To reach home, Orville followed a short-cut that bypassed the Petit Lac and its island; the path was weed choked: burdock, thistle, artichoke, and mustard. All were rain wet, fog wet. From a rock wall fence he took in the spires of the Ronde place, fog crawling over them, the fog in the pines and chestnut and elm toward the château, now fogged out. Crossing a bridge over the Nonette he found the fog thicker, smokier, on the bridge itself it seemed stuffed into the cracks of the 13th century masonry.
In the cemetery he paused by his dad's grave, weedy and foggy. Lighting a cigarette he felt the fog nip at his lighter flame.
You're buried there ... if I'm killed in the war what then? If all of us die ... not a bad idea. Not a bad idea!
He shrugged his shoulders and the shrug brought back painful memories of tank fatigue.
He blew smoke into the fog.
Lights in the windows of the Ronde place--vague in shape and size--recalled his Ithaca home: his dad's insurance policy had made it a reality.
Orville picked up a stone, considered it, dropped it.
I can arrange my papers ... Jeannette will be the beneficiary ... she can purchase a house in Wisconsin, for Mr. William J. Bruce, geometry teacher, football star ... three bedrooms ... split level ... nice ... or nice Ithacan place, by the wine dark sea!
What was that in the fog? Was it fear?
Fear gleaming out there?