Song, Unheard

4. A Respite, Briefly

The room was bathed in the cold white light of morning when she stirred gently and put a hand to the opposite side of the bed, finding it vacant and cool. Her thoughts began to flow in a turbid current, the mind still mired in the remains of slumber. She lay a moment, attempted to clarify her thinking before clambering out into the chill of the room and bundling a robe about her. Her instinct took her back toward the place she had seen him last. It was as she reached the closed door of the family room she heard the muffled clink of what must have been glass upon glass and knew he had broken after all.

She pushed open the door and stepped into the room, her face a mask of accusation. Her eyes scanned the room frantically and found him sitting by the unlit fireplace. She had already opened her mouth to voice her discontent when she stopped, registering that he was washed and fresh shaven and had been drinking tea, the cup now resting on the fireplace.

His eyes widened.

"Up already? You looked fast asleep. I didn't want to disturb you." He turned his attention back to his tea.

"That's fine," she said. "I just didn't know where you'd got to."

"I felt like hiking around the lake. It's been a while. Two months."

"We haven't been up here in six," she said.

He paused, glanced at the floor. "You're right," he said. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"How long are you planning on being gone?" she asked. "You won't leave us for too long? We were going to spend the day together."

"I'll be back soon enough. It's early. You should go back to bed. Relax. "

"Just be back soon," she said. "It won't be long til she's awake and it isn't fair to have her waiting around."

"Yes," he said. "Of course."

***

The walk was blessed relief. For a moment in time everything was forgotten and it was just him and the cool air on his face and the sights and sounds of nature. His face numbed and his heart accelerated to its walking pace and he was momentarily refreshed, rejuvenated. The world had a feeling of hope or rebirth.

Morning had that strange ability. The ability to deceive and distort. Was it was the remains of the night's sleep? Perhaps the mind remained in some hypnagogic terrain, for in that briefest of windows hope seemed more accessible. More soluble in the bloodstream. More potent. More intoxicating.

The air was still and muted but for the sound of his movement and the birds and occasional beast. The birdsong had a laziness about it as it called back and forth across the lake like a long distance conversation. He walked and often his gaze was only at the ground as he navigated the uneven terrain of the bank, but occasionally he would pause and gaze at the glassy morning water as the morning mist gently rose and dissipated from atop its surface, ghostlike as it was gently warmed by an anemic sun.

Above him the bright hues of the dying leaves were on display as they ringed the riverbanks in a brilliant layer of color that contrasted in a stark and welcome fashion against the varied shades of their bark and the the slow swirling grey above the still black waters.

The pace at which summer transitioned to fall about the lake surprised him every year. How it could continue to do so despite the obvious warnings of his calendar, he did not know. He only knew that in this stage of the year he invariably found himself remarking on how quickly summer had seemed to come and fade again. And this year had been no different. Summer still felt close enough to touch.

There had been good times. The summer months had been balmy and they had spent much of their time by the water or in it or upon it. They had boated out to the deepest and coolest part of the lake and anchored the pontoon, it as blue as the clear skies above them. They had swam in those cool waters, the child clutching the buoyancy aid that looked like a duck, and kicking wildly as she tried to grasp the basics. Each of them had cherished the chill of the dark waters on their skin. It was blissful respite from the heavy humid airs above the surface and they had usually remained in the water until one or all were exhausted.

When they could swim no more, they would clamber back up the little rope ladder and back on board and picnic beneath the shade of the awning. He would tune the radio to one of the local stations that happened to be playing something agreeable to all three of them and while the music floated and spread across the lake, the child would nibble upon hot dogs or clutch a soda can in two hands, steer it to her lips, tilting and savoring and swallowing as if performing important work. For the grownups, beer would wash down ham and pickle and English mustard sandwiches. Alcohol had not been an issue back then. That had come later.

The nights had not been altogether different from the days. At dusk they would light a fire outdoors and sit by it on folding chairs. He would barbecue steaks and vegetables and they would eat and drink and tell stories and laugh until the little one would grow impatient and tired and like peons under orders of the general they would quickly extinguish the flames and gather whatever dishes and debris remained and retire indoors.

Good times and good memories. So close yet so unreachable. So fresh yet so unsettling. The images so clear. The smells and the sounds so fresh. Some too fresh. Some fresh like the smiling wound that parts and spreads at the trailing end of a razor as it passes across and through the delicate white flesh of a wrist. And much like the result of the blade, these were images and memories he wanted to look away from, to starve of their brightness and their vitality. And so he shook his head, focused on his feet and quickened his pace as if he might leave the images behind him on the path, perhaps to evaporate away into the early morning air like the vapor atop the lake.

For the time it took for him to tread the lake's banks almost to completeness, he succeeded in leaving the thoughts behind. A flush rose upon him despite the chill, and he sucked air in even steady breaths that tasted only of their purity and felt like they carried upon them something essential that soothed and fortified him. His body had entered a rhythmic sequence of movement that felt almost autonomous and his mind seemed to reciprocate by quietening itself to a state of near meditation as he moved along the bank, listening to his breath and his footfalls, pace quickening to a trot and then to a run. His limbs felt primed and nimble as he deftly moved closer to the end of his circuit where the cabin stood.