S Is for Space

“Lucky man.”

“But beyond my luck now. Scared stiff, really, for myself, my family; even, right now, for you.”

“Me?” said Fortnum.

They had stopped now by an empty lot near the market. There was a moment of great stillness, in which Fortnum turned to survey his friend. Willis’s voice had suddenly made him cold.

“I’m afraid for everybody,” said Willis. “Your friends, mine, and their friends, on out of sight. Pretty silly, eh?”

Willis opened the door, got out, and peered in at Fortnum. Fortnum felt he had to speak.

“Well—what do we do about it?”

Willis looked up at the sun burning blind in the great, remote sky.

“Be aware,” he said, slowly. “Watch everything for a few days.”

“Everything?”

“We don’t use half what God gave us, ten percent of the time. We ought to hear more, feel more, smell more, taste more. Maybe there’s something wrong with the way the wind blows these weeds there in the lot. Maybe it’s the sun up on those telephone wires or the cicadas singing in the elm trees. If only we could stop, look, listen, a few days, a few nights, and compare notes. Tell me to shut up then, and I will.”

“Good enough,” said Fortnum, playing it lighter than he felt. “I’ll look around. But how do I know the thing I’m looking for when I see it?”

Willis peered in at him sincerely. “You’ll know. You’ve got to know. Or we’re done for, all of us,” he said quietly.

Fortnum shut the door, and didn’t know what to say. He felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up his face. Willis sensed this.

“Hugh, do you think I’m—off my rocker?”

“Nonsense!” said Fortnum, too quickly. “You’re just nervous, is all. You should take a couple of weeks off.”

Willis nodded. “See you Monday night?”

“Any time. Drop around.”

“I hope I will, Hugh. I really hope I will.”

Then Willis was gone, hurrying across the dry weed-grown lot, toward the side entrance of the market.

Watching him go, Fortnum suddenly did not want to move. He discovered that very slowly he was taking deep breaths, weighing the silence. He licked his lips, tasting the salt. He looked at his arm on the doorsill, the sunlight burning the golden hairs. In the empty lot the wind moved all alone to itself. He leaned out to look at the sun, which stared back with one massive stunning blow of intense power that made him jerk his head in.

He exhaled. Then he laughed out loud. Then he drove away.

The lemonade glass was cool and deliciously sweaty. The ice made music inside the glass, and the lemonade was just sour enough, just sweet enough on his tongue. He sipped, he savored, he tilted back in the wicker rocking chair on the twilight front porch, his eyes closed. The crickets were chirping out on the lawn. Cynthia, knitting across from him on the porch, eyed him curiously. He could feel the pressure of her attention.

“What are you up to?” she said at last.

“Cynthia,” he said, “is your intuition in running order? Is this earthquake weather? Is the land going to sink? Will war be declared? Or is it only that our delphinium will die of the blight?”

“Hold on. Let me feel my bones.”

He opened his eyes and watched Cynthia in turn closing hers and sitting absolutely statue-still, her hands on her knees. Finally she shook her head and smiled.

“No. No war declared. No land sinking. Not even a blight. Why?”

“I’ve met a lot of Doom Talkers today. Well, two, anyway, and—”

The screen door burst wide. Fortnum’s body jerked as if he had been struck. “What!”