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Grief
The Autumn wind blew dirt into Harte Steele's face as he watched workmen in gray coveralls lower a
ca~ket into a tiny grave. They had shoveled it beside a mound of rotting flowers, the soiled monument to
ThrIsh,the mother of the nameless infant. There hadn't been time for a name. A week earlier, Harte had been

usband and father, now he was only Harte Steele. The dirt that blew into his face may have turned to mud in
another man's eyes, but for Harte, there were no tears. He pulled his suade coat up about his ears, took a heavy
~reath of october fog, then began with a deliberate step toward the street. He almost ran, but hesitated. No,

e would not look back. "Why should I," he thought, as he walked to his dusty Ford.
Driving into the country, Harte never looked at the highway or noticed the traffic. IHe .couldl think only

of the white box and freshly turned sod. He strained to invision a face, but there was nothing. He had driven
f?r hours, unaware of the encroaching darkness as the sun dropped behind the mountains. His trance was
fmally broken by the honking and cursing of a truck driver. Sobered by the near collision, Harte held his
breath until the pick-up had disappeared into the night. He wondered where he was. From the popping in his
ears and the sweet pine smell, he guessed, "High in the mountains." All was unfamiliar and black, and he
remembered the black earth on the up-turned sod. He shivered, switched on his headlights, then slowly
stretched his right foot to make the old ford wince. It coughed, came to, and swerved up the mountainside.

Hours later, driving through an electrical storm, Harte was startled by the sound of his own voice. "Jes',
I can't believe a storm in October!" He watched the lightning blaze in his rear-view mirror, and when sparks
snapped across the hood of his car, he was convinced. He pulled to the shoulder of the road and slumped over
the wheel to await the deluge. Reaching into his pocket for a smoke, his mind began to wander. He blew
smoke and steam against the windshield and gazed into the darkness. Suddenly he saw something pink
appear before his eyes in the distance. The pink shape seemed to suggest the blurred outline of a face. Harte

shut off the engine, forgot the keys and jumped into

the pouring rain.
Harte followed the face as it faded in and out of view until he fell hard on a rock. Pain scorched his arm

?nd cleared his vision. He looked again into the direction of the face; now, he saw clearly a cottage trimmed
br pee~ing pink paint. The porch light was burning as if in anticipation of a late night visitor. He stood slowly,

rushing the red clay from the sleeves of his coat. Feeling as though he had awakened from a dream, he
staggered to the planked porch. A lame cat crept down the stairs and out of sight. Hearing the boards creak
under Harte's foot, a black dog turned the corner with a snort. The dog sniffed about his heels. Harte
hu~~ed against the screendoor. He rapped lightly on its wooden frame. The dog paced the porch aimlessly
sruffmg. Harte watched a white spot on the center of the dog's neck. The cottage door rasped open. Harte
~orgot the dog and faced the door, but there was no one there. He began to push open the door and stick in his
~ad, then he saw the blush of a child's face peep around the door. It suddenly disappeared and the door

s arnrned in his face. There was a rustle inside the cottage, then silence.
Harte spat through the planks in the porch floor, and took out a cigarette. He knocked again, then

~at. on the porch rail, flaking the pink paint from the top of it with his fingernail. No one stirred
m.sIde the house. He smoked and waited. He turned again to the dog's white spot. The dog paced the porch,
WIth a slow limp. Watching it sniff, wondering if it were blind, Harte looked at its milked-over eyes. They
seemed empty. Harte turned again to the door. He pounded and kicked at the same time, but there was no
shoundwithin. His knocking fell away into silence. All was still, but the sniffing dog and the rain peppering
t e dry leaves. Harte sucked his cigarette back to the filter, and threw the butt over the rail into the night.
He .watched its orange glow dissappear in the dark, then went back to the door and tried the knob. It opened
~asIly, and he stepped into a cold kitchen. A single bulb burned in the center of the ceiling. He spoke quickly,

Hello, anyone here? Hello?" He lit another cigarette and searched the rest of the cottage. There was a
cheaply paneled den with a cold stove and a dirty couch. In another room was a double bed and a small lamp
table. He walked back to the kitchen and sat in a -wooden rocker by the woodstove. He rocked and smoked.
~e follow~d the raindrops ~s they ran do~n the pane of the kitchen's o,nly window. Sleeping, or hypno-
tlzed by his mechamcal rocking and breathing, Harte was startled by a whimper. He though it was the blind
dog on the the porch, but standing to go to the door, he heard the sound again. It came from the corner on the
other side of the stove, He crept to the stove, then peered cautiously around the corner. He stood frozen

with his mouth gaping. Tears popped from his eyes and stroked his cheeks. There in the corner, in a large coal

bucket sat a child with a pink face and long yellow hair, smudged with coal dust. Only her shoulders and head
rose above the brim of the bucket. He stooped and lifted her to his breast and wept until his throat was a
clenched fist. Suddenly he felt as if he had awakened from a nightmare. He looked about the kitchen. There
was something good about it, but he had no idea what. He would stay. He lifted the child to eye level and
whispered, "Who are you? Who' are you? He began to search for a basin and towel, and spying both, sat the

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