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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第11章|Chapter 11

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[13509]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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结局来得正是时候。我不仅学会了马丁先生所教的一切，还学厌了——练习、节目、规矩、让人生烦的八十八个琴键。十六岁后，我开始找借口旷课，而且还不能伤母亲的心。事实就是这样，我是个很棒的，甚至可以说是杰出的钢琴师，但我并不伟大。是的，至今是我们这个偏僻的村庄中最好的，毫无疑问在本卅的这个角落里也是最好的，或许在周围几个地区也首屈一指，但是放眼更广阔的天地，就不是了。我缺少世界一流的钢琴家所具备的激情和内心燃烧的火焰。想到未来，选择令人恐惧。难道要像马丁先生一样，在完成二流事业之后以教习学生度日? 我宁可到妓院里弹琴。

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一天早晨用餐时，我打开了这个话题：“妈，我想我没法再提高了。”

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“提高什么? ”她边打鸡蛋边问。

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“弹琴，音乐。我想我只能到此为止。”

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她把鸡蛋糊倒进平底锅。一碰到黄油和烧热的铁锅，蛋糊就爆溅起来，咝咝作响，她～言不发地搅拌着。她递给我一碟炒蛋和吐司，我沉默地吃起来。她坐在对面用餐，和我隔开一张桌子，手里拿着咖啡杯。“亨利，”她柔声说，唤起我的注意，‘‘你还记不记得你小时候，有一天离家出走? ”

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我不记得，但我在咀嚼之间点了点头，以示记得。

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“那天天气很好，也很热，热得要命。我想洗个澡凉快些。我最受不了天热了。

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我叫你看着玛丽和伊丽莎白，你却跑到树林子里不见了。你还记得吗? ”

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我不可能记得，但我还是点头，咽下最后一口橙汁。

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“我把女孩们抱上床再回来时，你已经没了踪影。”她说着往事，眼眶渐渐湿了。“我们到山上去找你，但找不到。天快黑了，我打电话叫你父亲回来，我们又打给警察局和消防队，一起找你找了几个小时，在夜里叫着你的名字。”她的目光从我身上掠过，仿佛要从心灵上把往事消去。

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“还有鸡蛋吗，妈? ”

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她用勺子朝炉子挥了一下，我自己过去拿了。“天暗下来的时候，我很为你害怕。谁知道树林里有什么东西呢? 我曾经在多尼戈尔①认识过一个女人，她的孩子就是被偷走的。那是一个晴朗的夏日，她出去采草莓，孩子留在毯子上睡觉。回来时，孩子没了，再也没有找到过。真可怜，一点踪迹都没有，只有草地上的一块压痕。”

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我在蛋上撒了胡椒粉，又开动了。

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“我想你是迷路了，想要妈妈，但我到不了你身边，我恳求上帝让你回家。他们总算找到了你，这就像你得了第二条命。一旦放弃，就等于扔掉了你的第二条命，那是你的上帝给的。那是上天的赐福，你应该发挥你的天赋。”

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“上学要迟到了。”我用剩下的面包把碟子擦干净，吻了下她的额头，就出去了。在走下前阶时，我后悔没能表现得更强硬些。我大部分的生活都被优柔寡断所左右，我感谢命运替我做出仲裁，把我从抉择和为行为负责中解脱出来。

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那年冬季独奏会时，仅是看到钢琴，听到琴声，就够我反胃了。

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我不能把马丁先生彻底撇开，让我父母伤心，所以只好假装一切正常。我们早早到达音乐厅，我把父母留在门口找座位，自己到后台溜达。舞台周围乱七八糟的东西还是没变。音乐厅两翼到处都是学生，他们的手指在平面物上练习，为登场做心理准备。马丁先生在众人之间踱步，点数人头，安慰那些怯场的、不耐烦的、不乐意的学生。

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“你是我的得意门生，”他说，“我教过的最好的学生。这群人中惟有你是真正的钢琴家。让他们哭吧，亨利。”说着，他将一朵康乃馨别在我的翻领上。他把帷幕卷起、拉开，让脚灯照亮舞台，以便举行集会。

