The next day, when I get back to the house, the containers are gone. I run out into the garden, but he’s not there. I spin around in circles, searching everywhere in the vicinity, and finally I spot him, far away, on top of a hill he calls a mountain—the highest point in the landscape.

I run into the forest, making my way through the dense wood and tall grass. Then I reach a path leading upward. I am out of breath when I finally reach the top.

He is bent over the containers, but when I approach, he turns around and smiles. “Here you go.”

He has stacked the containers on top of each other, two containers high, two wide, three long, and buried them halfway underground.

He thumps his hand on the container beside him, a slightly hollow sound. At the same time, I can hear the sound of the water inside.

“Don’t you want to sit down?” he asks.

We can see far into the distance. The landscape is peaceful and well-tended, fields in all directions. Nothing is out of place here, there are no aberrations. The house is down below, half-hidden amid the trees. We can see only parts of the red roof, the yard, the brook. We can glimpse the canal amid all the greenery, a ribbon running through the landscape.

And we just sit there.

Two old people on a bench.

Chapter Thirty-Six: David

Chapter Thirty-Six

David

I pulled the sheet over Lou, even though it was so hot that she didn’t need it.

Then I walked to the door.

“Good night, Lou.”

“’Night.”

She lay in silence, staring out into the darkness, into herself. And then without looking at me she asked, “Daddy, are you going to do that . . . that thing . . . again tonight?”

“No,” I said. “No. We’re not.”

And I meant it. This evening we were just going to sit together, Marguerite and I. Because finally we had time.

Lou drew a breath, was about to ask about something, but couldn’t find the words. I should talk to her about this, I thought. Should say something to help her to understand that it isn’t ugly. That it didn’t tear us apart, but instead united us, the three of us.

But I couldn’t do this now. Because my mind was full of other thoughts. As was hers.

We’d carried the containers to the house. Twelve containers in all, of clean, clear water, vacuum-packed in plastic, sometime long ago. It took us twelve sweaty trips. Five for Marguerite, seven for me. While Lou ran back and forth between us, chattering excitedly.

The containers were in the middle of the living room.