Two years after Curtis's return, Fritzi had a stroke. In the hospital, slurring from one side of his mouth, he announced first his appointment of Curtis as acting sheriff, then his own retirement, to take effect at the end of June. In the hospital, and afterward at his home, Curtis sat daily by the bed, healing Fritzi by hand and gaze, sometimes with a silent Margaret looking on coldly. It was obvious to Curtis that she distrusted him.

Ten days later, Fritzi was up and walking, unimpaired. Doc Wesley told Curtis the recovery was a lot quicker and more complete than he'd expected. "I don't know what it is you do, young man," he said, "but I wish I could do it."

Afterward Macurdy imagined Wesley in Oz, apprenticing under Arbel, then returning to Oregon with his new skills. But even if the doctor could be talked into it, it wouldn't be possible. He might survive the transit through the gate-might even retain his sanity-but he'd never make it back.

4 Exposure

For the 1948 Memorial Day celebration in Nehtaka's Veterans' Park, Macurdy and a number of other wounded veterans, of two wars, were asked to participate in a "remembrance" ceremony. Curtis agreed to introduce the other Purple Heart recipients, and to read the list of those who'd died from enemy action.

He took the duty seriously, and practiced the names to avoid grossly mispronouncing any.

As master of ceremonies, Mayor Louie Severtson introduced Curtis: "Here," he said, "is a young man who really ain't so young. I've known him since '33-that's fifteen years ago!-when he was new around here. He was twenty-five then, and didn't hardly look it. He went to war in '42. In '43 he won the Distinguished Service Cross for exceptional heroism in combat, and later served as an OSS spy in Nazi Germany, earning a silver star for gallantry. And after all that, at age forty, he still looks like a twenty-five-year-old."

He turned to Curtis, grinning. "How do you do that, Macurdy?"

It seemed to Curtis his heart had stopped. "It runs in the family," he said. "And clean living helps."

He got through his own presentation, and sat down with a sense of foreboding.

He and Mary had been invited to supper at Fritzi's that evening. Margaret had little to say before and during the meal, but it was obvious she had something on her mind. After pie, they sat over coffee.

"You mentioned your family," Margaret said. "The sheriff says they farm, back in Indiana."

"They did. My dad's retired now."

"How old does he look?"

Curtis frowned, but his voice was casual. "About seventy-five, the last time I saw him. He was born in 1872, which makes him seventy-six now. Worked hard all his life."

"Who else in your family looked as young as you do at age forty?"

Curtis's lips had thinned at her question. "My double-great grampa, I'm told. And a great uncle. Actually I lied when I took the deputy job in '33. I was older. And I lied about my age in the army in '42, afraid they wouldn't put a man my actual age in a combat unit. I'm forty-four now."

Fritzi stared uncomfortably at his wife. "Margaret…" he began.

She cut him short with a gesture, and another question for Curtis. "I've also heard you were married before."

"Twice."

That stopped her, but only for a moment. "The sheriff told me something about you. About you and Mary, before you were married. When he overheard you talking on the front porch. It was almost like witchcraft, he said, the effect it had on Mary. After that she was changed. She'd always said she'd never marry. She hadn't even gone out with boys."

Curtis's face had turned stony, and his eyes smoldered. "I learned that from my first wife," he said. "She was a witch. From another world. Does that satisfy you?"

Margaret paled, more from his look than his words, but her eyes did not soften. "He is kidding you," Fritzi broke in. His mild accent had thickened, as usual when something upset him. "You had no right to ask him such questions, like a prosecutor. He was right to feel insulted. Now apologize to him!"

She stared pinch-lipped at her husband, then turned back to Macurdy. It was hatred he saw now, in her aura and eyes, and when she spoke, she bit the words out. "If I have wronged you, I apologize."

"You did wrong me," Curtis answered. "Frankly, none of it was your business. I've been part of this community for fifteen years, counting my service time, and I've never wronged anyone here. Not once! I risk my life as a lawman, and risked it a lot more as a soldier, for my country. I met Mary because I risked my life, killing the armed man who'd just shot Fritzi and two other men. I've always had better things to do than to pry in other peoples' private lives."

Abruptly he stood. "Fritzi, I apologize for the upset. You're a good man, one of the best I know. I lived nine happy years in this house with your mother and daughter. I helped heal your gunshot wound. Helped heal Klara after she got hit by that car. To me you're more like a second father than a father-in-law.

"I hope this-clash here tonight, doesn't hurt things between you and your wife. But I will not sit down in this house with her again."

He turned to Mary, who looked distressed. "We'd better go now."

She nodded and got up. "I'm sorry, Papa," she said. "I love you very much. You are welcome in our home any time." She turned to Margaret. "And so are you, if you care to come. But we will not come here. This was my home for more than twenty-five years. My happy home. You have made it dark for me."

Margaret did not get up, but her words and face were as hard as Curtis's had been. "It is not I who brought darkness to this home. I advise you to rid yourself of that person"-she pointed at Curtis-"before it is too late."

Curtis and Mary left, Curtis grimly pleased with himself, and at the same time sick with anger. He and Mary spoke almost not at all as they walked the mile to the small house they'd bought. He did, however, stop at a liquor store for a pint of bourbon. He wanted something to ease his agitation, and was out of practice at meditating. When they got home, he set the bottle on the living room table, where they often read in the evening.

"Curtis," Mary said, "I agree with you that Margaret was completely out of line. She showed me a side of herself I hadn't wanted to recognize before. Now it's in the open. But right now I don't want to talk about it, or about anything. I just want to have a drink of that whiskey, read awhile, then go to sleep. And wake up in the morning to a new day."

Curtis's eyebrows rose. He'd never known Mary to drink, and wondered if she had while he was overseas. He nodded without speaking. Opening the bottle, he poured about two ounces in a tumbler, and put it on the table in front of her. She raised her glass and took a swallow. Her eyes and mouth opened in shock, and she gasped. "So that's what it's like," she said blinking, and shuddered. Then she sat down at the table and opened the Reader's Digest. He poured half a glass for himself, took a sip, then sat down with the latest issue of Blue Book.

After a couple of pages and several sips, he looked at her glass. The level was down a bit; apparently she was determined. After reading a short story, he left the room, changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth. By the time he'd returned to the dining room, Mary had finished the two ounces and poured another.

A few minutes later she got up and hurried to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The next minute or so she spent vomiting and groaning. Curtis went into the kitchen, put the pint on the counter, lit a burner on the stove and put the tea kettle on it. Then he put bread in the toaster, and two tea bags into cups. Finally he spread butter on the toast.