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我的出场是压台戏，因此有的是时间躲在后台，抽起一支从父亲烟盒里顺手牵来的骆驼香烟。冬夜已经降临，空气清爽而寒冽。一只老鼠被我站在过道里的身影吓着，停下来瞪着我。我露出牙齿，发出“嘶嘶”声，朝它怒目而视，但吓不倒它。

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曾几何时，这种动物还是怕我的。

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在那个寒夜里，我觉得自己完全是个人类，想到温暖的音乐厅而精神振奋。如果这将是我的告别演出，我决意要给他们一些能记住我的东西。我仿佛用鞭子抽打着琴键，时而雷霆万钧，时而行云流水，所有泛音的力道都恰到好处。琴弦还没有停止鸣唱，许多观众就从座位上站起来抢先鼓掌。他们心醉神迷，朝我大声欢呼，热烈的欢呼声使我几乎忘怀自己对这整件事有多么痛恨。马丁先生在后台第一个迎接我，眼中含着喜悦的泪花，高嚷“绝妙啊”。接着来了其他学生，一半毫不掩饰他们的敌意，另一半嫉妒不已，勉强拿出高风亮节向我致意，认为我的演出让他们相形见绌。然后是父母、妹妹、朋友、邻居、各方音乐爱好者。他们围着演奏者，我身边聚集的人最多，直到大多数祝福者退去，我才看见那个红衣女子。

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我母亲用湿手帕擦拭我脸颊上的口红，这时这个女子进入我的视野。她的出现毫无异状，给人良好印象。她大约四十岁，深褐色的头发下是一张聪明面孔，但我不明白她那双浅绿色的眸子为何那般注视着我。她凝视、审查、研究、思索，像是在挖掘一个深藏的秘密。

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我根本不认识她。

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“打扰了，”她说，“请问你是安德鲁·戴吗? ”

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“是亨利·戴。”我纠正她。

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“对，是亨利。你的演奏太棒了。”

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“谢谢。”我朝父母转过身，他们表示要走了。

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也许看到了我的侧面，也许是我转身这个简单动作让她联想到了什么，她倒抽口气，猛地捂住嘴。“你是他，”她说，“你是那个小男孩。”

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我向她侧目微笑。

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“你是那天晚上我在树林里看见的人。在路上? 和那头鹿在一块? ”她开始拔高音调。“不记得了吗? 我看见你和其他男孩子在路上。肯定是八九年前的事了。

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你们都长大了，一切都变了，但你是那个男孩没错。我为你担心过。”

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“夫人，我不知道您在说些什么。”我转身要走，但她抓住我胳膊。

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“那是你。我撞上那头鹿时，头在仪表盘上磕伤了，起先我以为自己在做梦，你从林子里出来……”

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我发出一声叫喊，整个房间为之一静。这一声野性十足的叫喊惊骇了每个人，包括我自己。我没想到我还保留着这种发出非人声音的能力。我母亲插手了。

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“放开我儿子，”她对她说，“你弄疼他胳膊了。”

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“看，夫人，”我说，“我不认识你。”

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我父亲走到我们三个中间。“这是怎么回事? ”

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女子的眼中怒火闪动。“我见过你家孩子。一天晚上我从乡下开车回家，那头鹿跳到路上，正好冲到我车前。我扭转方向盘想避开它，但我车子的缓冲器擦到了它。我不知道该怎么办，只好下车看看能做什么。”

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她把注意力从我父亲那里移开，开始对我说话。“这孩子从树林里出来，大约七、八岁的样子。你的儿子。他让我吃惊的程度比那鹿还厉害。不知从哪里冒出来，直接走到鹿跟前，好像这是世上最正常不过的事。接着他俯身到它的嘴巴上或者鼻子上或者那随便你怎么叫的地方。简直无法置信，他把手笼在它鼻口上，吹了几口气。就像施法。那鹿身体滚了一下，弯腿就站起来了，跑开了。这是我经历过的最不可思议的事。”

