his odd, flat eyelids opened. His eyes were not brown, not Asian, but light, like my family’s. He was not an escaped Japanese prisoner. The pupils were strange, though—very large—and the line between them and the iris was vague, his gaze unfocused. Was he blind?
“Hello,” I said, keeping my eyes on his so I would not have to see his skin.
He blinked slowly. His eyes focused, the pupil coming into definition, and he opened his mouth. “ ’Ello” came out. An old, heavy door opening, a cat being choked.
“You hungry?” I held up the plate.
“Hungry,” he stated, his voice a little less rough. He took a quick breath, opening his mouth slightly, the way a tomcat does when it’s getting a scent.
I shifted him up, putting my leg under his shoulders to prop him up and support his back. I offered him a slice of peach. He did not take his eyes off mine, nor did he open his mouth any wider.
“They’re good. I canned them myself.” I popped the peach into my mouth, then forked another slice and offered it to him. He stared at it and slowly opened his mouth. His teeth were small and round, like a child’s baby teeth. Chewing slowly, he locked his eyes on mine and swallowed. A sigh of pure joy came out of him and he shuddered. I heard and felt that sweet chime I’d heard outside, felt it in my belly and chest and head, nearer now, softer than before. It came from the man!
Resistance, a snake of fear convulsed along my spine, then lay still and vanished under his gaze. Looking into those eyes, which were now a pure, lucid blue, I saw no harm or malice. Only strange, expansive otherness. Sitting on the floor, cradling his head in the bend of my knee as his odd voice hummed through me, I fell not so much in love but into fascination, into a deep and tender accord.
I smiled and he smiled back, his face creasing, his damaged skin surprisingly supple. I fed him a few more bites. Then his hand emerged from the blankets—the same horrible skin as on his face. His hand swerved twice before he took the biscuit I held. He brought it slowly to his mouth. The scarring covered his palms and fingertips, too. Miraculously, he seemed to be in no pain.
With every bite, he beamed. I’d never seen anyone take such unabashed pleasure in simple food, at least not an adult. He almost swooned.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He stopped chewing and swallowed.
I pointed at myself. “I am Evelyn, Evelyn Roe. What’s your name?”
The smile left his face. He stared expectantly as if he had asked the questions.
“Where are your clothes?”
Nothing, no reply. Just his open face, waiting.
I stammered on, “Why were you in the dirt like that? You could have drowned in that puddle.”
Still, just that steady, bright gaze.
I could not tell if he understood what I was saying, but he listened very closely, reluctantly taking his attention from the food each time I spoke. The way he watched me reminded me of the deaf girl who lived down in the mill-village. She had the same intense way of taking everything in through her eyes, drinking in the world. But when I laughed at his ecstatic expression after he took his first bite of the blackberry jam, he stopped his chewing to watch me and listen. He was not deaf.
Maybe he had amnesia. Maybe if I told him about my family and where I came from, he would be reminded of who he was. So I talked, telling him my name and where we were and everything we were eating, as though he were from another country.
We ate and ate. Three plates of food and two glasses of milk, him watching me each time I got up to get more.
When he finally seemed to be full, he sighed deeply. The room went oddly quiet and still.
I laid my hand on my chest and opened my mouth to ask about that sound, but he stopped me with that gaze. Then he placed his hand carefully over mine. The roughness of his palm against the back of my hand was both pleasant and repulsive. Slowly, his eyes closed, but his hand did not move from mine. After a long, quiet while, I laid his hand down, gently lowered his head from my leg to the pillow, and covered him again.
I thought I should offer him a bath and