked. The dryads moved in a slow circle around Elyssa, who, for her part, looked both amused and apprehensive, trying to stand still for their inspection and unable to stop shifting from one foot to the other, twisting her head back and forth to try to see them all. She saw him as she turned and waved.

The dryads stopped and focused their attention entirely on him. When they did not flee, he stepped forward.

Nearer, he saw the anxiety in Elyssa's eyes and how relieved she was to see him.

One of his shirts lay on the floor, cast aside.

“I was getting ready to make breakfast,” Elyssa said, “and I thought I heard something. Outside. So—”

“Did they speak to you?” he asked. “Did they say anything?”

“No, not—nothing verbal, just—” Elyssa closed her eyes and laughed. “Just feelings.”

“I wonder why Higgins didn't tell us about them,” Peter said.

“Higgins?” one of them said.

Peter and Elyssa startled at the sound and stared.