day we were married—’
‘Yes!’
‘Our friends driving and dropping us off here and we walked down to the drugstore by the pier and bought a tube of toothpaste and two toothbrushes, big bucks, for our honeymoon …? One red toothbrush, one green, to decorate our empty bathroom. And on the way back along the beach, holding hands, suddenly, behind us, two little girls and a boy followed us and sang:
‘Happy marriage day to you,Happy marriage day to you.Happy marriage day, happy marriage day,Happy marriage day to you …’
She sang it now, quietly. He chimed in, remembering how they had blushed with pleasure at the children’s voices, but walked on, feeling ridiculous but happy and wonderful.
‘How did they guess? Did we look married?’
‘It wasn’t our clothes! Our faces, don’t you think? Smiles that made our jaws ache. We were exploding. They got the concussion.’
‘Those dear children. I can still hear their voices.’
‘And so here we are, seventeen months later.’ He put his arm around her and gazed at their future on the dark ceiling.
‘And here I am,’ a voice murmured.
‘Who?’ Douglas said.
‘Me,’ the voice whispered. ‘Sascha.’
Douglas looked down at his wife’s mouth, which had barely trembled.
‘So, at last, you’ve decided to speak?’ said Douglas.
‘Yes,’ came the whisper.
‘We wondered,’ said Douglas, ‘when we would hear from you.’ He squeezed his wife gently.
‘It’s time,’ the voice murmured. ‘So here I am.’
‘Welcome, Sascha,’ both said.
‘Why didn’t you talk sooner?’ asked Douglas Spaulding.
‘I wasn’t sure that you liked me,’ the voice whispered.
‘Why would you think that?’
‘First I was, then I wasn’t. Once I was only a name. Remember, last year, I was ready to come and stay. Scared you.’
‘We were broke,’ said Douglas quietly. ‘And nervous.’
‘What’s so scary about life?’ said Sascha. Maggie’s lips twitched. ‘It’s that other thing. Not being, ever. Not being wanted.’
‘On the contrary.’ Douglas Spaulding moved down on his pillow so he could watch his wife’s profile, her eyes shut, but her mouth breathing softly. ‘We love you. But last year it was bad timing. Understand?’
‘No,’ whispered Sascha. ‘I only understand you didn’t want me. And now you do. I should leave.’
‘But you just got here!’
‘Here I go, anyway.’
‘Don’t, Sascha! Stay!’
‘Good-bye.’ The small voice faded. ‘Oh, good-bye.’
And then silence.
Maggie opened her eyes with quiet panic.
‘Sascha’s gone,’ she said.
‘He can’t be!’
The room was still.
‘Can’t be,’ he said. ‘It’s only a game.’
‘More than a game. Oh, God, I feel cold. Hold me.’
He moved to hug her.
‘It’s okay.’
‘No. I had the funniest feeling just now, as if he were real.’
‘He is. He’s not gone.’
‘Unless we do something. Help me.’
‘Help?’ He held her even tighter, then shut his eyes, and at last called:
‘Sascha?’
Silence.
‘I know you’re there. You can’t hide.’
His hand moved to where Sascha might be.
‘Listen. Say something. Don’t scare us, Sascha. We don’t want to be scared or scare you. We need each other. We three against the world. Sascha?’
Silence.
‘Well?’ whispered Douglas.
Maggie breathed in and out.
They waited.
‘Yes?’
There was a soft flutter, the merest exhalation on the night air.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re back!’ both cried.
Another silence.
‘Welcome?’ asked Sascha.
‘Welcome!’ both said.
And that night passed and the next day and the night and day after that, until there were many days, but especially midnights when he dared to declare himself, pipe opinions, grow stronger and firmer and longer in half-heard declarations, as they lay in anticipatory awareness, now she moving her lips, now he taking over, both open as warm, live ventriloquists’ mouthpieces. The small voice shifted from one tongue to the other, with soft bouts of laughter at how ridiculous but loving it all seemed, never knowing what Sascha might say next, but letting him speak on until dawn and a smiling sleep.
‘What’s this about Halloween?’ he asked, somewhere in the sixth month.
‘Halloween?’ both wondered.
‘Isn’t that a death holiday?’ Sascha murmured.
‘Well, yes …’
‘I’m not sure I want to be born on a night like that.’
‘Well, what night would you like to be born on?’
Silence as Sascha floated a while.
‘Guy Fawkes,’ he finally whispered.
‘Guy Fawkes??!!’
‘That’s mainly fireworks, gunpowder plots, Houses of Parliament, yes? Please to remember the fifth of November?’
