A Ship Made of Paper Scott Spencer

On a ship that’s made of paper I would sail the seven seas “Just toBe with You”

Bernard Roth

[1]

Daniel and Hampton were paired by chance and against their wishes.They were not friends—Hampton did not particularly like Daniel, and Daniel had every reason to avoid being alone with Hampton.But Daniel’s girlfriend or partner or whatever he was supposed to call her, Kate, Kate went home to relieve the baby-sitter who was minding her daughter, and Hampton’s wife, there was no ambigu-ity there, his wife, Iris, with whom Daniel was fiercely in love, had gone home to look after their son.Daniel and Hampton stayed behind to search for a blind girl, a heartsick and self-destructive blind girl who had run away from today’s cocktail party, either to get lost or to be found, no one was sure.

The searchers, fourteen in all, were each given a Roman candle—whoever found

the lost girl was to fire the rocket into the sky, so the others would know—and each of the pairs was assigned a section of the property in which to look for Marie.

“Looks like you and me,”Daniel said to Hampton, because he had to say something.

Hampton barely responded and he continued to only minimally acknowledge

Daniel’s nervous chatter as they walked away from the mansion through an untended expanse of wild grass that soon led into a dense wood of pine, locust, maple, and oak.Aside from the contrast of their color—Daniel was white, Hampton black—the two men were remarkably similar in appearance.They were both in their mid-thirties, an inch or so over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, reasonably fit.They were even dressed similarly, in khaki pants, white shirts, and blue blazers, though Daniel’s jacket was purchased at Macy’s, and Hampton’s had been sewn specially for him by a Chinese tailor in the city.

Two years after he was kicked down the stairs ofhis apartment building in NewYork City, which shattered his wrist, chipped his front tooth, and, as he himself put it, broke his heart, Daniel Emerson is back in his hometown, driving Ruby, his girlfriend’s four-year-old daughter, to her day care center, called My LittleWooden Shoe.The drive is ten or fifteen minutes, depending on the weather, and though Daniel is not Ruby’s father, nor her stepfather, it usually falls to him to take the little girl in.Daniel cannot understand how she can so willingly and unfailingly absent herselffrom the beginnings ofher daughter’s day;Ruby’s mother, Kate Ellis, cannot bear to rise early in the morning, nor can she bear the thought ofhaving to deal with Melody, orTammy, Keith, Tamara, Grif-fin, Elijah, Avery, Stephanie, Joel, Tess, Chantal, Dylan, or any ofthe otherWooden Shoers, not to mention their fathers and their mothers, a few ofwhom Daniel knew thirty-two years ago in this very town, when he was Ruby’s age.

It’s fine with Daniel.He welcomes the chance to do fatherly things with the little girl, and those ten morning minutes with dear little four-year-old Ruby, with her deep soulful eyes, and the wondrous things she sees with them, and her deep soulful voice, and the precious though not entirely memorable things she says with it, and the smell ofbaby sham-poo and breakfast cereal filling the car, that little shimmering capsule of time is like listening to cello music in the morning, or watching birds in a flutter ofindustry building a nest, it simply reminds you that even if God is dead, or never existed in the first place, there is, nevertheless, something tender at the center ofcreation, some meaning, some pur-pose and poetry.He believes in parental love with the fervency ofa man who himself was not loved, and those ten minutes with Ruby every weekday morning, before he drops her offat My LittleWooden Shoe and then drives over to his office, where he runs a poorly paying, uneventful country law practice, in the fairly uneventful town ofLeyden, one hun-dred miles north ofNewYork City, those six hundred sweet seconds are his form ofworship, and the temperamental eight-year-old black Saab is his church.

Or was, actually, because, unfortunately, this is no longer the case.

The drive is still ten minutes, Ruby is still snugly strapped in her child safety seat in the back ofthe car, her sturdy little body encased in lilac overalls, her short-fingered, square hands holding a box ofraisins and a box ofgrape juice, and today she is commenting on the familiar land-marks they pass—the big kids’school, the abandoned apple orchard where the wizened old trees wreathed in autumn morning mist are so scarily bent, the big yellow farmhouse where there is always some sort ofyard sale, the massive pasture where every July the county fair assem-bles, with its cows and snow cones, Ferris wheels and freaks—but today it is all Daniel can do to pay the slightest bit ofattention to Ruby, because his mind is seized, possessed, and utterly filled by one repeating ques-tion:Will Iris be there?

Daniel has been carrying the unwieldy weight ofthis desire for months now, and so far his behavior has been impeccable.When it comes to Iris the rules he has made for himself are simple:look but don’t touch, long for but don’t have, think but don’t say.All he wants to do is be in the same room with her, see what she is wearing, see by her eyes ifshe has slept well, exchange a few words, make her smile, hear her say his name.

Until recently, it was a matter ofchance whether their paths would cross.Iris’s deliveries and pickups ofNelson were helter-skelter, one day she’d have him there at eight o’clock, and the next at nine-thirty—it all depended on her class schedule at Marlowe College, where she was a graduate student, as well as Nelson’s morning moods, which were un-predictable.But now, suddenly, she is exactly on Daniel’s schedule most days, herVolvo station wagon pulls into the day care center’s parking lot atvirtually the same time as his.He wonders ifit’s deliberate on her part.He has reached the point ofthinking so often ofher, ofso often go-ing out ofhis way to pass her house, oflooking for her wherever he goes, that it’s become difficult for him to believe that Iris is not thinking, at least some ofthe time, ofhim.

Daniel pulls into My LittleWooden Shoe’s parking lot and sees her car, already in its customary spot, directly facing the playground, with its redwood climbing structures, sandbox, and swings.He is so glad to know that she’s here that he laughs.

“What’s so funny?”Ruby asks, as he unsnaps her from her car seat, lifts her up.Her questions are blunt;he guesses one day she’ll be a tough customer.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you laughing?”She smiles.Her milk teeth are tinged brown:as a baby she was sometimes allowed to fall asleep with a bottle of juice in her crib and the sugar wore away her enamel.Now the dentist says the best thing to do is just let them fall out.Yet the brown, lusterless teeth—along with her slight stoutness, and her ruddy complexion— make her look poor and rural, like a child in the background ofa Brueghel painting.

“Just crazy thoughts,”Daniel says.“How about you?Any crazy thoughts lately?”

“I want to go to Nelson’s house after day care.”

“That’s not a very crazy thought.”

She thinks about this for a moment.“I want to sleep over.”

“You never know,”Daniel says.He swoops her up into his arms, turns her upside down.She clutches her knapsack, afraid that her snack and box ofjuice will slip out.Daniel restrains himself from suggesting to Ruby:Ask him, ask Nelson if you can spend the night.

Today, Iris is wearing plaid cotton pants that are a little too short for her and a bulky green sweater that is a little too large.Her clothes are rarely beautiful, and it has often struck Daniel that Iris herselfmay have no idea that she is lovely to look at.Her dark hair is cut short, she wears no makeup, no jewelry, everything about her says,I’m plain, don’t bother looking at me.Maybe he has drifted into the periphery ofher life because somehow in the grand design ofthings—and this private, pulverizing love he feels makes him believe in grand designs—he is the man who must awaken her to her own beauty.Is there some casual, defused way he can say to her:Do you have an idea how lovely you are?

He wants to hold her in the moonlight.He wants to stroke her shoulder until she is fast asleep.

She is crouched next to Nelson, whispering something in his ear.He loves seeing her with her son, the intimacy ofit pierces him.She seems a perfect mother:calm, present, able to adore without consuming.Nel-son is a handsome boy, strong, bigger than most ofthe children in the day care, several shades lighter than his mother.There is something regal and disdainful in him.He has the air ofsomeone forced to live around peo-ple who don’t understand the full extent ofhis excellence.He nods im-patiently as his mother speaks to him, and when his eyes light upon Ruby he bolts and the two children greet each other wildly, almost in a bur-lesque ofhappiness, holding hands, jumping up and down.Iris heaves a sigh and stands up, shakes her head.

“Sorry about that,”Daniel says.

”Those two,”says Iris.

”It looked like you were giving him some last-minute instructions,”

Daniel says.

Iris looks around to make certain she will not be overheard.“There was a note in his cubby from Linda.It seems he hit one ofthe other chil-dren yesterday.”

“Oh well, these teachers have a way ofcatastrophizing everything.”

“I just don’t want the oneAfrican-American child in the whole school to be the one committing little acts ofviolence.”

She never refers to race around him, and Daniel wonders if her saying this now is a way ofinviting him in, or pushing him back.

“Do you have time for a cup ofcoffee or something?”he asks her.

She looks at her watch.“I’ve got a meeting with my thesis advisor in halfan hour.”

“That’s nothing compared to the tight schedule of an unsuccessful, small-town lawyer,”he says.

“Where would be fast?”Iris says.

”The Koffee Kup.The coffee’s so bad they spell it with a K.And the lighting is so bad, it’s impossible to sit there longer than fifteen minutes.

I’ll race you there.”

He drives behind her, not wanting to risk letting her out ofhis sight, and feeling the juvenile, slightly demented thrill oflooking at the back ofher head, her hands on the steering wheel.A Marlowe College sticker is on her rear window.The sight ofit ignites a little fizz ofpity and tenderness in him—at thirty-three, she’s new to Marlowe’s graduate program, and her fixing that sticker to her car connotes some desire for definition, a will to belong, or so it seems to him.She maintains the exact thirty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit all the way to Leyden’s miniature Broadway, and when she pulls into a parking spot in front ofthe diner she uses her turn signal.Such devotion to the rules, such commitment to the princi-ples ofhighway safety—it would be ludicrous to believe that a woman like her could ever entertain the possibility ofsome sexual adventure, of entering into the grim geometry ofinfidelity.

He is astonished by his own ardor.He is like a man who suddenly discovers he can sing, who one day opens his mouth in the shower and mu-sic bursts out ofhim, each note dipped in gold.But the timing is wrong.

He is thirty-six years old, he has commitments, and until now he gave no more credence to the transforming, commanding power oflove than he did to the myth ofAtlantis.Yet this desire, this overwhelming need to look at Iris—who he is convinced is not only beautiful but beautiful in a way that only he can fully appreciate, a beauty somehow designed espe-cially for his eyes—is something he has allowed himself to succumb to.

What harm, really, can it do?

Daniel wants to do no harm, nor does he want any harm to come to him.In fact, he has moved back to Leyden, home ofhis bucolic, mediocre childhood, leaving a prosperous career back in NewYork City, largely because he had lived for months with the fear that either one or severalAfrican-Americans were going to beat him within an inch ofhis life, or perhaps go that extra inch and kill him.It was not an idle, racist fantasy;he had been told flat out that his time was near.He had unsuc-cessfully defended a black man accused ofdealing drugs, and on the day ofthe sentencing, a short, mild-looking black man in a blue suit, a white turtleneck, and a diamond earring whispered to Daniel,“Keep your eyes open.You know what I’m saying?”Within a week, Daniel’s own dread had wound itselfaround him so tightly that he couldn’t see a person of color—a cleaning woman, a bus driver, acrobats and break-dancers in Washington Square Park, a bunch ofhigh school kids horsing around on the subway platform—without thinking that this one, or that one, might be an emissary from his furious client.“I’m afraid ofblack people,”he fi-nally said to Kate.It was the most shaming thing he had ever told another person.He felt like an insect, a fool.Kate, for her part, was entirely sym-pathetic.And to think you defended that fucking idiot for free,she kept on say-ing.Did anything she said make him feel better? He can no longer remember.He spent another two months crossing the street to get away from suspicious-looking blacks, spending a fortune in cab fares, exhaust-ing himself with gasps and double takes, feeling weak and loathsome, and they caught up with him anyhow.

Daniel and Iris walk into the Koffee Kup together.Ofthe three breakfast spots in Leyden, this is the oldest, and the core clientele are na-tives ofLeyden.It’s a simple, sparsely decorated storefront, with a high ceiling and overhead fans, a row ofdark wooden booths, a long Formica counter, and a scattering oftables up front.The women who run it—country women with checkered domestic lives and a penchant for teas-ing and wisecracks—open for business at six in the morning, when the truckers, contractors, and farmworkers gather for ham and eggs.Now that Leyden is changing, with more and more city people moving in, there are fancier and, to be honest about it, better places to have break-fast, but Daniel still frequents the Double K, where his parents took him for his first restaurant meal.He holds the door open for Iris, knowing there will surely be people here whom he knows, people to whom he will have to nod, or greet, or perhaps even speak with.Kate, however, will certainly not be among them.It is not yet nine o’clock and she is probably still sleeping, or ifshe is awake she isn’t out ofbed yet.She is probably pouring herselfa cup ofViennese roast from the thermos he al-ways places at her bedside before leaving with Ruby in the morning.

Daniel and Iris sit at a table near the front window.The youngest of the Koffee Kup waitresses, ponytailed and pierced Becky, brings Daniel a coffee and a glass ofwater, which is what she always does as soon as he sits down.She brings nothing for Iris and seems, in fact, not to register her presence.

“I think we’re going to need another coffee here, Becky,”Daniel says.

Becky looks momentarily confused, and then she turns and looks at Iris as ifseeing her for the first time.

“Oh, sorry,”she says, her voice flat.

”Do you have decaf?”Iris says brightly, smiling.She has a space between her front teeth.

“Do you want decaf?”Becky asks.She heaves a sigh.

”That would be great,”Iris says to Becky.

What Daniel does not see:Iris’s foot is tapping nervously.The waitress’s slight stubbornness about the decafis potential trouble.All Iris wants is for it to go unnoticed;the small rudeness is the sort ofthing that her husband would be fuming about, ifhe were here right now.He’s thin-skinned, his radar for slights is always on, always scanning the social horizon for incoming missiles.Iris has sat with him in innumerable restaurants while he has glared at the waitress, gestured impatiently at the waiter, sent back the soup, sent back the fish, asked to speak to the manager, and let it be known with a few choice words that he was no one to be trifled with.And it’s not just in restaurants that this highly tuned sensitivity to insult turns what Iris always hopes will be a simple outing into a kind ofdespairing war against prejudice.At aYankees game when the usher asks a second time to check his tickets, in the first-class cabin on a flight to Hawaii when the stewardess forgets to bring him an extra pillow and then tells him there are no more macadamia nuts, at the Jaguar dealership where the salesman will not let them take the car out for a test drive without xeroxing his license and taking an imprint ofhis American Express card.

“I guess they’re brewing up a fresh pot ofthe decaf,”Daniel says.“Are you going to have time?”

They talk about the children, and Daniel feels the minutes ticking away;it’s like feeling himself bleed to death.He wonders, wildly, ifIris remembers that he is not really Ruby’s father.How can he bring that up without it seeming small-minded? Iris’s coffee has still not arrived, and she checks her watch, looks quickly over her shoulder at Becky, who is at the far end ofthe counter leisurely chatting to an old man in a tractor cap and suspenders.

“I’m having such a hard time in school,”Iris says.“And I can’t be late for this meeting with my advisor.He already thinks I’m a flake.”

“He can’t think that.”

“I’m getting my doctorate inAmerican Studies, and I can’t even figure out my thesis.I keep changing it.The thing is, I really want to get my de-gree, but another part ofme would be happy to stay in school forever.It’s so much fun, and it’s not like I’ve got to put bread on my family table.”

“When I first met you, you were thinking aboutThurgood Marshall.”

“That was my husband’s idea.Marshall was sort ofa friend ofhis family.Well, there have been many changes oftopic since then.God.All this time offfrom school, all this marriage and motherhood, it’s sort of gummed up my brain.I’m in a state ofconstant confusion.”

“I never liked school,”Daniel says, though it’s not true.He’s not sure why he said it.

“I like school.I just don’t like my brain right now.”Her laugh is soft, heartrending.She pushes the sleeves ofher sweater up, showing her ar-ticulated forearms, dark and hairless.“I better get out ofhere,”she says.

“This is ridiculous.You didn’t even get your coffee.”

“It’s no big deal.”Her heart is racing;how long will it take him to figure out that the waitress is deliberately not serving her?“Anyhow, you said the coffee’s not very good here.”

“Well, at least drink the water, the water’s excellent.”

Outside, they linger for a moment.“Becky was weird in there,”

Daniel says.

“Becky?”Iris can feel it coming;he is going to declare himself outraged on her behalf.He is going to be her prince in shining liberal armor.

“Yes, our waitress,”he says.He feels a quickening, he has found a way to say what he has wanted to say for so long.“The thing about Becky is she’s weird around beautiful women.”There.It’s said.He makes a helpless ges-ture, as ifhe were tossing up his life, seeing where it would land.He doesn’t dare look at her.“Because you are.So extraordinarily beautiful.”

“Oh.”She says it as ifhe were a child who has come up with something adorable.“Well, thanks.”

“I still owe you a cup ofcoffee,”he says.“How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,”she says.

He watches her as she hurries toward her car.Her generous bottom, her funny little run.The sky is dark blue and the autumn sun is warm and steady, as ifpromising that winter will never arrive.A slow breeze moves down the street, carrying the perfume ofthe slowly dying leaves, a nearby field’s last mowing, the river.What can the world do to you with its beauty? Can it lift you up on its shoulders, as ifyou were a hero, can it whoopsie-daisy you up into its arms as ifyou were a child? Can it goad your timid heart, urge you on to finally seize what you most shamefully desire?Yes, yes, all that and more.The world can crush you with its beauty.

Back in the city, Daniel’s firm had offices that took three floors in a styl-ishArt Deco building on LexingtonAvenue, with astrological mosaics in the lobby, and arte moderne numerals over the filigreed brass elevator doors.But here in Leyden his place ofwork is as humble as his practice, two rooms in a wood-framed building near the center oftown.It’s an ungraceful, stolid sort ofbuilding, the architectural equivalent ofa schoolmarm, a nun, a maiden aunt;it once had been, in fact, a board-inghouse, from1925to1960,owned by two musical, free-thinking German sisters, and run exclusively for local unmarried women—gen-teel shop-women, schoolteachers, and a woman named Marjorie Inger-soll, who had a small private income that she supplemented by giving painting and drawing lessons, and whose cheerful landscapes, with their agitated skies and roller coaster hills and valleys, are still displayed along the stairways and in the hallways.Now, the house has been turned into an office complex, where Daniel rents a two-room suite, where century-old locust trees scrape their branches against the windows at the wind’s slightest provocation.Eight hundred and fifty dollars a month, which back in the city would get him thirty square feet in Staten Island.

Daniel climbs the back stairs to the second floor, so lost in thought as he replays and what-ifs this morning’s meeting with Iris that he forgets today’s first appointment will be with his parents, who have announced that they wish to review their last will and testament.Daniel is not their lawyer;the meager bits oflegal business they have generated throughout their adult lives have been handled by one ofthe town’s old-timers, Owen Fitzsim-mons, an ectoplasmic old sort with funereal eyes and icy hands.Fitzsim-mons was a longtime chiropractic patient ofDaniel’s father’s, and while Mrs.Fitzsimmons was alive, the two couples took golfing vacations to-gether to Phoenix and San Diego, formed a wine-tasting club that was quite a success in Leyden in the late1970s, and one summer traveled together to Scotland and Ireland, where they stayed in castles, golfed, and came back home percolating with plans to retire and expatriate to what they continu-ally referred to as“the British Isles.”When his parents called for an ap-pointment, Daniel had wondered ifthere’d been some falling-out with Fitzsimmons, though that seemed to him unlikely.Daniel found Fitzsim-mons both vain and dour, a chilly man in a worn blue blazer with some mys-terious crest over the pocket.But then Daniel’s parents—Carl and Julia Emerson—were no less dour, and even shared with Fitzsimmons whatever circulatory difficulty it is that prevents one’s hands, fingers, and particularly fingertips from getting the blood flow necessary to keep them at a mam-malian temperature.Because their work entailed touching people, both of them were continually blowing on their hands to try to warm them.

Daniel’s secretary is named SheilaAlvarez.She is a stout, round-faced woman.She wraps her dark braids so they sit like a woven basket on top ofher head, and she wears complicated necklaces with tiny stones, bits of seashell, and pantheistic amulets.The least alluring ofthree daughters, she is one ofthose women who get stuck with the task ofcaring for ag-ing, suffering parents, and when they died she was all alone in the world, and too emotionally spent to do anything about it.She has a far-flung net-work ofwomen friends, with whom she is continually on the phone.She is, however, unfailingly efficient, and since getting ill last winter, when Daniel not only protected her job during a long convalescence but also paid for the hospital charges that the insurance company didn’t cover, she is fiercely loyal to Daniel, protective and vigilant, as ifthe office were un-der continual attack, or threat ofattack, though, ofcourse, it is not:it’s just a humdrum rural practice, with one criminal case for every ten real estate closings, and even the criminal cases rarely come to trial.

This practice barely affords him a decent living—in fact, he’s not really clearing much more than he pays Sheila—and it is as close to his for-mer, sleek professional life as a campfire is to a blast furnace, and sometimes it is remarkable to Daniel not only that he has chosen this quiet, country life but that he finds it so agreeable.True, leaving New York was more like fleeing NewYork, but he could have chosen some-place with more people, better cases, more money to be made.Yet here he is, right back in Leyden, which, for years, every time he left it—dur-ing prep school, college, law school, after holidays, summers, the funeral ofan old grade school buddy—he always assumed he was seeing it for the very last time.Kate, upon agreeing to move to Leyden with him, sensed that Daniel wanted to be near his aging parents, and, despite her misgiv-ings, she didn’t see how she could prevent him from fulfilling his filial du-ties.Though every story he ever told her about his parents made them seem as ifthey were monsters ofreserve, two towering touch-me-nots who treated Daniel as ifhe were not so much their son as their charge, one ofthose boys from a nineteenth-century novel, a boisterous nephew left behind by a floozy sister, an orphan whose parents have disappeared undermysterious circumstances in India, a little human mess it had fallen to them to mop up.

Sheila hangs up the phone as Daniel closes the outer door ofhis office behind him.She is quick to end what was obviously a personal call, but her smile is warm and unrepentant.

“Everything okay here?”he asks.

She puts a short, bejeweled finger over her peachy lips, and then quickly scrawls a note to him on a yellow Post-it.“Your parents are wait-ing for you inside,”it says.

In truth, he has forgotten they were coming, and hedoesfeel a little dismayed, but he exaggerates his feelings to amuse Sheila—his face a stark, staring mask ofmock horror.He crumples the note, his eyes dart back and forth, as ifhe were about to bolt.What am I going to do?

His lips soundlessly form the words.His hand goes to his throat.Sheila laughs, also soundlessly, and then she leans back in her high-tech swivel-ing office chair, and the contraption tilts back so abruptly that it seems as ifshe is going to tip over, which elicits a scream ofshock and delight from her.

Great,Daniel mimes to her, and then he strolls into his inner office, where Carl and Julia are seated on the sofa, but leaning forward, their heads tilted, looks ofconcern on their faces.

“What was that scream?”Daniel’s father asks.

”Sheila,”Daniel says.“Tipping over.”He greets his parents with affection, which he presents to them mildly, delicately, with the kind ofreserve you expect in a funeral home or in an intensive care unit.He kisses his mother gently on the cheek, shakes his father’s hand while keeping his own eyes down.He sits at his desk, runs his hands over its clear, waxed surface.

“So what’s the problem with your wills?”Daniel asks, wanting to take charge ofthe conversation.The last thing he wants to do is to answer their bread-and-butter inquiries about Kate and Ruby, neither ofwhom they have bothered to try to know very well, but whom they would be likely to ask after, for the sake ofform.

Carl and Julia exchange nervous looks, openly, as ifthey are communicating over a client who is facedown on the chiropractic table.

Daniel, for his part, pretends not to notice.When he was young, he was curious to discover what lay behind his parents’ceaseless secrecy and re-serve, what horrible little habits they might conceal, what gooey sexual secrets, what hidden morsels ofbiography.Maybe they carried some deep malice, perhaps they weren’t really married, perhaps he was adopted, maybe his father was a quack, maybe his mother ended every evening in bed sniffing at a rag drenched in ether, and just maybe they werefrom outer space.It’s puzzling to him how his curiosity has per-sisted, but now he fears that ifthey were ever to suddenly confide in him he might want to clap his hands over his ears.It’s too late for that.His ef-fort has been to make peace with the people who raised him, the creaky couple who always winced ifhe raised his voice, the punctual pair who had a clock in every room and who marked the passing ofthe hours with their sighs, their meals, theirTV programs.Ifthey were to show him something different now, it would upset that peace, the treaty would be nullified, he would have to start to try to understand them, and he did not care to.

Somehow, in their little exchange ofglances, it is decided that Carl will present the problem to Daniel.“We’ve made some changes in our will,”he says, in his calm, authoritative voice.“And Owen strongly ad-vised us to go over them with you.”

“Okay,”Daniel says, stretching the word out.He is looking closely at his father, imagining himself looking like him in forty years.Worse things could happen.Carl is fit, leaner than Daniel is now.His blue eyes are sharp beneath spiky, emphatic eyebrows.There is something strange in the intensity ofhis father’s gaze.When he looks you in the eye it doesn’t feel like frankness, it feels like aggression.His hair is still dark and abun-dant, his posture a living advertisement for his particular branch ofthe medical arts.He looks scrubbed, well rested, prosperous—pleased with life, and pleased with himself.Julia, however, is starting to age rapidly.

She has become frail, a little trembly, and her once imperious features look surprised by her own onrushing mortality.

“Well,”Carl continues,“as you know, in the past three or four years your mother and I have become much more involved in theWindsor County Raptor Center, over in Bailey Point.”

“No,”Daniel says.“As a matter offact, I didn’t know.”Raptor Center?

And then it hits him:his father’s eyes are those ofa hawk, an eagle, a falcon.

“Yes, you did,”Julia says, a little accusingly.“Don’t you recall my showing you pictures ofyour father and me at the center? Father had a falcon on his arm?”Her throat seems as ifit were irritated by the work oftalking, and she coughs into her hand.

“You know me, Mom.I have a terrible memory.But I do know the place.An old friend ofmine from fifth grade runs it.”

“Lionel Sanderson,”Carl says, with a smile.

”Right,”says Daniel.“How is he?”

“Overworked, but what dedicated man is not?”

“He remembers you, ofcourse,”Julia adds.“He often recalls the nice afternoons after school at our house.”

Daniel is both stunned and amused by the untruthfulness ofthis.First ofall, he and Lionel were never close friends and did not spend their time after school in each other’s company.And secondly,no onecame to the Emerson house after school, or on weekends, or during the summer, or any time at all, except to quickly call for Daniel and be on their way.His parents found the racket and clutter ofboys unbearable.The house itself was a meticulous and unfriendly place, and the pictures on the walls were ofskulls and spinal cords, giving the place a kind ofpermanent Hal-loween ambiance—a chilling, childless Halloween.But Daniel knows better than to challenge their take on the past—he has tried it before when other inconsistencies have arisen, and it has caused hard feelings.

“Well, it’s not that we have any plans to be kicking the bucket,”Carl says,“but we wanted you to know that we’ve decided to leave the bulk ofour estate to the Raptor Center.Right now, the whole operation is squeezed onto twenty-five acres, and there’s not a building on the prop-erty that doesn’t need some major repair.What they would like to do—”

“Need to do,”Julia says.

“Is double the acreage, and create facilities that can safely house fiftybirds.”

“I see,”Daniel says.He senses the injury ofwhat is being said, but he can’t feel it.It’s like cutting your thumb with a fine blade and seeing the little crease in the skin but not yet the blood.“Well, that sounds good.Raptors.”

“What we wanted to avoid at all costs,”Julia says,“is having you learn about this after we’re gone.And then feeling that we’ve done thisagainst you somehow.”

“Because nothing could be further from the truth,”Carl adds.

”Yes,”Daniel says.“Well.Raptors.You’re not planning some early departure scenario, are you?”He sees the confusion on their faces, clarifies.

”You know, ending it all.Suicide.”He raises his voice on that word, star-tles himself.

“Absolutely not,”says Carl.

”But we’re not getting any younger,”Julia says.“Dan, let’s concentrate on what is important here.Ifyour father and I thought you needed money, then ofcourse we would have left every penny we have to you.

But here you are.”She makes an encompassing gesture, indicating his of-fice, the Moroccan carpet on the floor, the glassed-in bookshelves, the antique oak file cabinets.“The Raptor Center is barely making it.”

“We’re assuming you must have salted away a pretty penny from that job in NewYork—or else why would you have retired from it?”

He’ll let that pass.“I just never knew you two were so involved with birds ofprey,”he says.

“It’s recent,”says Carl.“We don’t want this to cause any hard feelings.

Your mother and I have been talking this over for months, and that’s the most important thing, that there be no hard feelings.This is in no way meant to indicate what our feelings are for you, Dan.You’re our son.”

“Our only son,”says Julia.“Our only offspring.Our only family.”

“Are we talking about every penny you have?”asks Daniel.

”And the house,”says Carl.

”Not the contents, however,”Julia says, prodding Carl with one finger.

I couldn’t care less,Daniel thinks.Yet the affront ofthis is unmistakable.

I’m read out of their will?Why are they trying to punish me? Did I miss a Sun-day dinner? Did I fail to rake their leaves, clean their gutters, haul their empties to the recycling center?And then, in an instant, a huge and unhappy thought presents itselfto him:I came back here to be near them.And, in the next in-stant, the thought is gone.

Carl has opened his briefcase and produced a manila folder containing Polaroids ofthe various pieces offurniture and works ofart Carl and Julia have deemed the most valuable oftheir possessions.The grandfa-ther clock, with its long, tarnished pendulum, which Daniel was always forbidden to touch, the spindly nesting table, which he was also not al-lowed to touch, the blue willow setting for twelve, also out ofbounds, the purple and red Persian rug, which he was allowed to walk across, but only without shoes, the antique hat rack upon which Daniel was never permitted to hang his hat—parenthood came late to the Emersons, and when Daniel was born, they did not childprooftheir house, they house-proofed their child.

“Whenever you see something you really and truly want,”Julia says,

“just turn the picture over and put your name on it.”

“I don’t really see the purpose ofthis,”Daniel says.

”We wanted you to have first choice,”says Julia.

”First choice over whom?You don’t have any other children.Do you think the birds are going to want your china cabinet?”

Again, Carl and Julia trade worried glances, gesture back and forth, as ifthey are alone.

“This is exactly why we wanted to get this done when all three ofus could sit calmly together and hash it out,”Carl says.“We don’t want any misunderstandings.”

“The thing is, I don’t want your money.I make a decent living—Iam

charging you for this appointment, by the way.”Daniel laughs but is not surprised when his parents don’t join in.Once, about twenty-five years ago, he made his mother laugh at a knock-knock joke, but he hasn’t been able to get so much as a chuckle out ofeither ofthem since.

“But you see?”says Julia.“That was exactly our thinking.”

“You’re doing fine,”says Carl.“You always have.From the very beginning.I hope you realize what a blessing it was for your mother and I to have a son whom we trusted, who did the right things, who kept out oftrouble, and who was never a danger to himself or to others.Believe me.You may think ofyour mother and me as living in a bell jar, but we see what other people have gone through with their children.Drugs and homosexuality being just the most lurid examples.The great luxury you afforded us was that we never needed to doubt your basic stability.It was such a reliefto know that no matter what, you were always going to be just fine.Your head was always screwed on right.”

“Well, that’s really incredibly moving, Dad,”Daniel says, gathering up the photographs, closing the folder, handing it back to his father.“Maybe you better hang on to these, okay?Who knows? I might disappoint you after all, and you wouldn’t want any ofthis fine furniture falling into the wrong hands.”

Throughout that day he taps his feet beneath his desk while he pretends to listen to clients, and then in court he keeps one hand clenched in his pocket while he enters a plea ofnot guilty in a criminal mischiefcase.

Thoughts ofIris have completely eclipsed any reflections he might have had over being cut out ofhis parents’will.All he can think ofis getting out ofhis office and driving past her house.He likes to see where she lives, the house, its reality pleases him.There is something at once sacred and pornographic, knowing she is in there.Today is Friday, a particularly im-portant day to drive by.It is the day that Hampton, her husband, returns from the city for his weekend at home.The sunset looks like melted ver-milion, the houses and trees are drawn in black ink.He navigates his car down Juniper Street, listening to DinahWashington sing“What a Differ-ence a Day Makes”on the car stereo, and it strikes him that all his life he has been in love with black women—DinahWashington, Billie Holiday, IrmaThomas, IvieAnderson, Ella Fitzgerald, Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith.

Juniper Street is only four blocks long, lined on both sides by singlefamily houses, some with a will toward grandness, others compact Dutch dollhouses, tight little structures painted brown or yellow, with churchy windows and bronze plaques over the doorway announcing the year oftheir construction.As he rolls closer to Iris’s house, he turns off the music, slows to practically a stop.Her house is white clapboard, with a small porch, red shutters, a quartet ofmaple trees on the front lawn.

The windows are dark, they hold a faint reflection ofthe sunset.Iris’s car is not in the driveway, and Daniel, no stranger to her comings and go-ings, in fact having more knowledge ofthem than he would ever admit to anyone else, realizes she has left for the train station to pick up Hamp-ton, whose train is coming in at6:05.Daniel can hardly bear to think of this—imagining her on the platform peering into the windows ofthe train as it pulls in, trying to see ifit’s him, or him, or him, and then there he is, the conquering hero, home from a week ofshuffling expensive pa-per, with his Hugo Boss suit and shaved head, his Mark Cross leather satchel, his Burberry raincoat draped over his shoulders like a cape, here comes the Count ofVenture Capital, and now the inevitable kiss, the child between them, symbol oftheir unbreakable bond, the little wink over Nelson’s head, a promise ofa fuller, more intimate reunion later on: by now Daniel’s mind is a scorpion stinging itselfto death.

He resists speeding over to the train station and instead drives home, out six miles east oftown to Red Schoolhouse Road.It’s Kate’s house, her down payment, but surely his halfofthe monthly mortgage entitles him to feelings ofownership.It is a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old farmhouse, calm and elegant like Kate herself, with French doors, an im-mense fireplace, ten acres, the remains ofa barn.The dark gray night has healed over the gash ofthe sunset;a wind is coming offthe river.When he pulls into the driveway, he sees an old winter-ravaged Dodge parked next to Kate’s impeccableToyota, and when he lets himself in he sees Ruby in the living room, sitting on the sofa with her baby-sitter.