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这时我意识到她遇见的是换生灵，但我知道自己从未见过她。

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有些换生灵乐意给野生动物灵气，但我从不做这等傻事。

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“我在车灯下把那孩子看得很清楚，”她说，“虽然没怎么看清他林子里的伙伴。那是你。你到底是谁? ”

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“我不认识她。”

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我母亲听呆了，辩解说：“那不可能是亨利。听着，他七岁时从家里跑丢过一次，但后来这些年我再也没有让他离开我的视线。他晚上从不独自出去。”

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女子的口气软了下来，目光搜寻着信心的迹象。“他看着我，我问他叫什么名字，他跑走了。从那晚起，我想……’’我父亲用他罕见的温和语调插话说：“很抱歉，但您一定搞错了。

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每个人在这世上都有另一个与他长得一模一样的人。可能您看到的那个和我儿子长得有点像。很抱歉造成您的困扰。’’她直钩钩地盯着他的眼睛，从中找寻确定的成分，但他提供的只有处变不惊的安慰。

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他从她胳膊上取过红外套，为她展开。她穿上衣服，一言不发地离开房间，不再回头，步伐中还残留着愤怒和焦虑。

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“你见过这种人? ”我母亲问道，“真会讲故事。想想看她居然有这胆量来讲。”

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．我用眼角余光看到父亲正看着我，这种感觉让我不安。‘t 我们能走了吗? 我们能离开这儿吗? ”

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我们坐进汽车，驶出城外，我宣布了我的决定：“我再也不会去那里了。不再参加独奏会，不再上课，不会再有陌生人到我面前胡说八道。我放弃了。”

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有一阵子，我以为父亲会把车开到路边停下。他点了支烟，让我母亲接过话头。

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“亨利，你知道我对放弃是什么感受……”

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“你没有听见那位女士说什么吗? ”玛丽插话说，“她以为你生活在林子里。”

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“你连站到一棵树边上都不喜欢的。”伊丽莎白笑道。

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“妈，这不关你的感受，是我的感受。”

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父亲盯着马路中间的白线。

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“你是个敏感的孩子，”母亲继续说，“但你不能让一个讲故事的女人毁了你的生活。你总不会打算告诉我，你要为了一个童话故事而放弃八年的修业。”

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“不是因为这个穿红衣服的女人。我已经受够了。只能到此为止了。”

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“比尔，你为什么不说话? ”

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“爸，我厌倦了。厌倦了练习、练习、练习。厌倦了浪费我的星期六。我想我该对自己的生活有所主张。”

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他长长地吸了口气，在方向盘上敲着手指。戴家的其他人明白这个信号。回家路上，大家都默不作声。当晚我听到他们在讨论，情绪化的争吵起起落落，声音很响，但我已经丧失远距离窃听的能力。

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偶尔听到一两句“该死的”或“天杀的”从他嘴里宣泄出来，她可能哭了——我想她是哭了——但也就这样。快午夜时，他冲出屋子，留下一地狼藉驾车呼啸而去。我下楼去看母亲是否已经从痛苦中恢复过来，却发现她平静地坐在厨房里，面前桌上放着一只打开的鞋盒。

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“亨利，晚了。”她用绸带把一叠信扎好，放进盒子，“你父亲在北非时，曾经每周写一封信回来。”我很清楚这件事，但她再次旧事重提。怀孕，丈夫在海外打仗，当时两人都十九岁，她和父母住在一起。

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亨利出生时，她还是独自一人，而我如今几乎已经到了她受苦的年龄。但如果当我是个换生灵来算，我的年纪足够做她祖父。不曾停留的年龄蹑手蹑脚地进入她的心房。

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“年轻时你觉得生活容易，什么都过得去，因为你的心智坚强。长大后，你是在星星上，一跌下来，就跌到井底。虽然我已经老了……”

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根据我的计算，她现年三十五岁。

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“这不等于我忘了年轻是种什么感觉。当然，你的生活要你自己选。我非常希望你能成为钢琴家，亨利，但你能做你想做的事。如果你对此没兴趣，我也理解。”

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“妈，想来杯茶吗? ”

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“好的。”

