Small Town

thirty-three

In the early morning hours, when the sky was just beginning to lighten, the Carpenter’s wife paid him a visit.

He noticed her perfume first. It was a scent he hadn’t smelled in years, in decades. She’d worn the same perfume as long as he’d known her. Woodhue, that was the name of it, by Fabergé. He bought her some every year on their anniversary, and at Christmas, and on her birthday. And then one day he’d noticed that she was wearing something else, and wondered why, and she explained that there’d been a change in her body chemistry, evidently, because her old perfume no longer smelled very nice on her or to her.

And so she’d changed scents, to something a little spicier, a little heavier, and that became the perfume he bought for her three times a year, and you would think he could remember its name now, but he couldn’t. He remembered Fabergé Woodhue, however, and recognized it the instant he smelled it.

And then he just felt her presence, there in the little cabin of the Nancy Dee. Next he heard her voice, speaking his name. Billy? She alone had called him Billy. His parents, contemptuous of nicknames, never called him anything but William. Friends in school had called him Bill. At work he was William, or Mr. Harbinger, and Carole called him William, too, in front of other people.

When they were alone she called him Billy.

Billy? Can’t you see me?

And then of course he could. She was young, she looked as she had looked in the early years of their marriage. Not the girl that he met and fell in love with, but the young woman with whom he had set about making a life. She was wearing the blue dress he’d always liked. He’d wondered whatever happened to that dress.

“Carole,” he said, “I thought you were dead.”

I am, Billy.

“But you’re here.”

I can’t stay long.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. Had he ever told her that when she was alive? He must have, he’d thought it often enough. Yes, surely he’d told her.

You used to tell me that all the time, Billy. I never believed you.

“Do you believe me now?”

Oh, yes. Billy, I miss you.

“I miss you, too, my darling.”

I wish you could come home with me.

“Soon,” he said. He looked at her, took in her gentle smile, breathed in her scent. “You’re wearing Woodhue,” he said.

She smiled, delighted. Yes, do you remember? I always wore it. It seems to agree with me again. Isn’t that funny?

“I’ll buy you some for your birthday.”

Oh, Billy. That would be very nice.

“Carole,” he said, “do you see the children?”

Oh, yes. They miss you, too.

“And you’re all right? All of you?”

We’re all fine, Billy. Everybody’s fine.

He had a million questions to ask her and couldn’t think of a single one.

I wish you could come with me, Billy.

“I have something I have to do, my darling.”

Oh, I know. Men always have their work, and it’s important that they do it.

He’d done his work for years, and had it been so important? Any of it?

“I’ll be done soon,” he said. “A matter of days.”

I have to go now, Billy.

“Don’t go,” he said. “Not quite yet. Stay a few more minutes, Carole.”

But she was fading, disappearing even as he looked at her. He watched her fade away to nothing, and felt her energy dissipate. The scent of her perfume lingered in the cabin for a time, after every other trace of her was gone.