“Look, Daniel! I have a baby-sitter!”Ruby cries out, with incongruous elation.

The sitter is a high school girl named Mercy.Daniel figures Ruby’s joy must mean she has extracted a promise from Mercy to let her watch TV.He chats with the two girls for a minute, and then goes upstairs to find out where he is going tonight, since as far as he knew there was no plan in place.

He finds Kate in their bedroom, a dark-green room with odd angles, wide plank floors, a Persian rug.She is putting on lipstick and keeping an eye on the portableTV, which has become indispensable to her.The sound is offand she continually checks the set—sometimes in the mir-ror, sometimes turning around to face it—in order to see ifthere’s any-thing on the news about O.J.Simpson, who for the past several months has been on trial for the murder ofhis ex-wife.

“Any news?”asks Daniel, just to be polite.

”Nothing, same old, same old.”

“What ifhe’s innocent, Kate?”

“Yeah, right.”

“You got a sitter for Ruby?”

“You said you wished we went out more.So.Presto!We’re going out.”

“Great.Where we going?”

“Iris Davenport called this afternoon.”She glances at Daniel to see his reaction in the mirror.Nothing.She’s impressed.He’s standing up well to this.“She was trying to arrange something or other for the children.I’m sort ofsurprised she didn’t arrange it with you, that seems to be the way these things get done around here.But, anyhow, she mentioned that she and her husband were going to a concert tonight and the next thing I knew I had volunteered us to go along with them.”She turns toward Daniel, puts her hand against her throat.“Is that all right?And dinner after?”

“I thought you don’t like eating with strangers,”Daniel says, struggling to keep it casual.“I thought you don’t like watching them put food in their mouths.”

Kate’s attention is momentarily seized by something on theTV screen, but it’s another black athlete, walking over a pulsating green landscape oflittle hills with a golfclub over his shoulder.TigerWoods.

How can there be no O.J.news today? Like millions ofothers, Kate has become obsessed with the case—with not only the defendant but the lawyers, the judge, the DNA experts.Stalled on her novel, unable to touch it, often unable even to think about it, she has become facile as a journalist and lately she’s been writing about the case, and since the jury is sequestered and she is not being paid for her objectivity, she has been having no trouble in clamoring for Simpson’s conviction.

“I thought you’d be happy I made these plans,”Kate says.“You mention her constantly.I figured it was time we got to know them, another couple, like actual grown-ups.”

“I mention her constantly?”

“I don’t know, probably not.I’m not trying to give you a hard time.

I’m trying to make you happy.”With rich, shining brown hair, smooth skin, and the scent ofperfume on her, she glides to Daniel’s side.She would like to put her arms around him, but it might seem she was forc-ing the issue.

“You dolikethem, don’t you?”she asks.A surviving bit ofher old southern accent stretches the“i”in“like.”

“I don’t really know him.”

“Do you like her?”

“Iris?”

She gives him a look.Ofcourse Iris, who else are they talking about?

”Yes,”he says.“Sure.Why not? She’s Ruby’s best friend’s mother.

That’s got to be worth something.And she’s nice.She’s funny.”

“Tell me something funny she’s said.It’ll whet my appetite for an evening ofunbridled hilarity.”

“Okay.”He takes a deep breath.“Last spring—”

“Last spring?You have to gothatfar back in time?”

“Actually, it was the summer.She got a mosquito bite, and I guess she was scratching it and scratching it.”His eyes shift away from Kate’s;he realizes he is talking himself into a hole.“And she turned the bite into a sore, you know how that happens.And so she took a pen and wrote‘ouch ouch ouch ouch’in a circle all around the bite.”

“That’s it? She wrote ouch on her arm?”

“You know what, Kate? I think we should call them and say we can’t make it.”

She wouldn’t mind doing just that, but she’s already set her course.

“Nonsense,”she says.She holds her pearls out to him and he comes be-hind her to fasten them.In her scoop-necked dress, Kate’s collarbones look as sturdy as handlebars.

“You look nice,”Daniel says.He seems to mean it.He even touches her hair.“You look beautiful.”

She cannot fully believe that Daniel has embarked on some flirtation.

It contradicts not only her trust in him but her sense ofhim.She met him when she was sick to death ofeccentric, neurotic men.She had a year-old baby and a busted-up marriage, a successful novel and a contract for a sec-ond, and all she wanted from a man was clarity, kindness, and dependabil-ity.She distrusted despair, had an aversion to any kind ofdomestic drama.

Daniel back then had been a lawyer in the firm that represented Kate’s publishing house and he, too, was recently out ofa shabby affair, this one with a woman who turned out to have a hair-trigger temper and a pen-chant for violence.Kate and Daniel used to joke with each other about be-ing the last normal people on earth, and the joke turned into a kind of emotional contract;they were promising each other affection with tran-quility, a life ofmeasured gestures, respect for boundaries.It would be a levelheaded alliance;they would be Swiss bankers ofthe heart.

“I can’t believe you did this, put this…this evening together,”he issaying.

She watches his face, carefully.Despite her beliefthat he would never actually have an affair, he seems to be a man who wants to take a jour-ney.He hasn’t booked passage, he doesn’t have a ticket, he doesn’t have the guts.Kate is certain that he has not betrayed her.It hasn’t gone that far, not yet.It’s still an affair ofthe mind.He thinks a love affair will res-cue him.From what?Yet in a way, that no-idea-what’s-wrong sort oflife might be exactly what he wants to be rescued from.Kate feels curious but removed.She has decided to let it play out.

She would like to take a closer look at Iris.Lately, he has been mentioning her, telling stories that have no point except to give him an oc-casion to say“Iris.”Kate, thus far, fails to see the appeal.Iris is ten pounds too thin, fidgety, psychologically evasive but physically a littletoopres-ent, with a cat-on-a-hot-tin-roofquality to her, a woman used to being sought after, loved, but not really satisfied, used to adulation, a daddy’s girl, perhaps.

Ofcourse, her blackness is a part ofwhat draws Daniel to her, Kate is certain ofthis.All those blues records, all that soul music, and even gospel music, the man listens to Sam Cooke singing about Jesus and gets tears in his eyes, though he himself has no more beliefin Christ than he has in the Easter bunny.He must have been preparing himself for this all along.Getting the soundtrack down for his big movie spectacular.The story ofhis life taking shape, the story ofhimself as a great romantic hero, crossing the color line.How passé! How pathetic!As ifgetting involved with anAfrican-American could be the solution to his problems.As ifit would give him something to believe in.The poor little unloved son sud-denly draping himself in three hundred years ofanother people’s history, the invisible man taking shape beneath the swaddling ofblack bandages.

“Do I have time for a shower?”Daniel asks.

The night is chilly.A stiffwesterly wind blows through the trees and black clouds are snapping at the moon.A steady procession ofconcert-goers march into St.John’s, where tonight the Leyden Musical Society is performing theMessiah.To Kate, even after three years in Leyden, it’s a procession ofstrangers, but Daniel knows most ofthe crowd by name.

She watches him waving, smiling at whoever makes eye contact.She is often exhausted by his outwardness.His smile can grate on her as ifit were a cough.Kate realizes that in the vast literature ofwifely com-plaints this doesn’t register with great intensity, but Daniel smiles too easily and she doesn’t care for it.The man smiles while he sleeps.

Yet even as he smiles, he’s craning his neck, on the lookout for Iris and Hampton.Kate doesn’t mean to think in racial terms, but it seems to her that black people are always running late.Maybe it’s a bit ofag-gression toward whites, maybe with each other they’re as punctual as the six o’clock news.She watches Daniel, swiveling his head around like an adulterous owl.

“Daniel?”She pats him on the arm.“You look a little crazy.”

“I do?”He blinks, as ifjust awakened.And then they see them, moving quickly along ManchesterAvenue, hurrying, arm in arm.

“Hello!”Daniel calls out, eagerly raising his hand as ifhe were a schoolboy with the right answer.Iris is wearing a gray overcoat, black pants, boots, a kind ofAfrican hat.Everything seems a couple sizes too large, she is like some goofy kid wearing her mother’s clothes.Not so with the husband.Hampton—his skin pale toffee, his emanation of coiled energy, his aura ofwealth—is wearing a sumptuous, practically edible-looking cashmere coat, a paisley silk scarfwith tassels.He has those round little glasses, steel framed, gentle, scholarly, that Kate iden-tifies as deliberately reassuring, nonsexual, a little eunuchy, really, the signifying eyewear ofthe black professional.

Daniel kisses Iris’s cheek, and Hampton, seeing this, plants a quick kiss on Kate, with all the tenderness ofa clerk stamping a bill paid.

The four ofthem make their way into the church.St.John’s is for Leyden’s upper-class Episcopalians, and for those who like to pray with their betters.It’s chilly, Spartan, like a lodge high in theAustrianAlps.All that woodwork, the fresh white flowers, and the Episcopalian flag that reminds her ofthe Red Cross.She and Daniel, and then Iris and Hamp-ton, find places in a back pew.The orchestra is already tuning up as they arrange themselves.Daniel and Iris seem to be intent on not making the slightest eye contact.

Kate tries to keep her attention riveted upon the orchestra and the chorus throughout the concert.The conductor is Ethan Greenblatt, pres-ident ofMarlowe College, a handsome young academic superstar with an explosion ofcurly hair and a fussy bow tie.He is pushing the musicians through the piece at breakneck speed, as ifafraid ofdetaining the audi-

ence past its attention span.But from time to time, Kate must glance at Daniel.His eyes are closed, but she’s sure he’s awake.Hampton takes Iris’s hand, brings it to his lips, while she stares intently ahead.And then, Kate sees Daniel glancing at Iris.Their eyes meet for a moment, but it has the impact ofcymbals crashing.It is a shocking, agitating thing to see.It’s like being in a store with someone and watching them steal something.

Afterward, the four ofthem walk to the GeorgeWashington Inn, where Iris has made dinner reservations.The Inn is redolent with Colo-nial history—low, beamed ceilings, wormy old tavern tables, an im-mense blackened fireplace.A high school girl serves them a basket of rolls, then comes back to fill their water glasses.She pours Hampton’s last and accidentally fills it to the very top;in fact, a little ofit laps onto the table.“Oops,”she says, but Hampton looks away.His jaw is suddenly rigid.Iris touches his knee, pats it, as ifto calm him down.With her other hand, she is dabbing the little dime-sized puddle with her napkin.

A moment later, a waiter appears to take their drink orders.Daniel and Kate are used to this waiter, middle-aged, vain, and formal.Hamp-ton, however, sees the waiter’s extreme tact as an extension ofthe bus-girl’s spilling his water, and he orders a vodka martini in a surly voice.

”UseAbsolut,”he says.“I’ll know ifthe bartender uses the house brand.”

Iris looks down at her lap;when she raises her gaze again she sees Daniel is looking at her, smiling.It startles her into smiling back.The two ofthem seem so happy to be gazing at each other, and Kate feels like Princess Kitty standing at the edge ofthe room and noticing the joy that floods their faces whenVronsky’s andAnna Karenina’s eyes meet.Kate wonders exactly how far along these two really are.Is it too late to stop them?

“So, Hampton,”Kate says,“tell me.I hear all about Iris from Daniel, but nothing about you.You’re in the city most ofthe time?”

“I come up here on the weekend,”Hampton says.“During the workweek, I stay at the apartment where we used to live before Iris got into Marlowe.”

“It’s a beautiful apartment,”Iris says.She glances at Hampton, who smiles at her.

“So what keeps you down in the city all week?”Kate asks.

”I’m co–managing director oftheAtlantic Fund,”Hampton says.

”He’s an investment banker,”Iris says, in the same anxious-to-please tone in which she said their apartment was beautiful.To Kate, Iris sounds like a woman whose husband has complained about how she treats him in public.

“TheAtlantic Fund provides capital toAfrican-American business,”

Hampton says.“It’s sometimes difficult for black-owned businesses to get what they need from the white banking structure.”He cranes his neck, looks for the waiter.“Just like it’s hard to get a white waiter to bring you a drink.”He breathes out so hard his cheeks pufffor a moment.“I’ve never come here, and now I know why.”

“Have we really been waiting that long?”asks Kate.“It seems like we just sat down.”She looks to Daniel for confirmation, but all Daniel can manage is a shrug.He is on a plane and he has just heard something in the pitch ofthe engine’s roar that makes him feel the flight is doomed.

“God, that music was so wonderful,”Iris says.

”The first time I heard Handel’sMessiah,I was four years old,”Hampton says, his eyes on Kate.“My grandmother was in a chorus that per-formed it for Richard Nixon, at theWhite House.”This comment is in keeping with remarks he’s been making since they left the church.Al-ready they’d heard references to his grandfather’s Harvard roommate, his great-grandfather’s Presbyterian mission in the Congo, his mother’s spending five thousand dollars on haute couture in Paris when she was eleven years old, his aunt Dorothy’s short engagement to Colin Powell, the suspicious fire at theWelles vacation compound on Martha’sVine-yard.He boasts about his lineage in a way that Kate thinks would simply not be allowed from a white person.

“Thurgood Marshall was a friend ofthe family and he was there, too, ofcourse.Unfortunately, he fell asleep after ten minutes.Gramma said they all sang extra loud to cover Justice Marshall’s snoring.”

Kate wonders ifHampton is trying to put Daniel on alert.He, too, must sense what’s happening.She has to admit that she is enjoying this foursome more than she’d dared hope.It captures her imagination in some creepy, achey way, like sucking on a tooth that’s just starting to die.

“Is this the same grandmother who played the cello?”she asks.Maybe

if you thought a little less about your grandmother’s pedigree and a little more about your wife, she wouldn’t be squirming in her chair and eyeing my boyfriend.

“No, the cellist wasAbigailWelles, ofBoston, my father’s mother.The singing grandma was Lucille Cox, ofAtlanta, on my mother’s side.”

“I have many Coxes in my family,”Kate says.“On my mother’s side, many ofthem from Georgia, too.”

There is a briefsilence, and then Kate says what she guesses must be passing through everyone’s mind.“Ofcourse, there’s a chance that one ofmyCoxes held one ofyour Coxes in slavery.”

“In that case,”says Daniel, lifting his wine glass,“dinner’s on us.”

For the first time that evening, Hampton smiles.Beaming, his face grows younger.His teeth are large, even, and very white, and he casts his eye downward, as ifthe moment’s pleasure makes him shy.Kate can imagine the moment when Iris first saw that smile, how it must have drawn her in and made her want to fathom the secret cave ofselfthat was his smile’s source.

“Hampton,”Kate says.“That’s an interesting name.”

“My family’s full ofHamptons,”he says.“We come from Hampton,

Virginia.A few ofus attended Hampton University, back when it was Hampton Normal andAgriculture Institute.”

“Hampton Hawes,”says Daniel.

”What?”says Hampton.

”He’s a jazz piano player, West Coast.”

“Daniel knows everything about jazz,”says Kate.“And blues, and rhythm and blues.”

The waitress arrives and presents them with yellowfin tuna, coq au vin, filet mignon, risotto funghi.“Look,”says Iris,“everything looks so good!”

“Is that tuna?”Hampton asks, peering at Iris’s plate.

Every marriage, Kate thinks, seems to have one person wanting what’s on the other’s plate.

Iris smiles, but she doesn’t look pleased.“Do you want some?”

“Okay, a taste.”He watches while she cuts her sesame-encrusted tuna in halfand then transports it carefully to his plate, next to his charbroiled slab ofsteak and French fries and homemade coleslaw.He doesn’t offer her so much as a morsel ofhis food.

“Iris doesn’t share my interest in family traditions,”Hampton says, cutting into his steak.

“All I ever said is that sometimes they can be a little limiting,”says Iris, trying not to plead, but Kate can tell she would like to.“InAmerica you can make your own history.”

“Dream on, my sweet,”says Hampton.

”All right, then I will.And in the meantime, can we just relax and enjoy being alive?”

“So you work onWall Street?”Kate asks.

”Does that surprise you?”asks Hampton.“That I’m an investmentbanker?”

“Yes,”she says,“I thought maybe you were a tap dancer.”

Hampton smiles, points his finger at Kate.“That’s funny,”he says, instead oflaughing.

“I wrote a piece last year about the stock exchange,”Kate says.“I love all those men crawling over each other and shouting out numbers as if their lives were hanging by a thread.And then the final bell rings and everyone cheers and goes out for drinks.I loved the whole thing, in-cluding the bell and the drinks.”

“That’s not what I do.But I’d like to read your article.”

“Oh no, please, no.The only way I can churn that crap out is to tell myselfthat absolutely no one will ever set eyes on it.”She catches the waitress’s eye and gestures with a twirl ofthe finger:more drinks over here.“It’s just to pay the bills.And wrap fish.”

“Do you mostly write about financial topics?”Hampton asks.

”What I’m supposed to be doing is working on my next novel, but that’s been the case for quite a while.So in the meanwhile, editors call me up and I give them whatever they want.It’s amazing how easily the stuffcomes when you don’t really have your heart in it.Right now, I’m doing a piece about the O.J.trial and about this woman artist calling her-selfIngrid Newport.”

“What kind ofartist is she?”Hampton asks.

”She’s sewn up her vagina,”Kate says.She can practicallyhear

Daniel’s heart sinking.He worries about her when she drinks.And then he does something that strikes her asintolerable.He actually looks over at Iris and shrugs.

“They keep on assigning me these sexual mutilation pieces,”Kate says.“It’s becoming sort ofmy specialty.My little calling card.”Is this putting Iris in her place? Kate has no idea.Iris may be one ofthose rare monsters:a person ofunshakable sexual confidence.“I tell them,‘Hey guys, how about a piece about the reemergence ofthe lobotomy as an accepted psychiatric practice,’but, no, they say,‘What we really want is fifeen hundred words on Peter Peterson, that guy in Dover, Delaware, who crucified his own penis.’They all tell me I write so well about gen-der issues, by which they really mean sex.I guess I should be pleased.No one ever said I did anything well when it came to sex.”Kate laughs.“But now I’m getting a lot ofO.J.assignments, so that’s good.Have you all been following the case?”

No one’s taking the bait on that one.Getting this crowd to talk about O.J.would be like trying to convince them to take offtheir clothes right there in the restaurant.Kate feels sour and self-righteous, the way you do when you seem to be the only person willing to face something ugly.

Iris’s eyes are locked on her meal.She seems to be hurrying to finish it before Hampton tucks into it again.Kate watches her hands as they del-icately maneuver her knife and fork.She finds her cute but hardly irre-sistible.Lean body, broad shoulders, big behind.Kate feels sorry for black people with freckles, it’s like they’re getting the worst ofboth worlds.

“You know what we should have done?”says Daniel, his voice bright silver.“Kept the kids together, with just one baby-sitter.”

“Wasn’t I lucky to have found someone like Daniel?”Kate announces.

“When my marriage broke up and I was left with my kid, I thought I’d be alone forever.But Daniel’s a better parent than I am.”She waits for Daniel to contradict her, but he doesn’t.“Well, maybe notbetter,but he is so good to Ruby.”

“She’s a great kid,”Daniel says softly.

”She is,”says Iris.

”And she so loves Nelson,”Daniel says.His face colors, and he looks to Kate for relief.“Doesn’t she? How many times has she talked about him? Right?”

“Kids can fall in love,”Kate says.“In fact, in childhood, we may be at our highest capacity to just go head over heels for another person.I was in love with a little boy when I was five years old.A little black boy with the perfect little black boy name:Leroy.Leroy Sinclair.”She signals the waiter for more wine.In for a penny.“His mother cleaned the little med-ical arts building where my father had his office.He was a real butterball, Leroy.Just as fat as a tick, but with the most charming, lazy smile, a real summer-on-the-Mississippi smile.He wore overalls and high-topped sneakers.His mother had to take him to work and apparently she fed that poor boy sweets all through the day to keep him quiet.I used to go to Daddy’s office every Saturday and Mrs.Sinclair—”

“You called her Mrs.Sinclair?”Hampton asks.

”Not at the time.We called her Irma.She weighed two pounds, shoes and all.”

“Poor Leroy,”says Iris.

”I used to read to Leroy.I was precocious.I’d bring a book every Saturday and read to him while Daddy worked in his office, two hours of paperwork, nine-thirty to eleven-forty-five, every Saturday, to the minute.I used to read Leroy these bedtime books, right there in the mid-dle ofthe day, sitting on the inside staircase ofthis little medical arts building out on Calhoun Boulevard.And Leroy had all this candy his mother gave him, stuffed in his pockets, little red-and-white mints, but-terscotch sucking candies, all fancy wrapped…”

“She probably took them from one ofthe houses she cleaned during the week,”Iris says.

“Yes, I suppose she did.Stolen sweets.What could be better?”She narrows her eyes, lets Iris draw her own damn conclusions.“I read him Goodnight, Moon,and he put his head right in my lap and closed his eyes and I patted and rocked him and he pretended to fall asleep.And when I was finished with whatever I was reading, I kissed the palm ofmy hand and pressed it against his cheek, over and over, hand to my lips, hand to his cheek.And I remember thinking:I love Leroy.I love Leroy Sinclair.

And just saying those words put me into a kind ofhypnotic trance.”

The high school girl has cleared the plates away.The waiter hovers over to the side, waiting for a break in the conversation.

“And then one day I saw my father talking to Mrs.Sinclair,”Kate is saying,“and I knew she would never be allowed to bring Leroy to work with her again.And I was right.The next time I saw him, maybe two years later, he was on his way to his school and I was with a couple ofmy silly, awful little girlfriends from Beaumont Country Day School, and I called to him across the street—Hey, Leroy—and he just looked at me as ifI was the most ridiculous thing he had ever seen, and he didn’t say a word.

But whose fault was it?We were both caught in something so large, and so terrible.His people came over in chains and my people sat on the porch sipping gin.Something that begins that badly can never end well…”

Kate looks around the table, smiling.

”How about you, Hampton?”she says.“Did you ever fall in love with someone not ofyour race?”Ifhe finds this offensive he gives no indica-tion—but Kate quickly looks away from him, throws her slightly bleary gaze first at Iris, and finally at Daniel.“Anyone?”

[2]

Once they were in the woods, the remains of the afternoon light seemed to shrink away.The shadows of the trees—a shocking number of which had fallen over to the ground from the weight of last month’s sudden snowstorm—seemed to pile on top of each other, one shadow over the next, building a wall of darkness.Once, there had been paths through the woods, made by the herds of deer, or left over from the old days when there had been enough money to maintain and even man-icure the Richmond holdings.But the October storm had droppedthousandsof trees and the paths were somewhere beneath them, invisible now.Daniel and Hampton could not take two steps without having to scramble over the canopy of a fallen tree, or climb over a trunk, or a crisscross of trunks, slippery with rot.And where there weren’t fallen trees there were thorny blackberry vines that furled out across the forest floor like a sharp, punishing fog.

The evening was not a success.After Kate’s story about Leroy, the silences became prolonged.When Kate ordered an after-dinner cognac, neither Iris nor Hampton ordered anything, putting Daniel in the position ofhaving to order a cognac for himself, which he feared might create the impression that he and Kate were both heavy drinkers.As soon as Kate drained her snifter, Hampton announced that they had promised their baby-sitter an early night, and it was over.

In the car, Daniel and Kate do not speak.Daniel has the car’s cassette player tuned low.Etta James singing“Love’s Been Rough on Me,”then Buddy Guy doing“HoldThat Plane.”WhenAlbert King’s“I Found Love in theWelfare Line”comes on, Kate rouses herselfout ofher torpor and hits the offbutton.“No singing Negroes, please.”

“Fine.Whatever you like.”

“Are you feeling like Herman Melville, darling?”Kate asks, her breath rich and fermented.

“Am I?”

“‘In the soul ofa man there is one insularTahiti, full ofpeace and joy, but encompassed by all the horror ofthe half-lived life.’Did you have a little peek atTahiti and now you have to go home to your half-lived life?”

Daniel remains silent.He doesn’t want to argue with Kate, doesn’t want to spar with her, to feel the flick and jab ofher.He is content to be driving and thinking about the various little gestures Iris made during the dinner.He thinks about what she ate.He thinks about how she had refolded her napkin at the end ofthe meal and placed it next to her plate, good as new.He thinks about her expression as she listened to the oth-ers speak, a quality ofappreciation and grace, as ifher mind lapped up information like a cat with a bowl ofmilk.He thinks about how she con-tinually turned her wedding ring around her finger, as ifit might be im-peding the flow ofher blood.She had been wearing that perfume that he had come to associate with her—Chanel No.19.Afew weeks ago, in the city, he had gone to Saks and sniffed thirty tester bottles before finding which fragrance was hers, and then he bought a small bottle and kept it in his desk at the office.May I help you? May I help you?The clerks on the main floor had kept trying to make themselves available to him.But they couldn’t help him;nobody could.

“Feel my forehead,”Kate says.“I think I have a fever.”

He touches her with his fingertips and then the palm ofhis hand.A jolt ofremembered love goes through him.The car drifts left, the tires bite at the gravel at the side ofthe road.“You’re warm.”

“I’m dying.”

She closes her eyes and their silence reasserts itself.

”Did you have an okay time tonight?”Daniel asks.As his sense ofguilt increases, his tolerance for silence decreases.He knows he’s just blather-ing, but she did seem to like Hampton.She who likes no one.

“Not really.It felt like work.”

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,”he says.“You and Hampton—”

“Fuck me and Hampton,”Kate says, and turns her face away from him, as the two-lane blacktop turns into a narrower dirt road that leads to their secluded old house.They drive past a neighbor’s rolling fields, a pond ringed by weeping willows.A pebble driveway leads from the road to their house, and as the stones crunch beneath the tires, Kate opens her eyes.Their car’s headlights shine on the red wreck ofthe baby-sitter’s car.

“I hope Mercy treats children better than she treats her car,”Daniel says.He turns offthe engine;the lighted windows in their front rooms shimmer before them.

“Why did you tell that story about that little boy?”he asks her.

Kate sits up, rubs her eyes with the heels ofher hands.“Did you like that story?”

“I never heard ofLeroy before.I thought I knew about every boy who ever passed through your life.”

“I think what I was saying was Leroy and I could never be friends.”

“Why? Because he was black and you were white?”Despite everything, he allows himself to feel indignant.He thinks Kate’s white south-ern girlhood is asserting itselfin a highly unpleasant way.

“Be glad I didn’t tell the story ofwhy we left NewYork City, how you were scared to death ofevery black person you saw.”

“Why would you ever say anything like that?”

“Because it’s true, you were.”

“My life was threatened.And the people who made the threat were black.I overreacted, I admit it.”

“You were scared to death.”

“Let’s just drop it,”Daniel says.“I’m over it.”He opens the door to get out, but Kate catches him by the arm.

“Ifit’s any consolation to you, the marriage won’t last.”

“What marriage?”

“Iris and Hampton’s.He’s on edge all the time, looking for little slights against his dignity.She wants to live in a world where a little spilled water is just an accident, not an incident.”

Inside, Mercy Crane is on the phone, which she hangs up without a word ofgood-bye as soon as Kate and Daniel come in.

Kate goes up to check on Ruby.Daniel pays Mercy and locks the door.

He goes back into the living room to gather up the half-eaten bowl ofra-men noodles and the can ofSprite she has left behind.He sees something poking out between the sofa cushions—a half-full pack ofCamel Lights, with a book ofmatches squeezed beneath the cellophane.He tosses them onto the table, hoping for Mercy’s sake her parents don’t smell the smoke in her hair.Her father’s a cop and her mother teaches at a Christian ele-mentary school;both are known to be strict and unforgiving.

After clearing Mercy’s little mess, he falls back onto the sofa and lights one ofher cigarettes.When he moved in with Kate, she asked him not to smoke around the baby, and he went with the program and quit al-together.But now he would like to taste tobacco and inhales deeply, blows a smoke ring, and watches it make its way like a jellyfish through a shaft oflamplight.Then he hears Kate’s footsteps coming down the stairs.

“I don’t have a temperature,”she announces.She’s already in her nightgown.

“You’re probably just tired.You should go to bed.I’ll bring you up some orange juice.”

“You’re smoking?”she asks.“You’re actually smoking in the house?”

Just then, the doorbell rings.Daniel flicks the cigarette into the fireplace and goes toward the door, his heart racing, as ifthis might really be Iris.Kate stops midway down the staircase.Daniel shrugs at her and opens the door.

“My car won’t start, Mr.Emerson,”says Mercy.

”Oh no, poor you!”His voice is booming, as would be expected in a man who has just, against all odds, been offered a means ofescape.“I’ll drive you home.”He realizes how eager this sounds, and so he adds,“I’m just no good at automobile repair.Ifit doesn’t involve a gas can or a jumper cable, it’s out ofmy league.”

“I could stay here, ifthat would be easier,”she says.Her voice is plaintive.“I could sleep on the couch.Ifyou wanted, I could make Ruby breakfast in the morning and you and Kate could sleep late.”

“It’s okay,”he says.“It’s really okay.”

For the first couple minutes ofthe drive back to town, Daniel and Mercy don’t exchange a word.Daniel rolls the window down.There’s a faint smell ofskunk in the air.

“I’m really sorry about the car,”Mercy says.

”I hope you can get it running again.”

“My brother’s home from theArmy.He can fix it, for sure.Is it okay ifwe come over in the morning?”

“Ofcourse.”He slows down.There are dark, luminous eyes peering from beneath the trees at the side ofthe road.Deer.You never know if they’ll come leaping into the path ofyour car.

“Both my brothers are in theArmy,”says Mercy.

”So, are you the youngest in the family?”

“Yeah.”She sighs, fidgets in her seat.He can tell:she is getting ready to ask a question.She circles it like one ofthe deer tramping down the tall grass.“What rights does a teenager have?”she says.

“About what?”

“What ifa teenager wanted to move out or something? Do you ever do that?As a lawyer? Sheri Nack said I should ask you.”

“Does Sheri want to leave home?”Sheri is a doughy, dog-collared girl who looked after Ruby a couple oftimes—until Kate started noticing liquor was disappearing.

“Not really.”

“But you do.”

“Yeah.”

They are almost in town now.The houses are closer together.A gas station.A plant nursery.The Riverside Convalescent Home.A little empty vine-covered cottage that once was a real estate office—Farms and Fantasies—run by a guy fromYonkers who turned out to be a drug dealer.And then, the blinking yellow light that hangs on a low drooping cable a few hundred yards from the village itself.A soft rain is falling and the wind is picking up, swinging the yellow light back and forth like a lantern held in the hand ofa night watchman.

“There are lawyers who specialize in family law,”Daniel says.

”I don’t know any lawyers, except you.”

“What is it you want, Mercy?”

“I want to move out.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.I’ve got to get out ofthere, Mr.Emerson.I’ve got to get away from them.Maybe get my own place.Maybe I could be a nanny orsomething.”

“Seventeen’s a little young.Can’t you wait a year?”

“Ayear?”The cold light ofthe streetlamps leaps in and out ofthe car, flashing on her face, with its furious, hopeless expression.

Before he can think ofwhat to tell her, they arrive at her house.It’s a small yellow one-story house, with a steep set ofwooden stairs leading to the front door.The porch light is on and two moths fly around and around it, as ifswirling around a drain oflight.

“Are you all right, Mercy?Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m all right.”

“Are you safe?”

“I’m okay.”

“Ifyou want to come in to my office, and talk about it, you can—anytime.You don’t need an appointment, it doesn’t have to be a big deal.

You can just come in and we can talk.”

“Is there any kind oflaw for me?”

“There’s something called the Emancipated MinorAct.”

She’s silent for the moment.Daniel has for the most part suppressed his own adolescence, and he finds it difficult to project himself into what exactly it feels like to be Mercy’s age, to be in that jumble ofmisery and helplessness, hormonal energy and sheer lassitude.

“There’s case law,”he says,“in which the court has required parents to pay for rent and food for emancipated minors.”

“You mean they’d have to pay for me even ifI moved out?”

“It’s not really my specialty.I’d have to look it up.”

“I guess I’d feel really guilty,”she says, smiling for the first time.

”Guilty? Why?”

“Well, they’re my parents.I don’t want to hurt them.”But the smileremains.

“You don’t have anything to feel guilty about.You have a right to make yourselfhappy.You’re not obliged to stay where you’re miserable.No-body does.”

She nods quickly.She’s heard enough.She opens the door on her side.The light comes on in the car and she glances back at Daniel.

”Thanks, Mr.Emerson,”she says,“really, thank you.”And then, right be-fore she slips out ofthe car she puts her arms around him and touches her forehead against his chest.

Daniel waits until she is safely in her house, though he wonders ifher house is really safe.She opens the front door and waves good-bye, and a moment later the door is closed and the porch light goes offand every window in her house is opaque.

He backs away from Mercy’s house and onto Culbertson Street, the beams ofhis headlights filled with fluttering moths.He turns on the ra-dio, as ifthe voice ofreason might be broadcasting from somewhere on the dial, but there are only love songs, urging him on.

He tries to pretend to himself that he has no idea where he is going next.But after a minute or two, he must admit that he’s heading toward Juniper Street, where Iris lives.All he wants is to look at her house— once—and then he’ll be able to return to his own, he’ll be able to walk up the stairs to the second floor, tiptoe into the bedroom, disrobe, slip into bed next to Kate, close his eyes.

A few moments later, he’s in front ofIris’s house.TheVolvo station wagon is in the driveway;every window in the house is slate black.It means they are asleep.In bed.Together.Daniel’s hands tense, he lowers his head until his forehead touches the steering wheel.Go home,he says to himself.

Yet a competing inner voice also weighs in on the matter, a sterner, hungrier, more focused selfthat he has somehow managed to keep at bay for his entire life, and this voice wordlessly wonders:All around you life seethes, grasps, conquers, and here you are, thirty feet from what you desire most and all you can do is quake, all you can think about is Go home.

He pulls away.He switches on the radio.Van Morrison singing“Here Comes the Night.”

