Alice Munros Best

“Yes.”
    “And you know what else I think?”
    “What?”
    “I think you owe me something.”
    “What?”
    “I think you owe me – maybe – you owe me an apology.”
    Sylvia said, “All right. If you think so. I’m sorry.”
    He shifted, perhaps just to put out his hand, and with the movement of his body she shrieked.
    He laughed. He put his hand on the doorframe to make sure she didn’t close it.
    “What’s that?”
    “What’s what?” he said, as if she was trying out a trick and it would not work. But then he caught sight of something reflected in the window, and he snapped around to look.
    Not far from the house was a wide shallow patch of land that often filled up with night fog at this time of year. The fog was there tonight, had been there all this while. But now at one point there was a change. The fog had thickened, taken on a separate shape, transformed itself into something spiky and radiant. First a live dandelion ball, tumbling forward, then condensing itself into an unearthly sort of animal, pure white, hellbent, something like a giant unicorn, rushing at them.
    “Jesus Christ,” Clark said softly and devoutly. And grabbed hold of Sylvia’s shoulder. This touch did not alarm her at all – she accepted it with the knowledge that he did it either to protect her or to reassure himself.
    Then the vision exploded. Out of the fog, and out of the magnifying light – now seen to be that of a car travelling along this back road, probably in search of a place to park – out of this appeared a white goat. A little dancing white goat, hardly bigger than a sheepdog.
    Clark let go. He said, “Where the Christ did you come from?”
    “It’s your goat,” said Sylvia. “Isn’t it your goat?”
    “Flora,” he said. “Flora.”
    The goat had stopped a yard or so away from them, had turned shy and hung her head.
    “Flora,” Clark said. “Where the hell did you come from? You scared the shit out of us.”
    Us.
    Flora came closer but still did not look up. She butted against Clark’s legs.
    “Goddamn stupid animal,” he said shakily. “Where’d you come from?”
    “She was lost,” said Sylvia.
    “Yeah. She was. Never thought we’d see her again, actually.”
    Flora looked up. The moonlight caught a glitter in her eyes.
    “Scared the shit out of us,” Clark said to her. “Were you off looking for a boyfriend? Scared the shit. Didn’t you? We thought you were a ghost.”
    “It was the effect of the fog,” Sylvia said. She stepped out of the door now, onto the patio. Quite safe.
    “Yeah.”
    “Then the lights of that car.”
    “Like an apparition,” he said, recovering. And pleased that he had thought of this description.
    “Yes.”
    “The goat from outer space. That’s what you are. You are a goddamn goat from outer space,” he said, patting Flora. But when Sylvia put out her free hand to do the same – her other hand still held the bag of clothes that Carla had worn – Flora immediately lowered her head as if to prepare for some serious butting.
    “Goats are unpredictable,” Clark said. “They can seem tame but they’re not really. Not after they grow up.”
    “Is she grown-up? She looks so small.”
    “She’s big as she’s ever going to get.”
    They stood looking down at the goat, as if expecting she would provide them with more conversation. But this was apparently not going to happen. From this moment they could go neither forward nor back. Sylvia believed that she might have seen a shadow of regret cross his face that this was so.
    But he acknowledged it. He said, “It’s late.”
    “I guess it is,” said Sylvia, just as if this had been an ordinary visit.
    “Okay, Flora. Time for us to go home.”
    “I’ll make other arrangements for help if I need it,” she said. “I probably won’t need it now, anyway.” She added almost laughingly, “I’ll stay out of your hair.”
    “Sure,” he said. “You better get inside. You’ll get cold.”
    “People used to think night fogs were dangerous.”
    “That’s a new one on me.”
    “So good night,” she said. “Good night, Flora.”
    The phone rang then.
    “Excuse me.”
    He raised a hand and turned away. “Good night.”
    It was Ruth on the phone.
    “Ah,” Sylvia said. “A change in plans.”
    SHE DID NOT SLEEP , thinking of the little goat, whose appearance out of the fog seemed to her more and more magical. She even wondered if, possibly, Leon could have had something to do with it. If