“It’s kind of hard to forget,” he said.

“I know it must be,” she said softly. Then: “I want to thank you for what you did today. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”

“Glad to help out,” he said. “I appreciate the ride.” He opened the door to the car and stepped out.

“I think maybe I could use some fish tomorrow night,” she said suddenly, leaning across the car seat. “Catfish or bream or even some trout. Doesn’t matter to me. My husband loved catfish, so I guess that’s what I should cook. Three or four ought to be plenty. Unless you’re moving on.”

“Not for a while,” he told her. “I’ll be glad to bring some by.”

“You know there’s not any in the lake, don’t you?”

“That’s what they were saying at the store,” he replied.

“My husband told me that one time there used to be a lot of fish in it, but they just disappeared, and nobody knows why. There’s all kind of stories about it. Some say it was poisoned. Some say they all washed out through the drain. When I found Boyd’s body there, everybody got it in their head that the lake was a place of dying, since it’s where Arch Wheeler and Boyd were both found, and there was a lot of talk about Arch Wheeler’s ghost, of course. Exactly the kind of thing you’d expect to hear when there aren’t any answers that make sense. All I know is nobody even tries fishing there anymore. At least nobody I know of.”

He thought of the leaping bass he had teased with his lure and of his dream, and he wondered if he should tell Eleanor of the dream and of the bass, but he did not. It would be a curious story to her, since she was one of those who believed there were no fish in the lake, and the telling of the dream of the ghost-fish might cause some fear for her. “I’ll see you sometime tomorrow afternoon,” he said in the muttering way he talked when he was uncertain of the right words to use. Then he closed the door.

She had said too much, she thought. It was a fault, and she knew it, and the drive back to her home was one of regret. One of her sisters—Miriam—had always teased her for being a jabbermouth and it was true. Once, she had felt good about talking, had loved the sound of words pouring from her like happy music. It was part of her nature, like the color of her hair and eyes. In school, she had easily won classroom debates because she had no fear of speaking before an audience. Teachers had called her exceptional, often saying they envied her—so naturally gifted at such a young age. Teachers had predicted remarkable things for her. Then she had met Boyd Cunningham in her history class at Young Harris College and Boyd Cunningham had stunned her with his presence, and the music of words had become the music of flesh, the language spoken between them read from fingertips of touch like the raised codes of Braille. She had married a man who overwhelmed her and she had become silent in his presence. Yet, for a reason she did not understand, her silence had ended with the appearance of a stranger who had done a good deed for her, and when the words began again, she had been unable to stop them.