1
They carried the sleeping twins upstairs, then began to get ready for bed themselves. Thad undressed to his shorts and undershirt his form of pajamas - and went into the bathroom. He was brushing his teeth when the shakes hit. He dropped the toothbrush, spat a mouthful of white foam into the basin, and then lurched over to the toilet on legs with no more feeling in them than a pair of wooden stilts.
He retched once - a miserable dry sound - but nothing came up. His stomach began to settle again . . . at least on a trial basis.
When he turned around, Liz was standing in the doorway, wearing a blue nylon nightie that stopped several inches north of the knee. She was looking at him levelly.
'You're keeping secrets, Thad. That's no good. It never was.'
He sighed harshly and held his hands out in front of him with the fingers splayed. They were still trembling. 'How long have you known?'
'There's been something off-beat about you ever since the sheriff came back tonight. And when he asked that last question . . . about the thing written on Clawson's wall . . . you might as well have had a neon sign on your forehead.'
'Pangborn didn't see any neon.'
'Sheriff Pangborn doesn't know you as well as I do . . . but if you didn't see him do a double-take there at the end, you weren't looking. Even he saw something wasn't quite kosher. It was the way he looked at you.'
Her mouth drew down slightly. It emphasized the old lines in her face, the ones he had first seen after the accident in Boston and the miscarriage, the ones which had deepened as she watched him struggle harder and harder to bring water from a well which seemed to have gone dry. It was around then that his drinking had begun to waver out of control. All these things - Liz's accident, the miscarriage, the critical and financial failure of Purple Haze following the wild success of Machine's Way under the Stark name, the sudden binge drinking had combined to bring on a deep depressive state. He had recognized it as a selfish, inward-turning frame of mind, but recognition hadn't helped. Finally he had washed a handful of sleeping pills down his throat with half a bottle of Jack Daniel's. It had been an unenthusiastic suicide attempt . . . but suicide attempt it had been. All of these things had taken place in a period of three years. It had seemed much longer at the time. At the time it had seemed forever.
And of course, little or none of it had made it into the pages of People magazine. Now he saw Liz looking at him the way she had looked at him then. He hated it. The worry was bad; the mistrust was worse. He thought outright hate would have been easier to bear than that odd, wary look.
'I hate it when you lie to me,' she said simply.
'I didn't lie, Liz! For God's sake!'.'Sometimes people lie just by being quiet.'
'I was going to tell you anyway,' he said. 'I was only trying to find my way to it.'
But was that true? Was it really? He didn't know. It was weird shit, crazy shit, but that wasn't the reason he might have lied by silence. He had felt the urge to be silent the way a man who has observed blood in his stool or felt a lump in his groin might feet the urge to be silent. Silence in such cases is irrational . . . but fear is also irrational. And there was something else: he was a writer, an imaginer. He had never met one - including himself - who had more than the vaguest idea of why he or she did anything. He sometimes believed that the compulsion to make fiction was no more than a bulwark against confusion, maybe even insanity. It was a desperate imposition of order by people able to find that precious stuff only in their minds . . . never in their hearts.
Inside him a voice whispered for the first time: Who are you when you write, Thad? Who are you then?
And for that voice he had no answer.
'Well?' Liz asked. Her tone was sharp, teetering on the edge of anger. He looked up out of his own thoughts startled. 'Pardon?'
'Have you found your way to it? Whatever it may be?'
'Look,' he said, 'I don't understand why you sound so pissed, Liz!'
'Because I'm scared!' she cried angrily . . . but he saw tears in the corners of her eyes now.
'Because you held out on the sheriff, and I still wonder if you won't hold out on me! If I hadn't seen that expression on your face . . . '
'Oh?' Now he began to feel angry himself. 'And what expression was it? What did it look like to you?'
'You looked guilty,' she snapped. 'You looked the way you used to look when you were telling people you'd stopped drinking and you hadn't. When - ' She stopped then. He did not know what she saw in his face - wasn't sure he wanted to know - but it wiped away her anger. A stricken look replaced it. 'I'm sorry. That wasn't fair.'