Tess sipped her coffee as a flash of orange came over the ridge. The sun came after, and even with the hardwoods and brush in front of it, she had to look away. She got up and walked through the house. Chick’s sheet and pillow were still on the couch. She stepped out front and sat on the porch steps. The light was bringing out the blue in the river, and the tree trunks on the national forest hill were more red now instead of purple, the pine branches yellow. All of Heywood was still in shadow, its buildings brown and gray, and Theresa took a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes filled and emptied themselves down her cheeks. Not so long ago she would have felt grateful for such beauty, for her witnessing of it to enter her like a lover. She would have breathed it in and later, when she was still full, she would go to her easel and paint. She still painted. When Chick wasn’t asking her to proofread or to type, or to collate, she did it three or four mornings a week. Her latest landscapes were stacked against the walls of their bedroom, which doubled as her studio. And Lord, that was it. It wasn’t much of a bedroom at all any longer, not where a man and woman rest together, talk, make love. It was where Chick crash-landed after a full day of carpentry and a long night of meetings with the Communist Workers Brigade in Amherst. Workers. My God, they were kids. But the irony was that’s where Chick should be in the first place, behind some university lectern using all that wonderful charisma of his to teach this dark history of his he reads like gospel. Last night in the bedroom, when she read the final copy of his manifesto pamphlet, he stood at the open window in his boxer shorts and waited. He had taken off his glasses. One hand was on his hip, his shoulders were slumped, and for the first time in weeks he didn’t look so sure of himself, which is why she worded her opinion the way she did. She told him how she didn’t think it was a good idea to start voicing his ideas in the city, he could get hurt- “My ideas, Tess?”

“Yes.” She didn’t even hesitate: “They’re not mine.”

He was quiet. He seemed to be studying her. “What are yours then, Tess? Andover?”

“Don’t patronize me, Chick. I didn’t volunteer for this craziness of yours, and neither did Allie or Chris.”

He stood still a moment, watching her. Then he walked over and lifted the pamphlet from her as carefully as he would a loaded pistol from a small child. He took his pillow, pulled a sheet from the closet, and started down the open stairwell. He stopped after three or four steps, and looked at her. “You’re weak, Tess. You’re weak.”