The Sound of Pines

Hilary Masters Hilary Masters was born and raised in Kansas City, Missouri. He served as a NavalCorrespondent toward theendofWWII, workedon the Washington Daily News, and graduatedfrom Brown University. He nearly won a seat in the New York State Assembly, losing by only 1200 votes out of42,000. He was the first Democrat candidate to carry one county in the district in 37 years. His novels include The Common Pasture, An American Marriage, and Palace of Strangers. His short stories have appeared in Sports Illustrated, Prairie Schooner, The Massachusetts Review, The Georgia Review, The Ohio Review, the Quarterly Review of Literature, and elsewhere. When he is not lecturingon literatureandwriting, helives in a smallvillagein upstateNew York. The Sound Of Pines (After Chekhov) ATHICK MIST obscures the road, and there is a black sedan with the headlights burning. It is impossible to tell the time ofday: whether it is afternoon or evening or if the night has only just surrendered to the dawn. The road is straight and flat and with only two lanes. Theheavy fog hides billboards, even utility poles and other road marks that might give the car's occupants a sense of motion. Only theregularclump-clump ofthe car's tires over the pavement divisions suggests they are going somewhere. The man behind the wheel never speaks. It seems all of his concentration is required to keep the car on the narrow track of pavement that reveals itself just as the car rolls over it. The driver's torso is long and spare and he bends over the steering wheel as if to presenthis sharp, large nose to the windshield. The manbeside him is quite different. He sits casually slouched against the front door of the car, the round ball of his head is placed on the plump column of his neck; even the nose, the ears, the mouth are formed, as if drawn by a child devoted to the concentric. He is the sort who always looks amusedby something thatis yettohappen. Hisvoicebubbles witha raspy enthusiasm, sometimes talking to the driver but, for the most part, twisting sideways in his seat, showing confidence in the driver, in order to speak to the man in the back seat. A heavy metal grill separates them. The man in the back seat is a prisoner as well as a passenger. The steel mesh converts the back seat into a cell for there are no handles on the inside panel of the rear doors. The windows are sealed. The passenger is an ambiguous figure. Man or youth; it is difficult to tell. Student, soldier or vagrant; there is something of each in his appearance, something all the same. Pale hair falls around a small grayish face and as he pulls at a scraggly beard with one hand, the manacles around his wrists click. He seems very frail within the thick material of the army overcoat, or perhaps in contrast to its great bulk, and he wears large, high-topped work shoes. There is no knapsack beside him, no parcel or belongings; nothing but a package of cigarettes from which he shakes one to fit it between his lips. Because of the handcuffs, he lights the cigarette with great difficulty. "It's too bad you can't see this country we're passing through," the jolly man says through the steel grate. "It's the best dairy land in the state. Prime dairy land. Beautiful barns, great big, beautiful barns and neat fences. And the cows? Why they're treated like they was movie stars. Mostly Holsteins. You know, the black and white ones. They don't give Hilary Masters The Missouri Review · 55 milk as rich as some others but they sure do pour it out. That's what I'm going to do when I retire," he turns to his partner and laughs. "I'm going to get me a little milking herd." He returns to the prisoner, smiling easily. "Too bad you can't see those farms out there in the fog. Just beautiful. Course, farmers round here get more money for their milk being in the Connecticut milk shed. Never did understand how that market business works." He scratches an ear and...