"Stop. Please." His eyes are bright and glittering. He looks behind, at the shining church, at the scattering of people approaching across the lawn. Nathan retreats another few steps and Roy stumbles toward him. He reaches, arms out. "I didn't mean to leave you. I went back to that room but you were gone. Please don't go away again."
They are close. At first Nathan can hardly feel anything, can hardly feel Roy's hands. But then he can feel the warmth, and he can smell Roy's breath. And suddenly Nathan is certain he still has a body: because he can feel Roy near him, can smell the sweetness of his clean hair, his fresh shaven mustache. Suddenly they are embracing each other, disregarding everything that has happened, disregarding even the crowd of other people as they approach.
They face each other. The moment lengthens—the green of evening, the clear piano, the freshness of the white dress. The sweetness of living. Nathan waits and watches.
Finally he asks the question that has made him afraid all this time. "How long have I been gone?"
"Today" Roy can hardly form the words. "We left you today. The sheriff just went back with your dad. To get you." He breaks off, watching Nathan.
He is understanding, now. He is choosing. He looks deep into the trees.
Nathan turns and breaks into a gait between a limp and a trot. After a moment, silent, Roy follows, and takes his hand.
It is a relief that they can feel each other, that their hands are warm. It is a relief that they are in the same world. They disappear into the woods.
They stop to rest a little way inside the forest, under a gingko tree, its golden leaves showering around them as they get their breath. They have arrived on the evening when all of the gingko leaves will fall, leaving the tree naked as a skeleton. The tree stands in an open glade, catching the last shreds of light. Nathan says he needs to sit for a minute, and Roy says fine, and they sit, with the gingko leaves piling slowly around them, a snowdrift of saffron and amber.
They keep very quiet, listening for sounds of pursuit Roy slides an arm around Nathan's shoulders. Nathan feels all the reticence with which the gesture is performed, then sighs and leans against Roy. "You were dead," Roy says, but his tone is more of confiding than disapproving. "I saw you."
"I know"
They are aware, especially, of their own warmth in the pile of leaves.
"What do we do now?"
"Run away?
The notion of leaving hovers, they breathe it in. Roy examines the wound in Nathan's skull, a distracted quality to his scrutiny, as if he is seeing another picture. The image of fresher blood.
"Any how. Our preacher preached this evening about how the dead will rise." Roy drops his Bible into the grass. "I guess we could go up north somewhere."
The words drift skyward. They sit till they are half buried in gold leaves. Roy's white shirt gleams. He pulls Nathan against him and for a while they become one flesh. Roy is rapt, as if he is singing inside. Or maybe it is more as if he is blossoming, a flower opening at this very moment. Nathan remembers, oddly, Preacher John Roberts leaning over the pulpit toward the congregation in puzzlement, in confusion at the notion of the Disciple John resting his head on Jesus's chest. Nathan rests his head there on Roy and understands. In the distance they hear the voices of people searching for them in the woods. They stand and go. They never look back.
