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Chapters (51)
  1. Introduction by Michael Bronski
  2. BEGINNING
  3. II
  4. III
  5. IV
  6. V
  7. VI
  8. VII
  9. VIII
  10. IX
  11. X
  12. XI
  13. XII
  14. XIII
  15. MIDDLE
  16. II
  17. III
  18. IV
  19. V
  20. VI
  21. VII
  22. VIII
  23. IX
  24. X
  25. XI
  26. XII
  27. XIII
  28. XIV
  29. XV
  30. XVI
  31. XVII
  32. XVIII
  33. XIX
  34. XX
  35. END
  36. II
  37. III
  38. IV
  39. V
  40. VI
  41. VII
  42. VIII
  43. IX
  44. X
  45. XI
  46. XII
  47. XIII
  48. XIV
  49. XV
  50. XVI
  51. About the Author

What held him helpless on the beach for so long, then, was the realization of the danger he was in. Oh, not with the Coast Guard; he could take care of himself there. If surprised by the man and his dog, he could explain the situation and how it had happened. (But could he?) He could explain how he had been walking in the fog and lost his way. (But did that explain anything?) The coast guardsman would be satisfied. (But what about himself?)

END

END

Early in the morning, Ethel Grandin sat alone at one of the little glass-­topped wicker desks in the writing room. It was probably the one room in all of Dune House where she would least likely be found. She had made a few efforts with the scratchy pens and the black ink which was as thick as glue. But her mind was not on what she was doing. She could not forget the baffling scene last midnight when her husband had got up from the steps of the porch and walked away into the fog as if he were a stranger to her. She was beginning to believe he was a stranger. After he had gone—though she had called after him desperately, as if in a kind of panic for his welfare—she went up to the bedroom and, to her surprise, fell at once into a sound sleep, a sleep of exhaustion.

This morning she had begun and torn up a letter to the University dean, the gist of which was to ask him if it might be possible for her husband to be relieved of his teaching duties for the summer. She considered following this with a letter to her parents-­in-­law to tell them that their son was in need of a long rest, away from the boys and herself, and could he spend the summer with them in his home town? But she rejected both letters. It did not seem fair to go to such lengths without first consulting her husband, whom they most concerned. Instead, she wrote the following with the difficult pen:

Dear Alan & Ted:

Isn’t it awful of me not to write you more often? Even with nothing to do here, it seems impossible to find time to sit down & write. This morning I came down early to be sure to get a letter off to you today, for if I wait till 9:30 or 10, by that time we are off to the beach & there is no chance.