Upstairs, in bed, Hampton sleeps in his customary pose ofnoble death: flat on his back, his legs straight, his toes up, his arms folded across his chest, his fingertips resting on his shoulders, his face waxy and unmov-ing, his breath so silent and slow that sometimes it seems not to exist.

He dreams ofthe train.He is getting on in NewYork, at Pennsylvania Station, presumably on his way up to Leyden.TheAmtrak conductor who directs him onto one ofthe cars looks familiar, a white guy, the guy who is always on Chambers Street selling souvlakis and hot sausages from his steam cart.Here you go, Mr.Davis, the conductor says, gestur-ing to an open door.Steam pours up from the tracks, onto the platform.

Hampton walks through the steam and steps on the train, and he won-ders why the man has called him Mr.Davis.Has he mixed him up with somebody else, or is that just the conductor’s idea ofa black name?

In the dream, Hampton is wearing a Hugo Boss pin-striped suit, a Burberry raincoat, with the lining, a scarf, gloves.The train is hot.Every-one else is dressed for summer;most ofthem seem to know each other.

Perhaps they are some club on their way to a lake somewhere.He is sweating.He feels sweat in his eyes, feels it rolling down his ribs.Oh my God, he thinks, and presses his elbows in, as ifhis armpits were the source ofthe most terrible stench.He scans the aisle for an empty seat.

And he notices a few rows to the rear a couple ofblack men, real back-country, old school all the way, one dressed in overalls, the other in a yel-low velvet double-breasted suit and a purple shirt.They are passing a bottle ofbeer back and forth and laughing at the tops oftheir voices.

Hampton does not even want to make eye contact with them, but they make it impossible for him to ignore them.Hey, man, come on over,says the one in the velvet suit, and Hampton has no choice but to march over to them and say,You’re not just representing yourself on this train, you know.And as soon as he says this, he notices his mother, sitting primly on the other side ofthe aisle, with her hands folded onto her lap.She purses her lips and nods, as ifto commend his job well done.

Next thing, the train has started and he is sitting beside a white woman, who seems to have moved as far from him as the seat will allow.

She leans against the window as ifthe train has taken a sharp turn.He continues to keep his elbows pressed against his ribs.He thinks,I wish they’d turn the air conditioning on,but not only is the air conditioning not working but the reading lights are sputtering offand on.He looks out the window.They have left the tunnel.The late afternoon clouds lie along the horizon like broken stones, red, orange, dark blue.The river is dark lavender, the prow ofa rusting tanker parts the waters in a long lumi-nous chevron.Beautiful, beautiful,he thinks.And then he says to the white woman,My stop is an hour and a half from here.She smiles at him grate-fully, she knows he is trying to reassure her.I’m just going to close my eyes for a few minutes,he says.She looks at him, and then shakes her head.Is she warning him not to?

And then he sees Iris.Like everyone else, she is dressed for warm weather.She is wearing a sleeveless blouse, shorts, sandals.She is walk-ing right past him, carrying a bottle ofclub soda and a bag ofpretzels from the refreshment bar.Somehow, he knows he must not say anything to her.She sits in a seat three or four rows back.She is traveling with a white man, who looks familiar.He takes the bag ofpretzels from her, tears them open, but before either ofthem can eat one ofthem they begin to kiss, passionately.First one long kiss and then another and now the white guy is practically climbing on top ofher.Desperate, Hampton turns to the woman next to him.Get a load of that,he says to her.And as soon as he says this to her, she claws at his face with her long fingernails.

He awakens, frantic with confusion and anxiety.He is not used to nightmares;normally, he isn’t even aware ofhis dreams.It takes him a mo-ment to realize that he is safe, at home.He props himself up on his elbow to guard against falling back to sleep—that world, that terrible dream world ofthe train is still there, waiting for him to tumble back in.He forces his eyes open, looks to Iris’s side ofthe bed.It’s empty, the sheet in her space is cool.He is about to call out to her but then he sees her, stand-ing at the window.She is wearing a baggy pair ofmen’s boxer shorts and a once-redT-shirt from which most ofthe color has been bleached.

There is a glow out there, rising up from the headlights ofa car.

”Iris?”says Hampton.

She turns quickly.“You’re awake,”she says.

The light in the window is caught in the back ofher hair.He can’t make out her features, but he senses from her voice and posture that he has interrupted her, or startled her.“Who’s out there?”he asks her.

“No one.”She turns, looks out again, as ifto check her own story.

“No one.”

“I just had a nightmare,”he says, reaching his hand out to her, beckoning her to bed.He knows that he should not be so commanding—Iris has even told him as much—but the gestures ofthe favorite son, the always-sought-after man, come from the deepest part ofhim.To change these things would be like changing his voice, it would take constant vig-ilance.She finds him arrogant, but he doesn’t feel arrogant.It just seems to him that his being found attractive is a part ofthe natural order of things, and when Iris resists him, or is slow to respond, it irritates him, not because he is a potentate and she is his lowly subject, but simply be-cause a mistake is being made.

The sight ofthose long, outstretched fingers illuminates Iris’s nervous system with a rage that ignites like flash powder.She wonders ifshe ought to hold her ground or go to him.Sometimes she has the energy to resist him, but each time she does she enters into the conflict with the knowledge that it will extend through the night.

Hampton switches on his reading light.His cranberry-colored pajamas are streaked with night sweats.He sits up straighter, arranges his pil-lows, and then reextends his reach for her.

“Are you okay?”she asks.

He pats the sheet on her side ofthe bed, indicating where he wants her to be.Sometimes she thinks about the men who have wanted to go to bed with her and whom she refused, the good men, handsome, clever, large-hearted men, and how strange it is that life would deliver her to this point:treated like a little dog who is being beckoned to hop up onto the sofa.

Okay, ifthat’s how he wants it.She bounds across the room, leaps onto the bed, falls forward onto her hands and knees, facing him.Then, completing her private joke, she lets her tongue hang out and she pants.

He counters with excruciatingly contrived tenderness.He strokes the side ofher face.“We have to sleep,”he whispers.

This is night language, code;somewhere in the blind, improvised journey ofmarriage, sleep has come to mean sex.It has come to mean let me lose myselfwithin you, let me begin the fall into the silent heart ofthe night between your legs.“Are you tired?”has become an invitation to make love;a loud yawn and a voluptuous stretch ofthe arms are sup-posed to function the way once upon a time his coming behind her and pressing his lips against the nape ofher neck did.

She continues to pant like a dog, until his frightened, confused expression is replaced by a frown.She takes her place beside him.She lies flat, she feels her blood racing around and around, as iflooking for a way to leave her body.Each time it makes its orbit around her, she feels warmer and warmer.

“I can hardly wait for you to finish your thesis and for us all to move back to NewYork,”Hampton says.This is meant to be a kind ofsweet talk, signifying that he misses her, that he cannot carry much further the burden oftheir weekly separations.But Iris knows what he isreallysay-ing:I hated those people tonight.

“I’m sorry it’s taking so long,”she says.She’s tempted to go back to pretending to be a dog, but she thinks better ofit.She feels his long, hard fingers closing around her hand.He lifts her right hand and very care-fully, emphatically, ceremoniously places it on his penis, and then he presses down on the back ofhis hand and lifts his hips up, as ifrespond-ing to her, though he is only responding to himself.

She pulls her hand away from him—but before he can complain, she rolls over, drapes her leg over him.Lifting herselfup on her elbow, she looks down at him and says,“Pretend you’re raping me.”

“What?”

“Don’t hit me or anything, but rape me, really really rape me, tear my clothes offand force yourselfinto me.”

“Are you serious?”

She nods yes.

”Iris,”he says, in a fatherly, admonishing tone.But her request has already had its effect on him.His hardness feels urgent, brutal.He grips the band ofher shorts, gives it a tug, waits to see what she will do.

Iris rolls onto her back, she lifts her chin, closes her eyes.She is about to be erased, obliterated, but on her own terms.

“Who should I be when I do this?”he asks.His throat is dry, his voice has a small fissure running through it.

She feels herselfsoftening at her center, the way a peach will ifsomeone has dug their thumb in, softening, beginning to rot.“You’re just you and I’m me,”she says.

“This is strange,”he says.

”Shhh,”she answers.“Come on.It’s all right.”

She has a sense ofhim as completely under her command.She is controlling the situation, him, the night belongs to her at last.But then he surprises her.He tugs her boxers down, fast, with something expert and irrefutable in his movement—just one long pull and they are around her knees.And then before she can even take a breath he turns her over swiftly and a little cruelly, and then the weight ofhim on top ofher presses her nose and mouth into the mattress and all she can think is, Jesus, he is really going to do this to me.

Daniel comes home, closes the door quietly behind him, and tiptoes with exaggerated care across a minefield ofsqueaking floorboards.He is like the henpecked hubby in a cartoon, sneaking back home after a night’s carousing.He sits on the steps, takes offhis shoes, and ascends to the sec-ond floor in his stockinged feet.

Knowing it will only increase his agitation, in some hapless way courting the self-torture, he looks in on Ruby.His love for Kate’s child has taken on the harrowing qualities ofa crime in the planning stage.She is the night watchman in a store he is going to rob, she is going to be in harm’s way.He has a dream ofhis own happiness, and ifhe is lucky enough to one day attain it, bold enough to seize it, man enough to keep it, that joy will be paid for, at least in part, in Ruby’s tears.

Her bedroom is so dark he cannot see her, but he hears her slow breathing.He feels a kind ofthud in the center ofhis consciousness, as if he has just knocked something down to the carpet in the dark.

As he feared, Kate is waiting for him, fiercely awake.Her pillows are stacked up to support her back and she rests her head against the wall, exactly in the center ofthe bedposts.She has wrapped her arms around her chest and she flutters her fingers on her upper arms.Instinctually, his eyes scan her bedside table:a stack ofbooks, a little tape recorder for the taking ofher own dictation, a little blue Chinese bowl holding a United Airlines sleep mask and foam rubber earplugs, and—what he was look-ing for and what gives him the sour pleasure ofa hypothesis con-firmed—a bottle ofzinfandel, in which she has made quite a dent.

“I’m sorry,”she says.

”For what?”

“For giving you a hard time, in the car.”It seems she means to be somehow repentant, but her words are delivered with a little tremor of sarcasm on the edge, though he is not sure who is being mocked—he for being so touchy, or she for behaving badly?

“It’s all right,”he says.“It’s fine.”

“I had no right.”

“It’s okay.It’s just…youknow.Talk.”He feels as ifhe is evading her conversation, she is the bull and he is the matador.

“I would like to apologize,”she says, her eyes narrowing.“And I would like you to accept my apology.”

“You did nothing and said nothing that needs an apology.”

She shakes her head, amazed at the depths ofhis treachery.

”You won’t even give me that?”she asks.

”I wouldn’t know what I was giving.I really have no idea what this conversation is about.”

She takes a deep breath, pours herselfa little more wine, a scientifically minute portion that splashes at the bottom ofher tall glass.“Daniel, I have this terrible feeling about you.No, sorry, not about you.Sorry.

But about what’s happening to you.”

“It’s late,”he says.“I’ve had a long day, we both have.Tomorrow’s Saturday, we can talk tomorrow.”He has peeled offhis socks and now he is stepping out ofhis trousers.For a briefmoment he has allowed himself to wonder what it would feel like ifhe were getting undressed to get into bed with Iris Davenport, and now that the thought has presented itself he cannot get rid ofit.It just flies around and around within him, like a bird that can’t find the window that let it into the house.

“It’s already tomorrow and I want to talk now.It’s no big deal, I just want to ask you a question.Is that all right? One teeny-tiny question? Or maybe not teeny-tiny, maybe more medium-sized.”

“You’re sort ofloaded, Kate.”

She doesn’t mind his saying this.“Do you believe in love?”

“I don’t know.No.Yes.I don’t even know what you mean.”

“O.J.believed in love.Even though he’s lying about killing his wife, in his heart he knows he did it, and he might even think he did it for love.”

“I don’t believe in killing, ifthat’s what you mean.”

“You know,”Kate says, pouring herselfmore wine, less judiciously this time,“people think thatloveis what’s best in each ofus, our capac-ity tolove,our need forlove.They think love is like God, and they wor-ship their own feelings oflove, which is really just narcissism masquerading as spirituality.You understand? Ifwe say that God is love, then we can say that love is God, and that gives us the right to all these chaotic, needy, lusting, insane feelings inside ofourselves.We can call it love,and from there it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to calling it God.But here’s a thought.What ifGod isn’t love?And love isn’t God?What ifall those emotions we call love turn out to be what’s really worst in us, what ifit’s all the firings ofthe foulest, most primitive part ofthe back brain, what ifit’s just as savage and selfish as rage or greed or lust?”

“I don’t know, Kate.It sounds sort ofcounterintuitive.”

“Intuition?What is that?We intuit what we want to intuit.We never intuit things that are against our interests and desires.Maybe intuition is just one ofthe many ways we have ofelevating desire, making it some-thing mystical rather than base.Did you ever think ofthat?”

“No.”

“Love has become some insane substitute for religion, I think that’s what’s happened.And in this country it’s pounded in on us at all times, every radio station, everyTV station, all the magazines, all the ads, everywhere, it’s like living in a theocracy, it’s like living in Jordan and people are shouting out lines from the Koran from the top ofevery mosque.Love, love, love, but what they’re really saying is:Take what you want and the hell with everything else.We’ve even changed the Bible to go along with this new religion.When I was a kid, people used to read Paul’s letter to the Corinthians as being about charity—it used to be faith, hope, and charity, remember charity? the humility ofthat?—but now they’ve changed the translation and it’s not charity at all, it’s love.

Big old encompassing love, spreading all over everything like swamp gas.

Love is like a crystal ball, you gaze into its cracked heart and you see what you want to see.It’s really scary.It feels like the whole culture has gone insane.”

Daniel is sure that the best thing would be to remain silent, he has recited to himself his own domestic Miranda rights, but he cannot resist saying,“I haven’t gone insane, Kate, ifthat’s what you’re implying.”

“I know you haven’t, and I don’t think you will.I really feel as ifI’ve found a kindred spirit in you.And this isn’t intuition, or some mystical crapola about our being cosmic twins, or that it was written in the stars, because, let’s face it, that’s not how life is, life’s a bunch ofaccidents, senseless.We improvise, we keep it together.But with you, it’s more.It feels nice.And that’s why ifI were a betting woman, I’d put my money on us.I think we’ll always be together.”

He’s silent.Surely she doesn’t expect him to comment on this.

”We may have our hard times,”Kate says,“and we may have to take breaks from each other, maybe long breaks.But I don’t think we’ll ever be free ofeach other.And not because we’re the most romantic couple in the world, or anything like that.It’s a mysterious connection, a fuck-ing mystery…”She laughs.“Or a not-fucking mystery, or maybe a fucking-once-in-a-while mystery.Who knows? But I was sure ofit from the first time I met you, I just never told you.”

She’s silent and Daniel realizes he must say something.“Really?”

“Yes.I thought to myself, I’m never going to get away from this guy.”

“Did you want to?”

“And then I thought, And he’s never going to get away from me.”She rolls away from him but then slides over, pressing her hindquarters against his hip.“And I feel even stronger about it now.I just feel so grate-ful.I’ve got you, and Ruby, and my talent, and what’s left ofmy looks.”

She presses herselfharder against him.“I know what you’re thinking.

She’s drunk, she’s drunk.Once again.But I’m not.I was, maybe.Back at the restaurant, with those terrible people.But I’m sober now, and mean-ing every word.I couldn’t get drunk ifI tried.”

“Have you been trying?”Daniel asks.

He regrets saying it.It sounds so put-upon, so long-suffering.But the words are out, there’s no way to take them back.He waits for her reply, already devising how he will defend himself.But the plans aren’t necessary.He has not hurt her feelings, he has not irritated her.She is breathing deeply, and a few moments later her breaths deepen with a lit-tle aural fringe ofsnore.

Outside, an owl screeches in triumph.From farther away comes the manic whoop ofcoyotes.The colder it gets outside the more the crea-tures ofthe night seem to celebrate their catches, the triumph ofhaving survived another season.The world belongs to those who can satisfy their hunger.The rest are food.Even the stars in the sky shine out the story oftheir own survival.

[3]

They had no idea where they were going.They walked.The crunch of their foot-steps.The cries of invisible birds.Daniel cupped his hands around his mouth and called Marie’s name, silencing the birds.The noise of their footsteps on the brittle layer of dried leaves that covered the forest floor was like a saw going tirelessly back and forth.

They walked up a hill, zigzagging around fallen trees and swirls of bramble.

Daniel walked in front.He looked over his shoulder.Hampton was having a hard time keeping his balance.

“I’m ruining these shoes,”Hampton said.He leaned against a partially fallen

cherry tree and looked at the sole of his English cordovan.The leather was shiny, rosy and moist, like a human tongue.

The next morning, Daniel takes Ruby with him to a new bakery in the village, where he plies her with chocolate croissants and chocolate milk.Daniel recalls Iris having mentioned this place—chrome and glass, with a sort of1940s feel, overpriced, but with comfortable, long-legged chairs lined up facing the huge window overlooking Broadway— and he sits there with Ruby, ostensibly reading the paper and drinking espresso, but in reality watching for Iris or her car.After an hour ofthis maddening activity, during which he is unable to read more than a few headlines, and the coffee tastes like scorched ink, he takes Ruby back home with a cup oflatte and a cranberry muffin for Kate, who, to his surprise, is awake and dressed when they return.

“Where was everybody?”she asks.

”Breakfast,”he says, handing her the takeout bag.

”What did people eat in pre-muffinAmerica?”Kate asks, peering into the bag.She notices Ruby, whose mouth is ringed with chocolate and whoseT-shirt is spotted with it.Kate looks questioningly at Daniel.

“That’s what happens to little girls whose mothers sleep late,”he says, surprising himself with the bite ofhis own voice.

“I want to play with Nelson,”Ruby says.

It seems strange to Daniel:as his heart swells from the added freight oflove and desire, it becomes in its fullness less and less substantial, un-til it is like a feather in a stiffwind, unpredictably blowing this way and that, spiraling up, plunging down, rocketing sideways at the slightest provocation—the lucky-sounding ring ofthe phone, the melancholy shift ofthe afternoon light, the hum ofan oncoming car.He has resisted all morning the treacherous impulse to plant in Ruby the idea that she and Nelson get together today, but now, God bless her, she has come up with the idea all on her own, and his spirits soar.

“I don’t think so,”Kate says.“Nelson’s father is home and that’s their private time over at Nelson’s house.”

Ruby looks at Kate, squinting, wringing her little hands, as she tries to think ofsome counterargument to this.But the combination ofKate’s professional needs and temperament has made the concept of“private time”sacred.Still, Ruby cannot hide her disappointment, and she even manages to enter into a brief, unsuccessful negotiation, during which Daniel stands transfixed, unable to shake the feeling that his happiness hangs in the balance.

In the end, Kate prevails.Not only can Ruby not go to Nelson’s house, but Nelson cannot come to hers.And when Ruby counters with all she has left—“Then I’m going to be so bored”—Kate says that maybe they can all go to Lubochevsky Farms, where the enterprising owners have devised a way to get tourists and even some ofthe locals to pay for the privilege ofharvesting the annual raspberry and apple crops.Daniel is taken aback by Kate’s suggestion.He cannot imagine her climbing the rickety stepladders, filling the flimsy baskets with apples, enduring the sunlight and the hefty autumnal bees.And then what? Eat the apples? In three years ofknowing her he has never seen her take a bite ofan apple.

No.There is only one explanation.She is concocting this little outing as a way ofroping him in, and when Daniel realizes this he reacts like some-one jumping away from an onrushing car.

“I have to go to the office,”he says.He feels the desperation ofa gambler:ifhe can just sit at the table, then maybe he can catch a card.

“On a Saturday?”

“Sorry.It happens.”He is experiencing that bicameral lunacy ofa man with a secret life;he is talking to Kate, making his excuses, arrang-ing his features in a way that would suggest regret.He is already gone.

“I need to work, too,”she says.“I’ve got two O.J.articles going, and both are due.”

“What is with you and that case? I thought you were a novelist.”

“He butchered his wife and might end up walking.I know we like to cheer for theAfrican-American side, but there is a question ofjustice at stake.I’m sure even Iris Davenport would agree with that.”

It is unnerving to hear her say Iris’s name, and he shifts his eyes, afraid for a moment that he might give himself away, though he is beginning to wonder ifthere is much secrecy to his secret life.He might be no better hidden than an ostrich with its head in the sand and fat feathered ass in the air.

“Why don’t we split the day, then?”he says.“All I need is two or three hours.I can take them now or I can take them in the afternoon.Or I can take them at night, for that matter.”It really doesn’t matter.All he needs is to get out ofthis house for a couple ofhours.But as soon as that thought crosses his mind, it is replaced by a second, more urgent idea.

He should go first, then Kate could work in the afternoon, and then he could take more time away in the evening.That way he could have as many as six hours.To do what?That part hasn’t been worked out yet.To cruise by Iris’s house?To patrol the village in search ofher car?To sit at his desk dialing and redialing her number?

“All right,”Kate says, her voice measured, a little cool.“Then you go first.”He knows she is onto him.He can feel the pressure ofher intelli-gence and her deep common sense.He feels like a half-wit miscreant tracked by a master sleuth.

His sense ofimpending exposure quickens his pace, and in minutes he is out ofthe house, in his car, and on his way to somewhere or other.

From the house onWillow Lane to his office in the middle oftown is a ten-minute drive and one that could, without any loss oftravel effi-ciency, bring him past Iris’s house, ifhe should choose to take that route, which he does.

The Saturday has turned warm;it’s already October, winter is next.

Daniel drives past the familiar landmarks ofhis childhood.Putnam Lake, with little puckers ofsilvery light caught in its waves, ringed by tall blue spruce;Livingston High School, surrounded by cornfields, its asphalt parking lot in the process ofreceiving freshly painted yellow lines;the infamous ranch house where his old friend RichardTaylor lived with his drunken parents, where you could walk right in without knocking, where there was no housekeeping, no food, no supervision, where the lamps did not have shades, and where Daniel drank his first whiskey when he was eleven years old, smoked his first joint at twelve, and, that same year, got into a ferocious fist fight with Richard’s deafolder cousin.

TheTaylor place was one ofa dozen houses around Leyden where Daniel spent his time after school, where he slept on weekends, where he hid like a little desperado.In those grim but somehow fondly remembered childhood days—when he was his own man, needed by no one, respon-sible to no one, when the unanimous possession ofhis selfwas a pleasure that outflanked every deprivation and annoyance—he would rather have been anywhere in the known world than in his own home.He would rather have slept in school than in his parents’house.

His parents were latecomers to parenthood, vegetarians, Congrega-

tionalists, campers, tall gray people with solitary tastes for reading, hik-ing, and the brewing ofhomemade beer.They were in their forties when Daniel was born, and by the time he was a teenager they were nearly sixty, their habits thoroughly calcified.The foods they liked, the Mozart that soothed them, their ten o’clock bedtime and their six-forty-five ris-ing, their hour-long ablutions, their CanadianAir Force exercises, their aversion to moving air (no air conditioners, no fans),their daily porch sweeping, their dishes, cups, and silverware cleaned in kettles ofboiling water—these were the things that Julia and Carl Emerson revered.These were, in their minds, the cornerstones not only ofcivilization but ofsan-ity;without them they would be plunged into madness.

When Daniel entered their lives they taught him not to touch the vases, which antique carpets to avoid, which lamps were safe to use.He was not to run, jump, or shout.He was not to play the stereo console in their parlor, nor was he to use the electric typewriter, the adding ma-chine, the juicer, the blender, either ofthe vacuum cleaners, or the elec-tric toothbrushes.Above all, the back halfofthe house was off-limits; this was where the Emersons saw their patients.Here was the waiting room with its intriguing collection ofoffbeat magazines—fromPreven-tiontoThe Saturday Review—the dark walnut apothecary case filled with amber bottles ofvitamins, the vanilla plastic skeleton hanging from a hook, and the his and hers chiropractic tables—neither ofthem ever worked on someone ofthe opposite sex.Here came everyone from beefy back-strained farmers to neurasthenic housewives, here backs were cracked, hips were realigned, toes were pulled, fingers were popped, heads were yanked suddenly to the left or right, moans were moaned, and for some reason that Daniel never could fathom, people re-turned again and again.

Daniel continues his drive along the outskirts ofthe village.There are tourists in town today—the weekend, the splendid color change, when the maples turn to flame and the oak leaves are the color ofhoney.It strikes him as funny that the town has become a tourist destination;he cannot imagine how the day-trippers pass the time.There are jokey T-shirts for sale that say Paris LondonTokyo Leyden.There are home-made jellies to be purchased.But the bagels here aren’t as good as in the city, and the same goes for the breads, the pies, the croissants.Shoes, slacks, dresses, hats—all are cheaper and better in NewYork.The restau-rants are merely adequate.The antique stores have been shopped clean and now sell items from the1970s.Still, every weekend, except for the long dead ofwinter, there are at least a hundred new arrivals, parading up and down the two-block commercial center, with an ice cream cone in one hand and aT-shirt in the other, glancing shyly at the locals and de-lighting when someone nods back or says hello.

Not far from the high school is the town cemetery, where the headstones are thin as place mats and worn smooth and illegible over time.It was to this graveyard, in the company ofall that Colonial dust and the ceaseless squirrels, that Daniel used to go when there was no one left to visit and it was still too early to go home.With the marker ofone ofthe Stuyvesants to support his back, Daniel read the books ofhis youth— Salinger, Heller, Baldwin—and, in his thirteenth year, before his parents released him from their benign bondage and sent him offto a third-tier prep school in New Hampshire, it was here that he wrote poetry for the first and only time in his life.

They were not great poems or even good poems, they were not by most standards really poems at all.They were poetry as he understood it, the poetry ofwhich he was capable, and they ran through the changes of longing and desolation, seduction and heartbreak, trust and betrayal like a hamster on a wheel, celebrating lips he had never kissed, eyes into which he had never gazed, caresses he had yet to enjoy.They were for Baby, they were for Darlin’,they were for Janey, though he knew no one by that name, they were for Suzie, and though he did happen to know a Suzie, he did not love or even like her.In each ofthese poems, Daniel was alone, carrying within him a heart that ticked like a bomb.A great many ofthem began:And I walk…One wentAnd I walk through this night / with only one light / and that’s my heart, darlin’,burning for you.Another:And I walk and I walk and I walk and I walk /And wherever I go I’m looking for you.

But who was this“you”? She did not exist.There were girls in his daily world whom he liked and who seemed to like him, but they could not be fit into the staggering, narcoticized world ofhis desire, the atmosphere was not conducive, it made them shrivel and die.And then, one day, the longing was gone.He cannot remember a precipitating event.It just hap-pened, like the day he suddenly stopped believing in fairies and ghosts, or the day the notion ofSanta Claus was abruptly ridiculous.Weeks went by without him writing in his notebook oflove poems, and then it struck him that ifanyone ever came upon those verses the humiliation would not be survivable, and he brought them down to the river, thinking ofmaking a ceremony oftheir disposal, a kind ofburial at sea, but in order to get to the river he had to trespass across one ofthe immense riverfront estates and by the time he was at the water’s edge he heard the rumble ofa care-taker’s truck, surely on the way to roust him out, and he ended up tossing the notebook into the water wildly and running.

Now, as he makes a couple ofleft-hand turns that bring him ever closer to Iris’s house, he is remembering those mawkish scribblings for the first time in twenty years.

Side-arming that notebook into the river did not mean that from then on he lived in some anguished exile from romance;he was not like a priest who loses his faith and then becomes a drunk or a fornicator.He did not feel bitterness, he did not feel any loss.He simply knew better and it was over.Those feelings were like his milk teeth;his bite was stur-dier after that.And in place ofall that inchoate desire, he went on to other pursuits:public service, respectability, sex, money.His briefchild-ish dream oflove was over, and he went on.He had relationships.He had a life,by which people seemed to mean a certain accumulation ofdays and experience, all mortared into some kind ofshapeless shape by an adult gravitas.He went on to prep school, on to college, on to law school, on to a year traveling on the cheap in Europe, on to a year in Mis-sissippi working for a civil rights lawyer, on to Minneapolis for more public service, where he lived with the daughter ofa blind Norwegian piano tuner, a large, brown-haired girl with creamy skin and enormous eyes, who seemed to him like an old-fashioned dessert, the kind they serve you when you’re too sated to eat another bite, and on to NewYork, to Kate and Ruby, and on and on and on—but had he been walking an ellipse all that time? Because here he was again, not exactly at the spot at which he had written those rhymes twenty years ago, but certainly within shouting distance ofit.Around and around he’d gone, and now it seemed to all be coming to this:that phantom female, that ghostly girl, Darlin’,Baby, all those creatures ofhis longing, all those spirits oflove and desire whom he thought he had exorcised with the power ofplain old common sense, put in their place at the back ofthe class by irony, experience, and practicality, they had survived after all, they had not been cast out, they had merely shrunk back, they had hibernated, and now they are awake, they are swirling around and around, and they have fused into a single woman.

Juniper Street.The fashion ofthe playful flag has arrived.On Iris’s block Daniel counts eleven flags displayed over the entrances, and of these only two are the stars and stripes.The other households seem to be pledging their allegiance to countries ofthe imagination.Flags here de-pict a crow perched on a pumpkin, Dorothy and theTin Man, a cobalt heaven riveted with silver stars, a golden retriever, a pair ofballet slip-pers.It’s after ten on a pretty morning but no one is on the street, a fact for which Daniel is grateful, since he is now driving so slowly that he may as well be parked in the middle ofthe road.

Iris’sVolvo is no longer in their driveway and his mind races as he tries to assign meaning to this fact.One thing he knows for sure:it means they are no longer in bed together—at least one ofthem is out ofthe house.Perhaps Iris has gone to run some errands, in which case Daniel might run into her ifhe drives quickly over to Broadway.Or maybe she’s gone to the campus, or across the river to one ofthe malls.Or maybe it’s Hampton who’s gone, in which case Iris is right there in the house.

He reminds himself not to suddenly introduce a new aspect to the plan; he told himself that all he would do is drive by her house and move on.

Now he is casting about for reasons he might knock on her door, and he forces himself to ignore every spontaneous scenario and to stick with the original plan.

He has seen the house.Enough.Maybe he will return in an hour or so to see ifthe car has returned.Maybe there will be other signs oflife, little changes, clues from which he can concoct a plausible narrative of their day.He steps on the gas pedal, bringing the speed ofhis car up to fifteen, but as he pulls away from the house he is gripped by the idea that Iris is in there, and that all that separates them is fifteen paces and a knock on the door.And though he has promised himself no unplanned actions, he does add one thing to today’s reconnaissance.He dials her number on his cell phone.Yet on the first ring, he feels an overpowering sense ofcreepiness and remorse, and he pushes his thumb against the end call button on his phone with such force that he almost veers into a parked car—an old Mercedes with a bumper sticker that sayscommit randomacts of irrational kindness.

Because he told Kate he was going to do some work, Daniel heads toward his office, for the tiny squirt ofmoral salve it might afford him, though not before driving down Broadway one last time and looking for Iris’s car.He pretends not to see everyone who waves hello to him, and he thinks to himself that ifhe had remembered more clearly all the wav-ing or howdy-doing that goes on in Leyden, he would never have moved back here.Yet to not have moved back here is now unthinkable, a specu-lation that leads to an infinity ofemptiness, like imagining not having been born.The equation is simple.No Leyden = No Iris.Ofcourse, there are a million details oflife and circumstance that had to fall into place to bring him to the spot in which he now finds himself.But in the end it seems to Daniel to come to this:ifhe hadn’t lost that case back in the city, ifhe hadn’t been kicked down the stairs by those three thugs, with their huge hands and reddish eyes, ifhe hadn’t developed the hu-miliating, excoriating fear ofevery dark-skinned stranger he saw on the street, then none ofthis would be happening.

He wonders what Iris will think ofthe story ofhis flight from New York.He wonders ifhe will ever need to tell her.He nervously imagines how it will sound toAfrican-American ears—the panicky white boy packing his bags, quitting his practice, heading for the cornfields and the pastures and the perfect white village with his southern girlfriend and her porcelain daughter in tow.Surely this will have a meaning to Iris somewhat different from the meanings to which he is accustomed, and for no other reason than she is black.He is getting way ahead ofhimself, but he can’t help it.He remembers Kate’s remark about Leroy from the night before:His people came over in chains and mine sat on the porch sipping gin.Something that begins that badly can never end well.So will that be the contest? History in one corner and Love in the other? Fine.Ring the bell.

Let the fight begin.Love,he thinks,will bring history to its knees.

At last, it is Monday, and Daniel is in court, standing in front ofJudge Hoffstetter.On one side ofDaniel stands Rebecca Stefanelli, who most people know by her nickname, Lulu.She is a five-times-divorced, hard-living woman in her early forties, with red hair and a tentative, defensive smile on her face, the smile ofa woman who has had a number ofunkind remarks made at her expense, and who would rather appear in on the joke than be its unwitting target.On the other side ofDaniel stands James Schmidt, a muscular, scrubbed widower who runs a little lawn mower and chain saw repair business out ofhis garage;Rebecca and James had a brief, more or less geographically determined fling a couple ofyears ago and relations between them have been stormy ever since.

Standing next to Schmidt is a barrel-chested, white-haired, flush-faced old lawyer named Montgomery Paisley, in semiretirement but still mak-ing a handsome living representing the company that sold Schmidt his home insurance.Though summer is long past, Paisley is wearing a blue-and-white seersucker suit and light brown shoes.

Rebecca is suing Schmidt for failure to keep his section ofthe public sidewalk clear ofice.She slipped and fell in front ofSchmidt’s house last March, sustaining a concussion, and she claims to have been suffering from debilitating headaches ever since.

Judge Hoffstetter is manifest in his dislike ofLulu Stefanelli.“Miss Stefanelli,”he says,“I’ll thank you not to wear sunglasses in my courtroom.”

“Your Honor,”Daniel is quick to say,“my client is wearing dark glasses on the advice ofher physician, as a way ofwarding offheadaches.”

“This is not a sunny room, Mr.Emerson.Please instruct your client to remove her sunglasses.”

