The Flame Alphabet (30 page)

I spent the morning outside the hut waiting for Esther to return. I could have ventured after her, but there were too many directions she could have taken and it seemed safer to wait, since she would be back soon, I was sure.

When the afternoon dimmed and grew cold, when I heard nothing stumbling out of the woods, I took a pull from my last remaining stash of assets, then risked everything and whispered her name. The word
Esther
was so cold in my mouth. I whispered it, then spoke it, but my mouth was too dry and I’m sure I said it wrong. If Esther was still out there she would have heard only a low moaning, something senseless from far away. Whatever I said was not her name. I should have practiced more. I should have been ready for this.

Now in the advancing darkness I can only wait for Esther to return. One does not simply leave a father when there are still so many terrible uncertainties to master.

I would have served as an escort on her outing. Had Esther desired, I would have even hung back so she would not have needed to see me. I do wish she had availed herself of my experience. It is very possible that I could have helped. Yet I understand that Esther must do things herself, always, on her own terms, and that gains made in my presence, with my help, to her do not look like gains at all. I understand this.

To be Esther’s father is to try with all my might not to get caught being her father. I can be that person for her. I will be.

When Esther returns, healthy and strong again, ready to take her place as my daughter, together we can sit at the hole in our hut and listen as one family, the two of us bending together into the old hole that might deliver our missing piece.

We will listen for the footsteps of Esther’s mother, who could be here soon. It is a difficult trip, but not impossible. If I could find my way here from Forsythe, groping along the orange cable, then so can Claire. She is stronger, smarter than I ever was, and she can zero in on us even blinded, even ill. She will find us here, it is really just a question of when. When Esther returns to me, we will wait for her mother together, as a family.

It may take days or weeks, but it will not matter, we will wait. And when Claire climbs through the hole, exhausted from her travels, caked in the filth of the tunnels, Esther and I will lead her to the outdoor shower, boil extra water for the cleansing. We’ll ready a little mountain of soft towels, and Esther will go inside to choose from the bright new clothes we pulled from the shelves in town.

While Claire showers, Esther and I will smile at each other, look down, draw nonsense signs in the dirt with a stick. We will be excited, but we will wait, give Claire her time.

When my family is together again I will not need to speak, to read, to write. What is there, anyway, to say? The three of us require no speech. We are fine in our silence. This is the world we prefer.

It will be enough to walk out, the three of us, along the high, scary ledge that lords over the creek and cuts up past the shadow of the Monastery into the wide-open field. We will not need to speak. Under our feet will be the vast, shifting salt deposits, just a residue of everything that’s ever been said. That’s all that’s left. We will walk through it into the clearing. We can have a quiet lunch on the rocks, then stretch out to rest in the sun.

I will wait for them here in my hut, and when Claire and Esther return, this is what we’ll do, as a family.

For guidance and close reading I am grateful to Marty Asher, Heidi Julavits, Deb Olin Unferth, Sam Lipsyte, Denise Shannon, Andrew Carlson, Michael Chabon, and Jonathan Lethem.

Thanks to Ruchika Tomar and Sunil Yapa for research assistance.

For their generous support I am indebted to the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the Creative Capital Foundation, the Lannan Foundation, and the MacDowell Colony.

Ben Marcus is the author of
The Age of Wire and String
and
Notable American Women.
His stories have appeared in
Harper’s, The New Yorker, The Paris Review, Tin House,
and
Conjunctions.
He is the recipient of a Whiting Writers’ Award, a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship, and awards from the Creative Capital Foundation and the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He lives in New York, where he is on the faculty at Columbia University.

ALSO BY BEN MARCUS

The Age of Wire and String

Notable American Women