Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Bliss Review of Atheist Manifesto Review of The Stones Cry Out Film review of "Karov La Bayit" Creative Nonfiction A Reverence for Words By Virginia Hendry For the Wife of Bath and the Wife of Yeats, I Give Thanks By Sara J. Ford Birth By Clint Pearson Poetry Gong Fu By Tim J. Brennan Phases By Tolu Ogunlesi They Are Driving Their Cars Again, They Are Driving... By Anne Cammon Death of the Travelers By Abigail Grant Leaves By Matt Gee Fiction The Wood Splitter By Michael Phillips Boogie & Sarah Leigh By Sandra L. West What Happened to Matt Dillon By Chris Drangle Red, Manhattan, 523 By Beth Hogan Titanic Hat By D.K. McGill About the Contributors © 2007, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Vacant Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Senior Editor - Patti Kurtz Senior Editor - Neeldhara Misra Senior Editor - Mike Munsil Assistant Editor - Steve MacNeil Copyeditor - Kathy Skaggs Blog Contributing Editor - Maggie Koster Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch.

The Wood Splitter By Michael Phillips I woke at dawn on the first Monday after Elizabeth had left and sat on the deck with a cup of tea. Sunlight inched along the driveway and across the hayfields. The fields are owned by an old farmer who lives a half-mile away. There are five in total, covering about seventy acres to the east and south of my property, and each is separated by a row of spruce. To the west, opposite my driveway and yard, is a thin patch of forest that meets a strawberry field. My driveway is long and winds down a hill, and from the house I can’t see or hear the country road. It was my daily ritual to drink tea on the deck and watch the sunrise over the fields. It was how I gathered my strength. My attention shifted to the log pile fifty yards off, sitting in the yard between the driveway and the sliver of forest. It was a larger load than on previous years, and the sight of it made my back and shoulders ache. After breakfast I gassed up the chainsaw and tossed it in the wheelbarrow, along with an ax, a maul, and a wedge. Pulling on my gloves, I climbed to the top of the fifteen-foot pile, which consisted of about fifty trees of varying lengths and thicknesses. I rolled the top three trees off, hoisting the ends near the edge until their own weight sent them toppling to the ground. I cut two-foot logs, rotating the tree with my boot to make a through cut with the saw. When I finished sawing, I selected the fattest log as my chopping stump. It felt good to swing the ax, to feel the constriction of muscle on the down swing and the release of tension when the ax landed. I was out of shape, but I knew that soon my arms would be tight and defined. By lunchtime I finished splitting the forty or so logs that I had sawed and took a seat on the chopping stump. I had barely thought about Elizabeth all morning, but now that I had broken the rhythm of my work, my mind fled to her. She had been gone for a week. I drank a lot during the first couple of days after she left, but I scared myself with the volume I was consuming. I resolved to drink only sparingly after dinner. On the third day of her absence, I fixed everything around the house that Elizabeth had been hounding me to repair for months: I replaced the showerhead, installed a new food disposal, and tightened the knob on the stairway banister. I picked up the phone to tell her what I had done, but I hung up when I remembered I didn’t have her new number. Then boredom set in. With all the projects done, there was only the woodpile remaining. I kept putting it off. Whenever I looked out the window or stepped onto the deck, the pile mocked me. I had retired from teaching the previous spring, for which I was now sorry, and had run out of ways to occupy myself. I started on the woodpile by default more than anything else. I returned to work after lunch and rolled three more trees off the pile. I ran the saw for over an hour and had another forty logs ready for the ax. Within a few hours, despite my dead shoulders, I had everything split and hauled into the basement, where I stacked the pieces beside the wood burner. I was pleased at the start I had made, but when it’s October in Pennsylvania, winter can start any day, whether you’re ready for it or not. Gil came by that evening. I had been sitting on the deck, debating another glass of Scotch, when I heard a crunching sound at the far end of my unpaved driveway. Gil’s blue pickup turned the corner and proceeded toward the house. “I see you got started,” Gil said, having stepped down from his truck. “Hell of a load.” “Just enough not to kill me,” I said. “Come on up.” Jim Gilroy had been my friend since I moved to Newton, Pennsylvania, five years before, and he was the only one I had told about Elizabeth. A dedicated bachelor, Gil had been trying to get me to see the good in the situation with his semi-daily phone calls. I appreciated his effort, but his sophomoric counsel only depressed me