Fires. Essays, Poems, Stories

she said.
    "I should bring in my things," Mr. Harrold said, following her out. He shut the door behind them and they stood on the porch looking down the hill.
    "I'm just sorry your wife couldn't come," the old woman said.
    He didn't answer.
    From where they stood they were almost on a level with the huge rock protruding from the hillside behind the road. Some people said it looked like a petrified castle. "How's the fishing?' he said.
    "Some of them are getting fish, but most of the men are out hunting," she said. "Deer season, you know."
    He drove the car as close as he could to the cabin and started to unload. The last thing he took out of the car was a pint of Scotch from the glove compartment. He set the bottle on the table. Later, as he spread out the boxes of weights and hooks and thick-bodied red and white flies, he moved the bottle to the drainboard. Sitting there at the table smoking a cigarette with his tackle box open and everything in its place, his flies and the weights spread out, testing leader strength between his hands and tying up outfits for that afternoon, he was glad he'd come after all. And he'd still be able to get in a couple of hours fishing this afternoon. Then there was tomorrow. He'd already decided he would save some of the bottle
    for when he came back from fishing that afternoon and have the rest for tomorrow.
    As he sat at the table tying up outfits, he thought he heard something digging out on the porch. He got up from the table and opened the door. But there was nothing there. There were only the white hills and the dead-looking pines under the overcast sky and, down below, the few buildings and some cars drawn up beside the highway. He was all at once very tired and thought he would lie down on the bed for a few minutes. He didn't want to sleep. He'd just lie down and rest, and then he'd get up, dress, take his things, and walk down to the river. He cleaned off the table, undressed, and then got in between the cold sheets. For a while he lay on his side, eyes closed, knees drawn up for warmth, then he turned onto his back and wiggled his toes against the sheet. He wished Frances were here. He wished there were somebody to talk to.
    He opened his eyes. The room was dark. The stove gave off little crackling noises, and there was a red glow on the wall behind the stove. He lay in bed and stared at the window, not able to believe it was really dark outside. He shut his eyes again and then opened them. He'd only wanted to rest. He hadn't intended to fall asleep. He opened his eyes and sat up heavily on the side of the bed. He got on his shirt and reached for his pants. He went into the bathroom and threw water on his face.
    "Goddamn it!" he said, banging things around in the kitchen cupboard, taking down some cans and putting them back again. He made a pot of coffee and drank two cups before deciding to go down to the cafe for something to eat. He put on wool slippers and a coat and hunted around until he found his flashlight. Then he went outside.
    The cold air stung his cheeks and pinched his nostrils together. But the air felt good to him. It cleared his head. The lights from the lodge showed him where he was walking, and he was careful. Inside the cafe, he nodded to the girl, Edith, and sat down in a booth near the end of the counter. He could hear a radio playing back in the kitchen. The girl made no effort to wait on him.
    "Are you closed?' Mr. Harrold said.
    "Kind of. I'm cleaning up for the morning," she said.
    "Too late for something to eat then," he said.
    "I guess I can get you something," she said. She came over with a menu.
    "Mrs. Maye around, Edith?"
    "She's up in her room. Did you need her for something?
    "I need more wood. For in the morning."
    "It's out in back," she said. "Right here behind the kitchen."
    He pointed to something simple on the menu—a ham sandwich with potato salad. "I'll have this," he said.
    As he waited, he began moving the salt and pepper shakers around in a little circle in front of him. After she brought his plate to him, she hung around out in front, filling sugar bowls and napkin holders, looking up at him from time to time. Pretty soon, before he'd finished, she came over with a wet rag and began wiping off his table.
    He left some money, considerably more than the bill, and went out through a door at the side of the lodge. He went around back where he picked up an armload of wood. Then the snail's pace climb up to the cabin. He looked back