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Nobody addressed him by Hurrel, his given name, not since his mother had gone to her reward back when Reagan was president. His middle name was John, but for reasons lost to history he didn’t care to be known by that either, so most everyone knew him as Jack. Except to Harriet he didn’t look like a Jack Swisher, which for her evoked connotations of rakery, even homosexuality. At the very least, it brought to mind someone who wore two-tone shoes and smelled of scents stored behind drugstore counters, which was not her man. He was tall and robust, with a handsome, weathered face, and smelled of nothing more exotic than Aqua Velva. Over the years, she had contracted Hurrel to Hul, which meant his gravestone, when the day came, would be crowded with letters: Hurrel “Hul” John “Jack” Swisher. Jesus, people would think three or four people were buried down there. If he did predecease her, she’d try to cut a deal with the stonemason for a discount. But she didn’t want to outlive him. What would she do without him?

Harriet listened for the hum of the exhaust fan in the bathroom, which came on with the light, but no noise was heard.

Christ, she thought,what if he’s fallen?

She got out of bed, eased her feet into her slippers, and put on her robe. The room was icy because the cost of heating oil had soared. Harriet blamed the Russians, while Hul blamed the Democrats, if only because he voted Republican and didn’t know any Russians. Whoever was at fault, the Swishers now dressed in layers and slept under extra bedding, and the recent welcome influx of funds hadn’t altered those habits. They might be glad of the money down the line, and frittering it away on heating when they had sweaters and blankets to spare didn’t make much sense now that spring was coming. It helped that, thevagaries of old age apart, they were both of pioneer stock. Harriet could live with her twinges, and as for Hul, well, a battle with neck cancer a few years previously, and the radiation treatment required to tackle it, had damaged his thyroid, so he was more likely to complain about being too hot than the opposite.

Harriet stepped into the hallway and let out a yelp of surprise. Hul was standing before the oxeye window immediately to her left, with his back to her and his right hand raised.

“You about scared the life from me,” she said.

“Hush.”

“Don’t you hush me! What are you doing, standing out here in the dead of night?”

He turned to her, and she saw the look of puzzlement on his face.

“Can’t you hear it?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

“Just listen.”

Harriet did.

“I don’t hear anything,” she said, after five seconds or so had gone by. “What am I supposed to be listening for?”

He lowered his hand, and she took it. Rarely did they remain in proximity for long before one of them reached for the other. It was why their marriage had endured without offspring to bond them.

“A child. A girl.”

“A child? Where?”

“I didn’t see her, only heard her.”

“What was she doing?”

“Speaking, but it wasn’t any language I recognized.”

Harriet held her breath for fear that whatever sound had drawn him out here was so faint that she might have missed it the first time around.

“No,” she said at last. “There’s nothing.”

She hoped he wasn’t succumbing to Alzheimer’s. He’d been growingmore forgetful over the past year or so, certainly since the cancer, but then he’d always been absentminded. Even when he was in his prime, one of her daily tasks was to ensure he wore matching shoes and his fly was zipped before he left the house.

“Let’s go back to bed.”

She tried to lead him away but he didn’t follow. He raised his left hand as high as his ear and tilted his head.

“There!” he said. “Do you hear it?”

“I told you, I don’t hear anything.”

It was a lie, but a white one. There might have been something, if she chose to listen, but she elected not to.

“At first, I thought I was imagining it,” said Hul, “but it’s her.”

“Don’t talk foolishness.”