The Lovers

And March still waited in the wings, a miserable month of dripping ice and melting snow and the last vestiges of winter lurking filthily in shadowy places. Then April, and May. Summer, and warmth, and tourists.

But, for now, there was only winter without the promise of spring. Here there were ice and snow, and the traces of old footprints retained amid the crystals like unwanted memories that refused to die. The people huddled together, and waited for the siege to break. But that day, the day that Nathan spoke of the dead of winter, brought something strange and different to this part of the world.

It brought the mist.

It brought them.

It had been bitterly cold for days, weeks, unusually so even for the time of year. Snow had fallen, day after day, and then, just before Valentine’s Day, it turned to freezing rain that flooded streets and turned the drifts of accumulated snow to rugged slabs of ice. Then the Jrillen rain stopped but the cold stayed, until at last the weather broke, and temperatures climbed.

And the mist rose off the white fields like smoke from a cold burning, carried by air currents unfelt by man so that it seemed almost a living thing, a pale manifestation with a purpose untold and unknown. The shapes of the trees became indistinguishable, the forests lost to the enveloping fog. It did not diminish or falter, but appeared to grow denser and deeper as the day drew on, dampening the towns and cities and falling like soft rain on windows and cars and people. By nightfall visibility was down to a matter of feet, and the highway signs flashed warnings about speed and distance.

And still the mist came. It took over the city, turning the brightest lights to ghosts of themselves, cutting off those who walked the streets from others like them, so that all felt alone in the world. In its way, it brought closer together those with families and other loved ones, for they sought solace with one another, a point of contact in a world that had grown suddenly unfamiliar.

Perhaps that was why they came back, or did I still believe that they had never quite departed to begin with? I had set them free, these ghosts of my wife and child. I had asked their forgiveness for my failings, and I had taken all that I had retained of their lives-clothes and toys, dresses and shoes-and burned them in my yard. I had felt them leave, following the marsh streams into the waiting sea beyond, and when I set foot in the house again, the smell of smoke and lost things thick upon me, it seemed different to me: lighter, somehow, as though a little of the clutter had been cleared from it, or an old, stale odor banished by the breezes through open windows.

They were my ghosts, of course. I had created them, in my way. I had given form to them, making my anger and grief and loss their own, so that they became to me hostile things, with all that I had once loved about them gone, and all that I hated about myself filling the void. And they took that shape and accepted it, because it was their way to return to this world, my world. They were not ready to slip into the shadows of memory, to become like dreams, to relinquish their place in this life.

And I did not understand why.

But that was not them. That was not the wife I had loved, however poorly, and the daughter I had once cherished. I had caught glimpses of them as they truly were, before I allowed them to be transformed. I saw my dead wife leading the ghost of a boy into a deep forest, his small hand in hers, and I knew that he felt no fear of her. She was the Summer Lady, taking him to those whom he had lost, accompanying him on his last journey through the thickets and trees. And so that he would not be frightened, so that he would not be alone, there was another with him, a girl close to his own age who skipped in winter sunlight as she waited for her playmate to arrive.

This was my wife and child. This was their true form. What I released in smoke and flames were my ghosts. What returned with the mist were their own.

I worked that night. I was not scheduled to do so, but Al and Lorraine, two of the regular bartenders who had been living together for almost as long as they had been working at the Bear, were involved in a collision on Route 1 not far from Scarborough Downs, and both were taken to the hospital as a precaution. With nobody to cover for them, it meant that I had to spend another night behind the bar. I was still tired from the night before, but there was nothing to be done except to J ona p keep going. I figured that I could probably get an extra day in comp time from Dave, which would give me a little more time to spend in New York the following week, but for now it was just me and Gary and Dave, serving up beers and burgers and trying to keep our heads above water.

Mickey Wallace had pla

As darkness settled on the city, and while the mist was still heavy on the land, Mickey drove out to Scarborough.

It was past 8 P.M. as Mickey moved through the fog toward the house on the hill. He knew that Parker would not return until one or two in the morning, and the house next door was dark. An old couple, the Johnsons, lived there, but they seemed to be away. What was it that they called people who left for Florida when the cold began to bite? Birds? No, “snowbirds,” that was it.

Even if they were home, it wouldn’t have deterred him from what he was pla

He had already driven by the subject’s house a couple of times in daylight, but he couldn’t take the chance of looking at it up close without the risk of being seen. Now that he wasn’t working as a PI any longer, Parker spent more of his time at home, but Mickey hadn’t been allowed the luxury of watching the house for long enough to establish his routines. That would come, in time.

Mickey still entertained the possibility that he could wear down Parker’s defenses and receive at least a modicum of cooperation from him. Mickey was tenacious, in a quiet way. He knew that most people wanted to talk about their lives, even if they didn’t always realize it themselves. They wanted a sympathetic ear, someone who would listen, who would understand. Sometimes all it took was a cup of coffee, but he’d seen it take a bottle of Chivas too. They were the two extremes, and the rest of humanity, in Mickey’s experience, slotted into various points between.