The Surrendered

NINETEEN

SHE KEPT TALKING about la chiesa dell’ossario. The Chapel of Bones. She was still flush with the double dose Hector had given her, riding in the splendid chariot. The three-hour drive had taken nearly five because of jammed traffic and then getting lost several times, Hector having to pull over and check the map himself. June was no longer able to help him. There was a question as to what she could even see, her eyes opaque and darkened, the color of muddy coffee. But they were close now, ascending the road to the village on the next hill, and as if she knew they were making the last approach, she was preparing herself, reviewing. She had not been to this place before but she spoke as if she had seen it many times, as might a guide, telling him how the church was consecrated in 1870 as a reliquary of the fallen soldiers of the Battle of Solferino. It was the simplest church, nothing about it ornate, the only spark of color on the cream-and-white façade a mural of Saint Peter in a blue robe, a red shawl about his shoulders, a golden halo encircling his somber head. She said he would know it by this. But the car had sounded funny in the last half-hour, and now something was clattering in the undercarriage, and as Hector careened ponderously on the steep curves banking up the hill, he wondered if this last effortful stretch would prove its demise. He shifted to a lower gear and lurched the rest of the way, the heaving strain of the motor shaking the tinny sedan, and when he looked in the rearview mirror he saw her slumped against the door, her face pinched up as if she were tasting something bitter. The road widened on a plateau and he stopped across from a small hotel whose patio and cocktail tables were set practically onto the pavement. He was simply going to park, to give the machine a moment’s rest, when to his right he saw the church. It shined starkly in the late-afternoon light. It stood atop a brief rise of land opposite the old hotel, a wide gravel walking path lined with cypress trees leading up to its dark wooden doors. Above the doors was the figure of the saint, his colors just as June had described.

“Look,” he said to her. “Up there.”

But now, in the lee of the drug rush, she was too weak even to turn her head. Her color was ghastly.

“Is your back hurting again?”

“I want to lie down,” she said breathily, talking through her teeth. “I want to lie down right now.”

He was going to circle tightly in the wide street and let her off in front of the hotel, but when he tried the ignition it cranked and cranked, and then it simply clicked. Finally it didn’t even click anymore and he told her to hold on and he walked across to the hotel and arranged for a room. When he returned she was nearly passed out and he had to catch her head as he opened the rear passenger door so that she wouldn’t tumble out. He lifted her and held her as several cars and scooters passed, one of them peppering its horn at them. He bristled until he realized they were probably being taken for newlyweds. The honking startled her and she gazed at him as if waking from a long and restful sleep, craning her neck back before resting her cheek on his shoulder, happy to be once more cradled in his arms. And yet he wasn’t completely sure she recognized him. The elevator was out of order and so he carried her up the four flights of stairs to a room in the tower, led by the manager of the hotel, a gaunt-faced young man in a crimson tracksuit. He let them into a large spartan room with two double beds and an armoire with one of its doors detached and leaning up against its front. There were large armchairs in the corners, placed, it seemed, more for the inhabitants’ punishment than comfort. But the main feature of the room was its tall, large window, which framed perfectly the church on the hill. The manager pointed it out in Italian and broken English, obviously accustomed to hosting its visitors.

Hector laid June on the bed next to the window, but she didn’t turn toward it, as if she had no desire to see the church, or had even forgotten why they had come. The young manager considered her gravely, and when Hector extended some lire for a tip he refused it, saying instead that he would fetch their bags. Hector pointed out their car, parked across the way, but couldn’t explain that it had just died.

“I wish Nicholas were here,” June said, after the manager had come back with their bags and then left once again. She was somewhat revived. She wanted to change her clothes, for some reason, rather than have him bear her immediately to the church on the hill. He didn’t say what he was thinking, which was that she might never leave the room, or at least leave it alive. They were finally here after the fitful sojourns of recent days-and now she would devote precious minutes to this? But he didn’t protest.

She said, “He would have liked this place.”

“You think so?”

“He was always an artistic boy. He would have liked the landscape here. The colors and the hills, just like in the art books he used to look at. All the cypress trees.”

Hector was surprised, wondering when she might have noticed.

“I don’t much like those trees.”

“No? Why not?”

“Makes me think of cemeteries.”

June nodded, waiting as he unpacked her bag to look for the pieces of clothing she wanted. “Of course you’re right,” she said, almost able to smile.

“Are these the ones?” he asked her, holding up the things she’d asked for from her bag. An outfit constructed from a stiff, coarse white linen.

“Yes.”

He placed them on her bed. June explained to him that the outfit wasn’t a traditional death robe exactly, except for the fact that it was white. The mourners would wear white as well.

“I don’t have any clothes like that,” he said.

