WHEN IT WAS TIME FOR BED, I didn’t need to tell Wyatt to brush his teeth. In the bathroom he removed his toothbrush and toothpaste and brushed. He even flossed, leaning as far as he could over the bathroom sink to study his gums and teeth in the mirror, rinsing and gargling with mouthwash, closing the medicine cabinet when he finished.

“I’ve learned to be fastidious about my hygiene,” he said. “I’ll need to be up by seven to get ready for school.”

“I’ll make you breakfast,” I told him.

I bid him good night as he closed his bedroom door. Then for a moment I stood in the hallway, listening at the door. I heard the squeak of the bed. I heard him move around under the covers. Then I stepped lightly down the hall and into our bedroom.

Ernest was standing at the window beside our bed, looking outside. I saw his shadowy reflection and asked him what he was looking at, but he didn’t respond. I put on my nightgown and got into bed while he continued to gaze out the window.

“Ernest,” I said, and he leaned forward and put his hands on the window. His face was close to the glass, as if he saw something.

“Ernest,” I said again. “What is it?”

“I had some moccasins when we were first married,” he said. “Do you remember them? My father made them for me before he passed.”

“You remember the moccasins?”

He half-smiled into the window, and I felt like a miracle was occurring. Something had jarred his memory. I could barely breathe in my astonishment.

“That boy gives me a good feeling,” Ernest said. “That boy, Wyatt. It’s Ray-Ray.”

His words overwhelmed me. I sat up and turned to him. “What are you talking about, Ernest?”

“It’s Ray-Ray,” he said again, still staring out the window. “He’s come home.”

Edgar

SEPTEMBER 2

The Darkening Land

IN THE EARLY-MORNING FOG I left the motel room and took a train to the Darkening Land. I kept hearing Sonja’s voice over and over: Come home, Edgar. Mom and Papa want to see you, Edgar. What the hell are you doing, Edgar. I wasn’t going home though, at least not now. I didn’t want them to worry about me, and if I called them, they would worry. They would harass me about not going to rehab. Then they would threaten to drive back out and have another intervention, which I didn’t want. I thought I could handle everything on my own. I wanted them to feel proud of me, not ashamed, so I thought I could find a job and show them I was doing okay. Maybe I wouldn’t go home to the bonfire, or maybe I would. All I knew was that I needed to leave Albuquerque for a while.

Everyone I saw on the train looked dead, but I knew they were all sleeping. I saw their bodies slumped, mouths open. Outside the world flew by. I wasn’t able to see anything except fog. In the window I saw my smoky reflection. I leaned against the cold glass and tried to sleep. A man a few rows in front of me stood from his seat. His spine was badly crooked, and he bent forward, craning his neck to look back at me. I noticed that his eyes were bulging, and blood trickled from the side of his head. “The suffering, the suffering!” he yelled, coughing dust and smoke.

Another man and presumably his wife were in a seat across from me. The man was sleeping, and I could see mosquitoes covering the man’s face. Just then he woke, swatted them away, and blew his nose into a handkerchief. “I don’t feel well,” he told his wife.

“You’re pale,” she said. “You have no color. Your face is empty and dead.”

“I don’t feel well,” he kept saying.

He was so ashen and eaten by sickness, it was impossible to tell how old he was. By the time we pulled into the station, I wasn’t feeling well either. At some point during the trip I had developed a headache in my right temple. The longer I was on the train, the worse I felt. I had the taste of battery acid in my mouth. I sat and waited while others got their bags and exited. I had my own bag, which I slung over my shoulder as I walked off the train.

Attempts to call Rae from the station proved pointless. I couldn’t get a signal on my phone. The station was empty and dim, with no windows open and only a janitor sweeping the floor. Above us, a light buzzed and flickered. As I headed for the door, I recognized, surprisingly, a guy named Jackson who was a friend from childhood. He had thinning blond hair and wore glasses that magnified his eyes. He squinted at me, and for a minute I wondered if he recognized me.

“Edgar,” he said. He pointed at me, the way we pointed at each other as a gesture of greeting back in school. I approached him, and we shook hands.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, and he laughed.

“You don’t know? Well, finally, somebody from back home is here.”

“I got on a train,” I said. “I was in Albuquerque and needed to get out. I don’t know. I left, and here I am.”

“You look different, Chief. We used to call you Chief, remember? Everyone goes through a metamorphosis, I guess. We change appearance, don’t we?”

“My hair’s gotten longer since the last time you saw me,” I said.

“It was always long, Chief. I probably look sick from all this heavy air. The sun never comes out here.”

He invited me to stay with him. I agreed, and we walked to his car, a battered thing smelling of rotting food and cigarette smoke.