We left Providence at noon, winding the little car onto
195 through a flat of industrial buildings. I fell asleep
in the car while Alice listened to Wagner on tape.




When I woke up, we were pulling up to the house. I got
the secret key and opened the door. I went first to the
back porch and surveyed the land. The hydrangeas were
darkened to pinky-brown, and a squirrel placidly munched
on nuts. Alice made tea inside.




The stone wall that borders the property was overgrown
with ferns and sassafras. I burst back into the house.
"Fall is my favorite season in Woods Hole," I said. "It's
so Emersonian, even though I've never read Emerson."




Alice poured from the tea kettle into a mug.
Then she opened a tin of smoked kippers and
ate them over the sink. I ran around opening
all the doors and smelling towels.




Then I set out for a walk. It was what Cheever would call
a "fine October day." There was a dead gull on Stony Beach.




I circumnavigated Eel Pond, looped to the library and
concluded at the cafe. It was full of sixty-year old
men with tanned legs. Their wives deliberated over
regular vs. low fat cream cheese. "She's from Falmouth,"
I heard a man say, "But she's not to blame."




I ordered coffee from someone who looked
like a lineal descendent of Cotton Mather.


Index