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两周后，圣诞节前的下午，奥斯卡·拉甫和我开车进城，庆祝我新近赢得的独立。自从和莎莉那事过后，我对自己的性能力产生了一些疑问，所以对这趟行程我不是没有过担心。我还在树林里生活时，这群怪物中只有一位能玩这个把戏。他被捉来时为时已晚，童年快过了，即将进入青春期，他给可怜的女性们带来的只有烦恼。我们其他人在身体发育上还不足以干这事。

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但那晚，我准备体验性。奥斯卡和我灌下一瓶廉价酒，借酒壮胆。

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黄昏时去了窑子，姑娘们三句话不离本行。我想说的是，失去童贞的过程既新奇又过瘾，但其实基本上是在黑暗中马虎过去的，而且比我想像的快得多。她皮肤白皙，盛年已过，头顶上银灰色的头发显得风情万种，又诡计多端。她的几条干事规矩之一，就是不能接吻。当我表现出迟疑，不知该从何下手又如何下手时，她一把抓住我那里，插进那个位置。过了一小会儿，剩下的事就是穿衣、付账、祝她圣诞快乐。

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当清晨携着缀满礼物的圣诞树来临，穿着睡衣睡袍的家人懒洋洋地出现，我觉得自己正走向全新的生活。妈妈和双胞胎对任何变化都毫无所察，她们做着快乐的事，对彼此送上真诚的爱意和关怀。

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父亲正相反，他或许已经怀疑我前一晚的放荡。凌晨两点左右我回家时，起居室里充满骆驼香烟的味道，好像他一直在等我，直到奥斯卡的车子开进车道才进去睡觉。那个昏昏欲睡的节日里，父亲在家走动的架势，就像一头公熊在它的领地里闻到另一头雄性的气味。

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他什么都没说，只是直愣愣地盯着我看，态度粗鲁，还有一两回怒叱。

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此后我们的相处一直都不融洽。还有一年半，我就高中毕业，离家去上大学了，所以我们彼此躲着对方，偶然碰面也几乎不说话。有一半时间，他将我当陌生人看待。

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我记得有两次他走出自己的内心世界，这两次都让我不安。冬季独奏会上那件事发生之后，过了几个月，他又提起那个红衣女人和她的奇怪故事。当时我们正在拆毁母亲的鸡舍，因为已经卖掉了母鸡、鸡蛋和小鸡，大赚了一笔。他问那个问题时，到处是铁锹、发出刺耳声的钉子、拆下来的废料。

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“嗯，你还记得那个女人和她讲的男孩和鹿的事吗? ”他又从框架上剥下一块木板，“你是怎么想的? 你觉得真有其事? ”

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“对我来说没法相信，不过我想可能会有这种事吧。她看起来对自己坚信不疑。”

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他正在和一颗生锈的钉子较劲，嘴里发出用力的哼哼声。“就是说也可能是真的? 那你怎么解释她认为那个人是你? ”

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“我没说那是真的。她看起来相信那回事，但这不大可能，不是吗? 而且不管怎么说，就算她碰到过这种事，她也认错了人。我不在那里。”

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“说不定那人和你很像? ”他全力以赴拔那颗钉子，仅存的墙壁“哗啦”倒下，只剩下光秃秃的框架暴露在外。

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“有这可能。”我说，“我使她想起曾经见到过的人。你不是告诉过她，每个人在这世上都有另一个和他一模一样的人? 或许她见到了我的魔鬼兄弟? ”

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他打量了一下框架，“用力踢几脚就能倒了。”他放倒框架，装到卡车上开走了。

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第二次发生在一年后。天蒙蒙亮，他的声音吵醒了我，我跟着声音走出卧室，穿过漆黑的门廊。羽毛般轻柔的晨雾笼在草地上，他背对着我，站在濡湿的草地中央，面朝一排冷杉呼唤着我的名字。在他前面三米的地方，有一溜深色的足迹通向树林。他木然站在原地，好像惊动了一头野兽，令它在惊惶失措中逃走了。但我没看到任何动物。我走近时，几下焦躁的呼唤“亨利”的声音逐渐低弱，回荡在空中。

