She didn't acknowledge the water Matthew held before her. Her eyes, barely open, peered directly ahead, through the water, through Matthew. He gently urged her to open her lips and take the straw and try to drink. She turned her face from him. Again he positioned the glass with its little straw near her mouth, but she would not open her lips and take the straw.

"This is sweet, darling, good water. You need water," he said and heard the tremor in his voice. He waited and saw the barest flicker of response in her eyes. But it wasn't enough. Even when he placed the straw between her chapped lips, she did not drink.

"Please try."

Finally he set the glass down and sat back and clutched his hands.

"Okay, darling, okay."

He leaned forward and removed the extra pillow behind her and eased her head back. Immediately she closed her eyes. He found the bed control and pushed the button, lowering her head further. Then leaning over he reached out and touched her cool cheek, holding his hand there. A muscle in her face twitched and she shrank back from his touch. Her breathing seemed shallower and faster than it had been before. To sit up and open her eyes, to think of taking water, to follow his voice, to feel his hand was just too much for her. She was intent on her dying and there was nothing he could do about it.

Laughter suddenly sounded down the hall from the nurse's station, loud, crude giddy nurse's laughter. Annoyed, he forced himself back to his thoughts and realized that he had been silently praying for God to take Christina now and ease this mess of dying. Death couldn't be as bad as this dying, he told God. Her body shutting down like this, her feeble struggle for breath, the smell of dying in her hair.

But two days later when complete stillness finally did settle upon her limbs and froze her face as a frame in a movie, he wished she was dying still, dying but still there, still Christina.

At home Matthew cleaned shrimp in the sink and listened to the radio, a hole moving about the rooms of the house. He sat at the supper table and the steam of the shrimp, onions, and peppers rose before him and disappeared into the hole. After dinner, he went outside and took he shirt and shoes off and watered the brown grass, hose in one hand, whiskey and water in the other. The sweet, acrid scent of the parched grass stung in his throat. The hole moved around the yard, at the beds, in the garden, the compost bins. Near the roses at the bedroom window he looked directly into the hole.

Matthew's brother Jimmy came for an extended visit a week after Christina's funeral. Jimmy took his brother on long drives in the countryside. Autumn was lovely clear, quiet days with that widening and heightening of the sky as the sun leaned away from the earth and angled his light off her. In the yards lots of late roses and mums still. Further out, dark gold fields rolled away out of sight. The dry air cleared Matthew's head. Jimmy would drive for miles and miles always saying something: baseball talk, meat for the outdoor grill, a winter train ride up to the cabin when they were boys and the fat conductor who handed them his peeled orange. Matthew found it easy to be attentive when the talk was simple. He knew his brother was handling him with kid gloves. They never spoke of Christina. If dusk caught them far away from home, Matthew became anxious, shifting in his seat, listening less and less. Then Jimmy would talk about the quail in the mountains and the time when they rushed into the cabin and breathlessly asked their dad for the rifle because the quail were so thick in the dusk.

"Do you remember what he said, Matt?"

"He said we would be careful with the rifle I remember."

"Dad said, 'We're not that hungry. We're not hungry enough. We won't shoot the quail.'"

Matthew remembered and smiled.

Near the end of Jimmy's stay they stopped at a local orchard stand to buy pears. Matthew recommended the hot cider to his brother and helped Jimmy strike up a conversation with the good-looking woman tending the stand. While his brother sipped his cider and flirted with the woman, Matthew decided to take a walk down the long lane of apple trees. Most of the trees were clean of their fruit but some further down were still loaded. Eventually he was standing next to tree after tree of ripened fruit, the branches heavy with the dusty apples. It was so quiet and the trees smelled so wonderful. He touched the solid fruit and felt the night's coolness still locked inside and the sugar burning quietly in the dark inside. Then Jimmy was suddenly beside him, breathing hard, a shadow of fear on his face.

"Matt, Matt, what the hell you up to, brother?"

It took a long moment for Matthew to understand what the question was. "These trees, Jimmy, are so heavy, so full . . .

"What, what are you talking about, brother?"

"So full, they want to lie down and sleep."

"You come see Beth and me, Matt. We'll put you up good. Come see us. I know you'll say no. But I'll call to see if you change your mind. You should come see Beth and me. I'll call."

They walked slowly back to the car. Halfway there Matthew rested his hand on his brother's shoulder. They were silent until they got back to the house.

