siblings, friends, neighbors, and assorted music lovers. They clumped around the players, but I drew the
largest crowd, and I did not notice the woman in the red coat until most of the well-wishers had
vanished.
My mother was wiping lipstick from my cheek with a wet handkerchief when the woman
meandered into my peripheral vision. She appeared normal and pleasant, about forty years old. Her
deep brown hair framed an intelligent face, but I was perplexed at the way her pale green eyes had fixed
upon me. She stared, scrutinized, studied, and pondered, as if dredging up an inner mys-tery. She was
an utter stranger to me.
"Excuse me," she said. "But you're Andrew Day?"
"Henry Day," I corrected her.
"Right, Henry. You play wonderfully."
"Thank you." I turned back to my parents, who intimated that they were ready to go.
Maybe she saw my profile, or perhaps the simple act of turning away set off something in her brain,
but she gasped and drew her fingers to her mouth. "You're him," she said. "You're the little boy."
I squinted at her and smiled.
"You are the one I saw in the woods that night. On the road? With the deer?" She started to raise
her voice. "Don't you remember? I saw you on the road with those other boys. It must have been eight
or nine years ago by now. You're all grown up and everything, but you're that little boy, no doubt. I was
worried about you."
"I don't know what you are talking about, ma'am." I turned to go, but she grabbed my arm.
"It is you. I cracked my head on the dashboard when I hit the deer, and I thought you were a
dream at first. You came out of the forest—"
I yelped a sound that hushed the room, a pure raw cry that startled ev-eryone, myself included. I
did not realize my capacity for such an inhuman noise still existed. My mother intervened.
"Let go of my son," she told her. "You're hurting his arm."
"Look, lady," I said, "I don't know you."
My father stepped into the middle of the triangle. "What is this all about?"
The woman's eyes flashed in anger. "I saw your boy. One night I was driving home from the
country, and this deer jumped right onto the road in front of my car. I swerved to miss her, but I clipped
her with my bumper. I didn't know what to do, so I got out of the car to see if I could help."
She shifted her attention from my father and began addressing me. "From the woods comes this
boy, about seven or eight years old. Your son. And he startled me more than the deer did. Out of
nowhere, walks right up to the deer like the most natural thing in the world; then he bent down to its
mouth or nose or whatever you call it. Hard to believe, but he cupped his hand over her muzzle, and
breathed. It was magic. The deer rolled off her side, unfolded her legs, stood, and sprang off. The most
incredible thing that's ever happened to me."
I realized then that she had experienced an encounter. But I knew I had not seen her before, and
while some changelings are willing to inspire wild animals, I never engaged in such foolishness.
"I got a real good look at the boy in my headlights," she said, "although not so good at his friends in
the forest. It was you. Who are you really?"
"I don't know her."
My mother, riveted by her story, came up with an alibi. "It can't be Henry. Listen, he ran away
from home when he was seven years old, and I didn't let him out of my sight for the next few years. He
was never out by himself at night."
The intensity melted from the woman's voice, and her eyes searched for a sign of faith. "He looked
at me, and when I asked him his name, he ran away. Since that night I've wondered ..."
My father spoke in a gentle tone he seldom used. "I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken. Everybody
has a double in the world. Maybe you saw someone who looked a bit like my son. I'm sorry for your
troubles." She looked into his eyes, searching for affirmation, but he offered only the solace of his calm
demeanor. He took the red coat from her arm and held it open for her. She slipped inside it, then left the
room without a word, without looking back. In her wake trailed the remnants of anger and anxiety.
"Did you ever?" my mother asked. "What a story. And to think that she'd actually have the nerve to
say it."
From the corner of my eye, I could see my father watching me, and the sensation unnerved me.
"Can we go now? Can we get out of here?"
When we were all in the car and out of the city, I announced my deci-sion. "I'm not going back
there. No more recitals, no more lessons, no more strangers coming up to me with their wild stories. I
quit."