It’s outrageous to Daniel that Hoffstetter is harassing Lulu about her glasses.Hoffstetter used to be a state patrolman inWindsor County;in fact, it was he who gave Daniel his first and only speeding ticket, twenty years ago, when Daniel was seventeen.In those days, Hoffstetter was a hard, fit man, with an accusatory, military bearing, and he was never without his mirrored sunglasses.Now, however, the judge is fleshy;his eyebrows are a thick tangle ofsilver wire above his professorial half-glasses, his long, porous nose is a ruin ofself-indulgence.

Hoffstetter is silent.He leans back in his creaking chair, taps his fingertips together.He peers at Daniel as ifhe’s about to cite him for con-tempt.But then he sits forward, claps his hands together.

“Okay, you two, chambers.”

“What’s he doing?”Rebecca Stefanelli whispers to Daniel.Her breath has a warm vermouth quality to it and Daniel can only hope Hoffstetter hasn’t gotten a whiffofit.

“Don’t worry,”Daniel says.And when she looks at him questioningly, he adds,“We’re right and they’re wrong and that still means something.”

Montgomery Paisley is fastening the clasp ofhis enormous old briefcase;

he looks as ifhe’s carrying the folders for every case he’s ever tried.He hoists it up and, with his free arm, gestures gallantly for Daniel to go first.

Judge Hoffstetter’s chambers are really just one room, which he has turned into the Judge Hoffstetter Historical Museum, with pictures of himself on every wall, depicting the highlights ofhis life, from high school baseball, to his induction into the state police, to his marriage to Sally Manzardo and their fifteenth wedding anniversary in Barbados, to his late-in-life graduation from Fordham Law School and becoming a county judge.

Hoffstetter sits heavily behind his desk, opens the top drawer and pulls out a cigarette and a little battery-operated fan, to dispel the smoke.

“You’ve got no case, Mr.Emerson,”he says.

”Do you mind ifI sit?”says Paisley.

”You do whatever you want, Monty.You’re walking out ofhere a winner.”

“That’s highly improper, Your Honor,”Daniel says.

”Counselor, Mr.Paisley has three statements from Leyden Hospital emergency room staff, all ofthem stating that when your client came in after having suffered a head injury in front ofSchmidt’s house she was drunk as a skunk.”

This is not the first time Daniel is hearing this.The whole thrust of his case is to dispel the allegations ofStefanelli’s drunkenness.

“Your Honor, the salient fact ofthis case is not my client’s score on a Breathalyzer test, or the alcohol level in her bloodstream—though no such tests were given to her and the allegations ofher being under the influence ofalcohol are completely without proof.The salient fact is that Mr.Schmidt failed—and, in fact, refused—to remove the snow and ice in front ofhis house, thereby creating a hazard.Anyone could have fallen on that treacherous piece ofpavement.”

“But no one did, Daniel,”Hoffstetter says, smiling.“No one but your booze hound ofa client.”

“Your Honor, I really must object—”

“Don’t bother.”Hoffstetter sighs, shakes his head, and continues.“I must say, Mr.Emerson, I never thought I’d see you in my court arguing a case ofsuch little merit.Why did you go to the trouble ofgetting such a prestigious education ifall you’re going to do is practice law ofthe lowest common denominator?”

Is that what this is going to be about?wonders Daniel.That I went to Co-

lumbia and Hoffstetter did law at proletarian Fordham?Yet there is something weirdly sincere in the judge’s question and it finds its way through Daniel’s customary defenses.He is capable offeeling a bit ofchagrin over some ofthe cases he handles, though, frankly, Lulu Stefanelli’s fall is, he thinks, a decent case, unlike a couple ofthe divorces he’s worked on, or the estate work he’s done for a few ofthe local pashas.

Yet, like many lawyers, Daniel looks back at his beginnings and feels that he has fallen more than a little short ofhis initial goals.In law school, Daniel envisioned himself practicing some kind ofpublic service law, though exactly what kind constantly shifted.Children’s rights.Civil rights.

Environmental law.Something that could make the world a little better.

And in order to practice that sort oflaw he had to be in a major city, New York, Washington.His first job out oflaw school was with the doomed Lawyers’Immigrant Defense Society, which lost its funding six months later.From there he went to a private law firm, with its share ofcorporate clients but with a reputation for doing interesting pro bono work—one of the partners had a son in prison in Malaysia on trumped-up drug charges and it resulted in the inflammation ofthe entire firm’s conscience.

“My client deserves some consideration here, Your Honor,”Daniel says softly, indicating with his tone that he’s ready to deal.Lulu would be happy with Schmidt’s insurance company covering her emergency room bills and maybe coming up with ten or fifteen grand for her pain and suffering.

“All this for a few measly bucks?”Hoffstetter shakes his head.“How the mighty have fallen.”

Paisley speaks from the depths ofhis chair.“We’re willing to pay her initial medical costs, Judge.”

“Let’s not encourage her, Monty.She’ll be throwing herselfin front ofcars and diving into empty swimming pools ifwe go along with her little scheme here.”

“Your Honor—”

“Mr.Emerson, I really did expect better things from you.”

But Daniel persists.He knows he’s getting whipsawed by Paisley and Hoffstetter, but in a few minutes he’s able to go back to the courtroom and tell Rebecca Stefanelli that the other side is willing to settle for med-ical expenses plus ten thousand dollars, and she is so thrilled that she hugs him excitedly and kisses him first on the ear and then on the eye.And a few minutes after that, he’s in his car, driving through a cold, pelting rain, on his way north to Leyden, for his next appointment.The mountains on the west side ofthe river are obscured by mist.A stiffwind comes from the northwest;the trees barely sway, they just bend and stay that way.

Daniel is on his way to his office, where he needs to gather some papers before going to his next appointment.He stops at a gas station a couple miles outside ofLeyden.It’s an Exxon station that used to be run by the father ofone ofDaniel’s boyhood friends and is now owned by a couple ofEgyptian brothers.He pumps a tank ofgas into his car and then goes in to get a cup ofcoffee and a shrink-wrapped bagel.The rain lashes the windows ofthe station.There is a display ofheavily scented carved wooden red roses, drenched in some artificial, vaguely roselike scent; the smell mingles with the smells ofthe coffee machine, the wax on the linoleum floor, and the residual aroma ofgasoline.Both ofthe brothers are behind the counter, heavy men in their thirties, with rough skin, dark, wavy hair, and short-sleeved shirts.

Even when his friend’s father owned this station, it was one ofthe few spots in the area where boys and men could find pornographic magazines.

In the past, the magazines had names likeChic,andCheri.Now, the mag-azines are not only more numerous, but their names are more overt, even a little nutty.Juggs,andBeaver,are next toAss TimeandPink andTight.And though there are precious few black people who live in Leyden, this store stocks a wide range ofAfrican-American porn magazines.

Daniel has been eyeing the black porn covers for quite some time, though he has yet to muster the courage to even browse through what’s inside.But today, after getting his coffee and choosing his bagel, he saun-ters over to the magazine rack.He imagines the Egyptians will be watch-ing him, but it’s something he can live with.

Big Black Butt, Brown Sugar, Black Booty…There is something about the stridency ofthese titles that strikes a reluctantly responsive chord in Daniel.He picks up one ofthe more benign titles—Sugar Mama—and opens it up.

He has never slept with a black woman, never seen a black woman undressed.In high school in the hills ofNew Hampshire, he had a crush on a black girl named Carol Johns.They kissed, she pressed her hand against the fly ofhis jeans.But when he tried to touch her breasts, she moved away and said,“Uh-uh,”and then the next day her brother, an am-bitious, bespectacled kid in a blazer, hit Daniel full force in the back of the head with his algebra book.

The women inside the magazine havenoms de porn,like Afreaka, Supremacy, Kenya, and Downtown Sugar Brown.Afreaka is photographed pulling herselfopen like someone showing an empty wallet.Downtown Sugar Brown has shaved, moist armpit skin that looks like cracked leather, long aqua fingernails, and a barbered crotch greased along the labia.She has hardworking hands, with dark, bunched skin at the knuck-les, a faded butterfly tattoo on her shoulder, long, pendulous breasts, with lusterless coronas.The stretch marks around her hips are like fork marks in brown butter.Daniel feels vaguely sick, reduced, helpless, yet in communion with some reptile selfthat has been waiting for him.He turns the page and Downtown Sugar Brown is joined by another woman—Cydney.They are on their hands and knees on an unmade bed, their long tongues touching.

Suddenly, a hand grabs his shoulder;he feels the scrape ofchin whiskers against his ear, and his head fills with the hoarse, aggressive whisper ofhis assailant.“Whatcha got there, you horny sonofabitch? Going for the dark side?”

It’s Derek Pabst, one ofthe four cops on the Leyden Police Department.Derek and Daniel have been friends since the first grade.Derek was a sturdy kid with an oversized head and the defiant, wayward grin of a boy with a great many siblings and overworked parents.He never did his homework, he rarely passed a test, yet the teachers quietly promoted him at the end ofevery year, with the tacit understanding that his life was hard and that school was finally so unimportant to him that they should all be grateful he was attending at all.He had a wild streak that mes-merized Daniel.Through the course oftheir boyhood, through school days and summers, they were each other’s constant companions.They climbed trees, forded rivers, shot guns, kissed girls.As far as Derek was concerned, they were to this day best friends, though the persistence of their friendship has largely been Derek’s doing.When Daniel was sent off to boarding school, Derek wrote him letters and hitchhiked the hundred miles to sleep on the floor ofDaniel’s dormitory room.When Daniel fi-nally moved back to Leyden, Derek was there to meet the van, with a picnic cooler full ofbeer, another filled with sandwiches, and three ofhis own children to help unpack the truck.

Feeling exposed and ridiculous, Daniel puts the magazine back in the rack and goes to the counter to pay for the gasoline, the coffee, and the bagel.“Will zat be ull?”the Egyptian asks, as ifchallenging Daniel to pur-chase one ofthe magazines.

“That’s it for me,”says Daniel, forcing his voice to sound cheerful.

”How are you, Eddie?”Derek asks.He slaps a five-dollar bill onto the counter.“Let me have a pack ofCamel Lights.”He accepts the pack of cigarettes, the few pieces ofchange.Eddie acts frightened ofDerek, dis-playing the almost ritualized respect ofa man who has been warned.

Derek eagerly tears the pack open, lights up.“Since Stephanie got the new furniture delivered, she won’t let me smoke in the house,”he says, smoke streaming out ofhis large, dark nostrils.

Daniel and Derek stand beneath the eaves ofthe gas station and watch the pelting rain.

“How’s Stephanie doing?”Daniel asks.

”She’s okay.She says she’s going to give Kate a call, put together a dinner or something.”

Daniel’s heart sinks.He knows Kate will decline Stephanie’s invitation, he only hopes she does it without being too blunt.Hurting Stephanie’s feelings will only hurt Derek’s.

“The kids could play, too,”Derek adds.He takes another long drag of his cigarette.“How’s Kate doing?”

“Hanging in there.”

“You really scored on that one,”Derek says.“She’s a great lady.She’s so pretty, and so fucking smart.You know what I like about her? Her laugh.She’s got a great laugh.I look for that, you know.It’s a sign.”

Daniel raises his to-go cup, shrugs.“I’m sort ofrunning late.”It sounds too abrupt to Daniel, and so he extends the excuse.“I’m going over to Eight Chimneys, finally getting to wet my beak in some ofthat river gen-try cash-o-rama.”He grins, rubs his thumb against his first two fingers.

But Derek, fully aware that money doesn’t mean very much to Daniel, acts as ifDaniel hasn’t said a thing.“I had a runaway kid this morning,”Derek says.“At large and dangerous.I picked him up at the train station.”

“Whose kid?”

“One ofthe boys from Star ofBethlehem.I swear, the people running that place don’t have the slightest fucking idea what they’re doing.

They keep trying torespectthose boys, orrehabilitatethem, and mean-while it’s a fucking jungle, with some ofthe worst juvenile offenders in the state, with nothing to keep them in but a couple ofcounselors and an electric fence.”He looks at Daniel, trying to gauge the level ofagree-ment or disagreement.“These are the‘boys’that made you decide to get your white liberal ass out ofthe city and come back home.The kid I picked up? First ofall, his mother, who was probably twelve or some-thing when she had him, names him Bruce, probably after some Bruce Lee movie, and then, just to be Ebonic and make sure he never learns how to spell, she spells it B-r-e-w-s-e.”

“Since when do you care so much about spelling?”

“I learned how to spell.You used to cram it into my head before spelling tests.”

“I don’t remember it doing all that much good.Anyhow, spelling’s just custom.African-Americans are making their own customs.”

“Yeah, well this kid makes alotofhis own customs.Like the custom ofcapping the first motherfucker who stands between him and a new pair ofNikes.”

There’s a sourness in Derek’s voice, a disdain, which Daniel believes is an occupational hazard for cops, like squinting for a jeweler, or grisly jokes for a surgeon, but there’s an element ofracial scorn that Daniel can’t recall ever having heard from Derek before.Is it because he caught Daniel looking at theAfrican-American porn magazines? Or does Derek somehow sense that Daniel has fallen in love with a black woman? Did Daniel ever, in some swoon ofnostalgia for their old boyhood closeness, talk to Derek about Iris?

Derek draws on his cigarette and pulls the smoke deep into his lungs—he smoked marijuana before cigarettes and it shows.When he fi-nally exhales, very little ofthe smoke comes back out.

“What about tonight?”he asks Daniel.“Want to get a bite to eat orsomething?”

“I don’t know, Derek.It’s really hard to get Kate to go out, you know that.”And, for all Daniel knows, Derek may sense that Kate finds him dull company and that Stephanie is a sort ofparadigm for suburban fu-tility, with her mall bangs and turquoise spandex tights, her exhausting cheerfulness—Kate calls her the last ofthe StepfordWives.

“I was thinking just you and me, Danny,”Derek says.His face colors and Daniel realizes with a helpless lurch that his old friend feels embar-rassed asking him to sit down and share a meal.But the embarrassment, rather than make Derek shrink back, somehow propels him forward.He has nothing more to lose.“I really would like that,”he says.“We—”

“No, that would be great,”Daniel says, not being able to bear the awkwardness a moment longer.“I’ll just make sure nothing’s pending at home.

I’ll call you around six, six-thirty.”Who knows?They might go to a restau-rant and end up accidentally seeing Iris.Wouldn’t that be something?

Derek flicks his Camel Light into the rain.“How cool is it that you moved back here?”he says, grinning, shaking his head.His cruiser is parked next to Daniel’s car, blue lights slowly revolving, and every car that passes on the highway slows down at the sight ofit.He has left the window open and the sound ofhis radio can be heard.The dispatcher’s voice, static moving through it like whitewater.Daniel cannot under-stand a word, and Derek seems not even to hear it.

“How’s Mercy Crane working out?”he asks.

”She’s great.Thanks for putting us in touch with her.”

“She used to baby-sit for Chelsea.”He clasps his hands behind his back and stretches extravagantly.“She’s really something.”

“Mercy?”

“Real strict parents, though.Especially Jeff.He’s nuts, you gotta watch out for him.He’s the kind ofcop that gives cops a bad name.”

“She likes movies.I always try and rent something interesting for her to watch.”

“Oh yeah, she likes movies.And music, and just laughing her ass off.

She’s an amazing girl.And sexy, don’t you think? Not that I would ever do anything, but God, she is so fucking hot, those big eyes and those little spindly wrists and always wearing just enough perfume to let you know she knows exactly what you’re thinking.”He claps Daniel on the back.

”All right, buddy, go back in there and do your business, I’m out ofhere.”

“Me, too.”

“Yeah?What about your magazines?”

“Just looking.”

“I didn’t mean to bust you, Danny.Feel free.Our age, a nice jerk-off helps keep the lid on.Though I could never, not with a black lady.It just doesn’t do it for me.”

“I’ll call you tonight, then,”Daniel says.

”Okay, good.I really need to talk to you.”

“Is everything okay, Derek?”

Derek looks at him as ifhe were insane.“Ofcourse not,”he says, and then laughs.Daniel stands there and watches Derek get into his cruiser and drive away.He gets into his own car and drives into Leyden, through the rain that is now just beginning to include a few intermittent streaks ofsnow, loose skeins ofwhite woven into the gray ofthe day.

Daniel arrives at his office building, swings around back, where there is parking for tenants and clients only.The first thing he sees is a green Volvo station wagon, with the license plateWDC785.

Iris.

What’s she doing here?It’s unlikely she is doing business at Software Solutions, and the financial planner is inAustria for the month.She must be here to see the child psychologist, Warren Maltby, an exceptionally small man, with tar-black hair.The thought ofIris up there, with Nelson or without him, strikes Daniel with sudden force.What could the trouble be?Were they taking him to a shrink because he supposedly hit a kid at day care? Daniel sensed that Nelson is one ofthe teachers’favorites—with his clean cubby, princely table manners, perfect diction, and star-tling beauty.Ruby has actually enjoyed a rise in status since becoming Nelson’s best friend.Like the homecoming queen on the arm ofthe school’s football hero.

By now he has wandered over to Iris’sVolvo and peers into it.The baby seat is strapped into an otherwise empty and immaculate backseat.

The family dog, an elderlyAustralian shepherd named Scarecrow, sleeps deeply in the way back, her eyelids trembling while she dreams.Daniel raps a knuckle against the side window and Scarecrow opens one red-dened eye.“Hi, Crow,”he says, currying the dog’s favor.Then he looks into the front ofthe car.In the passenger seat is a stack ofbooks with li-brary markings on their spines.On top ofthe books is a spiral notebook, opened to a page ofher handwriting, black flowing letters, old-fashioned in their shapeliness.Through the glare and his reflection, he reads,Harlem Ren.economic engine B.intell.repudiate Marx 19% unem.extend.fam“A safety net made not of government giveaways and fashioned by would-be social engi-neers, but consisting of a weave of family structure, rural communalism and Chris-tianity.”And then he opens the door and picks up the notebook.He riffles through the pages like a spy, and then, miraculously, and terribly, he sees, on an otherwise blank page, his initials.DE,written small, in the center ofthe page, the exact center, with a circle drawn around them.His heart accelerates as ifhe has suddenly sprouted wings and begun to fly.

But he doesn’t have a chance to obsess, not just then.He turns around to see her walking across the parking lot.She is alone, not a hun-dred feet away.It’s always so startling to see her, like spotting a celebrity.

She seems to float toward him.

“I thought your lights were on,”he says, dropping her notebook and swinging the door shut.It closes with a sturdy Swedish finality that he hopes will prevent her from asking any questions.

“You’re all dressed up,”she says.

Daniel touches the knot ofhis tie.“I was in court.”

“Did you win?”

“That’s the thing about court, you rarely win and you rarely lose.”

“I once thought I was going to be a lawyer,”Iris says.“My dad always said I should be one, but just because I argued over everything, you know that way slightly spoiled kids do.I thought I could talk him into anything.”

The thought ofher as a child both stuns and provokes Daniel, imagining her that way, in that distant world.

She senses his mind is elsewhere and moves her face a little closer to his.

”Is that why you wanted to be a lawyer?”she asks.

”I never argued with my parents, I was too afraid ofthem.I thought they’d fire me.”

“I like to think ofpeople when they were little kids.You must have been one ofthose heartbreaking little kids, with a serious face and se-cretive, really secretive.The kind ofkid that a mother sort ofhas to spy on to figure out what’s really going on.”Distress courses across her eyes, like speeded-up film ofclouds moving through the sky.Daniel guesses she is thinking about Nelson.

“That was fun Friday night,”she says.Her voice rises with what seems like forced gaiety.

“My office is here,”Daniel says, gesturing toward the building.

”I know,”says Iris.She opens her oversized purse and pokes around for her car keys, finds them.“I knocked on your door on my way out.”

“You did?”

“I guess you were down here.”

“Yes, I was.”A little more explanation seems called for.“I’m on my way to see a client…butIstarted looking at the snow.Early for snow, isn’t it?”

She gets into her car, turns on the engine.The windshield wipers cut protractors into the fuzzy coating ofsnow.While Daniel watches her Volvo backing up, he thinks:She knocked on my door.

[4]

They reached the top of the small hill they’d been climbing, but the sight lines were no better than below.The only sky they could see was directly above them, gray, going black.

“What do you think?”said Daniel. “I think we’re lost,”Hampton said, shaking his head. “Next they’ll be sending a search party after us,”Daniel said.He noticed some-

thing on the ground and peered more closely at it.A dead coyote like a flat gray shadow.Sometimes at night, he and Kate could hear coyotes in the distance, a pack whipping themselves up into a frenzy of howls and yips, but this desiccated pelt, eyeless, tongueless, was the closest he had come to actually seeing one.He won-dered what had killed it.

“What do you have there?”Hampton asked. “The animal formerly known as coyote,”Daniel said. Breaking off a low, bare branch from a dead hemlock, Daniel poked the coyote’s

remains.Curious, Hampton stood next to him, frowning.A puff of colorless dust rose up.The world seemed inhospitable—but, of course, it wasn’t:they were just in the part of it that wasn’t made for them.Here, it was for deer, foxes, raccoons, birds and mice and hard-shelled insects, fish, toads, sloths, maggots.Hampton stepped back and covered his mouth and nose with his hand, as if breathing in the little puff that had arisen from the coyote would imperil him.Iris had often bemoaned her hus-band’s fastidiousness, his loathing of mess, his fear of germs.He had turned their

water heater up and now the water came out scalding, hot enough to kill most household bacteria.There were pump-and-squirt bottles of antibacterial soap next to every sink in the house;if Iris had a cold, Hampton slept in the guest room, and if Nelson had so much as a sniffle, Hampton would eschew kissing the little boy good night, he would literally shake hands with him instead and then, within min-utes, he’d be squirting that bright emerald-green soap into his palm, scrubbing up a lather, and then rinsing in steaming water.

Ferguson Richmond watches the rain from the front ofhis immense, crumbling house, reclined on an old cane chair, with his work boots propped up on the porch railing.He comes from a long line ofprivileged men and there is nothing he can do to obscure that fact, though it seems he is engaged in a perpetual project ofself-effacement.He is careless about his appearance.He barbers his own hair, ekes out twenty shaves from his disposable razor, and wears large black-framed glasses from the hardware store, which are held together with electrical tape.Today, he is dressed like a garage mechanic, in grease-stained khaki trousers and a shapeless green shirt that had once belonged to aTexaco attendant named Oscar.In a family ofoversized men and strapping women—large-headed people, with broad, bullying shoulders—Richmond is the runt.He is five feet eight inches, with skinny legs and delicate hands, and he is steadfastly uninterested in all sports and games.He neither boxes, nor climbs, nor kayaks, nor shoots;his passions are for strong coffee and old farm machinery.All the same, there is something confident and au-thoritative in his manner.His light blue eyes have that arrogant flicker that comes from a genetic memory ofluxury and power;they are rooms that had been emptied and scrubbed after a legendary party.

Eight Chimneys is a huge derelict holding, encompassing over a thousand acres on both sides ofa three-mile curve ofblacktop.There is dis-order everywhere, from disintegrating stone gates overgrown with vines and capped by headless lions, to its unmown fields in which are hidden rusted threshers, ancient, abandoned tractors, and dead deer.

Some people wonder ifFerguson realizes that his once proud ancestral mansion is a wreck, a pile ofweather-beaten stone and crumbling plaster.He is painfully aware ofhis house’s derelict condition.Five- and ten-acre parcels could be put on the market and they’d surely be snapped up by builders, and investors, but the full reach and grandeur ofEight Chimneys had not been diminished by even a solitary acre since it had first been granted to the Richmonds by King George, and, like genera-tions ofhis ancestors, Ferguson felt that his dignity, his manhood, his re-spectability, and his place in history were all dependent upon keeping the property intact.Unfortunately, ifhe doesn’t do something soon to shore things up, the house might be lost forever.But how could he ever get enough money to put it right again?

He hardly cares about money, except how it might intrude on his right to reside at Eight Chimneys.Though his brothers, Bronson and Karl, and his sister, Mary, all own shares ofthe estate, each with a wing ofthe house, where they come and go unannounced and even invite friends to stay—none ofthem choose to live there.In fact, they have es-tablished their lives in St.Croix, Santa Barbara, and Nairobi, and they re-turn only for the occasional holiday or funeral, at which time they heap scorn and mockery upon Ferguson for how he’s letting the place go.

But now he has an idea, suggested by a lovely, surprisingly clever blind girl named MarieThorne, who has been back at Eight Chimneys for the past year and with whom he is having the most exciting and pleasurable love affair ofhis forty-two years on earth.Marie wants to turn a portion ofEight Chimneys into a museum.Result?Taxes slashed, plus extensive renovations at the public’s expense.The taxpayers will foot the bill, and what a sweet thought that is.Foot the bill, foot the bill, there are times when Ferguson literally cannot stop saying it to himself.It’s his new mantra, which is what he said to his spiritually promiscuous wife.Foot the bill om shanti shanti.There are, ofcourse, details to be worked out, pro-posals to be written in the strange language ofsuch things, public support to be marshalled, legislators to be brought on board—and that is what to-day’s meeting with Daniel is, a beginning, a first step in that direction.

But suddenly Ferguson finds himself staring at something he has never seen before in October.He shifts his weight, the front legs ofhis chair bang down onto the planks ofthe porch, and he stands straight up.

The rain is turning to snow!Thick, heavy snow.At least a month too early.His father once told him about an early October snow and the de-struction it wrought.On this property alone, thousands oftrees were lost.Nature’s design is for the snows to come after the leaves are offthe trees.That way, the snow falls to the ground.But ifthe leaves are still on the branches, the snow catches in the canopies, until the branches can-not bear the extra weight, and then that’s it, the trees succumb, they bend so far in one direction or another that their roots come right out of the soil, or else they snap in two, like old cigars.

Ferguson stands transfixed as the snow drifts over everything.In less than an hour, there is no green, no red, no brown, no gold:every tree is white, and every inch ofopen land is white, too.The snow is wet, porous;it lies in the field like that foam they spray on runways after a crash.This is very, very bad, Ferguson thinks.Yet he’s smiling.He feels a kind ofdelight in the imminence oftrouble, a morbid receptivity to dis-aster.Good, he thinks, good, let it all come down.

Moments later, Ferguson’s wife, Susan, appears on the porch.Ferguson dresses like a handyman, but Susan favors capes, and at least two pounds ofjewelry.She’s a large-boned, voluptuous woman, full ofen-thusiasm and temper.With erupting, abundant black hair and fierce green eyes, she’s the sort ofwoman who frightens children.She and Fer-guson have been married for twelve years.They are second cousins on their mothers’sides, but whatever genetic risk that poses is a moot point.They have no offspring.

“The electricity just went off,”Susan announces.“And once again we are plunged into shit.”

Fuck yourself, I wish your head would explode, get out of my life,thinks Ferguson.Let me sleep with Marie unmolested, spare me your pedestrian, boring guilt trips, get out get out…

“I don’t know why we don’t have a generator,”Susan adds.

“I’m working on it,”says Ferguson.“Sit down, Susan.Look at all this snow.You may never see anything like this again.We are really in for it.

This happened before, in1934,and it was a complete disaster.”

“I was hoping to bathe,”Susan says.“And I was also hoping to make some progress in organizing the library.”Eight Chimneys’state ofdisre-pair has come to irritate Susan, and, lately, imposing some order on it has become a virtual obsession.She simply cannot take it any longer.What had once seemed like a charming, funky casualness, a kind ofstylish nose-thumbing at all ofthose blue bloods who once occupied these rooms, now strikes her as a kind ofhell, an inferno ofshattered sconces, peeling wallpaper, cracked plaster, stained ceilings, threadbare carpets, broken windows, knobless doors, perilous staircases, inexplicable drafts, grotesque armoires, and heirloom furniture theoretically worth hun-dreds ofthousands ofdollars but in reality worth nothing because no one in his right mind would ever want it.

“I don’t want you to organize the library,”Ferguson says.“I need to go through everything first.”

“What is it exactly that you want to‘go through’?”

“There’s a lot to go through.”

“And in the meanwhile, the disorder is intolerable.”

“You should work on your tolerance, then, Susan.It’s a brand-new world, nothing is ever going to be the way we want it.We have to adapt, wehave to grow, learn, change.Haven’t any ofyour spiritual advisors told you this?”

Susan can no longer tell ifFerguson is speaking his mind or trying to make her lose hers.He likes to play devil’s advocate, which she thinks is the most corrupt, exhausting parody ofreal conversation.

“Who are you waiting for anyhow?”she asks him.“You’ve been out here for an hour.”

“Dan Emerson.He’s going to give us advice about making Eight Chimneys a historic site, and maybe even a museum.”

“Oh yes, Marie’s bright idea.”She looks out at the snow.“He’s probably not coming.”

“He’ll be here.A man like Dan Emerson isn’t going to be pushed around by a few snowflakes.He’s high energy all the way.And I don’t think he’s averse to developing some river clientele.”

“Oh, no one gives a hoot about river people anymore.”

“But I don’t think he knows that.He was raised in our great collective shadow.”

Susan sticks her hand out over the porch railing, the snow melts in her dark, henna-streaked palm.“Maybe the roads are already closed.We can never be sure what’s happening out in the world.We’re stuck away like lunatics in this place.”

“I’m working on it, Susan.Anyhow, look who’s here.”He points toward the west, where a line ofcedars stand like exclamation points.A car is coming toward the house, snow spraying from beneath the tires.

A few minutes later, Ferguson, Susan, and Daniel go into the library, where MarieThorne awaits them.Serene and delicate, she stares sight-lessly out the window.She has luminous long hair, practically to her nar-row little waist, the hair ofa woman not fully in the world.She has been blind since birth.

Daniel has heard about what is going on between Ferguson and Marie—people inWindsor County gossip about the local gentry as if they are royalty, or movie stars.Marie is the daughter ofSkipThorne, a former caretaker at Eight Chimneys, and she was raised right there on the estate.Ferguson has a reputation ofbeing especially drawn to young girls, and it’s also been said that he’d found Marie attractive even when she was eight years old.

She turns when they come in.She has been looking forward to this meeting.Her plan to save Eight Chimneys is her gift to Ferguson;she hopes it will put them on equal footing and allow them one day to have a life together.She is dressed for business, in an oatmeal-colored tweed suit and a strand ofpearls.

“I’m here with Daniel Emerson,”Ferguson says.“The lawyer?”His voice booms without effort, it seems like an unwelcome miracle of acoustics, he opens his mouth and a shout emerges.

“Mr.Emerson.”Marie extends her hand and strides across the library to greet Daniel.She moves easily through rooms she has known her whole life.

“So you want to turn this place into a museum?”Daniel says, as soon as they are seated at the library table.

“Not all ofit!”Susan says, with some alarm.“Not the whole house.”

“We’re thinking ofjust the main floor and the cellar,”says Ferguson.

“And maybe some ofthe land, the property right around the house.”

“And a swath going down to the river,”adds Marie.

”A swath?”says Susan.The word feels vulgar, like“hopefully,”or“be that as it may.”

“Let me give you a little background,”Ferguson says.“You need to understand why we’re considering…”

Susan rises to light the stubs ofcandles in various holders around the room.With unconscious frugality, she tries to light them all with one match.Suddenly the green shaded lamp on the desk flickers on, and a moment after that comes the whine ofthe water pump down below in the cellar coming back to life.

But the respite is momentary.The lamp goes dark again and the pump is still.Ferguson laughs his strange, grating laugh.“It’s a mess, the electric company around here,”says Ferguson.“And it was from the outset.Our un-cle used to be on the board ofdirectors ofWindsor Power.Clare Richmond.

People thought he was a woman.In fact, at one point I had an Uncle Clare and anAunt Michael.Do you rememberAunt Michael?”he says to Susan.

Susan doesn’t like to dwell on the fact that she and her husband are related, however distantly, and she ignores his question.“You can’t cut out a swath ofland, it doesn’t make any sense.”

The snow-filled windows are darkening, and the sudden sound ofa splitting tree is like the deadly bark ofa rifle.Ferguson returns to the sub-ject ofthe museum.He makes something ofa show oftelling Daniel about the financial pressures facing Eight Chimneys.Good professional manners dictate that Daniel take this to be shocking, distressing news, though everyone in the area is fully aware ofthe perpetual peril in which the Richmond estate operates, and even ifDaniel weren’t privy to the lo-cal gossip, one look at the place would tell him all he needed to know.

“Ifwe can’t figure out this money business fairly soon,”Ferguson says,

“this property might very well fall into the hands ofdevelopers and end up as Eight Chimneys Estates, or be turned into a rest home, or a mental hospital.”

“Some people think it alreadyisa mental hospital,”Susan can’t keep herselffrom saying.

“Something you said makes me curious,”Daniel says.“You said you wanted to use the main floor and the cellar.”

“Oh, the cellar!”says Marie.She has turned her eyes toward Daniel.

They are bright and somehow thick, like the inside ofoyster shells.“That’s one ofthe most important parts.Do you know the Underground Railroad?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Well, as you know, it wasn’t really a railroad, it was really a whole lot ofhiding places.Like a system ofthem.And the cellar here was part ofit.There are these secret rooms and passageways.Slaves, mostly from Georgia, they were kept there.”

“We’re so lucky to have Marie, aren’t we?”says Susan, turning around.The corners ofher mouth are turned down and her wide-set eyes blaze with anger.“Not only does she come to us with all her knowl-edge ofarts administration, but she knows history, too.”

“They’re for storage now,”Marie says, unfazed.“But we’re going to clean them out and make them like before.You can go down there, ifyou want.You can still feel the spirits ofthe escaped slaves.”

In unison, the four ofthem turn to a clatter ofnoise coming from the hall, and a moment later the library door swings open and two men walk in, one ofthem middle-aged, with a warm, beatific smile, a down vest, and a maroon beret sparkling with snow.He cradles in his arms several brightly printedTibetan silk ceremonial flags.The other man is tall, an-gular, with long, black hair grown past his shoulders and a patch over his eye;he carries a large wooden box filled with fireworks.

“I’m sorry,”the smaller man says, in a low, Spanish-accented voice,

“we knocked and there was no answer.”

“Oh, Ramon!”Susan says, springing up from her chair.“I didn’t realize you were bringing all this over today.”