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接着，他跪倒下来，头弯到地上，静静地哭泣。我轻轻走回屋里，当他进来时，我假装在读体育版。父亲盯着我耸起在报纸后面的身影，我修长的手指环着一杯咖啡。

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他睡袍的腰带湿透了，像铁链一样拖过地板。他身上湿漉漉的，头发蓬乱，胡子没刮，看起来老很多，但或许却是我一直没留意他在变老。他的双手像中风一样颤抖，从口袋里掏出一支骆驼香烟来。烟受了潮，他试了几次还是点不燃，就把整包香烟捏扁了扔进垃圾桶。我把一杯咖啡放到他面前，他瞪着白汽，好似我递给他的是毒药。

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“爸，你没事吧? 你看上去很糟糕。”

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“你。”他的手指像把枪似的指着我，但他再没说什么。整个上午，这个字悬在半空中，我想此后我再也没有听见他叫我“亨利”。

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The end, when it arrived, proved both timely and apt. Not only had I learned everything Mr. Martin had to offer, but I was sick of it all—the practice, the repertoire, the discipline, and the ennui of eighty-eight keys. By the time I turned sixteen, I began looking for an excuse to quit, a way out that would not break my mother’s heart. The truth is that while I am a very good pianist, great even, I was never sublime. Yes, by far the best in our remote hamlet, no doubt our corner of the state, maybe the best from border to border, but beyond that, no. I lacked the passion, the consuming fire, to be a world-class pianist. Looking forward, the alternative was dreadful. To end up like old Mr. Martin himself, teaching others after a second-rate career? I would rather play in a bordello.

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Over breakfast one morning, I opened with this gambit: "Mom, I don’t think I’m going to get any better."

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"Better than what?" she asked, whipping eggs.

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"At the piano, at music. I think it’s as far as I can go."

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She poured the mess into a skillet, the eggs sizzling as they hit butter and hot iron, and said nothing while she stirred. She served me a plate of eggs and toast, and I ate them in silence. Coffee cup in hand, she sat across the table from me. "Henry," she said softly, wanting my attention. "Do you remember the day when you were a little boy and ran away from home?"

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I did not, but I nodded in the affirmative between bites.

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"It was a bright day and hot, hotter than Hades. I wanted a bath to cool off. The heat’s one thing I can’t get used to. And I asked you to mind Mary and Elizabeth, and you disappeared into the forest. Do you remember that?"

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There was no way I could remember, but I nodded my head as I swallowed the last slug of orange juice.

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"I put the girls to bed and came back down, but you were gone." Her eyes welled up as she recounted the experience. "We looked over hill and yon but couldn’t find you. As the day wore on, I called your father to come home, and then we telephoned the police and the firemen, and we were all looking for you for hours, calling out your name into the night." She looked past me, as if reliving the experience in her mind’s eye.

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"Any more eggs, Mom?"

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She waved her spoon toward the stove, and I helped myself. "When it grew dark, I grew afraid for you. Who knows what lives out in that forest? I knew a woman once in Donegal whose baby was stolen from her. She’d gone out to pick blackberries and left her child sleeping on a blanket on a bright summer day, and when she came back, the baby was gone, and they never did find it, poor thing, not a trace. All that remained was an impression left on the grass."

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I peppered my eggs and dug in.

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"I thought of you lost and wanting your mother, and I couldn’t get to you, and I prayed to God that you’d come home. When they found you, it was like a second chance. Quitting would be throwing away your second chance, your God-given gift. It’s a blessing and you should use your talent."

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"Late for school." I mopped the plate clean with a heel of bread, kissed the top of her head, and exited. Before I made it down the front steps, I regretted not being more forceful. Most of my life has been ruled by indecision, and I am grateful when fate intercedes, relieving me from choice and responsibility for my actions.

