Spencerville

unlocked the door, and went into the dark kitchen. Feeling both foolish and angry, he left the lights off and listened. He knew he wouldn’t be doing much night driving anymore, and if he did, he’d take the Glock or the M-16 with him.
    He considered going upstairs and getting his pistol, but his instincts told him it was safe, or if it wasn’t, he’d be better off here in the kitchen, near the door. He opened the refrigerator and got a beer.
    “So, should I turn the other cheek and leave, as Wilkes suggested?” But this was not what his life had been about.
    He opened the beer and, still standing, took a long drink. “Or do I stalk Baxter instead of the other way around? I catch him coming out of one of his girlfriends’ houses and cut his throat. A little wet stuff, one more time. Yeah, people think I did it, but there’re a thousand other suspects, and no one’s going to look too closely at it.”
    Sounded good, but that left a widow and two fatherless children, and maybe you didn’t kill a man for being a bad husband, a corrupt cop, and a bully. “But why not? I’ve killed better men for less reason.”
    He finished the beer and got himself another one. “No, I can’t murder the son-of-a-bitch. I just can’t do it. So I have to leave.” He went to the kitchen table and, by the faint light from the back door and window, he looked for the letter he’d left on the table, but didn’t see it. He turned on the light hanging over the table and searched the chairs and the floor, but the letter was gone.
    Alert now, he shut off the light and put the beer can down. He listened, but there was no sound. It occurred to him that Aunt Betty or any of that crowd may have come by to clean or deliver food. They’d seen the letter, taken it, and mailed it. But that didn’t seem likely.
    If there was anyone still in the house, they knew he was there. He could forget about the guns upstairs, because even if he made it that far, the guns wouldn’t be there any longer.
    He moved quietly toward the back door and put his hand on the knob.
    He heard a familiar squeak from the direction of the living room, then heard it again. He turned from the back door, went into the hallway, which was empty, and entered the living room, where the constant squeak came from. He turned on the floor lamp and said, “How long have you been here?”
    “About an hour.”
    “How did you get in?”
    “The key was in the toolshed, under the workbench, where it’s been for a hundred years.”
    He looked at her, sitting in the rocker, wearing jeans and a pullover. The letter was in her lap.
    She said, “I thought you’d be home, but you weren’t, and I almost left, then I remembered the key, and I decided to surprise you.”
    “I’m surprised.” But somehow he’d known it was her in the living room.
    “Do you mind that I came into the house?”
    “No.”
    “It still feels like my second home.”
    Keith had the distinct feeling this was not real, that it was a dream, and he tried to remember when he’d gone to sleep.
    She asked, “Are you alone?”
    “Yes.”
    “I thought I heard you talking in the kitchen, so I just sat here, quiet as a mouse.”
    “I’m alone. I talk to myself. Where’s your car?”
    “In the barn.”
    “Good thinking. Where is Mr. Baxter?”
    “At a city council meeting.”
    “And where are you?”
    “At Aunt Louise’s.”
    “I see… did you hear what I was saying?”
    “I could only hear the tone. Are you angry about something?”
    “No, I just argue with myself.”
    “Who won?”
    “The good angel.”
    “But you looked troubled.”
    “That’s because the good angel won.”
    She smiled. “Well, I argued with myself about coming here. This is not a chance meeting on the street.”
    “No, it’s not.”
    She held up the letter. “It was addressed to me, so…”
    “Yes, that’s all right. Saved me a stamp.”
    She stood and came toward him. “And, yes, I
do
understand. You’re right. We can’t… you remember that poem we both liked? ‘Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower, we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.’” She added, “I think we liked it because we knew we were going to be star-crossed lovers, and that poem was our comfort…” She hesitated, then leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek, saying, “Good-bye, darling.” She walked past him and into the hallway.
    He heard her go into