deranged, and his wealth, combined with the youth and good looks, makes it even more unlikely that The Wind and Pines would find itself by chance at the top of his list of winter vacation spots.
âWhatâs he doing here?â I asked her. âI mean, why here ?â
I wanted to ask, Why are any of us here? Why here ? But it was too pointed.
âNot sure,â she said, as though it was all the same where he was.
âWell, how about you?â I asked. âI donât mean why arenât you in Boston, I understand that. I mean how did you end up at this motel?â
Again she looked indifferent to the question but passingly curious about why it had been asked, the way a person might look if you asked them, with intense and focused interest, where they bought their toothpaste.
âI was here last summer,â she said, flipping through a magazine about trout. âI came back for the rest. Itâs restful. You know. And Donâs such a nice guy. Isnât he?â
âDonâs great. But last summer,â I persistedâbecause it was gnawing at me, the casual presence of everyone, their unlikely presence, their stubborn persistenceââhowâd you find it in the first place?â
âJust the website,â she said, and put down the trout magazine in favor of a yellowing copy of Cat Fancy .
As she reached for it one of her long sleeves rode up, and I saw a red scar along the wrist.
BURKE CAME TO HELP with Lenaâs lessons; heâs her tutor in botany. They planted seeds in a doll-sized greenhouse we put together from a kit, Burke bent over beside her, avuncular and kindly. The greenhouse has rows of light-green pots maybe two inches in diameter, a line of small lightbulbs and transparent plastic walls. It sits on our windowsill.
Lena had said she wanted to grow a beanstalk, so Burke brought her several kinds of beans to plant. He cautioned her the stalk might not be large enough to climb on; it might not reach the sky. She nodded and told him that was just as well, because she didnât want to meet a giant or a giantess, she didnât want to hear a cannibal giant say âFee, fi, fo, fum. I smell the blood of an Englishman.â
She isnât an Englishman, she said to Burke, but she still thought the giant might want her, even if sheâs a girl and an American. She didnât want to hear that giant talk about smelling blood.
Burke patted her head.
âI promise, sweetie,â he said, âthere wonât be any giants speaking to you from this beanstalk.â
As soon as he said it his face went pale. He stood there for a few seconds and sat down heavily on my bed, leaned over and stuck his head between his knees.
I was taken abackâBurke had seemed more solid and self-assured lately, seemed to require less comforting.
âAre you OK?â I asked, leaning over him, laying my hand against his back and taking it off self-consciously.
He looked up and nodded.
âSorry,â he said. âPanic-attack type . . . sorry. Iâm fine. Heading back to my room.â
Lena cocked her head, confused; I watched the door close behind him.
âHere,â I said, picking up a library picture book on plants, âletâs read this part about how seeds germinate. Most seeds contain an embryo and food package . . .â
IT OCCURRED TO ME , reading about the transmigration of souls, that my early assumption of some kind of nonhuman power or supernatural omniscience had been impressively unfounded. It might have been just a person âs thoughts that had got loose, the memories or knowledge base of, say, some overeducated, possibly unhinged individual whose stream of consciousness flowed along carrying the debris of a lifetime. Could be that Lena caught the ruminations of a scientist or scholar.
Maybe this is a ghost story after all.
Or maybe the information thatâs now carried by so many frequencies just caught in