He was both handsome and silly-looking. Tall, lean, well built, but with a slouch that seemed artificial. A contrived, self-conscious air of menace. A lock of dark hair falling over his forehead, a vain little mustache, eyes that appeared both hopeful and mocking, a boyish smile perpetually on the verge of a sulk.
She had always disliked the sight of him—she had mentioned her dislike to Leon, who said that the man was just unsure of himself, just a bit too friendly. The fact that he was unsure of himself would not make her any safer.
“Pretty worn out,” he said. “After her little adventure. You should have seen your face—you should have seen the look on you when you recognized those clothes. What did you think? Did you think I’d murdered her?”
“I was surprised,” Sylvia said.
“I bet you were. After you were such a big help to her running away.”
“I helped her—” Sylvia said with considerable effort. “I helped her because she seemed to be in distress.”
“Distress,” he said, as if examining the word. ‘‘I guess she was. She was in very big distress when she jumped off that bus and got on the phone to me to come and get her. She was crying so hard I could hardly make out what it was she was saying.”
“She wanted to come back?”
“Oh, yeah. You bet she wanted to come back. She was in real hysterics to come back. She is a girl who is very up and down in her emotions. But I guess you don’t know her as well as I do.”
“She seemed quite happy to be going.”
“Did she really? Well, I have to take your word for it. I didn’t come here to argue with you.”
Sylvia said nothing.
“Actually, I came here not just to return those clothes. I came here to tell you that I don’t appreciate you interfering in my life with my wife.”
“She is a human being,” Sylvia said, though she knew that it would be better if she could keep quiet. “Besides being your wife.”
“My goodness, is that so? My wife is a human being? Really? Thank you for the information. But don’t try getting smart with me. Sylvia.”
“I wasn’t trying to get smart.”
“Good. I’m glad you weren’t. I don’t want to get mad. I just have a couple of important things to say to you. One thing—that I don’t want you sticking your nose in anywhere, anytime, in my life. Another—that I’m not going to want her coming around here anymore. Not that she is going to want to come, I’m pretty sure of that. She doesn’t have too good an opinion of you at the moment. And it's time you learned how to clean your own house. Now—” he said. “Now. Has that sunk in?”
“Quite sufficiently.”
“Oh, I really hope it has. I hope so.”
Sylvia said, “Yes.”
“And you know what else I think?”
“What?”
“I think you owe me something.”
“What?”
“I think you owe me—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 were 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 the fog had changed. It had thickened, taken on a separate shape, transformed itself into something spiky and radiant. First, a live dandelion ball, tumbling forward, then it condensed itself into an unearthly sort of animal, pure white, hellbent, something like a giant unicorn rushing at them.
“Jesus Christ,” Clark said softly. He 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 revealed 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,” Sylvia said. “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.
“Goddam stupid animal,” he said shakily.
“She was lost,” Sylvia said.
“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. “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 goddam goat from outer space,” he said, patting Flora. But when Sylvia put out her hand to do the same Flora immediately lowered her head as if preparing to butt.
“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 as big as she’s ever going to get.”