She laughed weakly. “You’re not going to mourn me, so what does it matter?”

He didn’t answer. Back in the car she had told him what to do with her after she was dead: she should be cremated and then her ashes spread about the grounds of the church, or perhaps even snuck inside, dispersed however and wherever he saw fit. She joked that he might perhaps prefer to do the job himself, though following the old manner, swathing her body in cotton dressings and then building a wooden bier on which to set her aflame.

“Do you think we should have had Nicholas come with us?” she said, now lying on her side, her head propped on two pillows.

He peered into her eyes to see what she was thinking or could possibly be hoping for now. But there was only flatness in her gaze, an unfocused stare, as though she were looking upon a shape more looming than defined. What she believed or wanted to believe, he couldn’t tell anymore.

He said, “It’s better that he stayed back in Siena.”

“Yes. You’re probably right. What would he do here? Except I was thinking just now that perhaps he might have wanted to spend more time with you.”

“I doubt that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think he took to me much.”

“How could you tell?”

“It wasn’t hard.”

“Did you take to him?”

He didn’t answer, for although it was obvious how she hoped he would reply, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything good about “Nicholas.” In fact, this renewed mention of the fellow was making his chest pound, his fists ache. On the road he had scolded himself for not beating him to within an inch of his life. And now he wished that he could have met the other Nicholas, her true son, and his, if even for just a few minutes, not for any longing or want of a bond but simply so he could say something that wouldn’t be such a burning, raging utterance. To simply greet the boy. So he pictured the old school photograph of Nicholas, the color washed out, yellowed, his long hair parted in the middle, framing an expression that was more a question than a statement, as though he were waiting for some long-hoped-for instruction.

“Maybe I could have,” he said. “But it would have taken a long time.”

“Doesn’t everything?”

He nodded, startled by this seeming flash of lucidity. He had unpacked the rest of her clothes and put them into the armoire and begun emptying his own small satchel when he saw the book that he’d forced Nick Crump to hand over to him in Siena. He couldn’t bear to handle it and had immediately thrust it beneath his clothes. But earlier, at a rest stop, while she was napping, he couldn’t help himself and had peered once more into the book. It was the same, except that the cloth of its cover had been burned away, its pages made brittle by the trauma. He noticed two inscriptions on the title page. The first, to Sylvie, he recognized from all those years before; the second was in a different hand, the ink newer: To Nicholas, my dearest wayfarer. May you find great treasure and riches. He was confused as to how June had come to possess it, whether it had been singed in the terrible fire, and how, if so, it had ever survived. But like a promise of ill reckoning, the scent of smoke that rose up from its binding quickly quashed his questions and he had pushed it back into his bag.

Now he gave the thin volume over to her, the thing literally falling apart in his hands. When June took it he could see her fingers straining against it, as if she wanted to press it back to life. She opened the book and turned its first pages to a photograph of the author, a young-looking man with muttonchops and a gold watch chain on his suit vest. Opposite was the title page, twice inscribed, as he’d seen, and June seemed to linger on the handwriting, her expression one of confusion. Finally she caressed the page as if it were the cheek of an infant. With hardly any difficulty she stood up before the large window, her hands braced against the wide marble sill. In the framed vista the church at the top of the hill gleamed in the late-afternoon sun, the rising gravel path darkly ribbed with the long shadows of the cypress trees, and though it must have been the first time she’d seen it her eyes only narrowed coldly while taking its measure, her gaze no pilgrim’s.

“I didn’t mean for him to be alone in the world,” she said. “Not forever, anyway. I thought it would be good for him to get away from me. Not to depend on me. But I haven’t asked you. Was he still angry with me? I mean to say, did it seem to you that he had forgiven me?”

“Forgiven you for what?”

“I told you,” she said, wrapping the book with her arms. She looked strong all of a sudden, her posture as straight as when she was a child, her chin forward, elevated. That orphan girl, carved from rock. For a long second, when she turned back to look at him, she appeared as if she might not be ill at all.

“Didn’t I? When he was injured in England while riding. After the hospital called. I waited until I got a postcard from him. In the end it was okay but I keep asking myself why I didn’t try to reach him right away. I wanted to talk to him so much. I wanted to see him. It had been many years. I could have told him I’d fly right over and be with him. But for some reason I just passed the hours. I opened the shop the next day. I went to dinner by myself. For two weeks I didn’t sleep. Then his postcard came and after that the nice letters, and it seemed that he cared about me again, but I’ve been thinking it was only because he was angry for so long that he ended up being kind. Do you think that can happen? Do you think that’s what happened to my son?”

She then stepped back from the window and sat down on the bed, her head heavy and bent, all the girding of the prior moment now fled from her body. She set the book aside on the bed beside her. He asked her if she wanted to change now into the special clothes.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I can leave if you like.”

