Agnes Mallory (37 page)

That was it. That was her speech. I lifted one shoulder. Not bad, I thought. I mean, nothing an adolescent ever says is true, of course. It can't be. They can't possibly have lived long enough to discover how the most grave, urgent and human decencies are only to be achieved through self-deception and hypocrisy and lies. But because of that – precisely because of it – some of the stuff they come up with has the ring of truth to it, the aura of something hidden away, half known, and then uncovered, the way truth often is. And I confess, when she spoke, I felt the old inner shudder, and I quailed at the bleak prospect of what would follow if I gave in. I could envision the rosy glow of triumph in her cheeks, the misty gleam in the youthful eye, as she crammed this miserable series of circumstances into some salvific mold or other. Oh yeah, I could see her marching off, into whatever personal destiny, with whatever fresh lesson of life she thought she'd learned, leaving me here alone with the unredeemed history of it, empty of solace, having been there, standing at the window, my hands in pockets bulging with events and sensations and whatever few meaningless patterns I could discern. I would watch her, through my own reflection, as she strode off forever into the dead, the winter woods. And she had a point: I didn't think it would be tolerable
.

Sensing – as ever, unerringly – her advantage, she let go the knob and came toward me: I heard the floorboards squeaking at my back
.

‘I
had this dream before I came here, Har … Mr Bernard,' she said
.

Uh oh, I thought, a dream; this wasn't going to be good
.

‘I mean, I know it was just, like, a dream and everything but I had this dream where she came to me. Okay? I was walking in the woods, just wandering, you know, the way you do in dreams. And then I came out into this really scary place. And she was standing there. It was really dark, it was night, but I could see her. Just like this shadow sort of in the distance, waiting for me. And I walked toward her, and suddenly I realized: we were in the Valley of Dead Elms. Just like in the photographs, you know. All the statues lying in the mud everywhere, and the big dead trees hanging over us all around like they were watching us. And she was standing in the middle of it and I walked up to her. And I could see her face. And she was, like, smiling. This really happy smile. And she said I could come with her. I could come and live with her forever. And I was really frightened because it was such a horrible place. You know? I looked around at all the statues and everything and it was … it was horrible. But then she said, no – see? She said she didn't really live here, in the valley. This was just the place she had to come to so she could meet me. Where she really lived was in the meadow, she said. In that meadow, you know, that was full of wildflowers. And she said it was really beautiful there, all the time, and if I came with her, she would take me. But I didn't know what to do. I was afraid. I was too afraid I would have to stay where we were, stay in that valley.' I heard the child swallow. I heard her breathing. ‘Like, forever,' she said
.

She stopped. And I do believe – I do believe I moaned aloud. What mystic chord she hit with that one I couldn't say offhand, but it rose up through me full of sadness, full of phrases, full of images and redolent, I have to say it, with the very spring air of my youth and of the little stream where Agnes and I first met
.

I heard her take another step toward the chair – and she was right behind me now – gazing down at me with what last hopes, what silent prayers I didn't dare imagine
.

‘
Tell me about my mother, Harry,' she whispered
.

I leaned forward and buried my face in my hands
.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1996 by Andrew Klavan

cover design by Jason Gabbert

This edition published in 2011 by
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