further. Gil’s frame looked unsuitable for construction work, but he had an enviable mental grit that got him through each day. Although dirt and grime were common fixtures under his nails and within the creases of his worn palms, he was otherwise impeccable in his appearance: his shirts were always freshly laundered and pressed; he kept his hair neatly parted and caked stiff with mousse; and he had a ready supply of individually wrapped toothpicks in his shirt pocket, periodically removing one to pry nonexistent food particles from his teeth. Gil and Elizabeth had never gotten along, and I realized, as he sat down next to me on the porch, that he hadn’t been to the house in nearly a year. “When are you coming out with me?” Gil asked, accepting a glass of Scotch. “I know a couple of ladies that would be glad to meet you. You’ll be glad you’re single when you meet these two.” “I don’t know. Maybe.” “Christ, Pete, you gotta look at the bright side. I know it’s tough, but you gotta look at the bright side.” “You’ve told me.” “For one thing,” Gil continued, unheeding, “there are no kids to complicate things. No mess, no fuss. Smooth transition. Whammo!—a new life.” “Is that what this is?” “It’ll do you some good to get out. Come down to Covey’s with me. I know just the girl for you. She’s no beauty queen, but she’d be good for getting the rust out.” “I might be a bit old for that, Gil?” “Hell, man, you’re not even fifty.” “I’m fifty-four, Gil.” “Well, shit, down at Covey’s you’d be one of the youngest bucks around. You should see the geezers that hang around that place. But don’t let that fool you; there are a few tomatoes that pop in from time to time. You know, real loosey-goosey types.” “They sound charming.” “Hey, I’ll take what I can get.” “I just don’t think I’m interested,” I admitted. “I know,” Gil eased, “I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass. You do what you want, buddy. I’m just trying to get you to see the bright side.” Gil worked hard and, like most men who come home every day with tired backs, he looked for salvation in a barroom. He was no drunk, but his determination for a nightly buzz, for a few hours’ cheer, took priority in his life. But he rarely overdid it and never got mean or tough. In fact, the only thing that could improve a night of drinking for Gil was to have someone to share it with. He never had many friends (I know of no others beside myself), and I tried to oblige him whenever possible. I met Gil five years earlier when he worked as a janitor at the high school where I taught. We started talking about baseball one day outside the teachers’ lounge and had been friends since. I met him out from time to time or he came to the house, but Elizabeth quickly put a stop to that. She said Gil was a no-good con man. She said she could just tell. But I never saw it, or maybe I never cared. Gil, for his part, never thought much of Elizabeth either. He winced every time she called him Jim instead of Gil, which he hated, he told me, because his father’s name was Jim. “I’ll meet you out some time soon,” I said. “I just feel—I guess I’m embarrassed.” “Embarrassed about what?” Gil returned. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. You never cheated on her, never got drunk and beat her. You did everything right, everything a husband should do, and where did it get you?” “I never did those things,” I said. “But the things I did were just as bad. I was just—cold. And I never did anything about it. Elizabeth hated me for a long time, and I never tried to change her mind.” It had gotten dark, and the wind increased. Gil and I were on our second glass of Scotch, and I felt warm in just a flannel shirt and jeans. “There’s something I wanted to tell you,” Gil started, becoming fidgety. “It’s no big deal, but I figured I should tell you.” “What is it?” I searched Gil’s roaming eyes for a clue. “I saw her,” he said guiltily. “A couple days ago.” “Where?” “Waverly. I was out that way on a job.” “Was he with her?” “Come on, Pete.” “Was he with her?” “They were walking into the video store.” “She hardly ever watches movies,” I protested. “I’m just telling you what I saw.” “How did she look?” “Miserable as hell,” Gil grinned. “And the guy looked like a real knucklehead.” “Tell me seriously.” “I don’t know,” Gil shrugged. “She looked the same, I guess.” “What about the guy?” “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.” “What about the guy, Gil?” “I don’t know. He just looked like a regular guy. A little older maybe. One of these manicured types.” “Did they see you?” “No. I was driving by. I saw them in the parking lot.” Gil continued, “I figured I should tell you, but now I’m sorry I did.” “It’s okay.” “Should I not have told you?” “I asked you to, didn’t I?” “Take a drink, Pete,” Gil said, splashing more Scotch into my glass. I let the warm liquid rest on my tongue before I swallowed it. “I drink more than I used to at night,” I said. “It’s to be expected,” Gil nodded. “I suppose.” “A little will do you good, but take