“That’s not it.”

“You don’t want to?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice suddenly sinking. “I don’t know.”

She began to cry, which took them both by surprise. She was weak enough that it hardly seemed to be crying at all, more as though she was having trouble breathing, her meager tears barely wetting her cheeks. But he had never seen her cry, not at the orphanage, not once since, and the sight broke open a fear in his chest: here, about to perish, was surely the strongest person he had ever known. She wiped her face roughly with her palm. “Give me another shot now, okay? I want a little more time, without it hurting so much.”

“I gave you one just two hours ago.”

“I’d like another.”

He obliged, another heavy dose. Hector drifted into an armchair across the room, trying to avert his gaze. He could have loaded up another half-dozen syringes and instantly extinguished her but he couldn’t help but think that she might somehow come back for him if he did, in a malign form, hound him for eternity for cheating her of even a few hours.

“I’m sorry, Hector. But I think now I want to rest.”

“Okay. I’ll leave you alone.”

“But just for a little while. I don’t want to fall asleep for too long. I can’t let this day pass. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do anything tomorrow. Where will you be?”

“Downstairs, I guess.”

“Would you come for me in an hour? We’ll go up to the church then.”

“Okay.”

“Would you bring me back something?”

“What do you want?”

“Something to eat.”

“You’re hungry?”

“I don’t know if I can really eat anything. But I want to try.”

“I can bring something. What do you want?”

“It doesn’t matter. I just don’t want this to be the last feeling I have.”

He went to close the curtains but she told him to leave them drawn open, so the room would stay awash in the light. It was good light, being reflected light, as it was now late in the day, all of it fully drenching the room, the tops of the trees and the terra-cotta roofs and stuccoed buildings illuminated by the strong, low sun, the color of their lower halves in the warm penumbra glowing in a muted scale, the white church atop the rise of land as brilliant as a lodestar. “Just an hour, Hector. Don’t let me sleep any longer. You’ll remember to come back up? Won’t you?”

“You think I wouldn’t?”

“I don’t know,” she said, the shot having settled deep into her now. From her loosened posture he could see that it had already met and quelled the harshest pain. She was almost herself again.

“I know you must hate me,” she said. Her eyes were narrowed.

“You do, don’t you? You’re the only person in the world who knows anything about me now, and I don’t want you to hate me.”

“I said in the car I didn’t.”

“Even after everything I told you?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m not going to talk about this anymore.”

“Please just say it again.”

“I already did.”

“Please say it, Hector, please!”

“What do you want?” he shouted. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

“I don’t want this!” she shouted back, slapping at her own shriveled, wasted thighs. Her face was a cracked, broken mask. “Not this! Maybe you wouldn’t care if this were happening to you! Maybe you never cared whether you lived or not. But I do!”

He was about to tell her she would rot in hell when he realized he was arguing with a woman who had in almost every way disappeared. She immediately said she was sorry, trying to follow him to the door in her feeble hobble, and she might have caught him had he not leaned forward in the last quarter of a second, half-bolting onto the landing and down the steep steps of the tower; he was a world-class sprinter, at such distances. As he rounded the corner he caught sight of her ruined silhouette, halted at the end of the landing with her hands outstretched like a flightless bird, her desperate apologies echoing down the stone well of the tower after him, and though he felt ashamed for the velocity of this easy escape he kept going, his rage making him want to punish her.

Downstairs, in the bar that doubled as the hotel lobby, he slumped at a corner table. The young manager came over and asked if he wanted something and Hector didn’t answer and the manager suggested a beer. After serving him the bottle, the manager stole glances at him as he stacked cups on the coffee machine, as did an older German-speaking couple sharing a plate of cheese and salami and a carafe of white wine. The couple had been just sitting down when he carried June into the hotel, and the fleshy, ruddy-cheeked woman now regarded Hector with kindly eyes and a sympathetic purse to her mouth that made him helplessly think of Dora. He drank from his beer but after a sip he put it down, despite the fact that his insides were crying out; for once in his life he didn’t want to douse the parchedness, that driest, coldest flame. He wanted his own sentence, for all his deeds and non-deeds, for every instance when he had failed. For when had he not? If he were truly eternal, as his father Jackie madly fantasized, the sum of his persistence had so far only added up to failure. Failure grand and total. Ask Dora what she thought. Ask Patricia Cahill. Ask the Chinese boy soldier if Hector had done right by him. Ask Winnie Vogler about the collateral calamity he had wrought. Ask the Reverend Ames Tanner if his end was the one he had envisioned for himself. Ask them all if Hector had been their right attendant fate.

