The Shelter Cycle Read Online Free PDF

leaned his ear against the door. The doorknob rattled; the typing stopped.
    â€œYou’re up?” she said.
    â€œOnly because you are,” he said, the door still between them. “You okay?”
    â€œCan’t sleep.”
    â€œCome back to bed.”
    â€œIt’s better to do something than to lie awake,” she said.
    Wells leaned away from the door. He did not open it, did not put his hand on the knob and turn it.
    â€œAre you still out there?” she said.
    â€œYes,” he said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhat is it?” he said. “Something at work?”
    â€œGo to sleep,” she said.
    When he turned the knob and the door opened, Francine looked up, startled. The blue light of the computer screen glowed on the skin of her face, cast shadows in the folds of her bathrobe. Two books and some papers rested on the desk, next to the keyboard.
    â€œWhat are you typing?”
    â€œNothing,” she said, turning back to the screen. “Things for the baby. To be prepared, I guess.”
    â€œAre those the books Colville gave you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat are they?”
    â€œThey’re about babies, how to care for babies. That’s all.” She lifted them, held them up for him to see, then slid them away, into the shadows.
    â€œHow did he know?”
    â€œHe saw me out searching for the girl,” she said. “He said that, remember? Why are you being so weird about him?”
    â€œMaybe because he’s so weird?”
    Francine smiled. “Anyone who saw me out walking around those hills would know that I’m pregnant. I hope they would, anyway.”
    He stood there, halfway in the room. “You really feel all right?”
    â€œYou asked that. I’ll see you in the morning.”
    He stepped back and closed the door, then stood still for a moment, waiting. He listened as the tapping resumed, then turned and walked down the hallway to the bedroom.
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    In the morning he spread his arms wide, hands gripping the edges of the mattress. He stared at the ceiling, its hairline cracks visible in the half-light. The sheets on Francine’s side felt tight, as if she’d made the bed around him. Had he heard her get into bed, or had she never returned?
    It was now past seven. He pulled the covers aside, swung his legs around, put his bare feet on the cold floor. In the bathroom the tub was drained, dry, clean, the towels on the rack barely damp. He stepped over Francine’s white cotton underwear on the floor, her maternity corduroys. Her toothbrush stuck up from the cup, its bristles still wet.
    In the kitchen the dishwasher was open, the dishes clean but not put away. Francine’s mug, her plate full of toast crumbs, rested in the sink. The morning looked cold, the sun just clearing the ridges.
    He could see, down the hallway, that the door of the baby’s room was ajar. He moved closer, touched it with his finger, pushed it a few inches further: the guest mattress propped against the wall, the new crib with its mobile of colored horses, the desk. Stepping inside, closer, he saw the books on the other side of the computer monitor. He unstacked them, spread them out so he could read the titles:
Nurturing Your Baby’s Soul: A Spiritual Guide for Expectant Parents;
Saint Germain, Master Alchemist;
and the third, more of a pamphlet, with a photocopied cover of Mary and baby Jesus, its title in rough calligraphy:
The Science of Motherhood for the New Age.
    He shuffled through the pamphlet’s pages—some dog-eared, underlined, ringed by old coffee cups. He stopped at a passage highlighted in yellow:
If you really follow this path, with all your heart, use the Violet Flame, use all the meditations and the proper diet—really pursue God—you can have control over your families. You can reach the place where souls of Light and great attainment are born to you. And by the science of the spoken Word