it easy. I’ve known guys who drank every day of their lives, but they were always on an even keel, you know, totally level. Then when something came along to really give them a reason to hit the sauce, they got mean as hell.” “I could take it or leave it,” I said. “I never touch it until after supper.” “I know,” Gil said. “You do what you want.” I couldn’t sleep that night after Gil left. I tried to read, but it was useless. I paced the floors and stared out the window, but nothing worked. The panic attacks had started seven days before, when I had come home from a weekend visiting my brother in Harrisburg to find most of Elizabeth’s clothes gone and a note on the nightstand. Whenever I thought about Elizabeth or her leaving, everything inside of me quickened. It was a pulsing sensation that started in my fingers and toes and radiated through my body like electricity. The first time it happened I thought it was a heart attack, and I found myself waiting to die. Then I thought maybe I was going crazy, which scared me worse than dying. All I could do was pace from room to room. After a few hours of that I tried to pray. I had hoped that the sound of my voice would calm me; I had hoped that the humble posture of kneeling with folded hands would quiet my mind and body, but I could find no words to say. At first I thought I was just out of practice, but it was more than that. As soon as I had begun to speak, a devastating shame washed over me. I never tried to pray again after that night. The attack I had after Gil’s visit left me exhausted but unable to sleep. I spent the night staring through the bedroom window at the log pile, which appeared as a shapeless bulge calling to me from the edge of the night. I wished away the hours until dawn, when I could get back to work. I needed the movement, the constant buzz of the saw and flight of the ax to soothe my mind. In my head that night I sawed every tree and split and stacked every log until there was nothing left of the pile. I woke after two hours of sleep with a rush of energy that proved false the instant I got to my feet. My whole body was sore, and I fought the urge to crawl back into bed. After breakfast I groped outside to the woodpile, hoping my muscles would stretch themselves out once I got started. It was a beautiful autumn morning. The air was crisp and heavy with the musty smell of decomposition. It was the kind of air that, after summer’s humidity, you almost hate to exhale. Scores of leaves had fallen in the night and were clinging with dew to the logs. I counted a dozen crows picking at the hayfield, their slick feathers reflecting the morning glare. The wind picked up and, as if carrying bad news, sent the crows cawing and into flight. Having rolled a few trees off the pile, I started the saw on the first pull, which I viewed as a good omen, and went to work. I’ve never liked running a chainsaw. I have heard of men cutting grooves into their foreheads after nasty kickbacks and of severed toes wriggling on the ground. I worked with impenetrable focus, gripping the trigger and handle tightly, while remaining aware of my footing. Running a saw is miserable work, but there is no better time than the first few minutes after shutting it off. I’ve never worn ear protection as I should, and when I kill the saw the world falls silent, as if I’m under water. For those few moments, I feel like I’m the only person left in the world. When my ears cleared and the bees stopped buzzing in my hands, I picked up the ax and started in. The first several pieces to meet the chopping stump were birch, and when I split them I could taste the mild root beer bite at the back of my throat. You have to get into a rhythm when splitting logs and not stop until you absolutely can’t take another swing. Varying your technique or taking too much time between swings throws off rhythm and makes the whole affair that much more difficult. With this in mind, I finished the birch and moved immediately to the cherry. The cherry logs were fat but easy to split. Cherry burns well, and I was happy to have a good supply. I then hurried on to the oak. I dread oak. It’s a lousy wood to split. I needed the maul and wedge to get through most of them, and I felt the deafening ping of metal on metal in my teeth and bones long after. The split pieces filled seven wheelbarrow loads. I hauled them to the basement for stacking in the ten-by-twelve-foot space beside the stove. In a few days it would be full, at which time I’d have to start stacking in the yard beside the log pile and replenish the basement supply as needed. I decided to take a walk through the field before getting back to work. There was a time when I’d walk for hours, exploring all the fields and the woods that separate each, but over the past two years I had grown bored with my hikes; there was no new ground to explore. Still, the fields made for pleasant walking, especially after they had been cut, and I usually came home with a souvenir, whether it was an old medicine bottle