Vestavia Hills

He looked up as if to follow one idea or to have another, but his mind didn’t take notice of the biblical verses. In front of him was the window of the small bay window that overlooked the lawn. From where he was sitting, he could see part of the fence.

And then he remembered that image of Martyn Trischer leaning against the fence, just before the beginning of the last function.

Again him, again Martyn Trischer.

At that point, Johnathan Abblepot's mind registered a small piece of information, which did not immediately lead to anything: his look went on a little book with a fine binding, which was carelessly resting on the table in front of the window.

Abblepot went back to reading the Bible. Or at least try to do it. His wife, Elizabeth, did not look away from her book.

Shortly after, the reverend got up to get some water, under the look of his wife. He looked at the table again, without any conscious attention.

When he returned, his wife seemed to have got up and sat back down again.

The next hour passed without any distraction. Abblepot seemed to regain concentration to mentally compose notes and arrangements that would have been useful for next Sunday's sermon. Elizabeth read a few more pages of the book in her hands, then began to tidy up some other rooms.

The reverend did a few household chores and went to the church.

Dinner time came quickly enough. Elizabeth had prepared some stew and mashed potatoes: they consumed it cheerfully and with a good conversation. The reverend's so-called tiredness seemed to have overcome; the girl was pleasant as usual.

It was then, at the end of the dinner, that a shadow reappeared in Abblepot's mind and face.

His brain had brought the detail of that book back in his mind. Like a wounded animal that hides in the ravines until it has regained sufficient strength, so that thought, strengthened with the passing of the hours, had come back to the reverend's mind.

It was a momentary flash, but that left a clear trace. Now that he had remembered, Abblepot knew that the book was not part of his library. The spine, the cover, its colour, and the size: he was practically sure that he had never bought anything like it, and no one had ever given him a book.

So, where could it come from?

By now, his brain had started: and a series of details surfaced.

When he got up to get a glass of water, the book was on the edge of the living room table near the bay window, he was sure of it, he could almost still see it in front of him. Just as he knew that, once he returned to the living room, almost without realizing it, he still had a look at the table, and the book was gone. The missing book now seemed as evident as the groove of a disappeared building left on the grass.

Abblepot tried to dismiss this thought as absolutely insignificant. But a prod, similar to something physical, pressed his chest and warned him to clear up any doubts.

When Elizabeth said she was going to bed, Abblepot stalled a bit so he could go in the living room again.

As soon as his wife went up to her room, he rushed to the study, searching for that book. As he already knew, there was nothing like it in his library. He also looked in the library, the shared one, where his wife also provided herself with readings; and again, as he imagined, he found no trace of what he was looking for.

Either he had had a hallucination, or that little book was on the living room table and Elizabeth herself, who else? She must have taken it away from there. Obviously, to make sure he didn't see it.

What other explanation was possible?

Abblepot bit his lip because he realized that he had made a wrong thought about his wife, that he had accused her of deception. Practically never, in his life with Elizabeth, had he doubted her honesty.

But now, that thought, made, forgotten and remembered again within a day, was so evident that it seemed impossible that it was on a hallucination. He was sure of what he remembered seeing, as he did not doubt that the Bible was on the pulpit of the church.

Although regretting doing such a thing, an offense to the good faith with which Elizabeth was undoubtedly full, he began to rummage in frenzy wherever it was possible to hide a book.

Finding nothing was more of a relief than a concern.

After a few minutes spent looking in the living room, Abblepot sat on the armchair, almost persuaded, with a sudden change of opinion, that he had imagined what was not there. He was now looking forward to the next morning when he could innocently question Elizabeth about that matter.

While pondering over these things, the reverend looked at the cabinet where they kept the trays and dishes. Even in the dim light of the only lamp the reverend left on, his attentive look, or sharpened by the situation, did not miss the fact that a tray was out of place, not well aligned with the order that his wife usually kept.

He got up with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension and opened the cabinet.

He was satisfied about completing his research and amazed at such a secret act by Elizabeth; he saw a book behind a tray.

It was that book: the book with the fine binding and the purple color he had seen on the bay window table.

He did not immediately read the title, stopping instead to ask himself once more why his wife had to hide that book from him.

Then he looked at the cover: they were poems and love letters from the English poet John Keats.

The following morning Abblepot was unable to wake up as early as usual. The whirlwind of thoughts that had accompanied him to bed did not allow him to go to sleep immediately. Also, when he finally fell asleep, he was restless and not at all relaxing sleep.

He decided to immediately deal with the matter of the book with Elizabeth and listen to what she had to say about it.

He found his wife in the room adjacent to the living room.

"Good morning, dear," she said with sincere friendliness.

"Good morning to you."

Abblepot, although annoyed by the event, had no intention of getting too angry. The night he had advised that it was not a good thing to let oneself get angry: not very evangelical, and probably not useful.

He went on to ask his wife what time it was.

"It's not too late, don't worry. I saw that you were still sleeping soundly, so I decided not to disturb you. I hope you don't mind. "

"No, not at all. Thank you, "said Abblepot." I didn't get much sleep tonight. "

"Worries?"

"Yes. A few."

Elizabeth invited her husband to sit down to have some breakfast. Then he offered to get him a cup of coffee.

"Do you mind if I sit in the living room?" said the reverend.

"Of course not. I'll be right there," Elizabeth replied.

When she came back, she found Johnathan seated in his armchair; he wasn't sitting back in a relaxed manner, but he was slightly leaning forward, with both feet resting on the ground, knees flexed, and wrists resting on them. He looked at her with sleepy eyes, he had the stiffness of statues, but the restlessness of those who are ready to make a move.

Not far away was the table, and Johnathan's left hand was a few centimeters from a book, which the young woman recognized immediately. He had specially put it there before going to bed.

Before Elizabeth even asked him why that attitude, Abblepot said, "Did someone lend you this?"

But in reality, that was far from a question. Elizabeth felt a heart skip a beat. She held the cup firmly in her hands, yet her stiffening must have been as apparent as if she was a puppet whose puppeteer had pulled all the strings at the same time.