The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. His sister followed. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. He thought of his severe attitude towards the girl who was rightly and with contempt refusing his measured help. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. ’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen. Her steps slowed. She found him reclined, watching television in a small guest room hidden in a back wing of the massive house. When the carpenter a moment afterwards stretched out his hand, scarcely knowing whether he was alive or dead, he found himself alone. So long. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. “No doubt about that,” Meddoes continued.
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