or an arrowhead unearthed by the plow. On clear days I could see past the far field, across the yawning foothills, and all the way to Bald Mountain, ten miles away. When I made it to the woods, I looked back at the house. I wondered if another woman would ever stand on the deck and call me to lunch. Gil had told me that I was lucky and that I should go out with him to meet women. He said it would cheer me up. The thought of it seemed depraved. I wanted to want to love another woman and be loved in return, but something held me back. I wanted to want to do all the things I ever dreamed about doing. I wanted to want to live in all the beautiful places I ever imagined living, if only for a year, but it now seemed like a foolish ambition. I was out of tune with life. I had been passed by, and all I could do was watch the world recede from view. All my former desires seemed undeserved, as if I had no right to move forward, as if I had no claim to happiness. I knew Elizabeth and I were happy once, but I couldn’t remember any specific moments. We had fought for a long time, but I couldn’t recall any individual fights either; our disputes had long fragmented into illogical images, with no trigger or resolution that I could remember. When we were finished fighting, when we no longer had even that, we stopped acknowledging each other completely. We even moved into separate bedrooms. During the past year we were no longer husband and wife; we were ghosts haunting the same dreary rooms. When she left—and she had been leaving for a long time—I didn’t try to get her back. I had no right to. Standing alone in that hayfield, I knew that her absence was merely the fulfillment of a promise she had made long before, and that my grief was nothing more than a delayed reaction to a loss that had been there all along. Still, I felt the lack of her. I carried a heavy mind back to my work. With only a few hours of light left, I attacked the wood like never before. I filled the saw with gas, and burned through the fallen logs until it ran dry. I was left with more logs than I could hope to split in a day, but once I tightened my fingers around the handle and let the ax fly I couldn’t stop. My entire body screamed for a rest, but I kept going. I was afraid that even a second’s repose would bring on panic. I fought the pain and cursed every log that stood defiantly on the chopping stump. I swung the ax as hard as I could, nearly losing my grip on the handle several times. Bark and dagger-size splinters flew at my face, and my lungs burned. Lining up a piece of cherry, I raised the ax over my head and let fly. As I landed the blow and tried to reset my feet, I tripped over the last log I had split. I lost my grip on the ax, which ended up in the driveway, and fell flat on my back. I was unhurt but unable to get up. I lay for what felt like hours, looking up through the overhanging branches at the chalky sky. A cold wind swept sawdust and fallen leaves over the ground. I wished I could fall asleep in that spot for a hundred years and wake up new. I was cold and tired. I told myself that if I could just cry, or even scream, everything would be okay again. But nothing came. I pulled myself up, collected my gear, and slouched inside. By the end of the next week I had all but finished the work. The basement teemed with wood, and seven robust stacks—each about six feet tall and ten feet long—formed a maze in the yard. I had filled my days with sawing and splitting and hauling from early morning until dusk. My work had become penance with no hope for absolution. It had become ritual for the sake of ritual. On the morning of the last day, I slid on my gloves, now worn smooth, and worked until the sun wheeled overhead. It was with reservation that I set the last log on the chopping stump and let the ax fall. When I finished, all that remained of the original woodpile was a thick carpet of sawdust that softened the fall of my boots. I dropped the ax and sat down on the chopping stump, its top mutilated and discolored. I clutched the collar of my coat against the wind. Snowflakes began to swirl, only to melt upon hitting the ground. As I stood to go inside, I remembered the chopping stump. I didn’t have the heart to split it. Allowing the stump to remain whole, I gathered my things and went inside. I ate dinner and watched the afternoon turn to evening. I was without purpose. Although my arms and shoulders had grown strong and defined, I felt fragile. Beyond usefulness. Obsolete. It was a terrible feeling that set me pacing the floors. Panic attacks still came almost daily. The nights were long and growing longer as autumn deepened. Books and movies, once a reliable, if temporary, escape, no longer helped. Even the frantic pacing of rooms aided little, as if a drug my body had built immunity against. No matter what I did to distract my mind, Elizabeth populated every room of the house. I noticed her now more in her absence than when we had lived together. I saw her hunched over the ironing board