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By the time of the winter recital that year, just the sight and sound of the piano made my stomach churn. I could not disappoint my parents by quitting Mr. Martin altogether, so I pretended that all was well. We arrived early, at the concert hall, and I left my family at the door to find their seats while I moped about backstage. The folderol surrounding the recitals remained unchanged. In the wings of the theater, students milled about, mentally preparing for their turns, practicing their fingering on any flat surface. Mr. Martin paced among us, counting heads, reassuring the stage-frightened, the incompetent, and the reluctant. "You are my prize pupil," he said. "The best I’ve ever taught. The only real piano player in the whole bunch. Make them cry, Henry." And with that, he pinned a carnation on my lapel. He swirled and parted the curtains to the brightness of the footlights to welcome the assemblage. My performance was the grand finale, so I had time to duck out the back and smoke a Camel pinched from my fathers pack. A winter’s night had fallen, clear and cold. A rat, startled by my presence in the alley, stopped and stared at me. I showed the vermin my teeth, hissed and glowered, but I could not scare it. Once upon a time, such creatures were terrified of me.

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That frozen night, I felt entirely human and heartened at the thought of the warm theater. If this was to be my farewell performance, I resolved to give them something to remember me by. I moved like a whip, cracking the keys, thundering, floating, the right pressure on all the partial notes. Members of the audience began rising from their seats to lead the applause before the strings stopped humming. Enchanted, they showered their huzzahs, so much so that I almost forgot how much I hated the whole business. Backstage, Mr. Martin greeted me first, tears of joy in his eyes, squealing "Bravo," and then the other students, half of them barely masking their resentment, the other half consumed with jealousy, acknowledging with grudging graciousness that I had outshone their performances. In came the parents, siblings, friends, neighbors, and assorted music lovers. They clumped around the players, but I drew the largest crowd, and I did not notice the woman in the red coat until most of the well-wishers had vanished.

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My mother was wiping lipstick from my cheek with a wet handkerchief when the woman meandered into my peripheral vision. She appeared normal and pleasant, about forty years old. Her deep brown hair framed an intelligent face, but I was perplexed at the way her pale green eyes had fixed upon me. She stared, scrutinized, studied, and pondered, as if dredging up an inner mystery. She was an utter stranger to me.

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"Excuse me," she said. "But you’re Andrew Day?"

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"Henry Day," I corrected her.

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"Right, Henry. You play wonderfully."

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"Thank you." I turned back to my parents, who intimated that they were ready to go.

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Maybe she saw my profile, or perhaps the simple act of turning away set off something in her brain, but she gasped and drew her fingers to her mouth. "You’re him," she said. "You’re the little boy."

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I squinted at her and smiled.

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"You are the one I saw in the woods that night. On the road? With the deer?" She started to raise her voice. "Don’t you remember? I saw you on the road with those other boys. It must have been eight or nine years ago by now. You’re all grown up and everything, but you’re that little boy, no doubt. I was worried about you."

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"I don’t know what you are talking about, ma’am." I turned to go, but she grabbed my arm.

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"It is you. I cracked my head on the dashboard when I hit the deer, and I thought you were a dream at first. You came out of the forest—"

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I yelped a sound that hushed the room, a pure raw cry that startled everyone, myself included. I did not realize my capacity for such an inhuman noise still existed. My mother intervened.

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"Let go of my son," she told her. "You’re hurting his arm."

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"Look, lady," I said, "I don’t know you."

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My father stepped into the middle of the triangle. "What is this all about?"

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The woman’s eyes flashed in anger. "I saw your boy. One night I was driving home from the country, and this deer jumped right onto the road in front of my car. I swerved to miss her, but I clipped her with my bumper. I didn’t know what to do, so I got out of the car to see if I could help."

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She shifted her attention from my father and began addressing me. "From the woods comes this boy, about seven or eight years old. Your son. And he startled me more than the deer did. Out of nowhere, walks right up to the deer like the most natural thing in the world; then he bent down to its mouth or nose or whatever you call it. Hard to believe, but he cupped his hand over her muzzle, and breathed. It was magic. The deer rolled off her side, unfolded her legs, stood, and sprang off. The most incredible thing that’s ever happened to me."

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I realized then that she had experienced an encounter. But I knew I had not seen her before, and while some changelings are willing to inspire wild animals, I never engaged in such foolishness.

