After all these years, he still had a hard time thinking of the house as his, even though his parents had been dead longer than he could remember, leaving the house and the land to him to do with as he pleased. He liked to think he had done a good job, that he was making his parents proud if they could look down on him from wherever they were. The girl had helped make the place look nice, just like his mom used to. And now the girl was gone, and he was alone. Truly alone.
Just before his dad died, the old man had given him some advice. His dad had been sick a long time, too, just like the girl. He got thin and pale and started coughing and coughing.
"Goddamn cigarettes," his dad used to say, and then he'd cough and cough some more until it seemed he'd never stop. But when he did, he called Roger to his bedside and asked him to lean in close. "There're a couple of things I need to tell you," he said.
His dad smelled rotten, like something inside of him had gone bad and was now leaking out through his pores. But Roger didn't lean away. He wanted to hear his dad speak because Roger knew it might be the last thing to ever come out of the man's mouth.
"Roger," his dad said, his voice full of phlegm. "I'm not sure you're cut out for living on your own. Are you?"
Roger shook his head. "No, sir."
"Neither was I. That's why I got married to your mother and had you. So I wouldn't have to go through my life alone. Make sense?"
Roger understood and nodded to show it, but another coughing fit sent his dad into spasms. When he settled down, he hocked a bloody loogie into a glass by the side of the bed, then leaned back and closed his eyes. Roger thought he was going to sleep, but his dad started talking again.
"I'm not sure you have much of a chance in the race for a wife, do you? I mean...you ain't exactly a looker, are you?"
Roger nodded. He knew he didn't look right. He was big. Huge. And his head was too small. He had one eye that wandered off beyond his control, and his fingers were thick and meaty. He knew what his dad meant.
His dad coughed again, but not as bad as before. Then he said, "But I don't think it's right that a man like yourself should have to be alone. I think a man has a right to some companionship and company, if you know what I mean."
Roger thought he did. "Do you want me to get a dog?"
His dad laughed and thumped the flat of his hand against the bed sheets. Roger was afraid he was going to start coughing again, but he didn't.
"No, dummy," he said. "Not a dog. A wife. I want you to take a wife. Someone who can help you out with this place. Cook and clean and...all the things a wife does for a man. Do you know what I mean now?"
Roger knew what men and women did together in the bedroom, and he knew his dad was talking about something like that. But he didn't understand what that had to do with him, and he didn't know how he was going to get to a place where he was going to be able to do those things. So he told his dad he didn't get it.
And that's when his dad told him about the clearing.
*
Carrying the girl and the shovel slowed Roger down. The path was there beneath his feet, but it didn't get used much and was still overgrown from the summer. Branches scratched against his arms and face, and once, an unseen thorn bush scraped across the soft skin of his neck, making him wince. But after a while, Roger stopped even noticing the scratches and the scrapes. He began to feel the power of the place drawing him closer.
It always came upon him the same way. His hands, even burdened as they were by the load he carried, began to tingle, as though they were falling asleep. But Roger knew that wasn't the case. He knew his body was waking up. He paused, adjusted the girl on his shoulder. He looked ahead, though the clearing remained obscured by the forest growth. But he knew it was out there and getting closer. He felt the cold sweat form in his armpits and trickle down his sides. He felt his heart rate increase until his breath came in quick huffs. And he felt the hardening between his legs, the stiffening that felt so good it almost hurt.
Roger moaned.
He kept walking, moving faster now.
When Roger reached the clearing, he dropped the shovel, eased the girl to the ground, and fell to his knees. The sweat dripped down his face, burning his eyes. He wiped it away and examined his surroundings. The clearing remained the same as ever. No grass or weeds grew in its center, and the tall trees at its edges loomed timeless and eternal, like they had been placed there at the start of the world, never to be moved or brought down. The sky above had mostly darkened, and the moon was still rising. Roger's eyes were adjusted to the dark. He reached out, placing his hand on his bundle. The girl he came to bury.