His failing found expression now in even the small measures, too, like the fact that he couldn’t quite summon the hatred even June assumed he should have for her. In the car, in her delirium, or perhaps under its cover, she told him what she had done. Yes, she had caused the fatal fire. Yet in his own way he had stoked it, too, with his rank, blinding want, and he had always believed that it should have been he who never emerged.

On that last night, Sylvie had begged him to let her be. Why had he not heeded her? Why hadn’t he simply stayed in his room? Once the fire started, surely he would have rushed inside the dormitory first and gotten them all out. He’d been drinking all evening, sitting in his dim room with a bottle of harsh Japanese-brand scotch whiskey, feeding his accelerating thoughts, which alternated between wanting to flay Sylvie with harangues, with the lowliest of sentimental entreaties, with self-pitying rants and outright attacks, and trying to figure out how he might lovingly convince her to stay on. To love him back. But he was useless at romance. He had no profound or pretty words. He thought she had made up her mind on the day they had all collected leaves around the orphanage, when she had followed him into the chapel. Afterward they left the chapel and headed in different directions but she met up with him as he had asked, about one hundred meters along the most southerly trail, where there was an obscuring thicket of woods. They didn’t make love but had still fallen upon each other in a primed, overdesperate state and in a matter of minutes they had clawed and tasted one another with the privation of ghouls. They had hardly undressed, and yet later, when he was bathing, he could feel the tines of her fingernails striping his back, his neck, his thighs. He’d done the same to her but with his mouth, his ravenous teeth, biting her wherever she pointed to herself, as if they were playing some curious grade school game. She had gasped with each snap, tears filling her eyes, then pointed again. It was then that Hector was sure that he had won, mishoping, misreading her erotic fervor for a deeper devotion; for he was too young and ignorant to know that she was not acting or dissembling but rather offering herself to his pure and towering want, surrendering to his great keen need, which to her was as lovely as he.

It was already midnight when he finished the bottle and went to her cottage, knowing that the next day Tanner would be back. He and Sylvie had not yet made love while her husband was presently away, his carrying her after she twisted her knee in the soccer game the first time he’d time touched her since the brief, furious moment in the woods. Simply holding her was an alert of his craving but a kind of anchoring, too, how he needed the literal burden of her to offset the hateful, numb condition of his being. His unassailable body. And as he went around to the back of the cottage he realized how vulnerable he felt whenever she was close, as though he were at last mortally subject, as prone as the next. His heart a boy’s, brimful and shaking. Yet he knew, too, though he was still resisting it, that it was already finished between them, or that it had never truly begun, and it was this dire feeling that pushed him to try to be with her again. The window shade was down and when he tried the door it was locked and he rapped at it harder and harder until the sound was loud enough to rouse the children across the way. She opened the door and let him in. Her knee was still just as he had wrapped it and she limped away without even looking at him.

“Does it still hurt a lot?” he asked her, following her to the bed.

“Not anymore,” she said wearily, her head bowed. He knelt before her and took her knee in one hand and her calf in the other, gently and carefully testing the joint. She winced with its play. “It’ll be fine. Please go now. Please.”

“I said I would come.”

“I asked you not to,” she said, pushing off his hands.

“So you don’t want to see me anymore?”

“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“He’ll be back tomorrow!” Hector cried, the instant thunder in his voice surprising even him.

She was silent. “Please, Hector. You can’t be here now.”

“Why? Because you’ve changed your mind?”

“I’ve never changed my mind. Not about you. It was never a question of that.”

“Then what was it a question of? Would you tell me? Because I’m stupid. I’m confused. Are you in love again with your husband?”

“I’ve always loved him,” she murmured.

“You’ve always loved him,” he scorned her. “I guess you were loving him right from the beginning. I guess you were thinking about how you loved him when you were fucking me on this bed. You’ve thought about him so much that every time he goes away you come around to wherever I am.”

“I didn’t come to you tonight,” she said.

“It’s because you’re strong,” he said. He was standing now, glowering as he angled his words sharply down at her. Had he not had a voice he might have actually struck her. “You don’t pace around your room like an animal in a cage. But I’m an animal that’s too awake. Before you showed up I didn’t care one way or the other about anything. But now here I am, waiting to be petted and fed. Told how much I’m loved. Here,” he said, holding his open palms before her. “What if I need comforting? What if I need some ministering to? What will you do for me, Mrs. Tanner?”

She didn’t move. She was silently crying, the tears running down her face. Her natural paleness was warmed in the honeyed lamplight, her brow and cheeks a vital, gleaming shade, and as much as he was raging he couldn’t help but see that she had never appeared as lovely to him as now. Which only made him burn. “You won’t help me?” he said. “You won’t come to my aid? It’s okay. You do me good just like that. I’ve told you some of the things I’ve done and so you know that I’m not a good man. I’m an awful person, by any account. But looking at you makes me feel better about myself. You know why? Because you’re like me. You’re frail and selfish, but you’re reckless, too. You’re a whore for love. Hope is your drug. To me that adds up to a pretty sorry religion.”