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"I got a real good look at the boy in my headlights," she said, "although not so good at his friends in the forest. It was you. Who are you really?"

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"I don’t know her."

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My mother, riveted by her story, came up with an alibi. "It can’t be Henry. Listen, he ran away from home when he was seven years old, and I didn’t let him out of my sight for the next few years. He was never out by himself at night."

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The intensity melted from the woman’s voice, and her eyes searched for a sign of faith. "He looked at me, and when I asked him his name, he ran away. Since that night I’ve wondered ..."

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My father spoke in a gentle tone he seldom used. "I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken. Everybody has a double in the world. Maybe you saw someone who looked a bit like my son. I’m sorry for your troubles." She looked into his eyes, searching for affirmation, but he offered only the solace of his calm demeanor. He took the red coat from her arm and held it open for her. She slipped inside it, then left the room without a word, without looking back. In her wake trailed the remnants of anger and anxiety.

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"Did you ever?" my mother asked. "What a story. And to think that she’d actually have the nerve to say it."

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From the corner of my eye, I could see my father watching me, and the sensation unnerved me. "Can we go now? Can we get out of here?"

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When we were all in the car and out of the city, I announced my decision. "I’m not going back there. No more recitals, no more lessons, no more strangers coming up to me with their wild stories. I quit."

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For a moment, I thought my father would drive off the road. He lit a cigarette and let Mom take over the conversation.

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"Henry, you know how I feel about quitting...."

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"Did you hear what that lady said?" Mary chimed in. "She thought you lived in the woods."

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"You don’t even like to stand next to a tree." Elizabeth laughed.

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"This isn’t about your feelings, Mom, but mine."

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My father stared at the white line in the middle of the road.

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"You are a sensitive boy," my mother continued. "But you can’t let one woman with one story ruin your life. You don’t mean to tell me you’re going to quit eight years of work on the basis of a fairy tale."

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"It isn’t the woman in the red coat. I’ve had enough. Gone as far as I can go."

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"Bill, why don’t you say something?"

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"Dad, I’m tired of it. Sick of practice, practice, practice. Tired of wasting my Saturdays. I think I should have a say over my own life."

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He drew a deep breath and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The rest of the Days understood the signal. Quiet all the way home. That night I could hear them talking, make out the ebb and flow of a loud and emotional confrontation, but I had lost all ability to eavesdrop from a distance. Once in a while I’d hear a "goddam" or "bloody" explode from him, and she may have cried—I suppose she did—but that’s it. Near midnight, he stormed out of the house, and the sound of the car pulling away left a desolation. I went downstairs to see if Mom had survived the ordeal and found her calmly sitting in the kitchen, a shoebox open on the table before her.

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"Henry, it’s late." She tied a ribbon around a bundle of letters and set it in the box. "Your father used to write once a week while he was over in North Africa." I knew the story by heart, but she unwound it again. Pregnant, with a husband overseas at war, all of nineteen at the time, she lived with his parents. She was still alone at the time of Henry’s birth, and I was now almost as old as she had been through the whole ordeal. Counting my life as a hobgoblin, I was old enough to be her grandfather. Untamed age had crept into her heart.

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"You think life’s easy when you’re young, and can take almost anything because your emotions run so strong. When you’re up, you’re in the stars, and when you’re down, you’re at the bottom of the well. But although I’ve grown old—"

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She was thirty-five by my calculations.

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"That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young. Of course, it’s your life to do with what you choose. I had high hopes for you as a pianist, Henry, but you can be whatever you wish. If it’s not in your heart, I understand."

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"Would you like a cup of tea, Mom?"

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"That would be grand."

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Two weeks later, during the afternoon before Christmas, Oscar Love and I drove into the city to celebrate my newly won independence. Ever since that episode with Sally, I’d had a question or two about my capability to have intercourse, so the trip was not without apprehension. When I lived in the forest, only one of those monsters could do the trick. He had been captured too late in his childhood, at the cusp of puberty, and he gave the poor females nothing but trouble. The rest of us were not ready physically to perform the act.

