Voyager - Diana Gabaldon [141]
“I never realized,” he said. “Not ’til now. D’ye remember all those boxes in the garage?”
“Which ones?” she said, with a sniffling attempt at a laugh. “There are hundreds.”
“The ones that say ‘Roger’ on them.” He gave her a slight squeeze and brought his arms up, crisscrossed on her chest, holding her snug against himself.
“They’re full of my parents’ old clobber,” he said. “Pictures and letters and baby clothes and books and old bits of rubbish. The Reverend packed them up when he took me to live with him. Treated them just like his most precious historical documents—double-boxing, and mothproofing and all that.”
He rocked slowly back and forth, swaying from side to side, carrying her with him as he watched the fire over her shoulder.
“I asked him once why he bothered to keep them—I didn’t want any of it, didn’t care. But he said we’d keep it just the same; it was my history, he said—and everyone needs a history.”
Brianna sighed, and her body seemed to relax still further, joining him in his rhythmic, half-unconscious sway.
“Did you ever look inside them?”
He shook his head. “It isn’t important what’s in them,” he said. “Only that they’re there.”
He let go of her then, and stepped back so that she turned to face him. Her face was blotched and her long, elegant nose a little swollen.
“You’re wrong, you know,” he said softly, and held out his hand to her. “It isn’t only your mother who cares.”
* * *
Brianna had gone to bed long since, but Roger sat on in the study, watching the flames die down in the hearth. Hallowe’en had always seemed to him a restless night, alive with waking spirits. Tonight was even more so, with the knowledge of what would happen in the morning. The jack-o’-lantern on the desk grinned in anticipation, filling the room with the homely scent of baking pies.
The sound of a footfall on the stair roused him from his thoughts. He had thought it might be Brianna, unable to sleep, but the visitor was Claire.
“I thought you might still be awake,” she said. She was in her nightdress, a pale glimmer of white satin against the dark hallway.
He smiled and stretched out a hand, inviting her in. “No. I never could sleep on All Hallows’. Not after all the stories my father told me; I always thought I could hear ghosts talking outside my window.”
She smiled, coming into the firelight. “And what did they say?”
“‘See’st thou this great gray head, with jaws which have no meat?’” Roger quoted. “You know the story? The little tailor who spent the night in a haunted church, and met the hungry ghost?”
“I do. I think if I’d heard that outside my window, I’d have spent the rest of the night hiding under the bedclothes.”
“Oh, I usually did,” Roger assured her. “Though once, when I was seven or so, I got up my nerve, stood up on the bed and peed on the windowsill—the Reverend had just told me that pissing on the doorposts is supposed to keep a ghost from coming in the house.”
Claire laughed delightedly, the firelight dancing in her eyes. “Did it work?”
“Well, it would have worked better had the window been open,” Roger said, “but the ghosts didn’t come in, no.”
They laughed together, and then one of the small awkward silences that had punctuated the evening fell between them, the sudden realization of enormity gaping beneath the tightrope of conversation. Claire sat beside him, watching the fire, her hands moving restlessly among the folds of her gown. The light winked from her wedding rings, silver and gold, in sparks of fire.
“I’ll take care of her, you know,” Roger said quietly, at last. “You do know that, don’t you?”
Claire nodded, not looking at him.
“I know,” she said softly. He could see the tears, caught trembling at the edge of her lashes, glowing with firelight. She fumbled in the pocket of her gown, and drew out a long white envelope.
“You’ll think me a dreadful coward,” she said, “and I am. But