he tiptoed to the screen door like a feral old tomcat, inching forward for permission to look inside. he may not have seen her at first, though she knew him in an instant, despite the years and gray hairs and hardships put upon him. this man she at times feared and loved in equal fistfuls now stood like a beggar on their front porch, wrapped in a mangy old blanket, god, wearing the same pants she'd last seen him in, running across the fields, some seventeen years ago. she slunk back quietly into the shadows of the living room, unsure yet if she wished to be seen. she needed a moment to collect herself, to remember who she was now, to determine if she wished to be seen.

she thought to call the elementary school library, to inform them that she would be late for her shift, but she did not want to disturb the peace that had consumed the house, a peace rarely known in the days when edgar lived their freely with her and their two daughters--emma and grace--both grown and gone. it was just her now in the old farmhouse, old glory with the morning light through the parlor windows, every space surface stamped with framed photos, old oil paintings, the collected odds and ends of generations, an inheritance edgar had thrown to the winds, scattered the day he left.

standing there behind the pillar leading into the parlor, she heard the porch door swing open and a frail man's footstep fall in the foyer. she turned her head to peak, but caught only his reflection in the surface mirror. yes, it was definitely him. and yet not somehow. gone were the tremors, the rage, the irascibility, the spitting and the shouting, the cursing, the moaning, the suffering. his head balanced itself upon his shoulders, and he danced with the shifting light as it poured in through the stained glass above the doors. was it all a wonder to him now, she questioned, a dream to which he'd been pulled to return to.

sure, she had heard the stories over the years. the wild man of winchester woods. at first it was hard to take, all the stories relayed to her with breathless concern from neighbors, tales of late-night dumpster dives, of petty theft from the general store after hours, the smell of him still lingering in the sunday morning's pews where he had slept the night before. but as time went on, the people of macanaw saw less and less of him and he retreated, like a legend, into the woods around their sleepy town. school children playing in the woods claimed to come upon him from time to time. some claimed he had grown to be a giant, others said he had sprouted antlers atop his head. truth be told, she assumed he had hopped a freight train and taken it clear cross the country. 

but here he stood, idling in their foyer. she swore he sniffed the air when checking around the corners, like their old bloodhound searching for skunks beneath the porch. finding nothing around the corners, he reached out and touched the ligaments of the old house, held its frame. during the lean years he had blamed the farmhouse for holding him back, some pitiless old anchor that weighed him down, warped his mind, stole all his concern. he had never been good with the sheep and the horses. his father had told him so all his life. poor edgar was a man defeated before he ever tried, and she supposed that was what she first loved about him--his unending sense of dissatisfaction.

edgar caught her stealing a glance in the mirror. their eyes met for the first time, and the thrill of it, the fear of it, squeezed a gasp from inside her throat which roiled into a single sob by the time it came up and out. she clasped her hand in front of her mouth, and stepped back, inching her way across the tattered old parlor rug. edgar came round the corner, and the sight of him brought her to tears. ragged and thin as a rake, his eyes the same icy blue as when he was a younger man. he stared at her, trying to remember.

the week he left he'd been on edge. grace was just a newborn, and they'd fought in the kitchen because she wouldn't stop crying. he wouldn't stop screaming, stop yelling. it had gotten worse and all come to a head. they were going to foreclose unless he went into town and got himself a job. the stress of it had built its own house upon them both, laying them in thick slabs of concrete, their crumpled bodies the foundation. edgar snapped. he swept his breakfast plate and all across the dining room table, shattering it against the ice box. he darted to the crib shook the baby, wresting it with both hands, screaming at it until it screamed back until they were both one unending, indistinguishable squall. so she reared back and hit him in the face with the cast iron. she could hear the bone in his nose break. the blood sprayed across her dress and the bassinet. without a word he was out the door. she grabbed grace in her arms and followed edgar to the front poor, but it was too late. he was gone, running, full forward out across the fields and into the woods.

standing there on the parlor rug, she could still see where the nose was broken. in all the years to follow, he had never reset it. they said nothing to one another. she knew her face was fearful. yet she did not believe he meant her harm. what she feared was that he might ask to sit down, ask for a cup of coffee, ask to stay for dinner or even stay the night. that she might have to make space in a place inside long vacated, clear out the cobwebs and the old furniture. make room again for a man who never wished to live there.

but edgar said nothing. it was all as clear as day to him, illuminated by the sunlight filtering into the parlor through the old wooden blinds. a flame of recognition spread itself like a handprint across his face, pushing his mind back back back out of the parlor, through the foyer, back out onto the front porch and out. he looked her up and down, the pretty new dress she wore, one of several she had bought once she managed to find a job in town. yes, she had survived. yes, some might say she even flourished. and lord, in a moment that near brought her to her knees, he turned out a smile for her, itself a nod, an acknowledgment, a recognition that it had all gone on without him.

she hardly a chance to respond. like the wind, he was out the door, leaving the tattered old blanket laying there on the floor. she followed on his heels, clutching the pillar on the old porch, holding herself up as she watched him run, full forward out across the fields and back into the woods.