Sylvie didn’t answer. But a different color had now risen in her face. She said, “My mother once told me something. I never quite understood her, but I think I do now. She said there was a surplus of benevolence in this world. Of loving mercy. Surely too much of it went begging. But it was worse, she said, when it was misspent. Because then it was no good at all.”

“I don’t care if it is,” he said, fiercely gripping her shoulders. “Misspend it on me.”

She took his hands then and had them cup her face, blot her eyes. She turned them over and kissed his palms. She kissed his fingers and his wrists. He kissed her madly in return and began pulling off her robe but she said not here and so they made their way slowly across the yard to his room, Hector bracing her. Once inside they made love. Or a kind of love. He was overwrought. It was as if the entire army of him had fallen upon her, overrunning her in waves, the breakneck charge of a thousand faceless troops. He kept waiting for her to try to slow him, or tilt against him with equal fervor, with the disquieting roughness he craved from her, but even as she mirrored him and was strong enough it was as if she drifted outside of herself and was watching them from across the room. After a short while he was done. He got up and pulled on a pair of trousers, a mountain of shame in his gut. She lay in silence on the cramped cot, her back to him. Then she rose and put on her robe. She was looking for her slippers but he told her that she had come barefoot. He asked her not to go but when she opened the door he didn’t try to bar her.

Outside, the smell of kerosene oddly prevailed. But it was a car that made her halt. It was rolling up through the gate, following the path that went around the field and then led in front of the buildings. It was too late to be Reverend Kim. The glare of the headlamps swept across her like a harbor light as she stood in Hector’s doorway and the car imperceptibly slowed, as if the driver momentarily had taken his foot off the gas, before resuming speed again. Sylvie stepped off the stoop and onto the ground but she didn’t move. The car had turned and was tracking straight for her and for a second Hector was certain it was going to run her over. But it stopped just short of her and when the driver came out it was too dark behind the bright beams to see but of course he knew it was Tanner.

“Sylvie,” Tanner said, his voice throaty, beseeching. “What is this? What’s going on? There was a message you were hurt. I drove myself back all night. Why are you out here?”

Sylvie stood barefoot in her white robe directly in front of the car, the stars above them gone out for her brightness. She was clearly naked beneath. She drifted toward him, her hand outstretched, but Tanner slapped it away. When she tried to get close to him he hit her, once, quite hard, and she fell beside the wheel of the car. “What are you doing to us?” Tanner shouted down at her. “What are you doing?”

Hector made a short sprint and rammed him, knocking him to the ground. Tanner lay gasping for wind. Hector was kneeling and checking on Sylvie when a sound like a mortar round, a plosive, metallic thump, went off from the direction of the dormitory. As he craned to see what had happened a dead, sheer weight struck him, this broad, leaden plate meeting the back of his head, his shoulder blades, like the angry hand of a god. Hector crumpled from the blow, his mind momentarily emptied as he fell forward on his face. He couldn’t quite move. He could see but not yet speak. The cold ground tasted almost good to him, clean and flinty, like a freshly etched stone. And he could hear Sylvie shouting at her husband, who loomed tall above them; Tanner had walloped him from behind with the heavy sedan door. Hector got up on his knees and would have been struck again but for the sudden bright dawning of firelight, sharp licks of flame spearing up around the chimney pipe on the roof above the chapel.

“My God,” Sylvie said, getting to her feet. “The children!” Though faltering, she ran to the chapel. Tanner went after her. Some of the children were already fleeing the building, smoke billowing from the top of the chapel door, oozing out from under the eaves. None of them could see it yet but the flames inside were spreading quickly, flying through the parched wood of the old structure, and by the time Sylvie reached the main door others were climbing out of the windows from the dorm rooms on either side. Sylvie frantically counted the children, making sure the youngest ones were out. Tanner was asking everyone to check for his bunkmate, each calling out a name and waiting for a reply, when Sylvie said, “Where’s June? Where is she?”

“She’s not here!” one of the children said. “Neither is Min!”

“Where are they?”

“They were in the chapel,” Byong-Ok said.

“But why?”

“They were bunking there together.”

“Oh, my June!”

Sylvie was headed in but Tanner grabbed her. She fought him but he commanded her, “Stay here! Stay here with them!” Tanner took off his suit jacket and used it to cover his mouth and nose. He took a few quick breaths and then held the last and rushed inside the door. Although his skull felt smashed Hector was now on his feet, and he could see Sylvie drifting toward the door. She was calling for them to come out. She was calling their names. But before he could gather himself enough to try to dissuade her she stepped inside and disappeared.