in the kitchen. I heard her singing along to the radio while dressing in front of the mirror. I saw her searching the living room bookshelf for the night’s read. Sometimes I’d look up from the television or a book and see Elizabeth reading on the couch. I used to love to watch her read. I’d study her reposed profile, tracing the lines of her face from her hair-swept forehead, to her small nose, to her mouth, where I could see her lips moving almost imperceptibly as she read. I’d tease her for moving her lips, and she’d deny it, smiling embarrassedly. Afterwards, I’d see her consciously trying to steady her mouth. She was beautiful then, as she must still be beautiful, I thought. I imagined her reading on a stranger’s couch in Waverly. I wondered if he ever noticed the tiny rise and fall of Elizabeth’s lips when she read. I hoped he did. As the moon rose into view, I felt myself falling to pieces. With no work tomorrow to look forward to, I needed some company. I called Gil to come over for a drink, but he convinced me to meet him at Covey’s. I didn’t want to go, but I figured that at the very least tomorrow’s hangover might provide a few hours’ distraction. Gil was watching a rerun of Jeopardy on the muted television above the bar when I walked in. His jeans looked new, and a gob of what looked like motor oil slicked back his hair. He was already a few drinks deep and in a celebratory mood. “Look what the cat dragged in,” Gil rose, pulling out a stool for me. “Mitch, pour a cold one for my friend.” “Make it a bourbon,” I said to the bartender, a young guy in a Penn State sweatshirt. “Get any right?” I asked Gil, pointing to the television, where Double Jeopardy had begun. “Nah. I can’t follow it without the sound. You about done over there with the wood?” “Today,” I confirmed. “Finished it this morning. Think it’s enough?” “You kidding me? I bet you got enough for this winter and most of next. Must’ve been ten cords in that load.” “About that.” “You know I would’ve given you a hand, right?” “I know. I’m thinking about ordering another load,” I added. “You kidding me?” Gil put down his beer and furrowed his brow. “What the hell for?” “I don’t know. I’ll use it eventually.” “What the hell are you trying to do, Pete?” “I always hated doing it,” I explained. “I used to do it little by little throughout the fall and winter, but I just liked being out there this year. I felt—I don’t know. Like I was worth a damn, I guess.” “Does this have to do with Elizabeth?” Gil whispered, although no one was in earshot. “Is this part of some weird-ass crisis you’re going through?” “Jesus Christ, Gil.” “I don’t mean to give you shit, but if you order another load I’ll personally come to your house and set fire to the whole damn thing. They’ll see the flames from Berwick.” I switched the conversation to the World Series, which was a far more appealing topic. I drank two more glasses of bourbon then switched to beer. I felt warm and loose, like my shoulders were unraveling. It felt good to be drunk, but I knew I’d pay for it in the morning. A dozen people filed into Covey’s over the next hour or so, occupying the stools along the bar and the tables against the back wall. Mitch worked up a sweat pouring drafts and shots. The jukebox played all the great songs I never get to hear anymore, like “Brown Sugar” and “Like a Rolling Stone.” A few of the younger girls were singing along to the chorus of “Sweet Caroline.” While I sipped the frost of a fresh beer, I noticed two women come and in and head straight for Gil. “I was wondering when you’d show!” Gil beamed, swiveling his stool. "You’re about five rounds behind.” “You’ll have to catch us up, big shot,” the taller of the two women smirked. “First things first,” Gil said. “Meet my great friend Pete Stanton. Pete, meet the lovely Cynthia and Deb.” Gil bought them drinks, and we offered up our stools, which they quickly accepted. Cynthia, the taller of the two, was just Gil’s type. She wore impossibly tight jeans and three-inch heels that seemed out of place at Covey’s. The top two buttons of her blouse were undone, revealing the tops of her freckled cleavage. Deb, the prettier of the two, mostly smiled and took tiny sips of her gin and tonic. She concealed her figure under a long skirt and a sweatshirt. As I stood behind Deb searching for something to say, I noticed dark roots imbedded in her blond hair. I estimated Cynthia and Deb to be at least forty; it was depressing to think I was probably too old for them. When a table opened up we sat down against the back wall. Gil pulled out the chair beside Cynthia and sat down, forcing me to sit beside Deb. The women chain-smoked some kind of long, skinny cigarettes, and I could taste menthol in my beer. I haven’t smoked in nineteen years, but for some reason I had to fight the urge to ask for a cigarette. I guess you never completely get over anything. I looked at Gil, who had his arm on the back of Cynthia’s chair, and realized I should’ve expected this. Gil probably thought he was cheering me up. I had hoped for a quiet evening of drinking and chatting with my friend, but with Deb and Cynthia there I felt under the glare of a white-hot light. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” Cynthia said. “You poor thing.” “Jesus Christ, Cynth,” Gil rebuked. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m sorry, Jack,” Gil winced. “That’s okay. Thank you, Cynthia.” “How long were you married?” Cynthia pushed. “About twenty years,” I answered. “I guess I’d really rather not talk about it.” “Of course you don’t, sweetie,” Cynthia pouted. “You don’t have to. I have such a big mouth sometimes. Just ask Deb.” “And nosey, too,” Deb laughed. “Deb is single, you know?” Gil added. “Divorced, actually,” Deb simpered, casting a downward glance. “He was a bastard, honey,” Cynthia grinned. “Better off without him, if you ask me.” “We’re all better off,” Gil burst, his voice awash in drunkenness. “Let’s have another round, huh? It’s starting to get like a funeral in here.” Gil got up and fought his way to the bar, bringing back two pitchers of beer. We talked and drank for hours. The more Cynthia talked about her two Chihuahuas and her oversexed boss the harder I drank. But Deb never lost her sweet demeanor. Deb I could tolerate. She seemed embarrassed by Cynthia, blushing whenever her friend spoke crudely. Deb worked as a receptionist at the Toyota dealership in nearby Scranton, she explained. She said she loved speaking to strangers on the phone, even when they were rude or short with her. Deb was simple and genuine, and every few minutes she bumped her knee against mine. At midnight, Gil and Cynthia, undoubtedly by design, stood up and reached for their coats. I expected Deb to rise as well; I even slid my chair over to give her room, but she just became fidgety and took another sip of her drink. “We’re heading out,” Gil slurred. “You can give Deb a ride home, right?” Gil winked indiscreetly. “I’d appreciate it, buddy.” “I guess so,” I shrugged, looking to Deb for consent. Deb and I finished our drinks and chatted comfortably. When we were ready to leave, I realized that Gil had failed to leave money, and I gave the bartender my credit card. With the tab paid, I helped Deb on with her coat and led her outside. “Where do you live?” I asked. “Dunmore,” Deb winced. “I’m sorry.” I was in no condition for the one-hour roundtrip, but I helped Deb into my car and started the engine. “Maybe I should just stay at your place,” Deb suggested, fastening her belt. “I mean, you probably shouldn’t drive all that way. I can have Cynthia pick me up in the morning, if that’s okay with you.” I agreed to let her stay and drove back to my house, feeling that rush of fear and triumph that I hadn’t felt in many years. The moon poured in through the window and cast a white glow on Deb’s face. Her eyes had a distant look, but she pulled me close. I felt clumsy and anxious, and I kept wondering what Deb was thinking. I kept wondering if Deb’s being with me was an act of pity. Afterwards, I rolled over and felt the cool sheets on my back. I searched for something to say. The room felt close and airless. Without a word, Deb rolled onto her side, facing me, and nestled her head against my arm. I soon fell asleep, feeling the foreign warmth of a woman’s bare skin against my own. I woke to the sun tearing through the window. I buried my head in the pillow and felt my stomach doing somersaults. It took me several minutes to remember Deb, and when I turned over I found only empty sheets. I got up and found a note on the nightstand. Deb wrote that she enjoyed meeting me and had called a cab to take her home. I hadn’t even heard her leave. Feeling nauseous, I poured a cup of tea and stepped onto the deck for some air. As I kneaded my achy brow, I detected a crunching sound coming from the end of the driveway. I put down my cup and stood up against the banister for a better look. A black sedan came into view. I hurried back inside and put on my robe. When I returned to the window, I saw Elizabeth climb out of the car and start toward the door. I rushed to meet her and swung the door open before she could put her key in the lock. “Whose car is that?” I demanded, holding my robe closed. “That’s the first thing you have to say to me?” The in-rush of sunlight at her back forced me to squint. All I could see of Elizabeth was her severe outline. She pushed me aside and hurried through the foyer. “I asked you a question.” “It’s none of your business whose car it is,” Elizabeth snapped. Before I could catch my breath Elizabeth was in her bedroom, rummaging through drawers. I stood in the doorway. She looked thin, and her face, with her black hair pulled back, looked chiseled, as if the skin had been stretched back. She had brought an oversized shopping bag, and she moved methodically around the room, gathering clothes and shoes that she had left behind in her hasty escape many weeks ago. “You’re looking well, Pete,” she smirked, exiting the room. "Hanging out with Gil