She sits straighter. "What was it?"
"It was quoting something. Lines from a book. A poem or novel. Maybe the bible? Something it had memorized. It wasn't kidding around about it either."
"What do you mean?"
"The words weren't its own but they were the truth of its being. Like another voice speaking through it."
"What did the voice say?"
"I am the spirit of perpetual negation. For all things that exist deserve to perish.'"
"You remembered that?"
"I guess it was memorable."
"Shit." She shivers. A stagy gesture that builds into a genuine shudder. "Perpetual negation. Kinda grim, Henry."
"I wasn't appreciating the meaning of it as it happened. Only that, whatever it was, it meant it."
"At least that woke you up."
"No, that's not what did it."
"What did?"
The locks won't hold. That's what Henry recalls feeling, but he doesn't say it, because he doesn't want to frighten Lily. Every chain and padlock in the world would make no difference. Because what terrified him wasn't the thing on the other side of the wood, but the new thing that had joined it. A presence that will not be contained.
"A whisper," Henry says instead. "But when I got closer I heard it wasn't a whisper. It was a hand. Fingers stroking the inside of the door. And then—boom!—something smashed against it. Hard enough to split the wood. That's what woke me up."
Lily shudders again. "Well, you're here now."
"Where else would I be?"
"Good one," she says, and nods her head with a mixture of humor and sadness that he thinks of as her trademark, though sometimes wonders if he's reading it wrong. If maybe he always has. "Good one."
Things are bad between them, but not too bad. This is the estimation he's held to for so long it's become a truism, comforting as believing there's a heaven awaiting us after death. But sometimes, like now, he worries that his assessment of the bridgeable distance between himself and his wife is an error of judgment—the same made by millions of husbands right before the end. He doesn't normally wish he had friends but when this thought comes to him, he does. It might be helpful to know a man of his age and experience who could tell him whether his troubles were benign or terminal.
But Lily's here now. There may be no magical words to keep her here, but showing his concern for her certainly couldn't hurt. As soon as he speaks, he sees how he may be wrong about this too.
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm pregnant, Henry, not ill."
"Of course. Of course not. I just know how it can make women uncomfortable sometimes. The process. Understandably."
"The process?" She laughs—briefly, resignedly—but not without some trace of warmth. He's useless, but he's trying. This is how he interprets it. Lately, it's been as good as it gets for him.
"When are we going to—"
"Don't."
"—talk about things?"
He raises himself up against the bed's headboard. His hand reaches out to her round stomach to feel the life inside of her, but she pulls away. A flinch. Is that what he saw? Not a drawing back, the preference to not be touched, but a reflex of the body. It was as if she moved from him with revulsion, rather than anger or coldness or hurt.
