To my own unscientific, personally uninterested mind, there was nothing like what he wanted except possibly a band marching together, everyone playing different kinds of instruments with different techniques and different notes, to make a single thing move along together. But he hadn’t meant anything like that.

So I went back to him in the cool of an early fall evening, and he took what little I had in my eyes, and turned from me angrily with a gross word I shall not permit myself to remember.

“You can’t find it,” he told me. “Don’t come back.”

He got up and went to a tattered birch and leaned against it, looking out and down into the wind-tossed crackling shadows. I think he had forgotten me already. I know he leaped like a frightened animal when I spoke to him from so near. He must have been completely immersed in whatever strange thoughts he was having, for I’m sure he didn’t hear me coming.

I said, “Lone, don’t blame me for not finding it. I tried.”

He controlled his startlement and brought those eyes down to me. “Blame? Who’s blamin’ anybody?”

“I failed you,” I told him, “and you’re angry.”

He looked at me so long I became uncomfortable.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he said.

I wouldn’t let him turn away from me. He would have. He would have left me forever with not another thought; he didn’t care! It wasn’t cruelty or thoughtlessness as I have been taught to know those things. He was as uncaring as a cat is of the bursting of a tulip bud.

I took him by the upper arms and shook him, it was like trying to shake the front of my house. “You can know!” I screamed at him. “You know what I read. You must know what I think!”

He shook his head.

“I’m a person, a woman,” I raved at him. “You’ve used me and used me and you’ve given me nothing. You’ve made me break a lifetime of habits—reading until all hours, coming to you in the rain and on Sunday—you don’t talk to me, you don’t look at me, you don’t know anything about me and you don’t care. You put some sort of a spell on me that I couldn’t break. And when you’re finished, you say, ‘Don’t come back.’ ”

“Do I have to give something back because I took something?”

“People do.”

He gave that short, interested hum. “What do you want me to give you? I ain’t got anything.”

I moved away from him. I felt…I don’t know what I felt. After a time I said, “I don’t know.”

He shrugged and turned. I fairly leaped at him, dragging him back. “I want you to—”

“Well, damn it, what?”

I couldn’t look at him; I could hardly speak. “I don’t know. There’s something, but I don’t know what it is. It’s something that—I couldn’t say if I knew it.” When he began to shake his head, I took his arms again. “You’ve read the books out of me; can’t you read the…the me out of me?”

“I ain’t never tried.” He held my face up, and stepped close. “Here,” he said.

His eyes projected their strange probe at me and I screamed. I tried to twist away. I hadn’t wanted this, I was sure I hadn’t. I struggled terribly. I think he lifted me right off the ground with his big hands. He held me until he was finished, and then let me drop. I huddled to the ground, sobbing. He sat down beside me. He didn’t try to touch me. He didn’t try to go away. I quieted at last and crouched there, waiting.

He said, “I ain’t going to do much of that no more.”

I sat up and tucked my skirt close around me and laid my cheek on my updrawn knees so I could see his face. “What happened?”

He cursed. “Damn mishmash inside you. Thirty-three years old—what you want to live like that for?”

“I live very comfortably,” I said with some pique.

“Yeah,” he said. “All by yourself for ten years now ’cept for someone to do your work. Nobody else.”

“Men are animals, and women…”

“You really hate women. They all know something you don’t.”

“I don’t want to know. I’m quite happy the way I am.”

“Hell you are.”

I said nothing to that. I despise that kind of language.

“Two things you want from me. Neither makes no sense.” He looked at me with the first real expression I have ever seen in his face: a profound wonderment. “You want to know all about me, where I came from, how I got to be what I am.”

“Yes, I do want that. What’s the other thing I want that you know and I don’t?”

“I was born some place and growed like a weed somehow,” he said, ignoring me. “Folks who didn’t give even enough of a damn to try the orphanage routine. I lived with some other folks for a while, tried school, didn’t like it. Too small a town for them special schools for my kind, retarded, y’know. So I just ran loose, sort of in training to be the village idiot. I’da made it if I’d stayed there, but I took to the woods instead.”

“Why?”

He wondered why, and finally said, “I guess because the way people lived didn’t make no sense to me. I saw enough up and down, back and forth, to know that they live a lot of different ways, but none of ’em was for me. Out here I can grow like I want.”

“How is that?” I asked over one of those vast distances that built and receded between him and me so constantly.

“What I wanted to get from your books.”

“You never told me.”

For the second time he said, “You learn, but you don’t think. There’s a kind of—well, person. It’s all made of separate parts, but it’s all one person. It has like hands, it has like legs, it has like a talking mouth, and it has like a brain. That’s me, a brain for that person. Damn feeble, too, but the best I know of.”

“You’re mad.”

“No, I ain’t,” he said, unoffended and completely certain. “I already got the part that’s like hands. I can move ’em anywhere and they do what I want, though they’re too young yet to do much good. I got the part that talks. That one’s real good.”

“I don’t think you talk very well at all,” I said. I cannot stand incorrect English.

He was surprised. “I’m not talking about me! She’s back yonder with the others.”

“She?”

“The one that talks. Now I need one that thinks, one that can take anything and add it to anything else and come up with a right answer. And once they’re all together, and all the parts get used together often enough, I’ll be that new kind of thing I told you about. See? Only—I wish it had a better head on it than me.”

My own head was swimming. “What made you start doing this?”

He considered me gravely. “What made you start growing hair in your armpits?” he asked me. “You don’t figure a thing like that. It just happens.”

“What is that…that thing you do when you look in my eyes?”