The voices of everything, of crickets and frogs and birds, collide with the rasp of wind through dry leaves in the trees overhead. Nathan trusts, and therefore neglects to argue. Roy pulls him close, like a brother.
They touch each other gently, without intent. Only once, when Nathan brushes his lips against Roy's throat, is there something else. Roy takes a sudden breath and grips Nathan's head with his hand. A moment of possession. And Nathan sees, in a fleeting way, the irony that what pleases him with Roy terrifies him with his father. He glimpses this, he has no words for the thought. The moment of dread soon passes.
Roy takes him to the barn through the back and shows him the mattress in the comer behind bales of hay. They cover it with yellowed newspaper and Nathan curls up in the quilts. Roy lingers a little while, till Nathan's eyes adjust to the light in the drafty structure. Light from the yard pours through chinks in the outer wall. An owl is hooting somewhere overhead. Roy leans over Nathan on the mattress, hesitant. The moment begins intimately but ends awkwardly, Roy decides against any touch, stands and wipes the back of his jeans. "You'll be safe in here. Okay? I have to go."
"Thanks." Studying the play of shadow on Roy's face. "Are you still mad at me?"
The question surprises Roy. For a moment he seems overwhelmed, though the question is very simple. "No, I'm not mad."
"I had fun the other night."
"So did I."
Nathan busies himself spreading the quilts. When Roy heads to his house, the open door floods the bam with light. He waits in the rectangle a moment, his long shadow bisecting the stream of light. But whatever weighs on his mind, he asks nothing.
The door swings closed and Nathan is alone. The bam seems larger now that it is all dark again. The quiet and stillness are welcome. Nathan lies back along the mattress, newspaper rustling. He inhales the aroma of old straw, the dusky undertones of dried manure, a whiff of rotted apple, other odors he cannot identify. Around him, shadow shapes are forming in the dim light that spills through the cracks in the walls; the stored farm equipment, the tractor and covered plows, protective, like sleeping giants. He studies the unfamiliar space and tries to make himself comfortable on the mattress, grateful that he is inside for the night. Tired after two nights of fitful rest, he sleeps more soundly than he would have thought possible.
In the morning, he wakens to the sight of Roy, who sits on the edge of the mattress. Nathan did not even hear the door open. "Good morning. Did you sleep?"
Nathan rubs his eyes. "Yes."
"Your mom is awake. The light's on in your kitchen."
Nathan stretches, sits up. "What time is it?"
"Early." Roy thumps his shoulder affectionately. Indicating the quilts, he says, I’ll hide these. You go get ready for school. Okay?"
When Nathan rises, Roy brushes close to him, kisses his cheek. Then Roy busies himself getting feed for the chickens. Nathan hurries to his house, leaving the bam by the back.
A cold, clear morning greets him. Nothing much has changed inside the rooms; his mother hardly speaks to him, his father lurks out of sight. His room lies exactly as he left it. He rushes to spend as little time as possible there, washing off at the sink, throwing on clothes, gathering schoolbooks.
So his life settles into a kind of twisted routine, and for the rest of the week he hides in the graveyard and sleeps in the bam, with Roy's sanction. After school he does his homework as quickly as he can, sometimes daring to work at his desk, in his room, or sometimes studying outside in the last of daylight, in the graveyard by the pond. Mom readies his supper early, before Dad comes home, and when she calls, he enters and eats quickly. The food is set out on the table as if by chance, Mom never stays. As soon as he has eaten, he retreats outside again, to spend the early evening hours in the graveyard or near the pond. Roy keeps him company then, if his own chores are finished, if they are not going to church, and if he can get away from his parents.
Nathan becomes a visitor to his former life, moving like a stranger in his own house, gliding through the kitchen, slipping quickly through doorways and along stairs. At his appearance, Mom retreats into other rooms. It is as if, as long as she does not see him, she can pretend that everything is fine, that he is still living in the house, that he is simply out of sight. The whispered sounds of her various habits, needlepoint and Bible reading, are the only signs of her presence.
Even when he sees her, early in the morning when he slides into the kitchen, she remains somewhere out of reach. Across her face drift strange, sudden expressions: fury, heartache, confusion, fury again, then quiet despair. Her whispered good mornings fade by Wednesday to the merest nod of the head. Nathan moves cautiously when he is near her, as if they have become animals circling each other.