again?” “Why are you here, Elizabeth?” “I came to grab a few things. I didn’t think you’d be here.” “Where else would I be, Elizabeth?” “Will you please just let me do what I have to do so I can get out of here? I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here.” “Why do you have to talk that way?” I raised my voice. “I just want to talk. Can’t we at least be civilized?” “I was being civilized. You’re the one shouting.” “Christ, Elizabeth, you just storm in here! How the hell am I supposed to react?” “I guess you’re supposed to react just the way you are.” “You can at least talk to me like I was once something to you. I’m still your damn husband.” “What do you want me to say, Pete. I’m sorry? Well, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” “It doesn’t change anything.” “No, it doesn’t, does it?” Elizabeth pushed past me and hurried down the hall to my bedroom. She went to the nightstand and removed her spare reading glasses from the drawer. I hadn’t even realized they were in there. She almost failed to notice Deb’s note when she closed the drawer and turned away, but she stopped, as if in recognition of some profound truth, and turned back. She never picked up the note; she just read it as it lay. She left the room and carried her bag to the car. I was glad she had seen the note, but I knew Elizabeth would now never return. Leaning on the banister, I watched her reverse out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. I sat down and sipped the cold remains of the teacup. I looked toward the wind-swept hayfields, where a dusting of snow melted in the midmorning sun, and began to cry. I cried so hard that I fell forward onto my knees on the cold deck. Afterwards, I felt lifeless and drained. I gathered myself off the floor and went inside, collapsing on the bed. *** I woke to dusk’s fragile light quivering at the window. When I looked out, the hayfields were the color of tarnished gold. Clusters of red, yellow, and brown leaves clung to the branches of the trees along the yard, waiting for that gust of wind that would break them free. I hated to see the last leaves of autumn fall. It made me sad to see the trees standing barren in naked rows. We were entering the desolate weeks before the snows came fully. I tried to imagine the yard, the trees, and the fields in their winter masks, when they’d be beautiful again. It seemed a long time from now, as the rest of the days of my life seemed far away. I stood at the window until I could see only my reflection in the glass. Night came fast and terrible. The dark pressed against the house, bulging the windows and walls inward. The night was a crushing weight on my body. I breathed shallow, panicky breaths. My hands were on fire. I was standing at the precipice of a deep abyss, and I was losing my balance I hurried to the garage and lifted the door. Cold air flooded in. I tried to breathe deeply, to savor the draughts, but my lungs heaved open and closed like pistons. I went to the tool rack, where the chainsaw and ax hung side by side. On the shelf below was the gas can. With my boots unlaced, I ran clumsily up the driveway toward the wood stacks. I wore just jeans and a T-shirt and was warm. The gas can was heavy, and I switched it from hand to hand. At the stacks, I put down the can and began to roam the stacks, weaving in and out of the labyrinth. The smell of birch, cherry, and pine mingled together. Scraps of bark crunched beneath my boots. I unscrewed the cap on the gas can and soaked the nearest stack. One by one I did the same to all the piles. I pulled a match from my pocket and tossed it on the closest pile. Flames leaped into the air with a frightening whoosh. I picked up the unlit end of a log and touched off the rest of the stacks. The flames rose ten feet, and smoke poured into the sky. A galaxy of glowing embers hung momentarily suspended in the overhanging tee branches, only to extinguish and fall invisibly back down. The heat pressed on my face. The fire crackled as it spread down the sides of the stacks, charring every exposed splinter in its path. I stared into the face of the spreading flames and felt a sense of relief. I hadn’t seen anything so beautiful in a long time. The flames roared throughout the night, reducing the stacks to a quarter of their original size. A thick layer of ash crowned each pile. The flames gradually lost force, turning to mere trickles that could scarcely blacken the wood. When the fire had nearly completely died, I went inside to wait for morning. I stepped onto the porch at dawn and watched the smoke still curling off the wood. What remained would probably last the winter, and I didn’t give a damn about what was lost. As the sun met the tops of the trees in the yard, I recalled how Gil had called this my new life. He wasn’t quite right, though. It wasn’t a new life; I was simply passing into a later phase. No better, no worse. I looked past my yard and across the hayfields with the sun on my face, feeling the seasons of my life changing.