Free The Orphan by Robert Stallman Page B

the track. I slip down into the creek, up the embankment and across the tracks almost crawling on my belly. On the other side is a small stand of oaks and maples that leads into a woods. I have made it.
    Now that I have been clearly seen by two groups of people, there will be much more difficulty getting out of this country. I must have the ability to shift so that I can pass unnoticed. And Robert is now a part of me. I promise him that we will go back to the farm for just a little bit. After two nights in an abandoned pump house, I return to spend a whole day in the Nordmeyer’s hayloft in the dusty dry heat, peeking out of the cracks in the hay door as black automobiles drive in and out of the lane, people come in black clothes and go in and out the front door. I have never seen people use the front door of the farmhouse before. Many of them are weeping. I recognize Vaire, Anne, and Walter, and see another group that must be the other sister, her husband and child. At intervals in the long, hot day I sleep, trying to recuperate my senses that seem to have been deranged by the battle and flight. I wake to see the narrow sunbeams striking down from tiny cracks and holes in the roof, standing like wires and ribbons and slender pillars in the dusty air. It is quiet in the high, empty loft, like an aisle in the forest when the sun shines down through morning mist. I am thirsty, but cannot go down for a drink until dark. I push back the thirst and wonder at the numbness of my senses. The part of me that is Robert is clearly delineated by a sick sensation inside me. I push it all away and resolve to sleep until dark.
    I wake to feel the need for Robert to appear. I have never felt this before. I concentrate and shift, easily.
    Robert stepped carefully in the dark to avoid getting slivers from the old, rough plank floor. He carried a rag that had the harmonica tied up in it. The barn was quiet, the cows asleep, the dogs chained up outside the big sliding doors. Biff came over to Robert dragging his chain and wagging his heavy tail, his head down as if it was all his fault.
    Robert stood outside the back screen. No one was awake inside, but there was a lamp burning in the living room. The screen was not hooked. Robert opened the door and walked carefully in across the scrubbed dark spots on the porch floor. The kitchen was very clean and empty looking, and the dining room table had been set up again and polished. In the living room, sitting across two sawhorses, was a gray, oblong box made of metal with rod-like handles along the sides. The top of the box was laid back so that it opened up like Aunt Cat’s jewel box on her dresser. Inside, the box gleamed with slick cloth that looked almost wet, it was so shiny. The lamp was sitting where the radio used to be, on the little side table with the spindly legs. It was turned low, the flame unmoving as if it were painted in a picture.
    Robert could not see into the coffin, so he had to pull a chair from the dining room. Standing on the chair; his hands on the edge of the long box, Robert looked in at Martin, who appeared to be sleeping with his hands folded on his chest. Robert had never seen Martin asleep, had never seen him so still. He had always been working, walking about the farm, telling Robert things about the animals and about planting and caring for crops. Now his eyes had disappeared behind the walnut burl wrinkles, his mouth closed hard on something, as if he were gritting his teeth, and the corners turned down in disapproval. He wore a black suit that Robert had never seen either, and a white shirt that was starchy clean, and a blue necktie. It looked like Martin, Robert thought, but it certainly was not the happy old farmer Robert had known. He gazed for a long time, leaning closer as if to catch a breathed word or see the beginnings of a smile, as if Martin were only teasing him as he used to do, pretending to be angry. Then it seemed the face began to change indeed, and