“Tomorrow I go to Bogotá,and then to BuenosAires.”

“There’s more outside in the truck,”the taller man says.“We betterhurry.”

Susan accepts kisses from Ramon on both cheeks, and then peers into the crate filled with Catherine wheels, Roman candles, gigantic orange sparklers.“Come on, Ferguson,”she says.“Help us unload this, please, before it’s all spoiled.Let’s get it offthe truck and into the ballroom.”

“The ballroom?”Ferguson says.“What’s it going to do in there?What is this stuffanyhow?”

“It’s for a purification ceremony two weeks from yesterday.We’ve got a van filled with monks coming up for it.”

Ferguson reluctantly rises.“I’m surprised at you, Ramon.I thought you were a good Catholic.”

“I sit at the feet ofanyone with wisdom,”Ramon says, beaming.

”Ifwe don’t do this soon, it’s not going to happen,”the tall man says.

”Please, Ferguson, let’s hurry,”Susan says.For a moment, it seems she is going to clap her hands, but she instead reaches out to him implor-ingly.“Marie can tell Mr.Emerson everything he needs to know, and what she forgets we can fill in when we get back.”

When the Richmonds and the two men leave the library—their footsteps soon disappear into the dank, porous silence ofthe house—Daniel and Marie sit silently in the flickering gloom for a few moments.Daniel glances at Marie, afraid that she might sense it ifhe simply stared at her.

She sits silently, her fragile hands folded.She has a prominent forehead, which, combined with her pale skin and dark hair, gives her the appear-ance ofsomeone temperamental, a worrier, a sufferer, someone who is capable oflashing out.She breathes in;the nostrils ofher long, stern nose practically close, and then she exhales and sits deeper in her chair, lets her head fall against the cracked leather back.

“It’s so sad when love dies,”she says.

”Yes, it is,”Daniel says.

”This used to be a very happy house,”she says.

”Ferguson’s pretty excited about this idea ofyours,”Daniel says.

”My father loved this house, and everything connected to it.”

“I met your father a couple oftimes,”Daniel says.Marie has no noticeable reaction to this;perhaps she, like the masters ofthe house, be-lieves that everyone in Leyden knows her and her family in some way.

”He saw my father a couple oftimes.He came to the house.”

“Who’s your father?”

“Dr.Emerson.He’s a chiropractor.”

“My father had terrible back problems all his life,”Marie says.The sound ofa tree breaking nearby resounds like a cannon shot, making Daniel jump in his seat but leaving Marie unmoved.“I remember him talking about Dr.Emerson.He liked him, he thought he was good.”

“I’m glad my father could help.”

“Is he still alive, your father?”

“Yes.”

“Does he ever work on you?”

“Oh no, never.I was always sort ofphysically afraid ofmyfather.The thought ofhim cracking my back, or yanking my head and cracking my neck—I could never put myselfin that sort ofposition.He’d put me on that table ofhis, I might never get up.”Daniel means this to be amusing, but Marie frowns and nods her head.

She gets up and glides to the tall windows.She places her palm against the darkening glass and then presses her cold hand onto her cheeks.Daniel sees that she is flushed;beads ofsweat have formed along her hairline.

“Everyone in this town talks about Ferguson and me, don’t they,”

Marie says, turning toward the window again.She presses her other hand against the pane, then touches her forehead, her throat.

“People like to gossip, Marie.I don’t pay much attention to what they say.”

When she turns again, Daniel sees that a solitary thread ofblood has crawled out ofher right nostril and is making its way through the pale down ofher upper lip.

“You’re bleeding, Marie,”he says.He feels in his pockets for a handkerchief, but all he comes up with is the plastic wrap from this morning’s gas station bagel, the touch ofwhich triggers a startling flash of memory: those magazines.He is beginning to understand the unbridled nature of desire when it is confined to the realm ofmake-believe, how without the reality ofan actual person in its path, it races headlong, blind and frothing.

Marie seems not to have heard him.“I don’t care what people say.

Something amazing has happened between Ferguson and me.And that’s all there is to it.Ifpeople are upset, then they’ll just have to deal with it.”

“Marie…”

“I’m telling you this because I want you to be careful with Susan.She once loved this place, but not now, not anymore, and she never loved Ferguson.And she’ll do anything to wreck what we’re trying to do, she’d rather Ferguson lose the house and everything else—which would kill him.This is his habitat.He can’t live anywhere else.It’s pretty funny, when you think about it, she’s into all these world religions, the Muslim, the Buddhist, the goddess, the meditation, the drumming, the spinning around in circles, but she’s cruel and she’s selfish, she can’t stand the idea that other people might find happiness.”At last, the trickle ofblood reaches her lip and she tastes it.She gasps and her fingers go to her lip and then her nose.“Blood,”she says.She has smeared the blood over her upper lip.

“I don’t have a handkerchiefor a Kleenex or anything.”

“Ifyou could go to the kitchen.”She has seated herselfand tilts her head back.

“Where’s the kitchen?”

“Walk out the nearest door, which will put you in the portrait gallery, go through the double doors, turn right, go to the end ofthe hall, and there it is.”

The portrait gallery is barely lit by the anemic pearl light coming in through three adjoining sets ofFrench windows.Here, paintings and drawings ofthe Richmonds and the various families related to them by marriage have been hung on the blue plaster walls with such economy of space that the frames touch, though here and there appears an18 x 24sun-bleached blank, where a portrait has been removed and sold at auction.

Daniel hurries through the double doors and into a long hallway, which is lit by a few bare bulbs.As the electric power continues to come and go, they flicker offand on, as ifa child were playing with the switch.

A small SouthAmerican man in his twenties, wearing a serape and a fe-dora, and with a crow perched on his shoulder, leans against the wall, pulling a nail out ofhis sneaker sole with a pliers.He gives no indication ofnoticing Daniel, who rushes past him to the kitchen, a dismal, cata-strophically disorganized room, where Ferguson and Susan are in the midst ofa bitter argument.

“I didn’t hear you say anything, Susan,”Ferguson is saying.

”You were deliberately ignoring me,”she answers.“You love to negate me.”

“You’re insane, Susan.”

Daniel has entered the kitchen and there is no backing out.He stands next to the old eight-burner stove, every burner ofwhich holds a cast-iron kettle or skillet.Herbs that were hung to dry from the overhead beams have long ago turned gray and powdery.The double sink is filled with two towers ofdirty dishes;a calico cat with a rawhide collar swats atthe drops ofwater that swell and then fall from the silver faucet.Fer-guson and Susan have turned to face him.

“I’m sorry,”Daniel says.“I need a paper towel or something.”

“What for?”demands Susan.

”Marie has a bloody nose.”

Susan’s laugh is surprisingly throaty and warm.“Did you hit her?”

“We don’t carry paper towels here,”says Ferguson.He pulls a not very fresh-looking handkerchieffrom his back pocket, and as he is hand-ing it to Daniel the lights cut offand then come back on—it seems as if someone were shaking the room—and then they go offagain and that’s it.They are not in total darkness but in a deep opaque grayness, as ifthey have been woven into the fabric ofa sweater.

“Hurry, Ferguson,”says Susan.“Run.She needs you.”

“I needher,Susan.That’s the mess we’re in, and ifyou won’t see that, you won’t see anything.”

Daniel feels like a servant in front ofwhom the lord and lady ofthe house think nothing ofundressing.Clutching Richmond’s handkerchief, he backs out ofthe kitchen, but before he is out, the door swings open and the two men who delivered theTibetan flags and fireworks come in.

“Everything’s put away,”says the older ofthe two.He uses his beret to dry his forehead.

“Before the snow gets worse,”says the younger.“I never seen anything like this.”

“Thank you, Ramon,”Susan says pleasantly.“You’re an angel.”

“I’m working on it,”Ramon says, smiling.“May I ask you?Who is the young man with the crow on his shoulder?”

“He’s our friend from Slovenia,”says Ferguson.“He lives inAlbany.

He came down fromTroy in July to work on the roofofthe piggery, and for some reason he hasn’t left yet.He found that crow near the river and he’s made something ofa pet ofit.”

“I’m going to see to this,”Daniel says, backing out ofthe kitchen.He is seized by anxiety, thinking that ifhe doesn’t leave in the next minute, then he could be facing impassable roads and a long entrapment in Eight Chimneys.As he makes his way down the hall, he notices a door to the outside is open.It is not the door he came in through, but finding this way out is irresistible to him, and rather than deliver Ferguson’s hand-kerchiefto Marie, he stuffs it in his pocket and heads out ofthe house.

He finds himself on a semicircular stone porch, a repository for busted-up furniture.He can’t tell what direction he’s facing;the world is chaos.He looks up at the sky, at the deluge ofsnow floating down.He opens his arms wide.He wants to shout out her name.Her name is her body, her scent, the shadow she casts upon the world.The violence and unexpectedness ofthis weather leads him not to the actual beliefthat the world is in a state ofemergency and that everything now is suddenly per-mitted, but to something close to it, something that suggests what that would feel like.He walks carefully down the stairs, snow seeping through his shoes.Then he walks around the house until he finds his car, which in the halfhour he has been here has accumulated a five-inch coat-ing ofwet, heavy snow.

He must dig around in his trunk to find the scraper and brush to clear his windshield, and once that is done he has no idea where the road is.

He looks for the tracks left by the men who delivered the flags and rock-ets, but the tracks have already been filled.He drives the mile and a half slowly, slipping in the wet snow, having no idea ifhe is driving on pave-ment or grass.

He calls his office from the car.The answering machine comes on, but with a new outgoing message left by SheilaAlvarez.“This is the of-fice ofDaniel Emerson.We have closed early because ofthe snow.And Mr.Emerson, Kate called to say that the day care center has closed and Ruby went home with Iris Davenport, and ifyou can make it over there would you please pick her up.Everyone else, leave a message after the beep.”

[5]

An immense oak tree lay on the ground a few feet from where they stood.Hamp-ton rested his foot on it and then shouted Marie’s name as loudly as he could.The veins on his neck swelled;Daniel had a sense of what it would be like to deal with Hampton’s temper, about which he had heard a great deal from Iris.Like many men with clear goals, Hampton was impatient, quick to anger.Hampton shouted again.If Marie were nearby she might have cowered from the furious sound of his call.Daniel sighed, folded his arms over his chest.

t was snowing and it was snowing and it was going to snow some more.

IA truck bearing the signwide loadand carrying behind it a tanand-brown modular home that was being delivered to a hillside already filled with similar ready-made houses lost traction on the main road about a quarter mile south ofLeyden, jackknifing into the northbound lane and colliding with an oncoming U-Haul truck, which was being driven up from the city by a young couple who had just bought a little weekend house and were bringing up their sofa, chairs, tables, lamps, bed, pots, pans, silverware, mystery novels, cross-country skis, aquar-ium, and paintings.Firemen, police, and paramedics struggled to the scene—many had difficulty driving there—and once the wreckage was cleared away and the victims transported—the truck driver to Leyden Hospital, the couple from the city to the morgue at the south end ofthe county—they were called to another highway disaster, and then another.

Six miles north, on the same road, a trucker on his way down from theAdirondacks, carrying twelve tons offreshly harvested hemlock, slammed on his brakes to avoid a collision with a Chevrolet driven by an old man who was moving no more than ten miles per hour.The trucker avoided rear-ending the old man, but the suddenness ofthe stop created a lurching backward and then forward motion in the logs, and, though they had been secured by braids ofheavy chains, two ofthe smaller trees broke entirely loose and shot out over the back ofthe truck as ifout of a catapult.One ofthem flew over the roofoftheToyota behind the truck, hit the pavement, and bounced offthe road, entering the woods end over end.The other log, however, went straight through theToyota’s windshield, like a giant leg stomping through a thin sheet ofice, crush-ing the driver and sending the car killingly out ofcontrol, directly into anotherToyota, a blue one, in the northbound lane.

An old silver van, with a high rounded roofand oddly diminutive tires, flipped over on a sharp, slushy curve on Frankenberg Road.The van was carrying two chestnut-and-white racehorses down from Canada to a horse farm in Leyden.The horses, a gelding and a mare, were both in can-vas harnesses, which were strapped to the sides ofthe van to keep the horses in place during their three-hundred-mile journey.When the van overturned, the canvas did not tear and both horses dangled upside down, whinnying in terror, their pink, powerful tongues wagging back and forth, their chin whiskers soaked in thick white foam.The woman who owned the horses and the man who was their trainer staggered around on the side ofthe road, banged and bleeding, feeling lucky to be alive.But then, as the van began to smoke, and then to burn, they realized that the miracle oftheir survival would be forever compromised by hav-ing to spend the rest oftheir lives remembering the crescendo ofcries and then the even more terrible silence as their horses were immolated.

At the Bridgeview Convalescent Home the loss ofelectricity would have normally switched on the auxiliary generator, but last winter’s power failures had used up all ofthe generator’s fuel and no one had thought to gas it up—winter was still a couple ofmonths away.The lights went dull, then dark, like dying eyes.Clocks stopped.Those nurses who were generally irritable became more irritable.Those patients who were generally confused became more confused.The bedridden propped themselves up on bony elbows and looked around for some explanation.

The patients who were chronically complaining shook their fists, spit on the floor, told the staffoff.The fearful became terrified—the booming death ofall those trees, theTVs with their gray blank screens standing in their corners like uncarved gravestones.

In aVictorian house out on Ploughman’s Lane was a facility for teenage boys who had tangled with the law and been ordered there by juvenile courts ranging from the Bronx to Buffalo.It was now called Star ofBeth-lehem and it was run by Catholic Charities.In deference to the people of Leyden, there were never fewer than four guards on duty, hulking, quiet men who patrolled the halls and the grounds in lace-up paratrooper boots and black turtleneck shirts, carrying black rubber batons.The doors were always locked and the windows were locked, too;the fence that sur-rounded its ten rolling acres was electrified.Shortly after the power failed, the staffherded the boys into their rooms.The staffat Star ofBethlehem were, for the most part, men who themselves had had tough dealings with the law in their youth, who seemed to operate under the principle that if they could put their lives on track, then these boys could learn to live right, too.They were usually rough, and with the power out they pushed and prodded the boys into their rooms, as ifsome gross breach ofdisci-pline had already been committed.It was a total lockdown.

The boys went docilely, confused by the gathering darkness, the moaning winds, and the distant sounds ofcracking trees.Once they were in their rooms, they watched through barred windows as the snow brought down one tree after another.Star ofBethlehem’s auxiliary power supply was already in operation:the Honda generator was pump-ing out enough power to light the lights and keep the boiler running.But it was unlikely that the generator was sending power out to the electric fence hundreds offeet away.A couple ofthe boys picked up a bed and smashed the metal frame through the windowpane—the electric alarms were silent, dead, useless.Then six ofthe eight boys in the room pulled mattresses offtheir beds, and wrapping their arms around them, holding them fast, as ifthey were warm, soft sleds, they dove out ofthe second-story windows and out into the pearl-white snow.The mattresses landed with thuds ten feet below and the boys left them behind as they scram-bled up and slid down the hill, toward the powerless fence and the icy woods beyond.

[6]

Discouraged, exhausted, Hampton sat on the fallen tree—and immediately sprang up again.He had sat upon the Roman candle in his back pocket and it had split in two.He quickly pulled it out, with frantic gestures, as if it might explode, and tossed the top half of the candy-striped cardboard tubing as far from him as he could.“Oh no,”he said.

Now his back pocket was filled with the Roman candle’s black powder, a mix-

ture of saltpeter, sulfur, arsenic, and strontium.If I kick him in the ass, he might explode, thought Daniel.He had a comic vision of Hampton blasting off, sailing high above the tree line, stars, pound signs, and exclamation points streaming out behind him.

It takes Daniel nearly halfan hour to drive the five miles between Eight Chimneys and Iris’s house on Juniper Street.Some roads are already closed, and on others the traffic barely crawls.He is listening to a mix tape he made—Don Covay, Marvin Gaye, Ray Charles, IrmaThomas.He curses the storm, the roads, the other drivers, and imagines himself making love to Iris.He thinks about her voice, the slightly spoiled, slightly shy, and always shifting quality ofit.He is envious ofnot only Hampton but her fellow students, the library staff, the7-Eleven clerks, the shopkeepers up and down Leyden’s miniature Broadway, a man named Timmy Krauss, who mows her lawn, the tellers at Leyden Savings Bank, even Nelson.

He pulls into the driveway behind Iris’s car.A branch from one ofthe four maples on her front lawn, as long and thick as a stallion’s hindquar-ters, has snapped offfrom the weight ofthe snow and it sticks like a spear into the ground.Daniel looks up.The downward rush ofthe snowflakes, unusually large, looks like the blur ofthe stars when a space-ship accelerates into warp speed.He hears the creaking wooden sound ofa window opening.

“Let yourselfin, okay?”It’s Iris from the second story.She has stuck her head out the window and her short black hair whitens instantly.“I’m up here with the kids.”Her voice rings out in the silent world.

He steps into her entrance hall and peels offhis gloves, feels the melting snow trickling down his back.There are raucous screams ofcrazy ex-citement coming from Ruby, who is beside herselfwith joy to be in Nelson’s house.He hears Iris moderating.

Because the pickups and deliveries ofRuby generally fall to Daniel, he has been to this house ten or fifteen times, but each time Iris has Ruby dressed and ready to go upon his arrival.Nevertheless, in those moments ofpolite exchange, he has breathed in the smells ofher domesticity—the aromas ofwhatever meal was being prepared, the smell ofa newly painted room, ofeucalyptus stalks stuck into a beaded glass vase that stood upon an end table in the living room, just visible from where he usually stood.He has taken in everything there was to see in the foyer it-self:the blue-and-silver-striped wallpaper, the illustrative hooked rug (streetlamp, horse and buggy),the tiger maple table near the door, with its resident wicker basket filled with junk mail, the occasional stray mit-ten, and the curling cash register tape from the supermarket.From this he learned that her purchases included such items as Playtex tampons, and Dry Idea deodorant, Marcal bathroom tissues, Sominex sleeping pills, Tom’s Natur-Mint mouthwash, Revlon emery boards, Tylenol PM.

Outside:the crack offalling trees.For a moment it seems the electric power will go out here, too.

Iris comes downstairs, beckons him in.She has taken offher shoes;

her socks are bright electric blue.She wears a loose-fitting yellow sweater, jeans.She is a woman at home, she has put the world behind her.

“Are the kids okay?”Daniel asks.

”Ruby’s amazing.She’s got such compassion and wisdom in her eyes.

I love looking at her.”

Daniel feels unaccountably moved by this.It seems somehow more tender and appreciative than anything Kate has ever said.Kate loves Ruby, ofcourse she does, but she has no patience for motherhood.Its unending quality confounds and irritates her.Kate longs for privacy, for uninterrupted mornings, for what she calls her DreamTime.

“Have you ever been to Ruby Falls?”Iris asks.

”No, where is it?”

“InTennessee, outside Chattanooga.It’s an underground waterfall, the biggest in the world, and it’s red.Well, they might just shine red lights on it to make it look that way.I was ten years old when my family went there.I mostly remember how hot it was outside and how cool it was in that cave, and that everyone on the tour was white, but they were super nice to us.”

“How wonderfully civil ofthem,”Daniel says.

”I wasn’t really used to seeing white folks, not then.I was so nervous.”She sighs, closing the subject.Then:“I’m going to have some tea.

Do you want some?”

He remembers the appearance oftea on one ofher IGA receipts:Celestial SeasoningsAlmond Sunset and Celestial Seasonings Emperor’s Choice.

“Sure.”He is still in the foyer, stomping loose the snow that was jammed into the waffle sole ofhis shoes.“Tea would be great.Do you have like an almond tea or something?”

“As a matter offact, I do,”says Iris.

The dog comes in.Daniel crouches down to let Scarecrow sniffhis hand.She has no tail but moves her rump back and forth to signal her ac-ceptance ofhim.He strokes her lightly on the top ofher head and she makes a low groan ofpleasure.

“This dog is Jesus,”he says, glancing up at Iris.He turns back toward Scarecrow.“Are you Jesus?”

“Don’t answer that, Scarecrow,”Iris says.

It strikes him with the force ofrevelation that this is the most fun he has ever had, ever, in all his life, this is the pinnacle, the greatest happi-ness he has ever known, right there, asking the dog ifshe is Jesus, and Iris telling the dog not to answer.

They walk across the living room, with its bay windows, dark mahogany molding, a white marble mantel over the fireplace.On the north side ofthe room, French doors lead to the dining room;on the south, a newly hung door leads to the kitchen.Daniel stops at the rack ofcom-pact discs to see what music she listens to and feels a rush ofconfusion, disappointment as he reads:Fleetwood Mac, Tony Bennett, Boyz2Men, Aaron Copland.

“I can’t believe you like almond-flavored tea,”she says to Daniel as they enter her kitchen.“To me, it tastes like arsenic or something.What is it, a guy thing? It’s the only tea my husband will drink.”

Iris cannot bear chaos.Beyond the rituals and reassurances ofdaily life lies danger.Go offthe road—danger.Swim in the dark—tragedy.Those people in London all huddled in the subway stop while the bombs dropped? She would never have been able to do it.She’d hang herself first.Life without its presumption ofreasonable safety—intolerable.

She is aware ofa slow, engulfing terror growing within her.She has been holding her panic in check for a couple ofhours now, telling her-selfthat the storm and all those exploding trees are part ofNature, and she is fully capable oftaking it in stride.But she cannot take it in stride, she cannot evenstride,she feels trapped, waiting for something terrible to happen.And knowing that it’s all in her head doesn’t make it better; in fact, it makes matters worse—how do you hide from your own mind?

Night has come.It seems to be snowing harder now than it was an hour ago.The daytime sky was just running out ofsnow when the night sky rolled into place with a fresh supply.There is no fear that is not worse in the darkness.

Daniel.It astonishes her how closely he listens to her, how he leans toward her when she speaks and nods his head, yes, like the ladies in her grandmother’s church, theAmen choir, in front ofwhom you could sing, or cry, and never feel the slightest shame.He seems to remember every-thing she has ever said to him, starting with their first hello.Like most married people, she is used to being heard only by half, and has even got-ten used to being ignored.Daniel not only listens, he seems to possess, to embrace the things she says to him.Six months ago, she said she had de-cided her thesis dissertation would be on some aspect ofParchman Farm, and today, sitting in her kitchen, with the candles in their holders and a box ofOhio blue tips at the ready, she learns that Daniel has readWorse Than Slavery,one ofthe best books about Parchman.It initially gives her a guilty, embarrassed feeling because she’s moved on from Parchman, it just didn’t feel right—she might, in fact, have abandoned it later the same day she’d mentioned it to Daniel.She has been having a difficult time set-tling on a thesis;jumping from one possible topic to the next has been the source ofno small number ofnasty remarks from Hampton, who wants her to get her Ph.D.and move back to the city.But Daniel doesn’t mind when she softly confesses that she has left Parchman behind.

“I switched to the music,”she says.“I couldn’t read about all the beatings, it was ruining my life.”

“The music?”Daniel says excitedly.

”People survived, they made songs, it’s very rich material.”

He gets up from his seat at her kitchen table, suddenly full ofanimation.“I’ve got just the thing for you! Do you have a tape player in here?”

She points to a boom box on the kitchen counter.

”I’ll be right back,”he says.He goes out to the car to retrieve a tape from the glove compartment.He is unjacketed;wet clumps ofsnow slither down his back as he paws through lumpy old maps and a dozen cassette boxes, most ofthem empty, until he finds what he is after, one oftheAlan Lomax Southern Journey compilations.It’s not the one he was hoping to find—he wanted the field recordings ofprison songs—but this one will have to do.“Sheep, Sheep, Don’tcha Know the Road.”

He shakes the box and hears the rattle ofthe tape within.Thank God.On his way back to the house, another limb snaps offthe maple tree in her front yard and it comes hurtling down, plunging into the ground not ten feet from him.Thanks again, God.

Inside, he plays her“You Got Dimples inYour Jaw,”sung by a man namedWillie Jones.Daniel stands near the tape player and does his best not to dance along with the music, knowing it will make him appear foolish, but the music is so sexy and good, it’s hard to stay still, with his arms folded professorially over his chest.The song is a paean to the beauty ofthe singer’s girlfriend, especially her dimples.“I love the way you walk, I’m crazy about the way you walk, I got my eyes on you.You got dimples in your jaw.You my babe.Got my eyes on you.”

When the song ends, Daniel pushes the stop button and releases a deep, satisfied sigh.“It gives you such insight, I think.It’s a love song to a woman whose physical being has been devalued by racism, slavery, poverty, and this guy’s saying to her:I see you, I notice every little thing about you, and it makes me so happy.It’s sexuality subverting the whole system ofslavery.”

“You think so?”

“John Lee Hooker made it a semi-pop hit, for this little outfit in Chicago calledVee-Jay records, in1950-something.”He knows that it was in1956,but he decides at the last instant to be imprecise, not want-ing to seem like one ofthose geeks who memorize music trivia.

“I’ve heard ofhim.My uncle Randall used to have his records.He used to wear a turban or something?A cape?”

She must be thinking of Screaming Jay Hawkins,Daniel thinks.“Maybe,”

he says, not wishing to embarrass her.“I’m not sure.”His fingers graze the controls ofthe boom box.“Do you want to hear another?There’s this fantastic version of‘The PrayerWheel,’by the Bring Light Quartet.”

“Well, the truth is, I’m not doing the music thing.I had to let that one go, too.”

He decides not to ask her why;surely she’s had enough questions about that.“Have you decided on a new topic?”he asks her.

“I’m not sure.American Studies, you know.Lot ofchoices.The thing is…”She stops, lowers her eyes.Daniel looks at her.He feels it would be permissible to reach across the table and touch her.

“The thing is,”says Iris, lifting her gaze.Her eyes are clear, with little flecks ofamber in them.“All my topics have beenAfrican-American, and I think that’s why I haven’t been able to stick with them.”She takes a deep breath.“I’m really gettingtiredofbeing African-American.Ial-ways thought ofmyselfas just me.I know that sounds sort ofweak, and when asistersays it, people think she’s trying to get out ofsomething, or she’s like a traitor or something.But that’s not it, not for me.I’m just ex-hausted by it, it’s so muchworkbeing black.And no days off, either.And the pay stinks.But what am I going to do? It’s my life.But I don’t think I want to make it my academic life, too.Maybe I’ll write about Eisen-hower orI Love Lucy,or something.Something white, or better yet some-thing that doesn’t even have a color, ifthere is anything like that.I wouldn’t mind being in school forever.I love learning.I realize it’s not the most highly regarded occupation in our society, I realize you’re noth-ing inAmerica unless you’re making money, but learning stuffmakes me really happy.It’s like being beautifully and luxuriously filled with all the knowledge there ever was.”

“They’ve got a lot ofold Lucy tapes at the video store, ifyou’re really interested.”

Outside, the trees continue to explode beneath the weight ofthe snow.It sounds like a long, nasty war is being fought.

“It breaks my heart to listen to all those dying trees,”Iris says.

”It’s a nightmare,”he says softly.

”Ifonly the snow had waited.I love the snow.But the leaves…”

“Ifit wasn’t for the leaves, the snow would just fall right through the branches and not touch a thing.”

“Everything’s timing,”she says.“The most wonderful thing at the wrong time? Disaster.”

“But you never know,”he says.

”Until it’s too late,”Iris says.“I’m afraid ofthings that can’t be taken back.That’s another reason I keep changing my thesis.I just don’t want to create a document that says, This is what I know, this is who I am.I re-ally admire your…whatdoyouliketocall her?Your…”She smiles.

”Lady?”

“Kate.”

“Well, I really admire Kate for just writing it down, sending it out, and getting on with it.”

“The thing she most cares about—her novel—she can’t write that.”

He feels his stomach turn over.“I better call her, actually.She’ll be won-dering where Ruby is.”

Iris brings him the phone.She can hear Kate’s hello clear across the kitchen, powerful voice, formidable, not someone you’d want to cross.

“Ruby and I are at Nelson’s house,”Daniel says.Oh, Iris thinks,Nel-

son’shouse.She turns slightly in her chair, not wanting to see what he looks like when he’s being so devious and clever.“I think we better let things settle down before we try to make it home.”

“I don’t think the snow everwillstop,”says Kate.She is in her study, facing her desk, where there sits an old Smith Corona manual typewriter and a dozen candles ofdifferent sizes, their flames dancing in the draft, an ecclesiastical whiffofparaffin in the air.“And when it does, it’s going to take a lot more than the little men in their trucks to get things going again.The trees!They’re everywhere and each one ofthem is going to have to be sawed up and dragged away.How about where you are?”

“It’s pretty bad.”

“Do they have electricity?”

“Yes, for the time being.”

“Oh, you’re lucky.That means you have heat, too.And water.”

“For now.”

“I don’t blame you for wanting to stay there.Is the husband there?”

But before he can answer, she blows right past it.“You know what I wish? That there was a radio in this place I could listen to.”

“The one in Ruby’s room runs on batteries,”Daniel says.

”Ruby’s room? She has a radio in there?”

“Yes, the red one.My First Sony, or something like that.You’ll see it.”

“I just want a way to tune in some news and keep track ofthe storm.”

“I put fresh batteries in it a couple days ago,”Daniel says.

”Oh, you’re so good,”says Kate.A little lurch in her voice.And then something being poured.He realizes she’s getting loaded.Hard to re-member, but there was a time when he liked her drinking, liked the free-wheeling, southern bad girl aspect ofher, the nocturnal romance ofit.

Those drunken nights were the occasions oftheir most uninhibited sex.

Sweaty, a little mean.It was like screwing an escapee.The concentration was all on Kate.What would she like, what could she take? Her body arching and jerking as ifshe were being electrocuted.Enthralling, those nights, some strange combination ofhoneymoon and porn flick.Nasty and private and never spoken ofafterward.But even then he felt those moments weren’t quite valid, like those sports statistics that go into the record book with little asterisks after them, indicating a shortened sea-son or a muddy track.

“Kate’s out ofher mind with happiness,”he says to Iris, giving the phone back to her.

Another tree explodes, this one, from the sound ofit, just a few feet from the house.

“Every tree that’s falling took so long to grow,”Iris says.There will be no more talk ofKate.“Some ofthem a hundred years.”

“Maybe even more.”

“I can’t stand to hear them dying like this.It’s like witnessing hunters shooting a herd ofelephants.”

“That’s what I was thinking,”says Daniel.“The elephants.It’s what I was going to say.But don’t worry.It’ll be all right.”

“You’re the type who thinkseverything’sgoing to turn out all fine anddandy.”

“How do you know that?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Maybe I’m a bit ofan optimist.”

“I think you are.”

“Could be that it’s sort of…awhite thing?”Daniel asks.

”Well, it sure ain’t no black thing, honey child.”Iris laughs, a little surprised at herself.

“Do you miss being around black people?”he asks her—much to his own surprise.

“What makes you think I’m not around black people?”

“There’s not many around, not here.”

“True.And here is where I am.I like it here, and, frankly, it’s hard to find a really nice place that also has a lot ofAfrican-American families.I like to ski, and sail, and take walks in the woods.I like having a garden and I’m in a really good program at Marlowe.Anyhow, I’ve come a long way from that cave at Ruby Falls.I’m used to being in a white world.”

Scarecrow totters into the kitchen and goes straight to Daniel’s side, leans against him and groans softly, with deep canine contentment.

“What do you want, Scarecrow?”Daniel says.“Why are you looking at me? Because I said you look like Jesus?”

“Let me ask you something,”Iris says.“Why did you say that?”

“About the dog being Jesus? I don’t know.She seems very deep.Did it offend you?”

“I had the same thought.Just yesterday.It seemed sort ofnutty and now you’re saying the same thing today.”

“That is strange.Is Jesus a big thing in your life?”

“Not too big.I think we’re alone.There’s no one to forgive us or punish us or help us in our hour ofneed, and I think nearly everybody deep down knows that.When I was an undergraduate, I took a course called ‘Death and Dying.’”

“You did?”

“Oh yes, I’ve always been very interested in death.Anyhow, as part of my course work I volunteered in a hospice and I got to know quite a few people who were dying, mostly ofcancer.My supervisor told me we weren’t supposed to push any sort ofreligious ideas on the people we talked to, but it was all right to subtly, in some general way, offer them the comfort offaith, maybe mentioning heaven and meeting up with loved ones, that kind ofthing.But you know what I noticed?The closer dying people got to the end, the more they knew that there was nothing next.

The knowledge was in their bodies, they knew that was all, there was no heaven, no God, just blood and bones and pain and then silence.You could see this knowledge in their eyes.Even the ones who had been religious all their lives, and the ones who just were so scared they were willing to be-lieve in heaven at the last minute, desperate for something to hold on to, to ward offthe fear, you could even see it in their eyes—God was an idea, it was something out there, far far away, it was a story people told, a beau-tiful story, or a dumb story, but it was in the province ofthe living, and these dying bodies didn’t have time for it anymore, they were too busy dying, the work ofit.Even ifthey were praying out loud, holding on to the rosaries, calling on Jesus, be with me, Jesus, be with me, their bodies knew, there was a final knowledge right in their cells that it was all over.”

“I saw you going to church in July.I was driving past St.Christopher’s and I saw your car turning in.”

“I go to church three times a year, on Christmas and Easter, and in July, around the Fourth.My baby brother, Leonard, drowned on the Fourth ofJuly when he was six years old.I light a candle for him and I pray and I cry, but I don’t even know why I do it.”

“There’s not too many places where you can go and have those feelings.”

“Do you have a place?”

“The movies.Sometimes I cut out ofwork and go across the river to one ofthe mall movies.I sit there in the middle ofthe afternoon with a box ofpopcorn and some M&Ms, and kind ofcry a little.It’s totally pa-thetic and what’s really pathetic is you’re not even the first person I’ve told this to.I tell it to everyone.”

“Maybe you want people to know you’re lonely.”

“You think that’s what it is?”

“It must be strange for people to think ofyou that way, lonely.”

“I know, I know.Because I’m such a cheerful presence.”

“Well, you are.And—”

“I know,”Daniel says.“Everybody likes me.”

“It’s good that people like you.I like you.”

