| OCR Text |
Show 232 and go back for the bottle of grenadine? Or take the whole tray back to the kitchen and fix them there? Indecision became crisis. He sat them down, started away, started back; found himself without direction. Found himself staring out the screen door again. Except this time he was being watched, by Molly. And like a night animal caught in sudden light, he was paralyzed. He still wanted her. It was a problem. Her eyes said nothing, held him with nothing, yet only when crisis became panic was he able to move. He picked up the tray and he bolted for the kitchen. "Philip?" It was Julia, coming out of the bathroom. His wife. "Grenadine," he explained. "Again? Above the . . ." "I know, I know. Just go out there. Please. I'm sorry." She left, blinking, concerned. Philip found the grenadine and poured it into the drinks: thick red syrup settling through orange, slowly, like blood. He understood his wife's concern; he was concerned himself. He had started having dreams. They were always the same. There was nothing to see. In the dream it was pure black night, that or he was blind, and he was only aware of sound. It was always the same. A dog barking, a child crying, and a noise he could only describe as a rush of air, like the sound he imagined a glider pilot must hear. He picked up the tray and started again for the door. Only the dog was easy to explain. McAllister, his neighbor who owned the bay, also owned dogs; big lanky hound dogs for hunting coon, and at night |
