woman be weeping long after midnight out there?
He sat up and the weeping stopped.
At the window, he looked down. The lawn was empty but covered with dew. There was a trail of footsteps across the lawn to the middle where someone had stood turning, and another trail going off toward the garden around the house.
The moon stood full in the sky and filled the lawn with its light, but there was no more sadness and only the footprints there.
He stepped back from the window, suddenly chilled, and went down to heat and drink a cup of chocolate.
He did not think of the weeping again until dusk the next day, and even then thought that it must be some woman from a house nearby, unhappy with life, perhaps locked out and in need of a place to let her sadness go.
Yet …?
As the twilight deepened, coming home he found himself hurrying from the bus, at a steady pace which astonished him. Why, why all this?
Idiot, he thought. A woman unseen weeps under your window, and here at sunset the next day, you almost run.
Yes, he thought, but her voice!
Was it beautiful, then?
No. Only familiar.
Where had he heard such a voice before, wordless in crying?
Who could he ask, living in an empty house from which his parents had vanished long ago?
He turned in at his front lawn and stood still, his eyes shadowed.
What had he expected? That whoever she was would be waiting here? Was he that lonely that a single voice long after midnight roused all his senses?
No. Simply put: he must know who the crying woman was.
And he was certain she would return tonight as he slept.
He went to bed at eleven, and awoke at three, panicked that he had missed a miracle. Lightning had destroyed a nearby town or an earthquake had shaken half the world to dust, and he had slept through it!
Fool! he thought, and slung back the covers and moved to the window, to see that indeed he had overslept.
For there on the lawn were the delicate footprints.
And he hadn’t even heard the weeping!
He would have gone out to kneel in the grass, but at that moment a police car motored slowly by, looking at nothing and the night.
How could he run to prowl, to probe, to touch the grass if that car came by again? What doing? Picking clover blossoms? Weeding dandelions? What, what?
His bones cracked with indecision. He would go down, he would not.
Already the memory of that terrible weeping faded the more he tried to make it clear. If he missed her one more night, the memory itself might be gone.
Behind him, in his room, the alarm clock rang.
Damn! he thought. What time did I set it for?
He shut off the alarm and sat on his bed, rocking gently, waiting, eyes shut, listening.
The wind shifted. The tree just outside the window whispered and stirred.
He opened his eyes and leaned forward. From far off, coming near, and now down below, the quiet sound of a woman weeping.
She had come back to his lawn and was not forever lost. Be very quiet, he thought.
And the sounds she made came up on the wind through the blowing curtains into his room.
Careful now. Careful but quick.
He moved to the window and looked down.
In the middle of the lawn she stood and wept, her hair long and dark on her shoulders, her face bright with tears.
And there was something in the way her hands trembled at her sides, the way her hair moved quietly in the wind, that shook him so that he almost fell.
He knew her and yet did not. He had seen her before, but had never seen.
Turn your head, he thought.
Almost as if hearing this, the young woman sank to her knees to half kneel on the grass, letting the wind comb her hair, head down and weeping so steadily and bitterly that he wanted to cry out: Oh, no! It kills my heart!
And as if she had heard, quite suddenly her head lifted, her weeping grew less as she looked up at the moon, so that he saw her face.
And it was indeed a face seen somewhere once, but where?
A tear fell. She blinked.
It was like the blinking of a camera and a picture taken.
‘God save me!’ he whispered. ‘No!’
He whirled and stumbled toward the closet to seize down an avalanche of boxes and albums. In the dark he scrabbled, then pulled on the closet light, tossed aside six albums until finally, dragging another forth and riffling pages, he gave a cry, stopped, and held a photo close, then turned and moved blindly to the window.
There he stared down at the lawn and then at the photograph, very old, very yellowed with age.
Yes, yes, the same! The image struck his eyes and then his heart. His whole body shook, made an immense pulsation, as he leaned at the album, leaned on the window frame, and almost shouted:
You! How dare you come back! How dare you be young! How dare you be what? A girl untouched, wandering late on my lawn!? You were never that young! Never! Damn, oh, damn your warm blood, damn your wild soul!
But this he did not shout or say.
For something in his eyes, like a beacon, must have flashed.
The crying of the young woman on the lawn stopped.
She looked up.
At which instant the album fell from his fingers, through the burst-wide screen, and down like a dark bird fluttering to strike the earth.
The young woman gave a muted cry, whirled, and ran.
‘No, no!’ he cried aloud. ‘I didn’t mean – come back!’
He was down the stairs and out on the porch in a matter of seconds. The door slammed behind him like a gunshot. The explosion nailed him to the rail, half down to the lawn, where there was nothing to be seen but footprints. Either way, up the street lay empty sidewalks and shadows under trees. A radio played off in an upstairs window in a house behind trees. A car passed, murmuring, at a far intersection.
‘Wait,’ he whispered. ‘Come back. I shouldn’t have said—’
He stopped. He had said nothing, but only thought it. But his