“Good.I like you, too.”

“I know.”

“Well, that’s settled, anyhow.”

“Can we be honest here?”

“We can try.It’s not that easy.”

“I just think we can be honest, that’s all, I mean:why not? Maybe this is Armageddon.”

“The snowstorm?”

“It’s something,”says Iris.“It’s an occasion.We hardly ever get to say what we mean to say.That’s why people who have crises in their lives, real ones, huge ones, they turn out to be more honest.”

“Okay, some people have the Battle ofAlgiers, we’ve got the snowstorm.Anyhow, I think I know what you’re going to say.”

“What am I going to say?”

“You’re going to say,‘I know you like me and I also have become increasingly aware that you stare at me and you seem unduly excited whenever we happen to meet.’”

“That’s right,”says Iris.“Except for‘unduly.’I wasn’t going to use that word.”

“So you don’t think it’s unduly.”

“Maybe it is.I wasn’t going to put it like that.”

“How were you going to put it?”

“I was going to say you’ve been looking at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry.I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

“Itusedto make me uncomfortable.Now it doesn’t.Now I like it.”

“I think I might be having a heart attack.”

“Look, please, don’t make more out ofthis than what it’s meant to be.I shouldn’t have said anything.I’m indulging myself.Taking a little time offfrom reality.”

“This is reality.”

“It’s just that the past couple months, since Nelson and Ruby have gotten to be such buddies, and you and I cross paths fairly frequently, it’s been this little secret pleasure in my life.It’s like a river under the road.

Let’s talk about something else.”

“Do you have anything to drink?”

“More tea?”

“The tea is not good.The tea was a mistake.Something stronger?”

“Bourbon okay? I’ll have one, too.”

At home, Daniel is the designated driver, with or without an automobile.He has made it his job to not drink and through his example to some-how discourage drinking.This course ofaction, or inaction, has never met with the slightest success, but he cleaves to it nevertheless, limiting his consumption ofalcohol to a glass or two ofwine with dinner once or twice a week.Now, he sits in Iris’s kitchen, watching her reach up to a high cabinet to retrieve a bottle ofJack Daniel’s, watching her muscles move beneath her clothes—and he thinks:What if this were really my life? What if I could spend a part of every day watching her?What if it were easy?What if I come behind her, put my arms around her, kiss her long bare neck, cup my handsover her breasts, push my groin against her awe-inspiring ass? Could I tol-erate living with such happiness?

She pours their drinks, they hold their glasses up and then move them very slowly together until they touch.

Iris is hoping a drink will soothe her nerves—the intense labor ofappearing calm is wearing her out.And a drink might loosen up both of them, could even throw up a little makeshift bridge between them.Ear-lier, with Ruby in tow, knowing that Daniel would be coming to her house, Iris had felt that here, now, was the logical and perfect time to fi-nally make something out ofthose months offlirtatious glances.It seemed, then, that all she had to do was to let him know she had seen them all, felt his eyes on her, heard what he did not say.All she had to tell him was that she is caught up in a marriage that has turned out to be a mistake.It would be simple, a simple thing to do.She does not worry about being attractive to him.He has already made all ofthat clear:she has never felt so desired.

But now she realizes that it will not be that easy, will not be easy atall.

Yet the giddiness ofall this cannot altogether obscure her prescient view ofthe misery she would cause ifshe reached across the table and touched Daniel’s soft, lank hair.It finally takes so little, a kiss, and now she’s thinking about it, imagining it.

There’s music from the second floor.The kids are listening to theVillage People singing“YMCA.”

“Nelson!”Iris turns, looks up at the ceiling.“Turn it down.”

“How did that ever become a children’s song?”Daniel asks.He’s still making small talk, wanting only to keep her attention and to make sure there are no silences.“It’s so completelyWestVillage, cruising Christo-pher Street,1978.It’s strange the way the culture absorbs things and makes whatever use ofthem.”

She refills their glasses, very judiciously, as ifthis were a familiar ritual.

Suddenly, there’s a thud right above them, unnerving in its suddenness and force.Daniel’s response is instant.Out ofhis seat, out ofthe kitchen, up the stairs, taking them two at a time.Iris follows.They both hear Ruby’s plaintive little cry.Iris has a sinking feeling.

They reach the children.Daniel, wisely, has slowed himself down, trying not to add his alarm to the volatile mix.Ruby is just picking her-selfup.Her swollen blue eyes glitter with unshed tears and her face is scarlet.Without a word, she stretches her arms out toward Daniel.He lifts her up;her knees grip his rib cage, she wraps her arms around him, notches her head into the space between his neck and shoulder.Iris real-izes her hands are clenched into fists;she forces herselfto relax them.

“What’s wrong, Ruby?”Daniel asks.

Nelson is simply standing there, his arms folded over his chest, his body rigid beneath his cargo pants and sweatshirt, a look ofstony defi-ance on his face.

“She’s all right,”he says insistently.“She’s not hurt.”

The room in which they’ve been playing has a wide plank floor and a large circular orange-and-blue rug.The walls are decorated with travel posters from Bermuda and Denmark.The ceiling is slanted, the windows small, low—an adult would have to get down on her knees to see out of them.The sense oforder in that room is fierce.The shelves and cubbies are filled with action figures, cars and trucks, books, tapes, CDs, dolls, paints, blocks, and Legos, all neatly kept.

“Nelson pushed me down,”Ruby whispers.

”Oh Nelson, Nelson,”Iris says.“Why do you do these things?”She tries to take his arm but he yanks it out ofher reach.“Is she all right?”

Iris asks Daniel.

“She’s fine,”he says.“Aren’t you, honey?”

Ruby presses her face harder against Daniel and vehemently shakes her head no.

“What happened here, Nelson?”Iris says.She reaches for him and this time he cannot escape.

“Nothing.”His eyes are mutinous and self-righteous.

”How did it happen that Ruby fell down?”Iris says.

”Kids fall all the time,”Daniel says, stroking Ruby’s head.

”I’m waiting for an answer, Nelson,”Iris says.“How did she fall down?

Did you push her?”

Nelson continues to glare at his mother, and Iris suddenly turns her attention toward Ruby.“Are you all right, Ruby?”

“I’m fine,”Ruby says.She starts to squirm and Daniel sets her down.

Her face is no longer flushed, and now without its wrapping ofcolor they can see a pale little lump on her forehead.

“Oh Nelson,”says Iris.

”I didn’t do anything!”Nelson cries.“She was trying to kiss me!”

“I was not!”Ruby practically bellows.

”Ruby is a guest in our home, Nelson.You know what the tradition is.”

Nelson lowers his eyes.

”Are you two going to be okay?”Daniel says.“Or are you going to continue acting like children?”

He wants peace, at any price.He wants Iris to be put at ease, and he wants to be able to go back to the kitchen with her.He signals for them to leave—a little flick ofthe eyes, they are that much in synch—and they both back out ofthe playroom.

In the kitchen, they take their places at the table again.Outside:the crack offalling trees.Again, it seems they are going to lose electric power.Darkness stutters but does not yet pronounce itself.

“Nelson can sometimes be a little rough,”Iris says.

”Really? He always seems so mild and considerate.”

“He is, I really believe he is.But there are times…His father is teaching him how to box, it’s the worst thing he could do.As soon as he gets offthe train Friday night Nelson comes running up to him and Hamp gets into a crouch, like it’s round one.That can’t be good.Nelson needs to be gentled down, not…”

But wherever this line ofconversation is heading, it’s stopped by the huge groaning snap ofanother falling tree and then the flickering ofthe lights.

Iris whimpers, covers her eyes.

”Are you all right?”Daniel asks.

”It kills me.It’s like watching your relatives die.”

He looks at her, amazed.Everything she says makes her more imperative.“I better get Ruby ready and get out ofhere,”he says.“While we still can.”

“You really think it’s safe?”Iris says, her voice showing alarm.

”Then what am I going to do?”he says.

”What can you do?”

Iris takes a small sip ofthe bourbon.It tastes suddenly chemical.And she doesn’t want to get drunk.But shecoulduse a little pat on the be-hind, like the in-flight trainers give the paratroopers.She is amazed by her own rectitude.Frankness is one ofher qualities.Orwas.Six years of Hampton have worn down her confidence.The peculiar degradation of living with a man who won’t say so but whothinksshe is not smart enough for him.It used to be easy with men—just something she could do, like swimming, or being able to sing.It had little to do with beauty, or even sex, it was an affinity, an unconscious knowledge ofwhat they were thinking, what they wanted.She was raised with four brothers, and their fifty friends.Yet here, with Daniel, she cannot get it started.She takes a deep breath, pushes herselfforward.

“I liked the way you jumped up when you heard your kid fall,”

shesays.

“Jumping up when I hear a loud noise is one ofmy talents.”

“I’m serious.Last summer, Nelson was in the backyard playing with his tricycle.He had it upside down and he was spinning the front wheel around and around and throwing little stones into the spokes.He said it was his popcorn machine.”

“I used to do that, the exact same thing.”

“Then somehow he got his fingers caught in the spokes.He was fine, but it hurt and he let out a yell.Hampton was just getting out ofa bath, he’s got this Saturday ritual.”

Daniel envisions him, prone in the tub, his head tilted back and resting on a terry cloth square that had been folded with Japanese precision, his eyes closed, his cock floating on the soapy surface ofthe water, push-ing through the bubbles like a crocodile through lily pads.

“And he just stood there,”Iris is saying.“He heard Nellie screaming.I was in bed, I was sick, and I was calling out to him.He started down the stairs, but when he was halfway down he stopped, turned around, went backto the bathroom, and got his robe.His kid was screaming and he went back for his robe.”

Daniel doesn’t know what he can possibly say.She is comparing Hampton unfavorably to him, she is offering herselfto him, she is saying she is unhappy.

“It just seems to me,”Iris says,“that with your kid screaming the first thing you do is get to the kid, not run in the opposite direction.I got out ofbed—”

“With your robe on?”

“Are you trying to annoy me?”

“No, amuse.”

“It really appalled me.I felt something…”She is going to say either

“close”or“die,”but she says neither.Instead, she asks Daniel,“You wouldn’t have done that, would you? Stopped for your robe with Ruby crying out in the yard.”

He shakes his head No.Then, smiling,“But I’m sort ofan exhibitionist.”

She usually laughs when Daniel jokes, now it seems as ifhe is scrambling to put some distance between them, backing out ofthe whole thing.Chicken,she thinks.She only wants to go forward.And ifhe takes another step back, then she will have to take another step forward.

“You’d think Hampton would be an exhibitionist, too.He’s so proud ofwhohe is.Family and all that terrible stuff.”

“I’m not really an exhibitionist,”Daniel says.

”I know.”

“And I don’t have much ofa family.Two parents who were too old for the job and sort ofgave up on it, no brothers or sisters.”

“Well, to Hampton, family’s everything.His family, that is.You got a taste ofthat, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t so bad.”

“It wears on you.Those people, maybe you have to be black to really be angry with them.But it’s that bunch ofNeee-groes who look down on everyone else in the community.”She points to herself.

“You?”

“First ofall,”she explains,“too dark.Second, bad hair.”

“You have wonderful hair,”Daniel says.

”You don’t know anything about my hair,”she says, laughing.“I can’t stand when people talk about my hair, especially…Anyhow, myfam-ily wasn’t part oftheir crowd.Hampton’s people are really amazingly provincial.They’re all intertwined with each other, mixed up in each other’s business.My folks had enough money, that wasn’t really a prob-lem.I mean I wasn’t from the projects or anything.My father’s a hospi-tal administrator, my mother taught kindergarten, before arthritis hit her.But I didn’t belong to any ofthe right clubs.I wasnota Girl Friend or a Jack and Jill.I didn’t know shit about Oak Bluffs or Sag Harbor.I think one ofthe things Hamp liked about me was I wasn’t perfect in the eyes ofhis family.I was his little rebellion.A dark-skinned girl, with rude politics.But…youknow.The rebellion runs its little course and slowly but surely he turns into all those people who he swore he’d never be like.He really and truly wishes I was lighter, and I think he feels the same way about Nelson.And the really strange part ofit is Hampton is obsessed with being black, he’s black twenty-four hours a day, it’s all he thinks about.He sort ofdislikes white people, but at the same time he’s like most ofus:He really wants white people to likehim.And that, by the way, is the dirty little secret oftheAfricans inAmerica.We really want y’all to like us.”

The electricity cuts out for about the time ofa long blink, the world disappears, then shakes itselfback into existence.When the lights come back, the digital clock on the stove flashes12:00over and over.Daniel and Iris sit across from each other, silent, waiting to see what will hap-pen next.And then a few moments later, the lights go out, and this time they don’t come back on.This time it’s for good, they both can feel it.

The children cry out upstairs, with more delight than alarm.

“I love you,”Daniel says in the darkness.

[7]

Suddenly, in the distance was a pop, and then a plume of iridescent smoke rose above the trees, a vivid tear in the dark silken sky.

“Someone’s got her,”Daniel said.“I just saw a flare.”

Hampton looked up.Only a small circle of sky was visible through the

trees.“What was a damn blind girl doing out here? Even with eyes you can’t make your way.”

“She was raised here,”Daniel said.“Her father was the caretaker.She came

back to look after him when he got sick.Smiley.”

“Smiley?What do you mean?”

“That’s what everyone called him.I used to see him in town whenIwas

akid.”

Hampton shook his head.“These people, they’re living in another cen-

tury.They got their old family retainers, their fox-hunting clubs, their ice boats, they play tennis with these tiny little wooden racquets, and NewYear’s Eve they put on the rusty tuxedos their grandfathers used to wear.”

“Just a small percentage,”Daniel said.“They can be pretty absurd, but it’s

okay, if you have a sense of humor about it.”

“That was the first thing Iris ever said about you, how you have this ter-

rific sense of humor.”

“Class clown,”said Daniel.“In my case, middle class.”

In the city, Hampton comes home to what used to be his and Iris’s apartment and which is now his alone.It’s four rooms in a high-rise down on Jane Street, in theVillage.On a block ofpicturesque town houses, most ofthem over150years old, the building is a twenty-five-story eyesore, but the saving grace is that once Hampton is inside he doesn’t have to see it, all he looks out on are tree-lined streets, and pastel blue, pink, gray, and cream brick Federal town houses, with their tiny backyards and steep tiled roofs and the crooked old chimneys right out ofMary Poppins.

He’s taken the subway home, the most efficient way uptown after work.A taxi fromWall Street to Jane Street would take an hour, whereas the subway gets him there in ten minutes.And the cost is a token, not the fourteen to twenty dollars a crawling, ticking taxi would cost.Hampton is becoming more and more careful about spending money.This creeping fiscal conservatism has nothing to do with how much he’s making, be-cause he’s making more money than ever before, and it has nothing to do with rising expenses, because his expenses are stable.It just seems that the older he gets, the more watchful he becomes about his expenditures.

He is still a long way from the miserly habits ofhis grandfather—who, ac-cording to family lore, held on to a dollar until the eagle grinned—and he will always disapprove ofhow his haughty, judging, acid-tongued mother would say things like“That Negro spends money like a nigger.”But lately it seems to Hampton a breach oftaste to squander money.When shop-ping, he counts his change carefully, increasingly certain he is about to be cheated.On the train up to Leyden he looks with contempt at the pas-sengers who have paid nearly double to ride in that dopeyAmtrak Busi-ness Class.For what?A bottle ofSaratoga water and the mandarin delight ofsitting in a seat that is exactly like every other seat on the train, except that the upholstery is blue rather than red.Yet even carefully monitoring his own expenditures leaves Hampton unsoothed and insecure.He wor-ries over his investments, suffers the manic fluctuations ofthe NASDAQ, the slow attrition ofsome poorly chosen mutual funds.But even more than he worries about the stock market, Hampton worries about Iris’s management oftheir household accounts.In his view, she remains a child with money, without impulse control, with no sense ofsobriety, or plan-ning, or self-denial.Sometimes in the middle ofthe day, like one ofthose mothers you read about who are suddenly certain that their son has just fallen on some battlefield halfway around the world, Hampton will look up from his work and practicallyfeelIris making some ill-advised pur-chase, an antique rug, a digital camera that will never be used, a halfgal-lon oforganic milk at twice the price ofregular milk, a full tank of premium gasoline, even though he has told her over and over that a friend who covers petrochemicals has assured him that the so-called high-grade gas doesn’t extend the life ofyour car’s engine by so much as an hour, nor does it protect the environment.

He is sitting in the L-shaped dining room, with its narrow window looking out onto Hudson Street.Rain is falling in sheets, it’s loud enough to drown out the usual sound oftraffic, the taxis bumping over the cob-blestone street.He flips through today’s mail—statements from Smith Barney and Citibank, two phone bills, a Con Ed bill, requests to sub-scribe to magazines, buy golfclubs, upgrade home security, vacation in Portugal, switch credit cards, purchase vitamins, support the United Ne-gro College Fund, and, on the bottom ofthe pile, an actualletter,with his name and address written in ink.

Eagerly he opens the envelope.The letter is from his old friend Brenda Morrison, now Morrison-Rosemont, sent fromAtlanta, where she and her husband, Clarence, are doctors—he’s an allergist and Brenda’s a pedi-atrician.The letter is written on Brenda’s professional stationery, at the top ofwhich the first and last letters ofher name seem to be toppling over, held upright only through the efforts oftwo hardworking teddy bears.She has sent along a snapshot, and Hampton notes that Brenda’s weight gain continues unabated.She is now two hundred pounds, with two chins and working on a third.Hampton has known Brenda since they were children and she was a wild and bony thing, with scouring-pad hair and furious eyes, and enough ofa survival sense to work her way into theWelles family fabric, first as Hampton’s sister’s best friend, and then as a kind ofhon-oraryWelles—Hampton’s parents ended up sending Brenda to college.In the snapshot, she sits next to Clarence, with his prim little mustache, good-natured smile, his baby-blue turtleneck, and, on either side ofthem, golden retrievers, Martha andTiconderoga, mother and son.The Post-it on the back ofthe picture explains:Tiwas the runt of Martha’s litter and we just didn’t have the heart to give him away.But now he’s nearly eighteen months and he still acts like he’s a baby.Except he think’sI’mhis mommy.

Hampton finds himself staring at the note.He is stuck on the fact that she has spelled“thinks”with an apostrophe.A sharp twist ofracial impa-tience goes through him, about how his people have had three hundred years to learn the language and here they are still misspelling the easy words.Dear Hampton!

Hampton looks up from the letter.Why in the world would she put an exclamation point after his name?

How are you?You wanted us to send you some material pertaining to Clarence and my idea for a business—helping patients collect what is due to them from their insurance companies.Well, we’ve been hard at work on a prospectus, and ifI do say so myselfwhat we’ve come up with is pretty damn impressive! Unfortunately, the computer design company we entrusted with our work was in the process ofmoving.I’m sure you would have advised me against doing business with family, but Clarence’s nephew is really amazing with computers and graphics and that whole world I feel so uncomfortable with.Unfortunately, he’s pretty disorganized.I think he’sADD or something, he just races from one thing to the next.I guess a lot ofcreative types have that problem.All this is to say, our work got lost in the shuffle.Clarence’s nephew was really upset and we all spent a whole weekend looking everywhere for the stuff.It was really heartbreaking and quite a pain in the butt, and it’ll set us back a couple of weeks.In the meanwhile, I didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten about you or this project.We’d still love to get this thing up and running and you are still our favorite investment banker.(All right, you’re the ONLY investment banker we know, but even ifwe knew others you’d still be our favorite!)

Amateur hour.Does she really expect him to raise money for her little cottage industry? Hampton senses her nervousness coming right through her handwriting.Just as he could once detect the hesitations, the soul-stammers ofdesire back in the days ofcourting and conquering women, so now, too, in these moneyed days ofhis early middle age, can Hampton radar out the slightest tremor ofanxiety before someone de-livers a pitch.That this fumble for poise should come from Brenda is sad, in a way—she’s like family and she doesn’t even need the money.But it also gives him the grim, burnt comfort ofthriving in a world that is, for the most part, brutal and uninhabitable.He spends the best part of nearly every day surrounded by people who make money, only money, not houses, or soup, not steel, not songs, only money, and who quite openly will do anything for financial gain, anything legal, and a few things a little less than legal, too.But Hampton’s proximity to this school of sharks is more than physical, he has made analliancewith these squan-dered souls, these are his people, his teammates, and among them he feels the pride ofthe damned.His friends are the guys who will fly halfway around the world to convince someone to take a quarter ofa percent less on a deal.Everyone else is a civilian, all those fruits and dreamers who do not live and die by that ceaseless stream offractions and deals that is the secret life ofthe world, that reality inside reality, the molten core ofprofit and loss that burns at the center ofhistory and which everything else—temples, stadiums, concert halls,everything—has been built to hide.

Clarence and I hope to be up in NewYork for a Conference ofAfricanAmerican Physicians Meeting from December2–5.Clarence calls it the Funference ofAfrican-American Positions.We’d love it ifyou could join us for dinner or a show or anything on any ofthose days.Ifyou could talk Iris into coming into Manhattan then we could make it a foursome.I hope you can tear her away from her school work.Maybe she can give us that Harlem Renaissance tour she’s been promising.Is her thesis still on the Harlem Renaissance—or has she changed her mind?

Hampton stops reading.The rain continues to lash at the windows.

Thunder booms like an avalanche ofboulders.He knew Brenda couldn’t get through a letter without a dig at Iris.Brenda couldn’t possibly care what Iris is doing to fulfill the requirements ofher Ph.D.What’s Brenda, with her intellectual curiosity measuring something like2on the intel-lectual Richter scale, planning to do? Go to some college library and read Iris’s monograph?

Yet.His heart feels queer, as ifit is suddenly circulating blood that is a little oily and a little cold.Hampton is vulnerable to the suggestion that Iris might not be in possession ofa first-class mind.There is a vagueness to her, a lack ofprecision.Sometimes, he thinks this is a result ofher pro-foundly feminine nature, yet in his line ofwork he meets dozens of women whose minds are scientific, logical, calculating, aggressive.Iris’s is not.Both she and Hampton have been explaining her long career in graduate school to themselves and to the world at large as somehow a re-sult ofan excess ofintellectual curiosity, an unwillingness to be pigeon-holed, and the demands ofmotherhood, and Hampton is perfectly willing to stay within the confines ofthis official explanation.What he is not will-ing to say, except to himself, is that Iris is still in grad school, and no closer to the end than she had been last year, or the year before, or the year be-fore that, because she is simply too confused to complete her work;that, in other words, the machinery ofher mind is not quite up to the task.Did he consider her hisinferior?No, not necessarily—in fact, not at all.She is a little abstract.Yet she is perceptive, she can see right through him to his tender, undefended deeper nature.She is the center ofhis emotional life.

Sex with her has more than once moved him to tears.She slows him down in ways he needs slowing down, helps him to see the fragile, transitory beauty ofthe world.He has sat with her in their house in Leyden, on the floor in front ofthe fireplace, in complete silence, watching the fire for an hour, two hours, enjoying a stillness and simplicity he could never have imagined without her.No, these are not the gifts ofa second-rate mind, yet, sad to say, he has to admit they are not the characteristics ofa mind on its way to academic achievement, either.

Hampton places Brenda’s letter and picture back into the envelope.It occurs to him that Brenda might be the stupid one.True, she somehow made it through medical school—but in pediatrics, often considered the bottom ofthe medical barrel.

He stares at the rain and then thinks ifthe weather is this bad in the city it’s probably worse up north.It gives him a reason to call Iris.He leans back in his Eames chair, dials the number with the same hand with which he holds the phone, his fingers moving as ifhe were playing theaccordion.

On the sixth ring, Nelson answers.“Hello?”he cries, his voice vehement and obviously unnerved, yet distant, too.He’s speaking into the wrong end ofthe phone.

“Hey, Nels, it’s me.”Hampton must speak loudly to be heard.

”We don’t have any lights,”Nelson says.

”Turn the phone around, Nels.You’re talking in the wrong end.”

“We do not have lights,”Nelson repeats, after turning the phone around.“Ruby is kissing me.”His pronunciation and rhythm are robotic, every syllable separate, patterned after a Saturday cartoon android.

Ruby?

”Where are you, son?”

“We are in the playroom.”

“Where’s your mother?”As soon as he asks, Iris picks up the extension.

”Hello?”

Nelson hangs up the upstairs phone, hard.

”Iris, it’s me.”

“Hampton!”She sounds just the slightest bit startled.

”What’s happening?”he says.Those were the first two words he ever said to her, uttered in what seems now a distant, sunlit country.Atlanta 1991.Iris had been sitting in a cruddy fifties theme restaurant called Blueberry Hill, with an economics professor who was her boyfriend for twenty minutes or so, they were quarreling, he grabbed her wrist, she yelped as ifbranded, a sugar shaker slid from the Formica table, she had never been manhandled in her whole life, never been slapped, spanked, no one had ever raised his voice to her, and here was this huge, temperamental guy, a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound Malaysian with a military brush cut and a flamboyant Hawaiian shirt he wore like a muumuu over his massive belly, squeezing her wrist, offering up a per-fect opportunity for gallant intervention.Hampton had come quickly to their table and uttered the two-word question that became somehow the touchstone oftheir intimacy:What’s happening? a question he has asked a hundred times since, each time conjuring a memory ofBlueberry Hill and the beginnings oflove.

“Nothing,”Iris says.

Nothing isneverthe answer.

”Is the electricity out?”Hampton asks.

”Yes.We just lost it, twenty minutes ago.”

Justlost it, twenty minutes ago?There’s a bit ofdisarray in that sentence and Hampton senses it, the way you can enter your house and know something is wrong, some small thing has been slightly moved.

”That’s really pitiful.You’d think the infrastructure could cope with a lit-tle rain.”

“It’s snowing, that’s what’s doing it, the snow, it’s been pouring snow for hours.”

“Snowing?”

“And the leaves are still on the trees so they can’t take the weight of it.It’s so awful.Those poor trees.They tear the power lines down as they fall.There’s sirens going all over the place.It’s total chaos out there, it’s like a war, except there’s no enemy, just the snow.It’s really strange to realize how easy it is to scramble everything.When you get here you’ll see.Everything is broken, everything.”

She is making no effort to keep the alarm out ofher voice, in fact, she seems to be hyping it, letting him know that things are bad, maybe even out ofcontrol.Iris’s way has usually been to keep him cool, to pre-vent him from overreacting, but now she is deliberately creating a sense ofimpending emergency, and Hampton wonders why.

“But the phone is working fine,”he says.

“The phone lines are buried.But there’s no lights, no heat.”

“Then why not…”The words caught in his throat.“Why not go to a hotel?”Iris is particularly extravagant in hotels, and watching her raid the minibar is an advanced exercise in forbearance.

“You don’t understand.We’re snowed in.The roads are closed.It’s dangerous out there.We couldn’t go anywhere ifwe wanted to.”

If we wanted to,that is an odd thing to say.Why wouldn’t she want to leave a house that has no heat, no water, no lights?

“I’m worried about you,”he says.

”We’re safe in here.It’s just a little claustrophobic, knowing you can’t go out.And it might not be better tomorrow and I’m supposed to be at Marlowe for a thesis conference with Professor Shafer.”

“Professor Shafer?”Her thesis advisorwasan old Berkeley radical named Steven Pearlstein.That she is scheduled to meet someone else means she has once again abandoned her topic for a new one.

“He’s great.He’s new.”

I’ll bet he is.“Who’s there with you?”

“Here? In the house? Daniel and Ruby.They came over afterWooden Shoe shut down.”She pauses, lets it hang there, like a dancer stopping all movement, standing stock still while the beat goes on.“The whole town’s shut down.”

“What are they going to do?”

“I don’t know.Stay here, I guess.”

He hears a sound, a man’s voice, distant and indistinct.

”What was that?”

“That was Daniel.He says hi.”

“When’s he going home?”

Iris turns away, says to Daniel,“Hampton says hello.”

“Is he going to spend the night?”

“I don’t really know.”

The possibility ofIris spending a night in that house alone with Daniel Emerson renders Hampton, for the moment, mute.

“Don’t do this, Iris,”he finally says.

“What?”

Can she not hear him?Without quite meaning to, Hampton jabs his thumb onto the offbutton, breaking the connection.He had been stand-ing during the conversation, but now he feels weak and must sit.He sits there clutching the phone.He thinks about racing up to Penn Station, getting on a train, and making it to Leyden before anything happens.

How long would it take? It’s halfpast six now.He has committed the train schedule to memory—his memory, which is like a shark looking for new things to eat, has long ago devoured it.The next train is at twenty past seven.The trip to Leyden is one hour and fifty minutes.That would make it ten past nine when he’d arrive.Ten minutes for a cab to come, ten more minutes to reach his house.Nine-thirty.Nelson doesn’t go to bed until nine.That would give Iris and Daniel just a halfhour be-fore Hampton arrived.They would probably not have gone beyond long-ing looks, perhaps a kiss or two.

Yet as soon as he mentally goes through the paces ofthrowing a few belongings in a bag, flagging down a taxi in the rain, sitting on theAm-trak all the way up toWindsor County, making the trek to his house, and then having to do it all in reverse first thing in the morning in order to be back at work, his will to defend his wife against her own vulnerabil-ity to her desires, or from her weakness, all ofa sudden is subsumed by a vast entropy.

This is not the first time he has sat in these rooms wondering ifIris is betraying him.He recognizes his own jealous nature, knows he could not trust the truest Desdemona, can recall with a measure ofgood-natured self-mocking that he was suspicious ofIris even when she was pregnant—he thought she had a crush on her obstetrician, a silver-haired Pakistani whom she would telephone for advice at the slightest physical provoca-tion.Before going to his office for her regular appointments, Iris would spend two hours in the bathroom, showering, sprinkling herselfwith baby powder, polishing her nails, oiling her hair—and she’d wear some-thing dark and vertically striped for the slimming effect, as ifshe wanted to camouflage her pregnancy.He saw how unlikely it was.Yet marriage to Iris made his impulse toward jealousy practically hair-trigger, his heart is like a bank that has been outfitted with an alarm system that is far too sen-sitive, one that can be tripped by a little footstep.

Though Hampton looks back at some ofhis former suspicions and realizes they were silly and unjust, he must nevertheless continue to live with the degrading agonies ofjealousy, and during these last months in NewYork part ofhis strategy for survival has been to commit small acts ofunfaithfulness himself.He’s not sure how he came upon this plan, but the fact is he can tolerate the idea ofIris’s being touched by another man only ifhe can prove and re-prove to himself that mere physical intimacy is a matter ofrelatively small importance—he must, in fact, degrade the very thing he wishes to exalt.The adultery Hampton commits is highly controlled:he spends two or three hours a month with one oftwo pros-titutes who, for $150 an hour, come to his apartment, spread lotion over his body, massage him, and masturbate him to a quick milky climax, the vehemence ofwhich pleasantly surprises him every time.He has settled on these two particular women, after responding to several advertise-ments in the free weekly newspapers that carry in their back pages list-ings for escort services and unlicensed masseuses.He has seen ten different prostitutes in all and has had actual intercourse with none of them—though intercourse is available for an extra charge.He has come close to intercourse a couple oftimes—particularly with Mia, the Chi-nese girl, whose feathery touch up and down his buttocks, combined with the blank, stoned-out expression on her unhappy face, has proved particularly arousing—but he has, to this point, hung on to his resolve to not risk picking up a disease, and when Mia says“You wanna put it in me now?”he can, his mouth parched with desire, shake his head no.

The other woman he hires to arouse and release him is anAfricanAmerican calling herselfAnyuh—she has given him an engraved business card with her name and cell phone number, which he daringly keeps in his wallet.Anyuh—buxom, large-hipped, with a little girlie laugh, big smutty eyes, and long peach fingernails—also costs $150 for a massage and a hand job and twice that for real sex.At those prices, most ofher clients are white.What this means is that she treats Hampton with an excess of familiarity that he finds off-putting;he does not want to be her one black client, her brotherly confidant, with whom she prattles on about her fi-nancial woes.Anyuh makes no attempt at coquetry, eschewing seduction for yawns and cabbagey little burps;while she works over his body, she places her cell phone right next to his pillow, where it continually chirps right into his ear as other clients pursue her far into the night.

He knows Mia’s number by heart and he dials it quickly.Her voice on the phone sounds sad, a bit bronchial, but he chooses to ignore that and feels somehow that things are suddenly going his way when she says she can be over in twenty minutes.

Mia is never early for their appointments and the rainstorm will probably make her even later than usual.Nevertheless, Hampton hurries to prepare himself for her.He goes into his bedroom and as he strips offhis dark-gray suit, his white shirt and striped tie, he also removes the framed photographs ofIris and Nelson from his bedside table, puts them in the closet, along with his clothes.Naked, he sits on the side ofthe modest double bed—the bed that he and Iris first made love in.A vision ofIris in this very bed—on her hands and knees, looking back at him over her shoulder.Oh, the pain ofthat.

From where he sits he can see himself in the wall mirror.He sits up straighter, sucks in what little gut he has, regards himself with some entirely personal mixture ofadmiration and disgust.He lifts his arm, smells himself.

The workday leaves him acrid.He walks quickly into the bathroom, turns on the shower, makes it as hot as he can bear.When Mia arrives, he wants her to smell only the peppermint-scented antibacterial soap, the honey and almond shampoo.He opens his mouth, lets the steaming water rush in.It occurs to him for a moment that he is drowning himself;he turns his back to the shower, bends slightly, purifying his anus.The thought that Mia might pick up a whiffofsomething offensive while she works him over is intolerable.

Kate sits in Ruby’s room, listening to her red radio.It amazes her that there are stations playing music, it seems unforgivable, like Nero’s fiddling.With increasing impatience, she races through the dial, search-ing for news.She wants to be sure there are people out there who know that disaster has struck, who are putting it into some sort ofcon-text.How many people are trapped? How many houses are without electricity? How many roads are closed? She wants numbers.At last, she finds a news reader, a woman with a stainless-steel voice.Kate crouches forward in Ruby’s dark little room, touches the radio as ifit were a friend.

