* * *
Helen paused at the doorway to the old bordello. There were spirits here, as there were throughout the hills, but somehow they seemed subdued. She was well familiar with all of them, the young bride who ran away to become a whore rather than submit to her husband's touch, the woman who suicided when both her sons were killed at Iwo Jima, the man who was beaten to death and buried in back, never to be found.
But today they were silent, no spirits to be found out in the open. She wondered what they were hiding from. Surely not the little boy.
"Hi." He wiggled his fingers at Helen.
Helen smiled. "Hi."
"I'm Robby. Daddy's asleep with the baby. I got to take care of things."
"Well, Robby, I came up here for my father Dr. Highwater to do for you folks. Can I make you a sandwich?"
Robby looked at her suspiciously. "You're a stranger."
"No, you've seen me in Dr. Highwater's office."
"We got no bread."
"No bread?"
"Nuh-uh. Nor no milk, or anything to eat that I can make."
"A."
He sat on the polished wooden bench and rested his fingers on the keyboard. Slowly, haltingly, he stretched stiff fingers, playing very softly. Moonlight. . .
The clouds broke, and the moon shone forth through its shroud, over the fields, bathing everything in its silver light. It cast a bright path from his window across the living room. The notes came easier, smoother. Tendons stretched creakily into position.
Someone was behind him.
He turned his head just enough to catch the reflection in the piano's polished surface. His fingers shook, but he kept playing.
Elayne. The baby was in her arms, sucking contentedly at her breast. She watched Mark, stroking the baby's hair, her heart in her eyes, and mouthed the words. Moonlight. . .
Mark wept silently. Robby had been telling the truth. Or Mark was insane. Perhaps both. It didn't matter. His darling was here.
A sound behind her, and she was gone, the baby rocking gently in the bassinette. Robby held his blanket, rubbing his eyes. He looked at his daddy accusingly.
"See? I told you she comes back."
Mark took him and the baby into his arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered over and over. And then he carried both of them to bed, burping the green stuff out of the baby before settling him down with a bottle. Mark didn't sleep all night, but instead watched across Elayne's garden toward the cemetery, where he knew she rested.
Stilling the Dead
A Helen Highwater Story