Hector went in after her. The vestibule was choked with smoke. He bent down so he could breathe and when he pushed through to the chapel there was a blast of heat. The roof timbers were aflame. The front pews were on fire, as were the altar table and the cross, which had fallen to the floor. The back wall of the chapel was burning, part of it fallen away or blown out where the woodstove had been, and nearby were Sylvie and Tanner, huddling over a child. A fierce draft was being drawn in from the gap in the wall, feeding the conflagration. Hector felt his own hair begin to singe, the skin on his shoulders begin to prickle and burn. The heat was turning, it was on the verge, as though a sun were just about to push into the room. And in a flash a plumed beast of flame leaped up from the flooring to enfold the couple and child, for a moment cradling them in an almost placid repose before swallowing them whole. Hector gave a bloody cry. The walls gave a shearing squeal and a terrible crack and then the chapel roof fell in. There was a great burning pile where there had been a room, the black sky exposed. He was trapped at the edge of the pile by burning beams across his legs, shattered clay roof tiles searing his arms, his chest. He was in the bonfire now. The adjoining walls of the dorms would collapse next. Yet he didn’t try to move. He was more than ready to pass; maybe at last transmogrify. But a hand gripped his wrist, another lifting the beam from his back. The girl was inordinately strong. And she dragged him through the collapsed back wall and out into the cold, quenching night.

“THERE YOU ARE,” June said softly when he finally returned to the room. Nearly two hours had passed. He could tell by her eyes that she had not quite expected to see him again. Somehow she had managed to move a stuffed chair to face the vista of the church on the hill, and she was sitting in it before the now opened window. Though it was nearing dusk the breeze was still quite warm, faintly fragrant with pine and earth. She repositioned herself now and sat up, as if to try to demonstrate that she still had a measure of control. But even this tiny exertion was too much for her and her head lolled over the chair back at an unnatural angle, her mouth hanging open. “Did you bring me something?”

He had: the proprietor had arranged a few cookies and bite-sized café pastries in a basket, as well as a pink plastic parfait cup with a scoop of lemon ice. Hector put the basket on her lap and she beheld it like a girl at Easter. She picked up the spoon and was about to take some ice when she paused and asked if he would like some. He shook his head. She dug out a dollop and placed it upside down on her tongue, holding the spoon there as she closed her eyes, her drawn cheeks clenching with the tartness, or the sweetness, or both. He couldn’t help but watch her swallow, the mechanism ponderous, wholly voluntary now, and he imagined the melting ice finding the besiegement of her insides, how utterly thronged she was with disease, that there was nowhere to go. She didn’t take another taste, just clutching the spoon at her belly as she sat for a moment with her eyes closed, as if she were counting the seconds before the first kind swells of a drug washed over her. He asked her if she wanted a shot and though her face had gone suddenly ragged and chalky she firmly said no.

“Do you remember when we first met?” she said, gazing again out the window. “On the road?”

He said he did.

“I was thinking about that day while you were gone. It was such a hot day.”

“It might have been a hundred degrees.”

“I was so thirsty. The days before I saw you, I was searching less for food than for water. It hadn’t rained for some time. The one well I found had gone dry.”

“Didn’t I give you some water?”

“You did, but your canteen was almost empty,” she said. “You had chewing gum. To this day, I think that was the most wonderful thing I’ve ever tasted. But mostly I was dying of thirst. I was truly close to death. There was only thick, stinking mud in the paddies, and I was so thirsty that I tried it. I scooped some with my fingers and put it in my mouth. It was terrible, but it was wet. So I ate it, two full handfuls.”

“You kept it down?”

“For a little while. In the middle of the night I woke up with a terrible stomachache and threw up about a dozen times, right up until morning. I thought I was going to die from that. But if I hadn’t eaten it, I doubt I would have lived to see you. You would have walked past my body on the road. Perhaps that would have been better for you.”

He didn’t answer her, though maybe less out of decency or compassion than to shield himself, such that he wouldn’t have to consider a timeline that featured him alone, in sole steer of a likely unaltered fate. Like everyone else, he was at the helm, whether he wished it or not. Very soon he would be on his own again, and he thought about what June had said earlier, that he was the only person in the world who knew anything about her, or at least anything significant, which made him realize, now quite obtusely, that in this case the opposite was true, too.

“I haven’t asked you,” she said to him, as if she were reading his thoughts, “what you’re going to do, afterward. Where you might go.”