The newscaster is reporting new developments in the O.J.Simpson murder trial, now in its tenth month.Today’s story is not so much about the case as it is about the reporting ofthe case—a reporter from one of the weekly magazines was heard calling Simpson a nigger (news radio said the reporter used“a racial epithet”but everyone knew what that meant) and now the reporter’s employers have weighed in on the sub-ject, releasing a statement to the effect that the writer’s contract with the magazine has been terminated“by mutual consent.”

After a couple more stories and a few noisy advertising spots, the national news switches to the local reports.Now a man, presumably close by, is reading the news.An estimated seventy thousand homes are with-out electricity.All major roadways are closed.County officials have no idea when things will be back to normal.The U.S.Weather Service says there may be as much as another foot ofsnow falling in the next eight hours.There have been eleven fatalities so far.“And in Leyden, there’s a report that the power outage has disabled the security system at a local lockup for wayward boys, Star ofBethlehem.According to Star ofBeth-lehem officials, six ofthe youths have left the facility and are somewhere in the area.”He pauses and then adds,“Wow.”

Kate picks up Ruby’s radio and walks out with it, into the candlelit hall.These candles were Daniel’s purchase, scented ones, and Kate is re-pelledby their smell.She walks through the living room, where one candle burns, and into the kitchen, where she has lit a dozen votive candles.They send their plaintive light through beaded glass holders.

She turns the radio off, preserving the batteries, and sets it on the kitchen table.The temperature in the house is dropping, degree by degree, and in the place ofhomely warmth comes dampness and a growing sense ofdisorder.She wants something to drink, something to warm her.Some-thing nonalcoholic.Tea.The stove is gas, so it doesn’t matter ifthere’s no electricity.She brings the kettle to the faucet, but the water pump runs on electricity and when she turns on the cold water, the pipes bang and only a faint unwholesome drool comes out.

Suddenly, she sees a flicker ofmotion from the corner ofher eye.She turns quickly toward the window.At first all she can see is her own re-flection.But then she sees it again:something wishing not to be seen.

She reaches for the flashlight, shines it through the window, but it throws its own shining face back at her.Kate then opens the window, let-ting precious heat escape, letting in a whoosh ofsnow that sweeps in like the tail ofa comet.Now she shines the flashlight into the blizzard.Noth-ing.Nothing.But then she sees them.Footprints.Cratered into the snow, several pairs, stopping thirty feet from her house.

She feels a fear beyond any she has ever experienced, and she makes it worse by asking herself,What if they come into the house?The problem with the question is the answer—They will rape me.

Her heart pounding, and her stomach, too, like a second, sour heart,

Kate pulls the window closed, locks it.She locks the back door, too, and as she does, she reaches for the phone.She pushes the on button—but there is no dial tone.It’s a cordless phone, it works offelectricity.She needs the phone upstairs in her study, the only old-style phone in the house.She is not certain whom she is about to call.Surely the police have too much on their hands to respond to some woman seven miles outside oftown who is pretty sure she saw some footprints in the snow.Even if she were to tell them she has seen the escaped Star ofBethlehem kids—what would the police do?Whatcanthey do?They can’t drive out in their cars, and even ifthey had helicopters, they couldn’t fly them in this weather.So?Will they all jump onto their crime-buster snowmobiles?

She sweeps the flashlight back and forth as she walks through the house, an oar oflight that rows through the sea ofdarkness.She realizes the only person she can call, the only person she wants to call is Daniel.

Iris will probably answer the phone, and then hand it over to him.As Kate makes her way up the steps, there is a nerve-shattering death ofa maple tree not fifty feet from the house, a noble old tree that seems ac-tually to scream as it falls, as ifits pulp were flesh.Kate hollers in fear—not that high, blood-curdling scream ofthe horror show damsel in distress, but the wavering, angry, monotone cry ofreal fear.She drops her flashlight, it rolls down the staircase, turning the house end over end until the flashlight hits the bottom and goes dark.

Kate is still making noise—a soft, stunned“oh-oh-oh.”And then she gathers herselfand shouts out,“Daniel!”She grips the banister, turns around.She wants to retrieve the flashlight.But no.Why walk back into that darkness?There are candles burning upstairs and the phone is there, too.She turns around again, stops.She remembers she still has not locked the front door, and so once again she turns around.She is turn-ing around and around.And in the midst ofall that turning she realizes that she is wet and clammy and there is a smell ofurine in the air.Fuck-ing tree.Fucking snow.Fucking gang bangers out there staring at her windows.Fucking Daniel, so far out there, so far away from her.

She clutches at her stomach, presses her hand against the wall to stop herselffrom tumbling down the stairs.She sits, feels along the side ofher pants.Just a little dampness, not so bad.Her underwear, however, is soaked.Okay, that settles it.Upstairs, for a change ofclothes.She starts to rise, but then sits again;there’s still the matter ofthat unlocked front door.

She cannot get up because she cannot decide ifit would be better to con-tinue upstairs or hurry downstairs, and the more she thinks, the more un-likely it seems that she will ever be able to make up her mind.She closes her eyes.The darkness within makes the darkness ofthe house seem like an ice cream parlor.She reaches up, grips the banister, pulls herselfup.She sways, and with every bit ofher will she forces a decision.She turns around and heads upstairs, where there are clean clothes and a working phone.

By the time she reaches the top ofthe stairs she hears the urgent knocking at her door.She knows it’s them, the boys, the boys with noth-ing to lose.All she can think to do is pretend she does not hear it.

The bedroom has always been the coldest room in the house.She opens her dresser drawer, her undergarments feel cold and slippery in her hand.Then she finds a pair ofjeans in the closet.She sits on the edge ofthe bed, undressing, dressing again, and through the noise ofthe storm she hears the pounding ofthe boys’fists against the front door.All she can think ofby way ofstrategy is that ifshe ignores them they will eventually go away.

Dressed, dry, but still cold, she waits for the boys to give up.She places a votive candle on the bedspread and then holds her hands above it, warming her palms over the tiny flame.She holds her breath so that the sound ofher respiration won’t interfere with her trying to hear ifthe boys are still trying to get in.She hears nothing but the wind and the tor-tured groaning oftrees, their canopies filled with ice and snow, any one ofthem liable to snap in two.Yet beneath the sounds ofthe storm, she can make out the urgent knocking ofthe boys’fists against her heavy front door.Gun gun gun.And then, suddenly, the knocking stops.

Kate pulls the phone offher bedside table and sits with it on her lap, her hand on the receiver.Ifshe hears footsteps in the house, she will call the police.But she doesn’t hear footsteps, she doesn’t hear anything—all she has is asensethat those boys have found their way into her house.

She cannot sit there wondering.She goes down the stairs to see, and when she is halfway between the first and second floor landings she stops.Fresh snow is swirling in the foyer and still more is blowing in.

As quietly as she can, Kate backs up the stairs, and when she is at the top ofthe landing she turns and walks quickly to her bedroom.There is no lock on the door;she swats a pile offolded laundry offan upholstered chair, drags the chair across the room, and jams it beneath the porcelain door handle.Then she blows out the votive candle and the freestanding candle on the marble-topped dresser and the room slips into darkness.

She sits on the end ofthe bed, folds her hands onto her lap, and breathes as quietly as she can.She feels absolutely and without question that her life hangs now in the balance, that one stupid move, haste, panic, impatience, curiosity, anything but the most profound and disciplined stillness will lead to her death.Her fear—no longer relevant, no longer useful—seems to have been superseded by an exquisite clarity.

The fear remains in abeyance, even as she feels someone coming up the stairs.It is part ofthe house’s idiosyncrasy that a footstep on the fifth stair vibrates along the master-bedroom floor.At night, she could always hear Daniel’s gloomy trudge upstairs, and by day she could hear Ruby coming up to rouse her.That creaky step, and its harmonic convergence with the house’s inner bone structure, is her distant early warning sys-tem;normally, it cues her to feign sleep, to pull the covers up over her chin, maybe place a pillow over her head.But tonight, all she can do is hold her breath.

The footsteps are in the hall, heading in her direction.

She cannot think ofwhat to ask God.Asking for protection is like asking for a pair ofskates.Ifhe doesn’t want you to die, then you’re not going to die.Ifhe does, you’re certainly not going to talk him out ofit at the last second.You don’t pray for your safety, you don’t pray for a home run, you don’t pray that your next book is a Book ofthe Month Club selection.The only plausible prayer is for serenity ofmind, for faith and acceptance, and Kate finds she has these things right now.

The footsteps stop before they reach the bedroom door.She hears another door close.Where did he go?The bathroom?

Silence.She counts it out to herselfto keep from losing her mind, the numbers create a kind ofpathway, bread crumbs in the forest.When she gets to thirty, she hears a voice shouting from the downstairs.It’s the voice ofa young man, someone she’d describe as obviously black.There is a foghorn quality to his voice, something to be heard over constant noise.

“Come on, Kenny, let’s go.”

“Lemme alone,”a voice answers from the bathroom.Kenny.His voice is sharp, high, full ofcomplaint.

“What are you doin’up there?”

“Taking a shit.”

“Come on.Someone’s gonna come in and find us here.”

“I’m not shitting outside.”

Kate leans back and gropes for the telephone in the darkness.She is not just going to sit here like some poor animal in a trap.She picks the receiver up, pressing her thumb onto the earpiece so that the hum ofthe dial tone won’t carry.

She dials911and waits for one ofthe emergency police operators to pickup, onering, tworings, three…

“Hey, Cyril,”another voice is saying downstairs,“there’s a bathroom by the kitchen.”This kid pronounces it“baff-room,”just the way Kate’s father did when he did his imitation ofhis one black patient who always said,“I still wishin’I could go to the baff-room mo’.”That he might use the bathroom in Dr.Ellis’s office was a subject ofjoke-camouflaged anx-iety—“lock da baff-room,”and“git some bleach fo’da baff-room”were typical ofthe remarks Kate’s father made.

Her call to911has yet to be answered.How many rings has it been?

Fifteen?Twenty? Fucking hell, what is wrong with those people?

The husky-voiced boy calls up again.“This place is fucked.It’s darker in here than outside.We’re leaving!”

And not a moment after he says this, the maple tree that stands in front ofthe house, the proud, gnarled, forty-foot tree that as much as any other thing made Kate want to buy this house, suddenly cracks in two from the weight ofthe snow.The crown ofthe tree hits the roof, im-mediately tearing down the gutters;branches, halffrozen, covered in snow, thrust themselves like monstrous arms through the windows on the east side ofthe house.One long branch smashes through the bed-room window;the branches at the end are cold and thin and they brush roughly against Kate’s face.Wind and snow rush in.

Kate falls offthe bed, onto her side, and rolls over on her stomach, covering her face.She uses her elbows and knees to push herselfbeneath the bed.And while she is there—hiding—she hears the boys leaving her house, screaming crazily, halfin terror, halfin excitement.

Daniel stands next to Iris in the guest bedroom, holding a flashlight for her while she makes up the sofa bed.

“You don’t have to do this,”he finally says.“I’m perfectly capable of making a bed.”He nervously continues.“In fact, I used to make beds for a living.In college, or in the summers, actually, two years running I worked in a hotel in Delaware.I was a chambermaid.”

“You were?”

“Or a chamberman, or maybe a chamber pot.I made beds, that’s all I know.”

“You can make the bed when I’m snowed in at your house,”she says.

She speaks softly, as ifcalming an excited animal.

And then, because he cannot let anything stand with her, nothing is enough, he says,“We’re not really snowed in, we’retreedin.”

But she doesn’t volley back, she ends the exchange with a smile, brief, insubstantial, that could be weighed but wouldn’t register on any scale.She finishes her work.She has strong, useful hands;she smoothes her palm over the sheet and every wrinkle disappears.

“I don’t even know what time it is,”Daniel says.He tilts the flashlight beam toward his watch;a circle ofbright golden light appears on hiswrist.

“It’s too cold to stay awake,”she says.“Anyhow, when Nelson goes to sleep, as far as I’m concerned the night’s over.”

As best as he can make out, the sheets she has placed on his bed are dark blue.Surely, as in most households, these sheets have traveled from bed to bed, surely, then, Iris and Hampton have lain upon them in their own bedroom down the hall.He imagines Iris and Hampton on those sheets, their beautiful dark skin on the deep evening blue.

Iris steps back from the sofa bed and lays two fingers on Daniel’s wrist.The tenderness ofthis gesture overwhelms him, it is as ifshe has kissed him.But all she is doing is redirecting the beam ofthe flashlight.

She points it at the closet, where she finds extra blankets.“You’re going to be nice and cozy,”she says, dropping the blankets at the foot ofthe bed, and the proclamation, delivered in a throaty, good-natured voice, devastates him.He takes her to mean:Stay in your own bed.Don’t come creeping into my room.You are here, these are your blankets and stay be-neath them, be a good boy, nice doggie, stay.

“Do you have enough blankets in your room?”Daniel asks, bleating it, as ifasking for mercy.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

There are so many possibilities for speech or action;he could take her wrist, he could pull her toward him, he could say,“No, I want to sleep with you,”he could sigh, he could say,“I think we both know what’s going on here,”he could play it cool and just say good night, he could place his hand over his heart, he could—somehow this, too, seems possible—burst into tears, yes, yes, he could try to boo-hoo her into bed.It’s been done, what hasn’t happened in the history ofseduction? But finally Daniel can do nothing.He watches her as she moves toward the door.Then, a miracle.The bingo parlor ofhis mind comes up with a clear thought.

“I’ll light your way,”he says.

”Okay,”she says.“You can be like a watchman, those guys who carried a lantern and saw people home.”

“Useful work,”Daniel says, with a kind ofmanic encouragement in his voice, one that borders on hysteria, and then to himself:Shut the fuck up.

He points the beam up and the light bounces offthe ceiling and casts a pale gray glow.He walks behind her;her silhouette has put him into a kind offugue state.

They have arrived at their destination:the master bedroom.He waits at the threshold, shining the light into the bedroom while Iris goes to the night table, opens a drawer, finds a book ofmatches, and lights a bedside candle.

He can no longer wait there for the impossible to occur.She is not going to ask him to lie with her in that bed.In fact, the quality ofher si-lence now is pushing him away.She seems to have regained her balance.

The drug ofthe storm is wearing off, she is coming to.

“Why don’t I leave this flashlight with you,”he says.

”It’s okay.I’ve got one in here.”

He forces himself to smile, not certain she can see his face.“Sleep well, Iris.”

Here he is, standing practically in her bedroom, saying good night to her.It’s enough,he tells himself.He’s saidSleep well, Iris,he’s always wanted to say that.

But lying in that sofa bed, pinioned by the cold and the darkness, he finds that the miracle ofsaying good night to Iris isnotenough.Desire blooms in the darkness, he is choking on its scent.He is tormented by her nearness—how can he be letting this chance go by? He tries to force himself to sleep, but sleep gets further from him the more desperately he pursues it.Sleep has never eluded him as maddeningly since the months directly preceding his fall down the stairs, an assault that left him with a whole new vocabulary ofpain—searing, metallic, throbbing, dizzying, freezing, burning, electric—and an enduring dependence on painkillers.Percocet and Lortab didn’t really kill the pain, or signifi-cantly lessen it, but seemed to create a little chemical pavilion within his consciousness, a semipleasant place to which he could retreat and let the pain go on without him.It had not taken him long to increase his con-sumption from four pills a day to sixteen, and the number could have in-creased from there had he not, in a burst ofself-preservation, stopped taking them altogether, leaving his body not only without its customary supply ofsynthetic endorphins but unable to recall how to make its own, as ifthe supply ofopiates had lulled his body into a state ofmetabolic amnesia.At first, parts ofhis body that were not even injured began to throb and ache;he felt as ifhe had been dragged out ofsome weightless chamber and condemned to suffer the agonies ofgravity.Then the wrist, the jaw, the ankles, the back—which never really got better—and throughout it all he was unable to sleep.

Which brought him to a couple ofmonths ofnightly sleeping pills and which bring him right now to remembering that Iris has sleeping pills, though ofthe over-the-counter variety.Daniel slips out ofbed, steps through the darkness ofthe guest bedroom, and his foot lands on something furry and alive.He jumps back, frightened.He hears a low groan, and he turns on the flashlight.Scarecrow.She has been curled next to him all this time.She rubs against his legs, and when he bends to pat her she wiggles her hindquarters.

He finds his way to the bathroom.It’s small.Cold.White-walled, tiled, strictly utilitarian.Tub, toilet, sink.He is as careful and quiet as possible.To the right ofthe sink is one ofthose novelty gift mirrors meant to look like the cover ofTimemagazine, with the wordsHAMPTON WELLESMANOFTHEYEARembossed on the glass.To the left ofthe sink, a toothbrush holder affixed to the wall, with two brushes in it.A large and a small.He pulls out the one that is clearly Iris’s.It has a zebra-striped handle, pigeon-pink rubber gum massager at the end, unusually full head ofbristles.He touches it against his lips.

Daniel props the flashlight onto the side ofthe sink and opens the medicine chest.Hampton’s shaving gear, four different kinds ofchil-dren’s cough medicine, liquid aspirin.Sominex.He pries offthe cap, only to find the foil safety seal still intact.He peels it back without really considering the audacity ofwhat he is doing.He shakes two tablets out and then realizes he must take them without water.Fine, whatever.

Just then, the ring ofa telephone.He switches offthe flashlight, holds his breath, as ifhe were not an overnight guest making a trip to the john but a thiefabout to be discovered.A second ring.And then he hears Iris’s voice.

“Hello?”

Daniel grips the edge ofthe sink for stability.

”I was asleep,”Iris says.

In the darkness and stillness ofthe house, her voice is everywhere, it is close, it is right next to him.“You know more about it than I do and I’m right here,”Iris says.And then, a little later, she says,“Okay, ifthe power’s still not on, we’ll get to the train station and come and stay with you down there.”And then, finally,“Me too, bye.”

Daniel knows what“me too”means.

Iris hangs the phone up and a moment later Daniel sees the glow from her flashlight as she comes out ofher bedroom and down the hall.

Her footsteps are silent;the only way he can gauge her approach is by the brightening ofthe light.Should he pretend he was having a pee, quickly stand over the toilet? But what about the door—how can he be doing that with the door wide open? He could be washing his hands—but what sort oflunatic would be washing his hands in the middle ofthe night? Not to mention there is no electricity, no pump, no water.

Iris walks into the bathroom and captures him in the beam ofher flashlight.She is wearing sweatpants and a turtleneck sweater, slipper socks, and a brightly colored Egyptian cap.“Are you all right?”she says.

She reaches down to ruffle her fingers through the fur on top ofScare-crow’s upturned head.

“Yes.I’m fine,”Daniel says.

”I heard you in here,”she says.

”I’m okay.”

“I was going to check on the kids,”she says.A little exhaust comes out ofher mouth as she speaks.

He steps into the corridor and they walk to Nelson’s room.Daniel turns offhis flashlight, relying on hers.He is right behind her, with the dog at his side.The dog loves him, he feels this working in his favor.

Iris stops short, forcing contact.They collide softly, his toes on her heel, his chest against her shoulder blades.

She doesn’t so much step back as shift her weight slightly toward him, increasing the contact.Contact displaces the still water between them, and in the splash ofit intimacy rises in the wake.

Daniel lowers his forehead so it touches the back ofher head.They are still.He breathes her in.She notches backward.His lips find her nape.She lifts her chin, exhales.He wraps his arms around her.

They have crossed a line, but it seems to him they have not ventured too far, not yet, they can still go back, no one will be the wiser.

Iris takes a step forward and Daniel releases her.They go to Nelson’s room.Nelson is in the upper bunk;he has flung offthe covers, his legs stick out over the side ofthe mattress.Ruby is on the bottom, a slowly dimming flashlight poking from the bedclothes and casting upon her sleeping face a cold white light, like the shine ofa dying moon.

“I want to tell you something,”Iris says, barely whispering.It’s as if she is willing to wake the children.

“Let’s go,”Daniel says, pulling softly on her.“We don’t want to wakethem.”

In the hallway, she pulls the door to Nelson’s room three-quarters closed.“They’re really sleeping deeply,”she says.“They’re so cold, the poor babies.”

“Ruby always sleeps soundly.”

“I can’t sleep at all,”she says.“I never can.I doze, I go in and out.I think sleep is too much ofa commitment for me.”She laughs.

“Maybe you have too much on your mind,”he says.Is that it?She is suddenly exotic to him, opaque and unknown.No, that’s not it.He just doesn’tgether, he lacks that little snap ofinstant understanding.He must concentrate, she is something he mustworkat.

Daniel remains silent.It is like sitting quietly in the woods, things come to you, the life ofthe forest forgets about you and resumes.After a few moments, his silence draws her out, she comes softly to the edge ofit like a deer.

“I’m going to tell you the truth right now,”she says.

She sees alarm in his eyes and she places a comforting hand on the side ofhis face.

“I’m not going to say anythingbad.”

“Okay.”

She is puzzled, she tilts her head, regards this strange creature.

”When I first saw you,”Iris says,“I liked you so much.I mean right away.It was a very strange experience.You seemed perfect.”

“That’s me, all right.”

“I’m serious.It was sort offrightening.First ofall, you were taken and so was I.”

She’s talking about it in the past tense,thinks Daniel.As if now we were free.

”And second, I mean the thing that was even more frightening was sensing that ifwe were to get together and something happened, ifyou turned out not to even like me, or ifyou took advantage ofme, I would never recover from it.I just knew from the start it would be fatal.”

“I would never hurtyou,”he says.He hears his voice in the strange dead air ofthat house.

“You wouldn’t mean to,”she says.She moves her hand away from him, but he catches her, presses his lips against her palm.The kiss goes to the pit ofher stomach.

Ruby awakens.Their voices have found her in her sleep, carried her toward them.She calls for Daniel, her voice dry, cracked, and low.

Daniel goes back into the children’s bedroom, sits on the edge ofher bed.He feels something poking at him, at his ear, the side ofhis head.He realizes it’s Nelson’s foot, waving back and forth, though Nelson is still asleep.

“Are you all right?”Daniel whispers to Ruby.

”Yes,”she says.“I have to go to the bathroom.”She raises her arms, as ifit’s a matter ofcourse that he will lift her, carry her.

When Ruby is finished, Daniel carries her back to Nelson’s bedroom.

Daniel carefully places Ruby onto the bed, she is practically asleep, but somehow the touch ofthe cold pillow awakens her.Her eyes are sud-denly large, curious.

“We’re staying here all night.Right?”

“That’s right, Monkey,”he says.

She is silent.A minute passes;he imagines her asleep.But then her cold fingers come to rest on the top ofhis hand.“I love you the most of everyone,”she says.

Daniel lies next to her, and Iris cannot sleep.Her thoughts skip like stones over water.Nelson, the storm, a Japanese maple her father planted in their front yard, which she was always convinced irritated the white neighbors with its unseasonable purple leaves…Irishas never been able to fall asleep next to someone with whom she was in bed for the first time;choosing someone always meant giving up a night’s sleep.

Making love as a teenager was easier—she had to end up in her own bed, alone, and she could sink into sleep as ifit were a kind ofinnocence.

Even in college—and why why why did she allow her parents to talk her into attending Spelman, more than ninety percent black, a hundred per-cent female, a vast poaching ground for the men ofMorehouse, brother-sister schools conceived, it seemed, for conception—even at college she developed a small reputation as the girl who always had to end up in her own safe little bed, the girl who says she has to get home because her teddy bear misses her.

It’s been years since she has slept with anyone but Hampton.She has a moment ofintense pining for him as ifhe were oceans away, irretrievable, dead.She misses the ease and comfort ofbeing with a man who has seen her body week after week, year after year, and who is, as far as she can tell, blind to its small deteriorations.It has all happened gradually, and he has failed to notice.Hampton’s criticisms ofher are intellectual, spiritual, practical;he is more distressed by her forgetfulness than by her having grown older.He would rather her finish her doctorate—or junk it—than get a boob job.Even when it seems to her that Hampton holds her in con-tempt, his voraciousness for her body seldom varies.I love your body,he has said over and over, so many times and with such suddenness and dis-regard for her mood ofthe moment or what has been passing between them that she has come to find it an affront.It’s all he seems to praise, his entire celebration ofher is confined to that simple statement.He does not sayI need your adviceand he doesn’t sayYou fascinate me,he surely doesn’t ask her what is on her mind.He has little interest in her thoughts and sometimes she can barely blame him.But ifher life is a little dull, then she sees no reason why that must be held against her, this life and her role in it is, after all, something they both made, it’s a joint project.And when she has the emotional energy to refuse to be silenced, to speak up no matter what, she can see himpretendingto pay attention, while it is heart-freezingly, face-slappingly clear that his thoughts are elsewhere.

And after so disrespecting her, for him to look up and say how beautiful she is, how fucking hot she makes him:he may as well be saying,Too bad you’re not operating on my level.Too bad you’re an idiot.

Daniel seems to want to know everything about her.It’s his nature, there is nothing he can do about it.He will want to know ifshe has ever been unfaithful to Hampton before, and ifshe tells him she has, then it’s her guess that he will eventually want to know with whom, when, where, the reasons, and the results, and even ifshe says no, he will ask why not.

He will ask her what she dreams, how the day was spent, what she had for lunch, where she buys her clothes, the names ofher relatives, the route she takes from her house to school.He will devour her with love bites, he will lick the surface ofher as ifshe were a scoop ofice cream until she gets smaller and smaller, until she disappears.

Iris reaches over Daniel’s sprawled body, with its deep sonorous buzz and smell ofsleep, and she gropes for the flashlight on the night table.But it’s been knocked over in the commotion, it has tumbled onto the carpet, rolled onto the bare floor.She finally finds it, halfway under the bed.She hurries back to the nest ofquilts and blankets, willing to awaken Daniel with the bounce ofthe mattress, but he sleeps through it all.

She switches on the flashlight.She puts her hand over its broad face to cut down on the silvery glare, and she points the beam oflight at Daniel to inspect what she can see ofhis naked body.

The most puzzling thing is that he is naked at all.She wonders at the thermodynamics ofthis, how such white skin, which she imagines to be porous, diaphanous, and through which would pass all heat and light, how such pigmentless tissue could conceivably hold enough heat to al-low him to sleep.

She moves the beam closer to him.A circle oflight illuminates his chest.A sleek dark wave ofhair rushes between his pectoral muscles.

That ivory-white skin and that dark body hair.She stares at it, struck at how barbaric it looks.It makes her think ofthe stooped figures in school-books, emigrating across ancient tundra two steps ahead ofthe glaciers.

How strange that whites ever compared black folk with apes, when it’s the whites who are covered in hair.Once, in college, Iris had entertained the idea of becoming a doctor;the notion—like so many ofher inspired plans—had a short life span:byApril she was bored with it, and by the end ofthe semester she could barely pass her finals.Still, she remembers:the der-mis, the epidermis, subcutaneous tissue, dermal papilla, adipose tissue, the subpapillary network, and good old Meissner’s corpuscle, the name ofwhich she could never forget and the function ofwhich she could never learn.Back then, she thought ofall the components ofhuman skin that are absolutely identical forAfricans, Japanese, Europeans, and how we are all so similar beneath those topmost layers.But now, in bed with a Caucasian for the first time in her life, what strikes her is the differ-ence, stranger and more unsettling than she would have expected.She rubs her fingertip across an inch or two ofDaniel’s skin, along the shoul-der where the skin is bare, and cool to the touch, with little bumps, a kind ofcottony grit.Without entirely meaning to, she slips a finger un-der his arm, feels the long silky hair, startling in its angora softness.A film ofperspiration is on her fingertip now, she rubs it against her thumb, brings it to her nose, finds Daniel’s smell within the bitterness of failed deodorant like the meat ofa pecan surrounded by its broken shell.

She places her hand over the face ofthe flashlight more tightly so only a faint light escapes as she points it toward his face.His bushy brows, his long, somehow unsturdy-looking nose, his thin lips, the dark growth of whiskers on his chin, as ifsomeone had rubbed iron filings onto his jaw.

His hair rises in clumps in different directions.He looks slightly mad, pleasantly ruined.

She had been thinking about him in this way for months.How had it begun?What first drew her? She cannot remember.The quality ofhis at-tention as he listened to her?The gentle seriousness, the way an angel would hear you, not necessarily able to grant your wishes but able to know exactly why you’ve made them.Talking to him was like running a handful ofriverbed stones through one ofthose tumblers, the kind that turn pebbles into shining things, almost jewels.

Her first time in bed with a white man.How the sweat poured offhim, how he whimpered, how the breath broke in his throat like something frozen that’s been stepped on, the copious, almost surreal amounts ofsemen that came out ofhim, the tireless frenzy ofhis fucks, his eyes staring at her, memorizing her, conquering her and surrendering at the same time.

Iris lifts the blanket and shines the flashlight further down Daniel’s body.Am I really going to do this?But she doesn’t stop herself, lets the light settle on his penis.Who was it who referred to every white man’s penis as Pete Rose?Was that her father? No, impossible that something so naughty would come out ofhis pursed, prim mouth, a man who said sug-arplums instead ofshit.Her brothers? But they were so courtly around her—more dedicated than her parents to the exhausting, irritating proj-ect ofkeeping her the baby ofthe family.Yet someone had said it, and whenever she sees a picture ofPete Rose, with his schoolboy haircut and theWho Me? expression on his face, she invariably thinks:dick.Yet here, at last, is an actual white man’s penis and she stares at it, flaccid and pink, looking so unprotected, vulnerable, raw, and unsheathed, like something that belongs inside the body, its own body, that is, something you are not meant to see.Like the real Pete Rose, this particular member does not seem as ifhe’s going to make it into the Hall ofFame.

Yet he has pleased her, Pete Rose or not Pete Rose.He slipped in, and somehow the gentleness ofthe entrance, the unassuming, gracious, perfect guest aspect ofhis sexual presence caused in her an explosion ofpleasure.

Suddenly, she remembers who calls the white penis Pete Rose.Hampton.

The thought ofhim creates a guilty nausea in her:he must never know.

But what was Hampton doing talking about Caucasian sex organs? She can’t remember.Surely some rant, some long riffofdisparagement.Hamp-ton, materially so well-off, so light complexioned, so privileged, seethes against the white world as ifhe were particularly oppressed, as ifthe indig-nities visited upon him had some greater resonance because they were hap-pening to a man ofhis high quality.Even the gross misdeeds committed against less fortunate folk—the jailings, the beatings—were assaults against him, who perceived them so starkly and felt them so keenly.And so he feeds this disdain for whites into the furnace ofhimself, as ifwithout it he would cease to be fully alive.His sense ofwhite people is full ofthe feelings ofin-justice—how easy life is for them, how their power contradicts Darwin, for surely they are not the fittest—but without any great passion for justice: Hampton admires white hegemony, envies it, and he wishes it were the other way around, he wishes that the privileges were all his, and that to be born into a black family, a special black family, that is, one like his, would be-stow on you the kind ofbirthright that the spoiled white brats took for granted.Inasmuch as possible, Hampton has chosen to live in that sort of world.The people he likes to be around, the people he does business with, drinks with, jogs around the Central Park reservoir with, areAfrican-American strivers like himself, who feel all the proper respect for Hamp-ton’s pedigree—a lineage ofaccomplishment and gentility that no white person would even recognize, with fortunes based on such peculiarly Negro enterprises, such as cosmetics for dark-skinned women, Cadillac dealer-ships, weekly newspapers servicing the folks in Newark and the South Side ofChicago, radio stations at the back end ofthe dial.Wherever Hampton travels, from D.C.to Boston to Detroit to San Francisco, there are people like him, more than willing to pay their respects not only to Hampton but to his lineage, because to celebrate what it means to be aWelles, they also af-firm the importance oftheir own family names, the majesty oftheir schools and clubs and summer resorts.They bow to one another as a way ofgenu-flecting to themselves;they kiss each other like smooching with a mirror.

Daniel murmurs something in his sleep, and Iris clicks offthe flashlight.

She lies back in bed, rearranges her pillows, and recalls with a kind of thrilled griefthe sounds he made while they were making love, the pigeon warble ofmounting excitement, the sweet undefended cry ofsurrender.

The night has ended, the snow has finally stopped.Vast mountain ranges of vapor have been heaved up by the storm, but between the clouds and the horizon colors appear—pale blue, slate gray, and yellow.Inside the house it is light enough to read, light enough to lift yourselfup on your elbows and look around the room and see the scatter ofclothing on the floor.

Their noses are cold, their foreheads, their feet, the tips oftheir fingers.The furnace is still dead, the digital clocks are black.

“Good morning,”Daniel says.“Did you even sleep for one second?”

“I’m not much ofa sleeper anyhow,”she says.

”I don’t think I slept, it was more like passing out.”

“It seemed,”she says.

”Did I snore?”

She shakes her head no.

”So, let me ask you,”he says.He presses himself against her.“Has the myth ofCaucasian sexual prowess been put into clearer perspective?”

“Yes,”she says.“It has.”

Daniel’s smile slowly fades.He looks, in fact, unnerved.A little crack ofcold air opens up between them as he shrinks back from her.

“You were wonderful,”Iris says.“Youarewonderful.I can’t tell you how impressed I am.Seriously.Did your parents send you to sex camp?”

“Sex camp?”

“Don’t white folks have all these different camps for their kids—

baseball camp, weight loss camp, computer camp.”

He rolls next to her, gathering her closer.He is powerless not to.He has waited too long to lie next to her, he has yet to get his fill.

“I’m sore,”she says, removing his hand.

”You are?”he says, smiling.

”Aren’t you?”

It dawns on him.He reaches behind him, feels the small ofhis back.

“My back doesn’t hurt, which is a sort ofClass B miracle.As for Mr.

Johnson, he’s been waiting for this his whole life.”

She laughs, though she doesn’t find it all that funny—what amuses her is his intention to amuse her.

She places her hands on Daniel’s shoulder, as ifto give him a little shove.But the feel ofhis flesh fascinates her, derails her impulse to rough him up a little.She squeezes his arm and then kisses his shoulder, touches her tongue against his skin—he tastes like a wooden countertop upon which someone has not quite cleaned up a spill ofmolasses.

