The Stolen Child(100)

friend from The Coverboys, had passed along my score. When I called him to say thanks, he invited us

to visit and stay at his place so I could be on hand at the recording session. Tess, Ed-ward, and I flew

out to the Knolls in San Francisco that summer of '76 and had a great few days with George and his

family. His modest cafe in North Beach was the only genuine Andalusian restaurant among a hive of

Italian joints, and his stunning wife and head chef did not hurt business, either. It was great to see them,

and the few days away from home eased my anxieties. Nothing weird prowling around California.

The pastor of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco allowed us an after-noon to record, and the pipe

organ there rivaled in tone and balance the ancient instrument I had played in Cheb. The same feeling of

homecoming entered me when I pressed the pedals, and from the beginning notes, I was already

nostalgic for the keyboard. The quartet changed a few measures, bent a few notes, and after we played

my fugue for organ and strings for the seventh time, everyone seemed satisfied with the sound. My brush

with fame was over in ninety minutes. As we said our good-byes, everyone seemed sanguine about our

limited prospects. Perhaps a mere thousand people might actually buy the record and hear my piece, but

the thrill of finally making an album outweighed any projected anxiety about the size of its audience.

The cellist in the group told us not to miss Big Sur, so on our last day before flying home, we rented

a car and drove south on the Pacific Coast Highway. For most of the morning, the sun came in and out

between clouds, but the rocky seascape was spectacular. Tess had always wanted to see the ocean, so

we decided to pull off and relax for a bit at a cove in the Ventana Wilderness. As we hiked to the sand,

a light mist rolled in, obscuring the Pa-cific. Rather than turn back, we decided to picnic on a small

crescent beach beside McWay Falls, an eighty-foot straight drop of water that plunges from the granite

cliff to the sea. We saw no other cars on the way in and thought the place ours alone. After lunch, Tess

and I stretched out on a blanket, and Eddie, all of five years old and full of energy, had the run of the

sand. A few seagulls laughed at us from rocks, and in our seclusion, I felt at peace for the first time in

ages.

Maybe the rhythm of the tides or the fresh sea air did us in after lunch. Tess and I dozed on the

blanket. I had a strange dream, one that had not vis-ited me in a long, long time. I was back among the

hobgoblins as we stalked the boy like a pride of lions. I reached into a hollow tree and pulled at his leg

until he squirmed out like a breached baby. Terror filled his eyes when he beheld his living reflection. The

rest of our wild tribe stood around, watching, chanting an evil song. I was about to take his life and leave

him with mine. The boy screamed.

Riding the thermals above us, a gliding gull cried, then flew out over the waves. Tess lay sleeping,

gorgeous in repose beside me, and a thread of lust wormed through me. I buried my head at her nape

and nuzzled her awake, and she threw her arms around my back almost to protect herself. Wrapping the

blanket around us, I lay on top of her, removing her layers. We began laughing and rocking each other

through our chuckles. She stopped suddenly and whispered to me, "Henry, do you know where you

are?"

"I'm with you."

"Henry, Henry, stop. Henry, where’s Eddie?"

I rolled off her and situated myself. The fog thickened a bit, blurring the contours of a small rocky

peninsula that jutted out into the sea. A hardy patch of conifers clung to its granite skull. Behind us, the

waterfall ran down to the sand at low tide. No other noise but the surf against shore.

"Eddie?" She was already standing up. "Eddie!"

I stood beside her. "Edward, where are you? Come here."

A thin shout from the trees, then an intolerable wait. I was already mourning him when he came

clambering down and raced across the sand to us, his clothes and hair wet with salt spray.

"Where have you been?" Tess asked.

"I went out on that island as far as you can go."

"Don't you know how dangerous that is?"

"I wanted to see how far you could see. A girl is out there."

"On that rock?"

"She was sitting and staring at the ocean."

"All by herself? Where are her parents?"

"For real, Mom. She came a long, long way to get here. Like we did."

"Edward, you shouldn't make up stories like that. There's not a person around for miles."

"For real, Dad. Come see."

"I'm not going out to those rocks. It's cold and wet and slippery."

"Henry"—Tess pointed out to the fir trees—"look at that."