Matthew wondered what he must do. September went and the hurley-burley of October came. The leaves danced around his yard and blew over the whiskey and water in his hand. He felt his heart pock-marked as the face of the moon, as the ocean floor, as the cliffs of Harrington lake. Nights came with their sharp chill. What can I do, Christina? He spoke with Christina frequently now. He had silently spoken to her since the day he staggered home from the hospital, but now he spoke aloud. It started on the morning Jimmy left as Matthew waved goodbye from the front lawn. He suddenly remembered the jacket he wanted to give to his brother and when the car turned the corner at the end of the block he turned to the porch behind him and snapped, Dammit, Christina, we forgot the jacket. He paused then and stared at the porch, listening to the high, clear, gently tinkling chimes she had hung there.

As Matthew sat on the patio nursing a whiskey after having put up the storm windows one late windy afternoon, he leaned back in the chair and saw three jet streams high in the cold sky and he remembered a particular flight he made on his way to a conference he was attending for the first time. Sitting next to him was a distinguished-looking, white-haired gentleman. His eye-glasses gave his face a pinched, exacting look, but a rumpled jacket made him approachable--every bit the sort he figured for a university professor. Feeling good about his recent business success, Matthew wanted to talk about the book he had been reading. As he set the book prominently on the tray table before him, the older man reached into his own briefcase and pulled from it a comic book.

"Damnedest thing, darling. I didn't know what to make of it."

"I guess he needed to look at the pictures," Christina had said.

At the end of October he drove up to Harrington Lake to smell the water and pine. He had found his son's harmonica one night while rummaging through the boxes Christina had neatly packed away in the boy's upstairs bedroom. His son had hit his head diving off the high rocks on the lake's north side. He was thirteen that August. Christina had packed him a couple of sandwiches, one for his friend Sean who they found out later was grounded and never made it to the lake that day to show Benjamin how to dive the north side rocks. The lake had been a family retreat, a quick get-away only thirty miles out of town, bypassed by most of the younger crowd who headed for the higher lakes as well as the older campers who wanted water hookups for their RV's.

Matthew sat at a bench and table in one of the secluded picnic sites at the lake. The wind was blowing hard and cold off the water and its surface scintillated blindingly in the late morning sun. Huddled in his thick sweater and ski cap, unshaven, one sneaker untied, he felt keenly under the cold sky his aging body. He pulled the harmonica from his pocket and began to pick out old tunes, at first missing badly then finding notes and rhythms until he heard the melodies right. Then he tried Dixie. The tune had been a favorite of his when he was a boy and he had taught it to his son. It's got to twitter and tweet and moan just a little, Benny. He put his head down and rested then. He seemed completely worn out. But he remembered the camera he had brought and left on the car seat, and getting up to retrieve it he noticed the cool tears on his cheeks. He dabbed at his eyes with his dirty handkerchief then blew his nose.

Walking gingerly up the shore, he searched for an open view to the north rocks. The picture that he wanted was near there. The wind at the shoreline was especially strong and the dancing light on the water's surface seemed to sweep up at him. He suddenly felt odd, bleached out and hollow. Now he was unsure which way the rocks lay. Was he on the east side walking north or on the west side walking south? He needed to pee. Never feeling good about pissing into the lakes and rivers, he turned and stumbled as the ground rose to the woods behind him. He struggled for the trees to relieve himself, the camera in his right hand. He was panting now and he felt his heart racing. As he hurried he stepped on his loose shoestring. At first he saw nothing clearly as he stumbled loudly into the shade of the trees and he began to fumble with his zipper. He stopped and swayed, searching for his penis, breathing hard. Their eyes met simultaneously. Naked and in the throes of coitus, she straddled a man who clutched at her breasts. Matthew saw her look change from the passive vacancy of just opened eyes, her jaw and mouth set in grim determination, to the gradual realization of alarm. Her large aroused nipple jerked free of the man's hand as she yelled incoherently and pulled herself off the man, falling over in the dirt and pine needles. Matthew stared dumbly as time seemed to slow down. He tilted his head in wonder that they could bear the cold lake wind.

The man turned onto his side to look behind him where the young woman was pointing at Matthew. The young man's glistening member began to shrink. When he saw Matthew holding the camera up and his other hand at his zipper, he quickly rolled back on his haunches, eyes wide, ready to spring, either to flee or fight.

"Who the hell are you?"

Matthew saw that he was no more than a boy, maybe fifteen, and his voice wavered. The girl was definitely older. Her face reminded him of a hundred waitresses he had seen at diners and truck stops, a weariness around the lips and under the eyes. Both their bodies were incredibly taunt and firm, the skin glowed, the lines softly molded in the dappled, feathery light coming down through the trees. Matthew couldn't help but stare.

"He was gonna take our picture, Alvin," said the girl.

Matthew started to apologize and took a step forward but in his excitement and surprise his mumble turned to stuttering.