“I don’t know yet,” he said. The car was broken down and he had no interest in or idea of how to be a tourist, and although she had already given him the rest of the money (enough to buy, she said, a couple around-the-world plane tickets), he had no thought of where else he might go. He had finally telephoned Smitty the other night to let him and the fellows know he was still breathing, and Smitty told him how broken up everyone was over what had happened to Dora. Scenes of the accident had been on the ten-o’clock news. They figured that’s why he’d been scarce, holed up someplace with his hurt. Hector didn’t bother to say where he was calling from, nor did Smitty ask. Smitty simply said, Well, stop in soon, we’ll be here, as though Hector were just across town, and Hector replied that at some point he would. They would go on in their inertial drag, more or less, hang around in the dimness until the time of the reckoning. Then have one last drink and shuffle into line. The question was again what he would do. Nobody in his right mind would want to be immortal, as he was in the mad dreams of his father. Still, Hector feared his own persistence. He flashed on her request of cremation and her suggestion that he do it himself; he could pull off on some rural road and find a clearing on which to build the pyre, and torch not just her body but douse the pile of brush and sticks with gasoline and, having filled his gut with fuel, climb atop the heap himself, before striking the match. He would make the hottest fire, burn up even their bones. Send them both far and nigh.

She said: “You could stay in this place for a while. You could live here for a long time with the money you have. Maybe you’d even find someone. Someone who would take care of you.”

“I wouldn’t want that.”

“Why not? Every person needs the love of a good woman. Don’t you think that’s true?”

Of course he didn’t dispute her. How could he? Think of a world in which we all had such succor. The problem was that succor bore the sentence of frailty, infirmity. It expired too soon. And then what were you? Lost. Bewildered. A sack of broken things. It was cruel, and he meant it to be, but he asked her, “I wonder if you would have taken care of me. If I was the one who was sick.”

She looked at him unwaveringly. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ve never taken care of anyone.”

She took another spoonful of ice, but that was all. In the warmth of the breeze, the rest quickly melted in the bowl. The clouds were tinting amber and red with the falling light. This long day would soon be at its end. She rested the basket on the arm of the chair and tried to get up. He helped her to her feet. He asked if she wanted to change now into the special clothes.

“I want to bathe first. All of a sudden I feel very cold. Would you fill the tub for me? I tried to do it myself while you were out but it was too hard to bend down. And the hot tap seemed stuck. Do you mind?”

“No.”

“Don’t be afraid to make it hot, all right?”

He drew the bath for her, as hot as he thought she could bear. As the tub filled, he wondered if once she got in she would come out again-alive, that is. All this ferocious will and effort and now she might not make it up the hill. What did she think she was going to encounter? What does the pilgrim hope for at journey’s end? Her beliefs confirmed? Revelation? Or does she secretly wish that the destination never quite materializes, that it keeps receding, ever shrouded in the distance, all the more to feed an inextinguishable devotion.

June came into the bathroom and without shame took off her clothes. It was as if he weren’t there. She had trouble twisting her arm out of her blouse, and so he helped her with that. Her belly was distended but it appeared full and vital compared to the rest of her, her drawn shoulders and limbs, the blades of her hips. He turned off the water and dipped his hand in the tub but before he could warn her she had already put one foot in. She sharply inhaled, wincing, but she gripped the side of the tub and eased herself down into the water. He rose to leave but she grabbed his hand and wouldn’t let go as she rested back against the tiled wall. She wasn’t going to take a last chance. Her eyes were shut and they didn’t speak for a long while and when her hand relaxed he was afraid she was gone. But the bathwater welled and sloshed over the edge and she was suddenly on her feet, wrapping herself in one of the towels from the rack. The hot water had pulled up a color in her legs. Yet her expression was sallow; she was only cheekbones and eyes, as though the flesh had melted away into the bathwater, and she said, “Please, Hector. Let’s be quick now.”

He sat her up on the bed as he helped her with the clothes, gently manipulating her limbs as if he were dressing a life-sized doll. The outfit consisted of very loose pajama-style pants and both a blouse and a vest, all made of the same coarse white linen. The shape of the papery clothing took on a boxy, formal allure, the whiteness making her look like a strange kind of bride; showing through the diaphanous fabric were the dark nipples of her breasts, the patch of hair between her legs, these final notations that she was still a woman, still alive. She tried to knot the waist-strings of the vest herself but she kept fumbling it, so he tied it for her in a double bow. He slipped a pair of his own large socks on her feet, not bothering with shoes for how swollen they were; and then, it was obvious now, he would have to carry her anyway.

“Are you ready?” he asked her.

“Yes.” When he lifted her she groaned, so he paused, but she tapped at his arm to keep them moving. “We have to go,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We have to go right now.”

