372
L.
WOIWOOE
all
right? And you can say I've left a note for her on the buffet.
And . . . . Well, I've talked enough. You have to get to sleep, if you
aren't already. Are you asleep?"
"No."
"Good. 1 wanted to talk to you." There was a long silence.
"Don't forget to mention the note."
"1 won't."
There was a protest of springs as
his
father leaned forward, and
felt over the covers for Owen's hand. He took it in his. "All right,"
he said. "I'm going now."
Owen could feel his indecision,
his
suppressed emotion,
his
reluc–
tance to leave, which was almost a plea, and the dark air began to
reverberate as though a tuning fork had been struck. Owen could
think of only one thing to say, and he said it. "Sing me a song be–
fore you go."
The edge of the mattress
sank
under the weight of
his
father's
forearms, tilting Owen toward
him,
there was the dull sound of knees
striking the floor, and Owen could smell his father's hair.
"Oh, Owen, I'm sorry."
The strength left Owen. He felt that the bed, holding himself
and
his
father's torso, was dissolving into the darkness, as was the
floor, the room, the house around them, and the earth itself was
opening to receive them. The fear was communicated through
his
hand to his father. His father released it and stood up, and as he
stood the room returned to its earlier state; there was a third per–
son in it.
His
father cleared
his
throat. "AIl right. I'm going."
"Do
you have to?"
"Yes."
"When
will
you be back?"
"Soon."
"1 miss you already."
"1 miss you."
The reverberations in the air began to grow, establishing between
them a feeling that was unfamiliar to Owen, and he felt endangered
and wanted his father to stay.
"Goodbye, then," his father said.
"Do you have to go?"