"He was gonna take our picture, Alvin!" She was on her knees now, scrambling behind the boy. "Shithead old man!" "Fucker!" she yelled at him over Alvin's shoulder.

"Jesus, get your hands out of your pants, old man." Alvin sat back and jerked on his jeans, then jumped to his feet. The youth was big for his age, powerfully filled out but lean. He felt encouraged by the girl's cursing. Matthew continued to stutter as he fumbled to zip up his pants.

"Hit him, Alvin. The old creep. Hit him, Alvin. He's been spying on us the whole time," still on her knees she held onto Alvin's calf. "You creepy shit!" she yelled again at Matthew.

Matthew began to step backward and find his words, "Look, look, I'm sorry, really sorry, Miss. I'm incredibly, incredibly--"

The boy sprang at him then and violently shoved both hands into his weak chest. Matthew flew back, the camera flying from his hand. His body jolted hard as he hit the ground.

"Shut up, shut up! What'd we ever to do you? I oughta mess you up. Old man. I oughta piss on you. I oughta piss on your face."

The woman, still naked, grabbed pine needles and dirt and threw them into Matthew's face. She did it again. It seemed to Matthew that dirt rained down on him for minutes. He vaguely sensed that Alvin was telling the girl to stop, that it was enough, to stop it. Something had gone wrong with the girl. Now he felt her kneeling on him. Pressure in his chest welled up. He felt her nails rake on his neck. Matthew lay there choking on the dirt in his mouth and trying to cry out for the burning at his neck. Yet part of him was watching the scene take place, and he felt sorry for the boy and young woman. He knew she had lured him to the woods, that she had found others to follow her here. The boy was pulling her away now. Matthew sensed the boy's fear.

"I'll fuck him up if you won't, and fuck you too!" he heard the girl shout at the boy. More shouting, then a clattering through the brush and the boy yelling at the woman to put her clothes on. And then they were gone.

Matthew turned on his side and groaned. He struggled to his knees and groped for the shore. His back and ribs ached sharply and his head pounded. Dirt clogged his mouth and nose. Slowly he made his way to the water. It was ice cold. He took out his handkerchief and cleaned his face and neck, moaning quietly and shaking like a child.

When he could breathe better, he stared out at the lake water before him, his teeth chattering in the wind, and he realized that he had come to the lake to drown himself, that the youth and mean-spirited young woman had kept him from it.

He groaned as the icy wind bit into his bones, but the bright pain was accompanied by a sure feeling he had saved the young people from one another.

"Not a good match. Definitely not a good match," he cried out.

In November Matthew marveled that the crickets still chirped. How long had it been since he had really listened to the crickets? How late in the year would they sing? He felt a shudder of chill start deep in his bones and he reached for the whiskey glass on the patio table. He took a long drink and gasped, feeling the warmth meet the cold inside him. Then he focused on the crickets again, singing in the freezing air. Somewhere very near an owl sounded its strange staccato in the darkness, but then it was the gentle chirring of the crickets again. More than anything now Matthew liked being wrapped in blankets with a bottle of whiskey, the stars overhead, and the clear singing of the crickets.

The daylight was hard on him. The gray days brought a raw nose and a deep ache in Matthews hips and lower back. Daylight jerked like someone nervously pumping car brakes, slid like hard-packed snow out from under him. But nights made him forget the days.

Nights were enough--a dream or a movie he watched from his perch in his backyard patio. He recognized Orion pursuing the seven daughters of Atlas, the lovely Pleiades, in the night sky. The invisible wind whistled in the maples while their old limbs creaked, then silence and one gentle cricket in the hedge. Shooting stars one night rained for an hour. The ghostly train whistle from the outskirts of town told him it was eleven o'clock. Matthew thought he heard the telephone faintly ringing through the sliding glass door behind him.

At Harrington Lake he had blundered, a camera in one hand and the other in his pants, upon the young people. He had sure surprised them. The look on her face, her pendulous breasts swinging. The poor boy, his sad penis wilting in the leaves and dirt. Oh, God, it was too much really. What a sight he must have been. We got 'em good, Christina. We got 'em good, Benny. Deep down he felt a hurtling mass, a mounting pressure. He thought of Christmas Eve as a little boy, lying in the dark and joy burning in his bed. He saw Benny dancing by the Christmas tree, waving his arms, eyes closed, chortling from deep in his chest. Something streaked across the sky. He heard the phone ringing through the glass door again, faintly ringing. But it might be the chiming of the crickets. He couldn't tell now. He listened harder. It seemed like a conversation between two loved ones that he heard through a closed door. The gentle tones went on and on.

- Brad LaFran