Alec

by William di Canzio

Alec was glum. Hall had never once looked at him in the drawing room. Had their meeting of eyes that morning, so momentous to Alec, meant nothing to him? Then he took heart, allowing that maybe Hall was being cautious. Anyway, Alec would be near him tomorrow for shooting. When he went back out into the night’s heavy rain, he intended to return straight to his room in the gamekeeper’s cottage, but, unable to help himself, he detoured by the Russet Room window. Just as he did so, the curtains parted above, and there was Hall. The man stared off into the park, into the rain. As before, he seemed troubled. He sighed. Then he did something strange: he slapped his own face with his right hand, as if trying to startle or even punish himself. Was something wrong? Should Alec call out? Would he be angry? Then the curtains closed, and Hall was gone. For the second time that day, Alec was soaked. He did not return to his room, though. Instead he went to the boathouse. It was leaky, much worse than the drawing room, but he thought of the place as his own. He wanted only his solitude. He took off the wet clothes, wrapped himself in the blanket he’d bought for Argentina, and huddled in the corner that he’d padded with cushions from the old rowboat. The blanket dried him and contained his warmth against his flesh. He listened to the rain—on the roof, on the pond. There was no reason for hope, but reason was beside the point. Next morning, during two hours of shooting rabbits, Hall said n...