The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

I lie down on my back in the grass, a dandelion tickling my ear, my feet sticking out between the bars of the gate. I stare up into the sky overhead. An impossible angel-bird streaks past, leaving a pale cloud-path behind.

One of the stories in my Diedrich Knickerbocker book was about a man who fell asleep in the Catskills while hiding from his nagging wife. He met some giants and played ninepins in the thunderclouds, and then when he awoke he found that twenty years had passed. The revolution had come and gone, his nagging wife was dead, and the world around him was completely changed.

One of the horseless landaus rolls past on the street outside where I’m hiding. But no one comes, and eventually the sunlight fades, becoming thin and gray. More people stride by, laughing and talking and shouting, just like they did in the evenings that I remember.

I close my eyes, thinking about Wes.

I wonder if he knows, about me. Did he know, when he sat with me on my stoop? Wouldn’t he be afraid? When I find him, I’ll have to be careful not to frighten him.

I feel my tight muscles loosen. Presently the dandelion doesn’t tickle anymore, and the sounds in the street outside begin to recede. They feel farther away. I let myself drift, floating, my eyes still closed. A breath of cool air smooths my brow, and the curls around my ears stir softly. My skirts move around my ankles.

Wes, I think.

Wes, where are you? Are you close by? Do you know that I’m looking for you?

I picture him, his mop of dark hair like Herschel’s, his wet puppy eyes. I remember how his elbow felt, pressing into my ribs, and how safe he made me feel. I think of looking into him, as he looks into me.

I hunt around for him, in my mind, trying to discern where he might be. He won’t be back at my house. Maybe he’s tired, like I am tired. Maybe he wants to rest, too.

Wes.

He’s not far. I’m certain of it. He’s close! How close?

I picture what he might look like, while he’s sleeping. Even the cruelest men look innocent in sleep. And Wes isn’t cruel. Is he? I don’t think he is. I think he must look very sweet, when he’s asleep. Like this. If he were asleep, and I found him, he would look just like this. His eyes would be closed, and his hair would be sticking up at funny angles, and he’d have a red pillow crease across his face.

I open my eyes and discover myself standing in a dark room. A few pinpoints of red light wink along the walls, and I can just make out a sleeping form in a narrow bed pushed against the wall.

I am in a boy’s bedroom. At night. In the dark.

Mother would kill me.

I laugh grimly to myself at the thought.

Wes?

I hate to wake him. But I have to. I try to ease him awake. He’s dreaming, and it’s making him move about under the white sheet. I reach a hand out to touch his shoulder, but I hesitate.

He thrashes against the bedclothes, struggling in a nightmare, and I feel sorry for it, because I don’t want him to be afraid.

“Wes!” I whisper, leaning to put my lips close to his ear.

He kicks his blankets away, his eyes pressed closed.

“Wes!” I say again, my face breaking into a happy smile, because I’ve found him.

“Arrrrgh!” he gurgles into his pillow.

I put my hands gently on his shoulders like I used to do when easing Ed out of a nightmare. But I’m so happy and relieved to see him I can’t stop myself.

“Wes, wake up!” I say. I dig my fingers into the flesh of his shoulders and rattle him hard. “WES! WAKE UP!”

His eyes open, and he twists away from me, scooting up against the headboard of his bed, pushing pillows out of his way. My smile collapses.

I’ve frightened him!

“You’re . . . you’re . . .” He’s gasping for air, his face contorted with shock and semi-recognition. When he sees who I am, his eyes fill with horror, and he opens his mouth to scream.

“Shhhhh!” I stop him, putting my finger to my lips.

He gulps back his scream, but only just.

“But . . . how did you . . .”