Hector carried her down the tight dark turns of the tower stairs, making sure of his footfalls on the slick, worn stone treads. He’d already half-tripped back on the threshold, just barely regaining his balance, though he’d accidentally bit his own tongue. He was stepping as lightly and carefully as he could and yet the descent for her seemed an agony, her hand gripping the hair at the back of his head, squeezing the strands between her fingers in time to each step. The bath had only sped her ruin. In his arms her body was warm and damp, but she didn’t smell quite right, not off or spoiled, but rather like she’d been mostly rendered away, or diluted, like the faintest trace of blood or flesh that lingered even after he’d disinfected and scrubbed and hosed off a canvas litter during the war, somebody’s clinging half-life. She was already a presence residual. When they reached the empty lobby the hotel proprietor put down the book he was reading and instinctively moved to aid them but he stopped at the end of the bar when he got a good look at her, his head solemnly dipping as they passed. Outside, they crossed the street and mounted the wide pea gravel path that led up the hill, the dark sentinels of the cypress trees marking either side.

“I can’t see,” she said.

He turned to walk sideways so she might have a better angle on the church but when he looked down into her eyes they were dull and black, inkier still for the soft, late daylight, her pupils straining to hold off a welling darkness that was not apparent to Hector but that was falling more swiftly than the evening.

“I can’t see.”

Hector quickened his pace. Her face was turning a watery shade. She felt heavier now, taking on that weight. All his life he was present at such ends and yet each time it filled him with a raw astonishment. He felt himself begin to cave with panic. And a realization: he did not want to watch her die. He did not want to have to stoke her fire. He would stoke his own but no one else’s. Had he the power to save her he would do so, he would trade places with her, let her go on, if she wished, for the rest of time.

“Wait,” she said. “Wait.”

He stopped. He had reached the plateau of ground before the shallow steps of the entrance. One of the double doors was open. But she was not addressing him. She was craning at the sky, her eyes unfixed. She was almost gone.

She murmured: “Not yet.”

“It’s okay,” he said, suddenly drawn forth. There was a strange gleam in the church. He took her inside. Between the entrance and the altar the space was completely open; there were no pews in this church. And somehow it was illuminated, somehow it was brighter than outside, the sunbeams stealing in through the side windows at a last, impossible angle. For the moment everything was awash in a light pewter shade, this rubbed, high-burnished grayness, a hue, he realized, long known to him. On top of the white marble altar stood an immense wooden cross, as severe and plain as the one he had once made, the vault above it rising more than twenty-five feet. How was he here again? And it was now that he recognized the patterning of the circular walls of the chancel, the odd mottle of its ornamentation. It was not fresco or fabric or artful intaglio. It was the most basic design. What Hector perhaps understood best in the end: an array of bones.

They were not entombed as he’d expected but rather on open display. Behind the altar, at a subterranean level, open to view, were built-in shelves stocked tight with the bones. They were arranged by kind-piles of femurs and tibias, nested pelvises and jaws. There were bins full of the smaller bones of the feet, of the hands, like countless pieces of chalk. Many bundles of ribs. Then, rising to the cornice of the vaulting, even stacked above it, were rows upon rows of skulls. There were hundreds of them, if not a thousand, all neatly lined up, one beside the next, like some vast, horrid hat shop. Some of the skulls had jagged holes punched out of their temples, blown out from their crowns; some were smashed through at the cheek, at the nose. Missing a brow. But he saw that most of them were touched only by time, their color bleached or tinged pink with rust or a moldering gray. He could not picture their pristine faces save by the distinctive set of their teeth, crooked and straight, protruding and curved. All the grinning, grimacing dead. Hector grimaced back, his own teeth tasting of iron and blood.

“Are we inside?” June murmured, her eyes shiny pieces of coal. “Are we here?”

He said yes.

“It must be beautiful. Is it beautiful?”

It is beautiful, he whispered, not hearing his own voice. This is our place.

NOT YET.

She was running for the train. The very last car. It was moving away from her, it seemed, at an insurmountable speed. Voices were calling for her to run. Run. Not to give up. She had no shoes on her feet-when had they fallen off?-and the ground beside the tracks was gravelly and sharp. Laced with burrs and prickly weeds. But she had no mind for the pain that had taken her over now. Her legs were working, straining, madly pumping beneath her like pistons, pushing her to make this brief sprint she had been running the whole of her life. She could not look back. She loved them all but she knew if she looked back she was done. She would come to a stop. And she did not want to stop, not just yet. Not now. To crave anything, alas, is to crave time. She was simply hungry for more. The wheels of the last car squealed and flashed; it was accelerating, about to pull away. In defiance she leaned forward and cried out, suspending her breath, and reached for the dark edge of the door. The world fell away. Someone had pulled her up. Borne her in. She was off her feet, alive.