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But I was ready to experience sex that night. Oscar and I tipped back a bottle of cheap wine. Thus fortified, we approached the house at dusk as the girls were opening up shop. I would like to report that losing my virginity was both exotic and erotic, but the truth is that it was mainly dark, rough, and over much more quickly than I had expected. She was fair-skinned and past her glory, the crown of platinum hair a come-on and a ruse, and among her several rules for the duration, no kissing. When I displayed a tentative uncertainty as to where and how to go about the act, she grabbed me with her hand and pushed me into position. A short time later, all that remained was to get dressed, pay the bill, and wish her merry Christmas.

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When morning came with gifts around the tree and the family lounging in pajamas and robes, I felt on my way to a brand-new life. Mom and the twins were oblivious to any change as they went about their cheerful tasks, offering genuine affection and consideration of one another. My father, on the other hand, may have suspected my debauch of the night before. Earlier that morning, when I came home around two o’clock, the living room smelled of Camels, as if he had been waiting up for me and only gone to bed when Oscar’s car pulled into the driveway. Throughout that drowsy holiday, my father moved about the house the way a bear moves through its territory when it smells the presence of another male. Nothing said, but wayward glances, brusqueness, a snarl or two. For the rest of our time together, we did not get along. A year and a half remained in my high school career before I could get away to college, so we circled one another, barely exchanging a sentence on our rare encounters. He treated me like a stranger half of the time.

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I recall two occasions when he stepped out of his inner world, and both times were unsettling. A few months after the scene at the winter recital, he brought up the matter of the woman in red and her strange story. We were tearing down my mother’s henhouse, having sold the birds and gotten out of the egg and chicken business after turning a handsome profit. His questions arrived in the intervals between the prying crowbar, squealing nails, and tearing lumber.

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"So, you remember that lady and her story about the boy and the deer?" He ripped another plank from the frame." What do you make of that? Do you think such a thing could happen?"

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"Sounded incredible to me, but I suppose it might have happened. She seemed pretty sure of herself."

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Grunting with effort, he tugged away at a rusty nail. "So it might be true? How do you explain her thinking it was you?"

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"I didn’t say it was true. She seemed convinced it happened, but it isn’t likely, is it? And anyway, suppose something like that did happen to her, she is wrong about me. I wasn’t there."

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"Maybe it was someone who looked like you?" He threw his weight into it, and the rest of the wall crashed down, leaving only the skeleton stark against the sky.

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"That’s a possibility," I said. "I reminded her of someone she saw once upon a time. Didn’t you tell her that everyone has a double in the world?

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Maybe she saw my evil twin?"

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He eyeballed the frame. "This’ll tumble down with a few good kicks." He knocked down the frame, loaded it up in the back of a truck, and drove away.

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The second occasion occurred about a year later. His voice woke me at first light, and I followed the sound from my bedroom and through the back doorway. A feathery mist rose from the lawn and he stood, his back to me, in the middle of the wet grass, calling out my name as he faced a stand of firs. A dark trail of footsteps led into the woods ten feet in front of him. He was stuck to the spot, as if he had startled a wild animal that fled away in fear. But I saw no creature. By the time I drew near, the diminuendo of a few raspy calls of "Henry" lingered in the air. Then he fell to his knees, bent his head to the ground, and quietly wept. I crept back into the house, and pretended to be reading the sports page when he came in. My father stared at me hunched over the newspaper, my long fingers wrapped around a coffee cup. The wet belt of his robe dragged along the floor like a chain. Soaked, disheveled, and unshaven, he seemed much older, but maybe I had not noticed before how he was aging. His hands trembled as if palsied, and he took a Camel from his pocket. The cigarette was too wet to light despite his repeated attempts, so he crumpled the whole pack and tossed it in the trash can. I set a cup of coffee in front of him, and he stared at the steam as if I had handed him poison.

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"Dad, are you all right? You look a mess."

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"You." He pointed his finger at me like a gun, but that’s all he said. The word hung in the air all morning, and I do not think I ever heard him call me "Henry" again.

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