THENEWYORKER,SEPTEMBER30, 2019 67
I
had been the assistant to the di-
rector for less than a year. The im-
portant qualification for the job
was to have no fear of water. None.
And I did not. Only one thing moved
me: the appearance in my head of the
river horse. The guests, the Fellows,
weren’t supposed to have any fear of
water, either, but often they lied. This
hadn’t mattered for some time, because
the creek was dry, the creek was ashen.
Children, having collected pretty stones
from the wetness in the past only to
see them grow dull on a shelf, thought
that all the stones, everywhere, had died,
even the ones they’d left behind.
I had dealt with only two Fellows
before Philip—which I suspect was not
his real name. The previous ones had
always appeared drunk, though perhaps
they were only savagely thinking while
I filled the water tanks and brought in
fresh toilet-bowl brushes and briquettes
for the grill. Both, on departure, had
abandoned a remarkable amount of de-
tritus. Plastic parts of things. Cords of
many sorts. Puzzling attachments.
They had both complained of bed-
bugs and fire ants. “Not bedbugs,” I told
them. “Conenose bugs. The conenose
bugs have eaten the bedbugs.” I told
them to treat the fire-ant mounds with
molasses mixed with dish soap, but they
did not. The proof being the empty
cannisters of Baygon everywhere.
The residency came with a modest
ranch house surrounded by several hun-
dred acres. A creek bisected the only
road leading to the property, though it
hadn’t flooded and cut off access for many
years. The stories of high and consum-
ing waters were, however, legion. They
were difficult to believe. I try to relate
only to what is immediately verifiable.
I don’t like to imagine things. I have to
be careful about what I allow into my
head, though of course sometimes I have
no choice—as is the case with the river
horse—and then I want to shriek with
sadness and powerlessness.
Philip arrived on the first day of the
new year, eager, he announced, to get
to work. He was plump and pale, and
reeked of mildew or worse, and he ar-
rived with a dog about whom he had
informed no one. Still, pets were not
expressly forbidden.
The dog had a melancholy air.
“What’s its name?” I asked.
“What?” Philip demanded.
I helped him unpack his vehicle.
There was no luggage, but there were a
great many tightly sealed cardboard
boxes.
“Would you like me to get additional
supplies?” I asked. “Dog food?”
“What?” Philip bellowed again. “I’m
anxious to get down to business.”
I said that the guests, the Fellows,
always remarked on how astonishingly
quickly their time here went by.
“What? That’s preposterous! Time
never goes anywhere!”
The dog followed me outside and
sniffed the tires of my truck. Together,
we studied the sky, which appeared
threatening. I rearranged some porch
furniture. The dog looked at me. If I
were to attempt to describe that look
I would say that it was one that deeply
questioned what it was looking at, my
very existence, even. We walked toward
the woods and I showed him various
breaks in the fence line. “Don’t go out
there,” I advised him, “unless you’re
accompanied by someone, preferably
a person.”
“You mean like Philip,” he said,
though of course he couldn’t have.
We went back into the house and he
settled onto a bed that had been pre-
pared for him, a nest of faded beach
towels. He chewed thoughtfully at a
hole in one of them.
I told Philip about the weather-alert
system, the emergency phone, the extra
batteries and candles, the German vac-
uum cleaner, which no Fellow had ever
mastered. Once again, I asked him the
dog’s name but he didn’t seem to hear
me. He said he was working on a major
work, an exceedingly major work.
“No one will bother you,” I assured
him. “The university doesn’t care about
this place. I think they’d just as soon
tear it down.”
“Why not,” he agreed. He seemed
more cheerful now that I was leaving.
Looking back through one of the win-
dows, I saw the dog carefully removing
a slim book of poems from the bookcase.
That evening, it began to rain. And
it continued to rain for many days. The
rain was not flamboyant, merely con-
stant. During this period, I mostly lay
quietly, staring at the walls. There was
nothing on them. Once, I had had two
watercolors—I’d had them since I wasa little boy, and I had carried them about
with me for years and hung them in
whatever room I was living in—but
someone in a position of authority had
finally determined that they were det-
rimental to my progress and they were
taken from me. They had been created
by a capuchin. Caged animals often
take refuge in art but this one was ex-
ceptionally talented. I was told at the
time—when I was a little boy—that
we were the same age. She favored the
color blue, all the blues, of which there
are many. She worked feverishly, I was
told, usually at night, but then she sud-
denly sickened and died. But how she
loved art! Perhaps she loved it too much.
Perhaps she died trying to express the
great thing. She presented mystery in
terms of mystery. And is that not sub-
stance! Is that not meaning!
I stared at the walls and thought of
the little capuchin. I saw her only once.
The cowl comforting her troubled face
looked weary. There she is, I was told.
That is the one.
When it stopped raining, I ventured
out to visit the residency, but the creek
was impassable. Water rushed foaming
over the ford, and the gauge posts mark-
ing flood heights either were submerged
or had been ripped away. The scene be-
fore me had been utterly transformed.
I returned to my room and tried to call
Philip but there was no answer. I con-
tacted the university and left a message,
though they seldom responded to my
messages, even in the best of times. I
went back the following day, and noticed
that the woods looked especially fresh
and benign. All was peaceful except for
the rushing water, which showed no
sign of abatement.
But when I returned less than twenty-
four hours later I was astonished to find
the creek bed dry. It was as though some-
one had pulled a plug, which might well
have been the case. I would not put that
past someone at all. I drove quickly over
the ford and up the dirt track to the
house. All seemed in order, except that
Philip’s car was gone.
I had gazed at the dangerous waters
impassively, untroubled, but my heart
was pounding as I approached the house.
“Philip!” I called, but when I entered
there was only the dog on his nest of
towels. There was no sign of Philip or
his materials, the sealed cartons he’d