Ghost Lights - Lydia Millet (ereader with dictionary TXT) 📗

cup in his hand. Stern took it to fill it again, leaned over to a jug, a five-gallon plastic jug with a spout. Water gurgled as Stern tipped it forward.

Hal sipped and felt himself shiver and then laughed, a bit wildly. He could hear it but not stop it.

“We had the armed forces looking for you,” he said. “It was a search-and-rescue. Organized by Germans.”

Stern looked surprised and then barked out a laugh of his own. Hal laughed harder. They were fools, laughing. Uncontrollable, stupid laughter. Hal bent forward, tears running from his eyes. He shook his head to stop himself laughing. Eventually it petered out.

“I miss them. I miss Casey,” said Stern, nodding to himself. “Susan too.”

“She’s having an affair,” said Hal. It slipped out.

“Casey?” asked Stern.

“Susan!”

“I see,” said Stern, and glanced at him sidelong.

“With that paralegal who works in your office. That young, preppy guy named Robert.”

“Robert? Huh,” said Stern, shifting in his seat and turning his face upward. He squinted a little at the sky. “Well. I never liked him.”

Hal felt a surge of gratitude.

“You know, it wasn’t so long ago that your daughter told me,” said Stern, “that I should avoid wearing those shirts with the blue pinstripes on them and the solid white collars. You know the kind I mean?”

“Those are bad,” agreed Hal. “She was right about that.”

They sat quietly, Stern gazing into the distance with a kind of enraptured tenderness.

“And here you are,” said Hal. “You’re not wearing one. Are you.”

They smiled at each other again. A bird squawked.

“I do need a shirt, though,” said Stern, musing. “I ran out of them.”

“I see that.”

“I’ve been working,” said Stern, almost apologetic.

“But,” said Hal, “I mean—what happened to you?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Stern. “You should rest first, though. I’m serious, I think you’re pretty dehydrated. Come with me.”

He got up, gesturing for Hal to follow him. At the wooden hut built on the tree—a kind of tree-house, Hal guessed—he lifted a piece of coarse cloth that was serving as a door and put his hand on Hal’s shoulder, guiding him through. Hal saw a sleeping bag on the rough floor.

“Lie down there for a while,” said Stern. “You need to be out of the sun. It’s cooler than the tent. I’ll get you something for the headache.”

Hal did what he said, lay down on the sleeping bag, which smelled a little of mildew but not bad, exactly. A few seconds later Stern was back with two small pills in his dark hand. Hal took them.

“Thank you,” he said, and slowly crumpled sideways.

• • • • •

When he woke it was dark out again. He had slept through the morning, slept through the afternoon. He could barely believe it. Time was wrong for him now, out of kilter since the invasion of the armed forces.

He scrambled to his feet. He felt better, almost normal, though there was still a dull throb at his temples. The ache was less urgent. Through a window in the tree-house, if you could call it that—a gap between the planks—he saw the glow of a campfire in the dark and the silhouetted figure of Stern standing a few feet off, back turned.

He lifted the cloth and went out.

“Thomas,” he said. “Did the boat go? Marlo?”

“Call me T.,” said Stern, turning. He was standing in front of his camp stove, a two-burner thing, Hal noticed, connected to the propane tank by a thin tube that snaked out of it, curling . . . it was balanced on an empty crate. T. held a large spoon, with which he was stirring something in a saucepan.

“T. OK then,” said Hal, reluctant. “I didn’t mean to sleep the whole day. I can’t believe it.”

“You needed it,” said T.

“So where’s my, uh—Marlo?”

“Marlo left.”

“He left? He stranded me?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” said T. “You’re with me. He had to get back to work. We thought you needed the rest. Dehydration, if it lasts long enough, you know—it can have serious consequences. How’d you get that far gone?”

“I don’t know,” said Hal. “I think—I wasn’t paying attention. Basically.”

“Making chili,” said T. “From a can, but it’ll do. Got a kick to it. Want any?”

“Sure. Thank you,” said Hal, and made his way around the fire to the folding chair. He was starving, he realized. Also thirsty again. He looked for his plastic cup. It was back in the tree-house, so he went to get it.

“Make yourself comfortable. There’s a bottle of wine sitting on the cooler,” called T. as Hal came out again. “Cheap and red. Probably not the best idea if you’re still feeling the dehydration, though.”

“I’ve been drinking too much lately,” said Hal. He downed another two cups of water before he reached for the wine.

Slopping cup in one hand, the folding chair in the other, he went around the propane tank and the cooler and plopped the chair down in the sand to sit facing T. It seemed polite, though awkward.

In the trees around them there were the slight sounds of birds, maybe crickets. An insect landed on Hal’s arm, a mosquito, possibly, and he slapped at it. He could hear the faint plash of waves through the screen of trees. They were low, scrubby trees not much taller than he was—more like overgrown bushes, really. He let his head fall back on his neck: above him the sky was huge. The stars were more visible tonight. They went on and on.

“So how did you end up down here?” asked T. He was slicing an onion.

“I should be asking you the questions,” said Hal. “Are you kidding? I came looking for you, of course. To help Susan. And Casey. You vanished into thin air. Your business, you know—it’s not doing so well. You’re losing money. For starters. What gives?”

“You know,” said T., and shrugged, “the usual.”

“The usual?”

“Change of priorities. I went on a river trip.”

“I know all that, the Monkey River. That guy who you were with? The guide or whatever? Dylan? His