He wants to make declarations.He wants to tell her how long he has dreamed oflying next to her, and he wants to tell her how the reality of actually being with her has exceeded his most fervid imaginings—but he has already said these things.He has discovered little imperfections in her body—brackish breath as she grew tired, a kind ofabdominal fullness that suggests one day she will have a belly—but, ofcourse, in the state he is in, these things have only made her more desirable:they have made her real, they have made herhis.He wants to tell her she is beautiful, but how many times can you say that in twelve hours without it becoming suspect?Yet, he must declare something.Is he, for instance, meant to go home now and pretend none ofthis has happened?

She seems to have gotten there before him.She looks at him with great seriousness and says,“Say something to me.Tell me what I want to hear.”

His first instinct is to declare his love, but something tells him not to.

”I’ll tell you this,”he says.“I’m not going to crowd you.I know your life is complicated.”

“It is,”she says softly.

”More than mine.IfI lost everything, it wouldn’t be that much.I’m not married.I don’t have a kid.”

“You have Ruby.”

“She’s not really mine.”

“Yes she is, the way you love her.And ifanything happened, you might never see her again.That would be so terrible.”

“It’s not like you.You have a good life.You have your son, school, your life, everything.I don’t want to be a problem.”

“So what do you think ofme?What do you think ofa woman who’d fuck some guy in her husband’s bed?”

“I don’t know.Maybe she should be taken out and stoned to death in front ofa vast crowd.”

He smiles to let her know he’s kidding, but she doesn’t find it funny, and the timing irritates her.

“Well, nobody needs to know, do they,”she says.

”What are we supposed to do?”he asks.

”You think I’m going to change my whole life because you slept in this bed last night?”she says.Her voice is a little sharp, which she regrets.

But, really.

“Yes, I think I do,”he says.“I’m sorry.I’m going to figure out a better way to feel.And in the meanwhile, I promise to behave.”

She makes a silencing gesture.She thinks she hears something, a noise from down the hall.

“Nobody’s awake yet,”Daniel says.

She listens again.He’s right;the house is silent.She hears the distant whine ofa snowmobile, powering through the white enameled stillness ofthe world like a dentist’s drill.She kisses him.

“You’d better go back to the guest room,”Iris says.“Nelson could walk in here any second.”

“All right.”He leans out ofthe bed, as ifout ofa life raft, reaching down for what is left ofthe night’s wreckage—his shirt, his underwear, his pants.

She feels a sudden gust ofdesperation at the sight ofhim beginning to leave.What ifthis never can happen again? He looks at her over his shoulder as he gets out ofbed.His reddish, slightly wrinkled little be-hind.She dives across the bed, grabs his hips, he makes it easy for her to pull him back into bed.When they have stopped rolling around, he has ended up below her, his head between her legs, his mouth kissing her opening as ifthey were the lips on her face.At this point, it is barely ex-citing, it’s comforting, it feels warm and kind and devoted.

Footsteps.Have they been getting closer all the while? In a panic, Iris lifts herselfup and twists away from Daniel.Her pubic bone bangs against his teeth.He looks bewildered, but she doesn’t have to tell him to get up, he knows what’s happening.There is apat pat patoffootsteps getting closer.He rolls out ofbed, grabs the clothes he gathered minutes before, makes a vain attempt to cover himself.Iris pulls the covers up to her chin.

It’s Scarecrow.The old dog waddles in, head cocked, her long lilac tongue out, a good-natured glint in her blue eyes.

“Thank you, Jesus!”Daniel says.

They are so relieved, they share the hysterical laughter ofthe near miss.Iris does something she hasn’t done since she was a little girl:she covers her mouth while she laughs her gummy laugh.And Daniel pre-tends to have a heart attack, grabbing his chest, staggering, falling back into the bed.Iris strokes his long, soft hair.She leans over, kisses the taste ofherselfoffhis mouth.

Nelson’s footsteps are softer than the dog’s.He is right next to the bed before they notice him.

“I’m cold,”he says, staring intently at Daniel.

[8]

Hampton was still pinching black powder out of his back pocket, rubbing it be-tween his thumb and forefinger.His fingers were long, poetic;you could imagine him playing piano, stroking a sleeping cat, caressing a woman.He tossed the powder into the darkness, as if scattering ashes after a cremation.Then he raked a handful of dead leaves off of a wild cherry tree, one that was still standing, and used them to wipe his hands.“I used to make Iris laugh all the time.”

“I used to make Kate laugh, too,”said Daniel.He said it because he had to say

something.He couldn’t simply let Hampton go on about Iris and not say any-thing in reply.It would be too strange, and it would be suspicious, too.However, what he said was true, meant.“First couple of years, I had her in hysterics.”

He noticed that Hampton’s shaved head had suffered a scrape.There was a

little red worm of blood on the smooth scalp.

“Kate doesn’t think you’re funny anymore?”

“No, she doesn’t,”Daniel said.

”Iris thinks you’re funny.Maybe you’re funnier around her.”

“Maybe she’s just very kind.”

“Or very lonely.”

Daniel must move quickly now that Nelson has crawled under the covers to be next to Iris;he slips out ofher bedroom and into the hall, where he dresses frantically and with more clumsiness than he thought himself capable of, before going into Nelson’s room and waking Ruby.He shakes her awake.Time to go, sweetie.She nods, accepting the wisdom ofhis edict.She never argues with anything he says.She assumes he knows what is best for her and what is correct.Ifhe serves her peas and corn, she eats peas and corn.Ifhe tucks her in bed, she closes her eyes.Ifhe tells her there are no such things as ghosts, she believes him, she doesn’t even ask him to look in the closet.Daniel dresses her hur-riedly, and then carries her down the stairs and through the door to the stunned, frosted, broken world outside.

His car has been spared.No trees have fallen on it during the night, though there are twigs and branches stuck in the snow on the roofand windshield.Next door, not thirty feet away, a dogwood has snapped in two;its crown rests on the roofofthe house, right next to the chimney.

Ruby stares at it with no small measure ofawe, her eyes open so wide that the whites show above and below her pupils.Daniel gathers her closer, though he, too, stares at the tree, feeling creepy but spared.

No one has yet come out to shovel a sidewalk or clear a driveway, though the snow has finally stopped and the sky is a ridiculously cheer-ful blue.The blanket ofuntouched snow stretches as far as he can see—untouched, that is, except where trees or branches have plunged through the surface.At the far end ofthe block, a long coil ofpower line lies curled into itselflike a snake in a basket, every now and then spitting out a warning venom ofbright-orange sparks.

“We’re going home, honey,”Daniel says.His hands caress her cheeks, smooth as glass.

Though there is no road to drive on, Daniel goes through the motions ofleaving anyhow.Feeling at once drunk and ill with the flu, he brushes the snow offthe front-door handle, yanks the door open, breaking the brittle spun-sugar sheet ofice, slides into the car, and gets the engine started.Ruby climbs into the back and puts herselfinto the child seat, slip-ping the straps over her shoulders.While the engine warms, Daniel clears the windshield and the back window, and then brushes snow and debris off the roof.He gets back into the car and looks at Ruby.Her eyes are swollen with exhaustion, and she is shivering.“You all set?”he asks, and she nods.

He puts the transmission into reverse and guns the motor, hoping to shoot over the hump ofsnow at the end ofIris’s driveway.It doesn’t quite occur to him that ifthe road crew hasn’t cleared Iris’s street right in the center oftown, then there is no possibility ofany ofthe roads being cleared, least ofall the dirt road where he and Kate live, well out oftown.

His car’s back wheels spin uselessly.He puts the transmission into reverse, goes back a foot or two, and then puts it in drive, hoping to free himself by creating a rocking motion, back and forth.Soon, however, the spinning tires are melting the snow beneath their treads, and soon after that there rises the sharp odor ofburning rubber.

“You know what?”Daniel says to Ruby, turning to look at her, smiling, trying to be as casual as possible.“Even ifwe get this stupid car out ofthe driveway, we still might not be able to drive all the way home.

There’s so much snow, honey.”

“What about Mom?”Ruby asks.

”Well, she’s the lucky one, isn’t she? She’s already home.”

“Can’t we go home, too?”

“Don’t worry.We will.”He looks back at Iris’s house and tries to gather the courage to go back in.She is likely tending Nelson’s abused sensibilities, but he has a little girl out in the snow.

Just then, he hears the urgent whine ofa small engine revved to its upper limits, and a moment later an oversized, gaily painted snowmobile careens into view.It’s Ferguson Richmond—airborne for a moment, as he comes over a rise, and then bouncing offthe snowy street, raising up fans ofpure powder.He takes a long, looping turn, and a moment later he pulls into Iris’s driveway.

Daniel looks up at the second story, expecting that curiosity about this noise will have brought Iris to the window, but all he can see is a blaze ofreflected sunlight in the glass.

“EnjoyingArmageddon?”Ferguson asks.“Beats the hell out oflocusts, doesn’t it?”His voice rings out like a blacksmith’s hammer.He wears neither a hat nor a helmet.His thinning hair is soaked, his bushy eyebrows hold little balls ofice.“What are you doing here?”

“Trying to get home,”Daniel says.“What about you?”

“Iamhome,”Ferguson says, with an excited, expansive wave.“And I wanted to see ifthis thing would work.”He pats the snowmobile as ifit were a horse.His hands are so red it looks as ifthe skin has been peeled offthem.“And this Mexican kid who’s doing some tile work for us was going crazy, so I took him over to the trailer park to be with his wife and kids.Since then I’ve just been cruising, surveying the damage.It’s fan-tastic.Worse than I expected.”He smiles broadly.“Want a lift?”

“Can you manage both ofus?”

“We’ll soon find out!”

They set offwith Ruby sandwiched between them.Block after block ofutter stillness and silence.Ferguson makes educated guesses where the turns would be, trying to adhere to what be believes is the road, and then he slows down as they drive through the center oftown.No store is open and no one is on the street, except in front ofthe old brick fire-house, where a dozen volunteers are trying to clear the way, using chain saws and snowblowers.

At the far end oftown, Ferguson cuts through a thirty-acre cornfield, taking a shortcut.The snowmobile hits an unexpected bump in the field.

A splash ofwet snow.The curved tip ofthe skis thrust black against the scrubbed blue sky.Daniel grabs hold ofRuby’s jacket.Up.Up.And then down with a thud.

“Are you okay?”he cries out to her.

She nods nervously, her shoulders hunched, breathing shallowly through her mouth.

I’m putting her in danger,he thinks.Is anything worth putting her in harm’s

way? Or even hurting her feelings?What was I thinking?And poor Nelson.What must it have been like for him to see his mother in bed with a stranger? Poor Iris.

And now he is going back to Kate, whose intelligence he suddenly fears like a loaded gun.They are speeding through a landscape ofruined trees and blinding snow.They come to Chase Farms, where a dozen Holsteins stand in a foot ofsnow, staring at one another, and then at the ground, and then at each other again.They seem puzzled by the sudden disappearance oftheir pasture.Above them, the blue dome ofsky is start-ing to crack away like cheap paint, showing the cement underneath.

“Stop here!”Daniel calls out.Without asking why, Ferguson slows to a stop, and Daniel slides offthe seat, gives Ruby a little squeeze, and then runs into the wrecked and tangled woods opposite Chase Farms.He is sure Ferguson assumes that he is going into the woods to take a pee.As soon as Daniel’s out ofsight, he pulls offhis gloves, then scoops up a large handful ofsnow and presses it to his face, scrubbing back and forth.

He must.Most adulterers have the luxury ofmodern plumbing with which to wash the scent ofsex offbefore they return to their official life.

But Daniel feels he bears the scent ofevery kiss, every secretion, on his hands, his face, his hair.It’s a painful business, washing himself with snow, but his anxiety acts as a partial anesthetic, and when he finishes with his face he grabs still more snow and squeezes it between his hands.

As it happens, Kate is not in a position or a mood to detect the scent ofin-fidelity on Daniel;she is frightened and a little drunk, and when Daniel and Ruby enter the house they find her in a frenzy ofactivity, trying to maintain some sense ofdomesticity in a house without lights, heat, or water.The only household appliance that works is the kitchen stove, which runs on gas that comes from two silver cylinders near the back door, and Kate hovers continually over this stove, cooking everything that would otherwise spoil, grilling the salmon, scrambling the eggs, broiling the chicken, and steaming the vegetables—without tap water, she uses club soda that she allows to go flat in the bottom ofthe pot before turning on the flame.At one point, Kate has something simmering on all six burners oftheir Garland range (inher-ited from the house’s previous owners) and is swigging on a bottle ofver-mouth as well as a bottle ofgin, as ifto mix a martini in her mouth.

When she is not discussing in hair-raising detail last night’s invasion by the Star ofBethlehem boys, Kate’s spirits are darkly manic, her jocularity seems to scan the horizon for likely targets.To Daniel, she says,“This is some romantic, ain’t it?”and pulls his hair, not quite hard enough to be thoroughly aggressive.“I hope you’re hungry,”she announces to the house, singing it out, like some nutty kid imitating an opera singer.“And I hope you like really really shitty cooking.”Though it is cold in the house, she is flushed, little drops ofsweat collect in her facial down.“Come on, Ruby, I’ll play hide-and-seek with you.”And when Ruby declines the in-vitation—the last thing the child wants to do is slip into a closet or slide under a bed in a house filled with darkness and cold, a house that is in-creasingly unnerving to her—Kate doesn’t only look disappointed, she seems offended, as ifshe herselfwere a little girl, a lonely little girl, suf-fering the rejection ofa playmate.

Without electricity, home life is less private than ever.They are cast back to some preindustrial reliance on each other.When the home technolo-gies are up and running, each member ofthe family can be a self-sustaining unit, in a private room with its own source ofheat and light, listening to music on his own set, watching a movie, purchasing dried apricots from Haifa via the Internet.With only the fireplace for heat, the hearth becomes the locus oftheir lives.IfKate takes a candle to light her way to the bathroom, Daniel and Ruby are left in darkness.

Rubyhas to be next to atleast one ofthem, and the constancyofher presence, along with her nervousness and her boredom, begins to wear on Kate.Finally, however, Kate is able to coax Ruby to go upstairs, giv-ing her a candle and convincing her that the little red radio in her room will afford her some entertainment.When Ruby is finally out ofearshot, Kate makes a martini for Daniel and hands it to him with a certain force-fulness that tells him he had better accept it, though, in fact, he would like to remain coldly sober, so as to defend himself ifKate should turn her intelligence against him, and also to continue trying to figure a way he could leave the house, make it back into town, and see Iris.

“You know when I told you about those men coming into the house last night…”

“I thought you said they were boys,”Daniel says.

”They were men,”Kate says.“Maybe some asshole lawyer could argue they were juveniles, but they were thudding around here like a herd ofelephants.”

He wants to sayBy“asshole lawyer”I assume you mean me,but why borrow trouble?

“And ifthey had found me,”Kate is saying,“then I promise you it wouldn’t have been some boyish prank.”

“Well, thank God they didn’t,”Daniel says.He takes another sip of his martini and realizes that he has practically drained the glass.

When Kate veers closer he eases away from her.He is sure that he still reeks oflast night, and then it strikes him that he ought to do some labor, something that might work up an exculpatory sweat.“I’m going to bring in some wood for the fireplace,”he says.She looks at him a little strangely.

The sky is a deep blue, almost purple, with a crescent moon bobbing up and down in a stream ofpassing night clouds.The temperature is mild; with a fire in the fireplace, they’ll be warm enough inside.Daniel stands for a few moments on the porch, where oak and ash logs are stacked against the gray clapboard ofthe exterior wall.The stillness and clarity of the evening are almost unbelievable—how could such tranquility follow such chaos? Daniel takes a deep breath, spreads his arms out:Iris.Twoof the three old locust trees in the front yard are down, one has been split in two, the other has been completely torn out ofthe ground, its taproot unearthed.A few scattered stars pulsate, diamond chips in the velvet.He wonders ifshe is okay.She cannot bear the cold.She might have low blood pressure, she should have it checked.Maybe the road crews have al-ready cleared out the center oftown, maybe she’s already up and around.

Maybe the power has been restored on Juniper Street.He hopes so.She shouldn’t be sitting alone in a dark house.He wonders ifHampton, learn-ing the extent ofthe storm, has returned to his family.

He brings in several armloads offirewood, and places them all carefully in the large iron ring near the fireplace.The air is dank in the house.

The smell from the fireplace is pleasant, however, and the three ofthem sit on the floor in front ofit, enjoying its warmth and the comforting light.Kate continues to drink, though Daniel doesn’t know exactly what’s in her glass, and he doesn’t feel able to ask her.But watching her drink makes him want to get drunk—despite the risk—and he makes his way into the kitchen, holding a candle that drips wax onto his knuckles with each step.He comes back with halfa glass ofbourbon and sits down on the hooked rug in front ofthe hearth, where he and Kate have been play-ing Uno with Ruby.Normally, playing with Ruby like this is one ofthe things that make Daniel feel life is worth living, and the same could be said for sitting in front ofa successful fire, getting a little loaded, even go-ing to bed with Kate after she’d been drinking.But tonight, everything seems fraught and dreary.How can he be here, stuck, trapped, put into a position in which every word out ofhis mouth is a lie? How can he be go-ing through the motions in this sad and threadbare life, a life that now is—he hates to think it, but he must—little more than a terrible obstacle between him and simple human happiness?

Later that night, Daniel waits downstairs before going to bed, poking at the logs in the fireplace and hoping that Kate will have fallen asleep before he ar-rives in their bedroom.He extinguishes his candle when he is halfway up the stairs;all he can see in the darkness is the beady red lights ofthe battery-powered smoke detectors.He feels his way along the wall, down the hallway, and as quietly as possible into the bedroom.He takes his shoes offand gets into bed in his clothes—a pair ofcorduroy pants, beneath which he wears long underwear, two shirts, and a sweater, all ofwhich he must wear for warmth, but which he also hopes will quarantine whatever evidence his body wants to give oflast night’s frenzies.He is operating on three hours of sleep, which he doesn’t fully realize until he quietly slides into bed and an overpowering sense ofexhaustion comes over him in slow, relentless waves.

And Kate is not asleep.She rolls next to him and drapes her leg overhis.

“What were you doing down there?”she asks.

”Hitting a log with the fireplace poker.”

“Oh, you man, you.”

“That’s me in a nutshell,”he says.She presses herselfagainst his hip, and he feels panic rising in him.Because it would seem strange and pos-sibly even brutal not to, he puts his arm around her, though the very act makes him feel compromised, and even jealous—ifhe is capable ofcom-mitting these little endearments, then Iris could surely be doing like-wise.At this very moment.

“Do you really think I shouldn’t call the police about those runaways being here last night?”Kate says.

“I don’t know.There’s not much they can do about it right now.”He really doesn’t want to talk, and he also senses that somewhere within this particular line ofinquiry there lies trouble.

“You’re a tiny bit on their side, aren’t you?”Kate says softly, as ifit were possible to lure him into believing she is not furious at the idea.

“Ofcourse not.I hate that that happened.It was obviously terrifying.

It terrifies me to even hear about it.”

“Then what are you saying?That I should stop talking about it?”

“Kate.Ofcourse not.”

“But it is.That’s what you’re saying, that I should stop talking about it.”

“Well, it’s not what I meant to say.”

“But it’s what you said.”

“Kate, I don’t know what to tell you here.You’re doing the subtext?”

“Yes, I’m doing the fucking subtext.”

“Ah, thefuckingsubtext.”Shut up shut up,he tells himself.But exhaustion, the bourbon, and acute sexual claustrophobia are having their way with him.He forces his eyes open.For a second he feels he might fall asleep—right in the middle ofan argument.

“What?”

He tries to scramble back into the conversation, desperately.“If you want to call the police, call them,”he says.“Or I will.I’ll call DerekPabst.”

“Derek Pabst is an idiot.”

“Then I’ll call someone else.I’ll call the attorney general.”

“It’s a big joke to you.”

“No.It’s not.I don’t know what you want.”

“I want you to care about what happened to me.”

He wants to say that nothing really happened to her, but he manages to control himself.She continues with such vehemence, he may as well have said it.

“It’s because they’re black, isn’t it?”she says.“You feel protective toward them.Like they’re the victims, and the people who try to keep them under control are the bad guys.”

“That’s not what I think.”He digs his elbows into the mattress to raise himself, but he doesn’t have the strength.

“You’re going to turn into one ofthose ridiculous white guys who secretly think they’re black,”Kate says.“Where’s this coming from any-how?You want to tell me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.I don’t think I’m black.”

“But you wish you were.”

“What I wish I was is asleep.”

“It’s like the Simpson case.When did you start believing that fucking O.J.is innocent?”

“I don’t think that.”

“Really? Do you think he’s guilty?”

“I don’t know! How could I know? I don’t have all the facts.And the trial’s still ongoing.”

“The trial’s still ongoing?The man butchered his wife, a poor girl who told her friends,‘Ifanything happens to me, O.J.did it.’Every rea-sonable person inAmerica knows he’s guilty, including his own lawyers, and all you can say is‘the trial’s still ongoing.’”These last words are delivered in that mocking rendition ofthe male voice that women do—the voice ofsomeone who’s just had a cinder block dropped on his head.

Is that what I sound like to you?Daniel wants to say, in his eagerness to feel like the injured party.But even in the throes ofpassion, with all its atten-dant greed and narcissism, and with the self-centeredness and sociopathol-ogy ofa man on the great emotional crusade ofhis life, Daniel cannot quite manage the moral contortion that would place himself squarely on his own side.His awareness that he is betraying Kate is too corrosively present.He is not only in love with someone else but he is keeping it a secret, and though there are surely worse things in the world that a man can do, there is nothing worse within a marriage, which is, he must finally admit, basi-cally what he and Kate have.He would like to tell her that their time to-gether is finished.They may have made a pledge to each other to be Swiss bankers ofthe heart, but banks fail.Still, he knows he cannot, must not tell her—telling the truth right now would likely put Iris in jeopardy.

“You know when you started thinking that O.J.is innocent?”Kate issaying.

“I never said he’s…”

“Right around the time you started talking about Iris Davenport.”

“Oh, come on, this is insane.And:you’re drunk.”He immediately regrets the aggression ofthis, but Kate seems not to have noticed.

“Does Iris think he’s innocent, too?”she asks.

”I have no idea.”

“Really? No idea?The whole county is obsessed with the case and you two have never mentioned it?That’s interesting.What do you talk about, then?”

“I don’t know.Nothing.”

“Nothing?You talk about nothing?You were at her house for a day and a night talking aboutnothing?”

“Don’t interrogate me, Kate.”

“You can’t invoke your FifthAmendment rights in bed, buddy boy.All constitutional rights are waived between the sheets.”

“Then maybe I should get up.I don’t like being without my constitutional rights.”

“Ifyou leave this bed…”

“Kate, this is insane.Can we please just sleep? O.J.’s asleep, the jury’s sleeping, the DA, everyone is.”He waits for an answer, counts to three, and then closes his eyes, and when he opens them again it’s morning, and he’s alone.

Daniel and Kate collect buckets ofsnow, using some ofit to flush their toilets, and melting a portion to use as drinking water.Kate, who is usu-ally glad to allow Daniel to look after Ruby, is today somewhat posses-sive ofthe little girl;it leads Daniel to believe that she is trying to give him a sense ofwhat his future will be like without the love ofRuby as a constant in his life.But other than this, her demeanor shows little oflast night’s suspiciousness and anger.When they are collecting the snow, she is playful, throwing little handfuls ofit at Daniel.She makes him coffee.

She is full ofpraise for the new morning fire in the hearth.Nevertheless, by eleven that morning Daniel is feeling so confined and isolated in their house, and so wild with desire to see Iris, that he feels his level offrus-tration is starting to become hazardous not only from a psychological standpoint but even from a medical one.

He must get out ofhere.Living in these conditions, with these new dictates ofcommunality and wall-to-wall togetherness, makes it impos-sible to even call Iris.He casts desperately about in his mind, trying to think ofa way to absent himself and somehow make it into town, and then, at last, at around noon, he goes upstairs to their sad and chilly bed-room, where there is a working telephone, and he calls Ferguson Rich-mond.

“Ferguson,”he says,“Daniel Emerson here.I wonder ifI could ask you a huge favor? Ifyou’re going to be out and around on your snow-mobile, I wonder ifyou could come get me at my house and bring me into town.”

“No problem,”Ferguson says without hesitating.“When do you need to go? Now?”

Daniel is overcome by Ferguson’s generosity and lack ofinquisitive-

ness.“Yes,”he says, sitting on the edge ofthe bed,“now would be fine.

Anytime.Thank you so much.”

He goes back downstairs, where Kate and Ruby are in the kitchen.

Ruby is on the floor, playing with plastic horses, and Kate is melting some snow in a large cast-iron pot.She plans to fill the sink so that every-one can wash their hands and face.

“Who were you calling?”she asks casually enough.

”Ferguson Richmond,”Daniel says.

”SirFerguson Richmond,”Kate says.She likes to make fun ofthe local gentry, but her own southern background, with its emphasis on fam-ily and gentility, gives her an enduring interest in such things, and Daniel has always suspected that she admires theWindsor County aristocrats more than she lets on.“So what is he?Your new best friend?”

“He’s actually going to do me a tremendous favor.He’s coming out here on his snowmobile and he’s taking me into town.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“It’s very nice ofhim.”

“Yes.It’s amazing.How far away is he? Eight miles, ten?”

“I don’t know.I guess ten.It’s what people always say about him.He’s this total reactionary and a snob, but ifyou actually put something right in front ofhim, a problem, a person in need, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you.He’s got bad ideas, but good feelings.He’s got this deep, al-most heroic generosity.”

Ruby looks up from her horses.Her eyes are blurred and her skin is mottled;she looks like an abandoned child.“Where are you going?”she asks Daniel.She furrows her brow, purses her lips, to let him know she is worried.

“I need to go to work, sweetie,”he says.“I have to go to my office.”

“I want to go, too,”she says.

”Do you want to?”Kate asks the child.“Take a ride with Daniel and see what’s going on out there? Maybe some stores are open and Daniel can get you some Jolly Ranchers.”

Ruby begins to pick up her toys, in preparation for leaving.

Daniel is appalled that Kate would use Ruby in such a cynical, manipulative fashion.

“I’m just going to my office,”he says to Ruby.

”It’s okay,”she says.

He smiles, relieved.

”Your office is fun,”Ruby says.

”What are you doing?”he asks Kate, lifting his hands in exasperation.

”What amIdoing? Whatareyoudoing?”

“I am buried in paperwork.I have a dozen crises brewing, and a dozen more on the horizon, and I have no choice, I have to get to my office.”

“Ofcourse you do.But Ruby’s not going to stop you from doing your paperwork.And that way she’ll be a little less stir crazy.”

“I want to go, too,”Ruby says.

”And I’ll be able to get a little writing done,”Kate continues.“Or at least try.”

“You’re going to put her on the back ofa snowmobile for ten miles?”

“It was fun,”says Ruby.

”You put her on the back ofthe very same snowmobile,”Kate says,

“driven by the very same Samaritan who’s coming to rescue you.”

“That was an emergency.I was trying to get her home.I was trying to do the right thing.Jesus.”

“Please,”says Ruby.“It was so fun.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie.It’s just not going to work.”

“I don’t see why not,”says Kate.

”Kate, you’re being ridiculous.Really.Enough.”

“It’s so boring here,”says Ruby.

”No!”Daniel says, his voice rising with temper and desperation.In the stillness ofthe house, it sounds as ifhe has shouted at the top ofhis voice.

Kate smiles a terrible, wounded, superior smile and shakes her head.

“One question,”she says.“How are you going to get back home after your…um, paperwork?”

“I’ll get back.”He is about to sayTrust me,but he stops himself.

Daniel occupies himself while waiting for Ferguson by building up the fire and bringing in more wood.Nearly an hour passes, during which he almost loses hope ofFerguson arriving, but then he hears the manic whine ofthe snowmobile, and he races out to meet Ferguson, shouting his good-byes over his shoulder.

On the way into town, Ferguson fills Daniel in on the recovery effort.Though no snow has fallen since yesterday, trees continue to topple.

Highway crews and repair crews from the power company have made virtually no progress in clearing the roads.The trouble has not been the amount ofsnow—not much more than a foot has fallen—but that the thousands oftrees on the ground have made every emergency vehicle virtually useless.Squads ofmen with chain-saws are all over the county—they’ve come in from every county in the state, as well as Con-necticut, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Vermont, and New Hampshire—and they are cutting up and removing the slaughtered trees one by one.Estimates are that the middle oftown should be electrified either by tonight or tomorrow morning;beyond that, some areas aren’t expected to have power for another three or four days, though Ferguson guesses it’ll be longer than that.

Ferguson is wearing a dark leather jacket, weathered and cracked, thick wool pants, and a pair ofboots that look as ifthey’d once belonged to a soldier in the FirstWorldWar.The smell ofgasoline and oil is all over him.He wears amber-tinted ski goggles that are so smudged and scratched it’s a wonder he can see anything through them.His ears are as bright as freshly boiled shrimps and his graying hair whips back and forth in the wind as he speeds across a pasture, dodging trees, and then onto what Daniel guesses is Route100,though all that indicates that it is a road at all are the occasional mailboxes standing iced and empty on their cedar stalks.

“An awful lot ofpeople have been hurt,”Ferguson is saying, in hisfirm, penetrating voice.“And we’ve had fatalities.Traffic, fire, and heartfailure.”

“Oh no, it’s so terrible,”Daniel says.

”It’ll be a field day for the lawyers,”Ferguson says.He looks over his shoulder and grins at Daniel.

Two black-and-yellow trucks from the power company are parked near an extinguished traffic light further down on Route100.Two ofthe workers are standing around, drinking coffee and smoking, while the others cut an immense fallen oak into sections.A halfmile later, there is a second crew, engaged in a similar task, and a quarter mile after that there is a third.Further offthe road, the Schultz brothers, three long-haired, gray-bearded bachelors, who live in a hardscrabble compound in which they each own a trailer, and who drive fierce-looking pickup trucks with giant tires and furious bumper stickers directed against Pres-ident Clinton, are hard at work chain-sawing fallen trees into three-foot lengths and heaving them into the backs oftheir trucks.Ferguson waves atthem, and the brothers stare back expressionlessly, holding their saws like rifles, pointed down at the ground.

“They’re making the best ofit.They’ll sell enough firewood to keep them in beer for the winter,”Ferguson says.“Fellows like the Schultzes, they’re the heart and soul ofthis county.They’re our muzhiks, our own God-fearing serfs, and ifall the city people coming out here drive up land prices—those crazy brothers are going to be swept right out ofhere.”

Before reaching the center ofLeyden, Ferguson makes a couple of stops, both ofthem to run-down, ranch-style houses, one occupied by an extended family ofrecently arrived Poles, the other lived in by an even more extended family ofMexicans.He keeps the snowmobile idling as he makes his quick visits, and then, assured that everyone is sur-viving the storm and its aftermath, he takes Daniel the rest ofthe way into town.

At the center oftown, the sidewalks have been cleared and some of the larger trees have been cut and hauled away.Except for one ofthe gas stations, every business is still shut.Ferguson pulls to a stop in front of the Koffee Kup;though it’s closed, a couple ofthe waitresses are inside, mopping the floor.Daniel slides offthe snowmobile and staggers back a little—his legs feel distorted and anesthetized.

“Thanks so much, Ferguson.I really do appreciate it.”

“Are you sure this is where you want me to drop you?”Ferguson says.

He takes offhis goggles, rubs his left eye with a kind ofstartling vigor.

”I could take you to HamptonWelles’s place, it’s only a couple blocks.

Your car’s still there, isn’t it?”

“No, this is fine.”

“Hey, look, ifyou need a lift back later on, give me a call.”

“It’s really awfully nice ofyou.”

“Is it? Susan says I act as ifI were the greatpadroneand it’s my job to look out after all my little people.I just like driving this thing around.And I don’t exactly despise being out ofthe house, ifyou know what I mean.”

Daniel fusses with his car in Iris’s driveway, hoping to create the impres-sion that he has only returned for his vehicle, but soon she comes out, puts her arm around his shoulders, and steers him indoors.He is cold and wet;she makes him a cup ofcoffee, pours a little bit ofbrandy in it, and then takes hold ofDaniel’s chin and kisses him with fervor, open-ness, and engulfing warmth.They listen to hear ifNelson is busy in the playroom, and deciding that he is they begin to take chances.Thus begins the four days they will come to call the Rapture.He takes hold ofher hips and presses her closer to him, hoping the pressure ofher will relieve some ofthe agony ofdesire, and she lets out a soft moan ofpleasure di-rectly into his mouth.They sit at the kitchen table and keep an ear out for Nelson;they move their chairs closer so that they can touch each other, kiss, his hand is up her dress, she yanks her woolen tights down, opens herselfto him, she is so concentrated on her own pleasure, she squints, and then suddenly it’s upon her and her mouth opens and her breath comes in little puffs, it’s like someone doing Lamaze, and when she comes it’s convulsive.It seems to Daniel that his reliefwill have to wait, and he is fine with that, just watching her come is enough, but she quickly turns her attention to him, and he is fine with that, too.What does matter is that the next day is Friday and Hampton arrives in Ley-den.By now, the roads are cleared, and the power is sporadically re-stored;Red Schoolhouse Road is still dark, but Daniel has driven his car back home the day before through a multitude ofdetours and now he can drive himself to his office, where he and Iris meet, with the blinds drawn, and the heat cranked up, and the door double-locked in case SheilaAlvarez should decide to put in an appearance, which she does not.

Saturday afternoon.Daniel brings Kate and Ruby to the train station be-cause Kate has decided to stay in NewYork until power is restored in Leyden, and twenty hours later Iris calls:Hampton has gone back to the city.Daniel is at her house in minutes.They bathe each other, nervous that Nelson might awaken, but unable to exercise any more caution than locking the door.“I never realized white people could get so dirty,”she whispers to him, rubbing the soapy sponge onto his shoulders, smooth-ing the lather down his silky chest.“I look like a burn victim,”he says, holding his arm next to hers, comparing the colors.They make love in the guest room, out ofsome shared tact, and sometime during it Iris says,“I feel really safe with you, it’s such a pleasant way to feel,”and though she says it in a purely conversational tone, as soon as the words are out she bursts into tears, and he holds her, afraid to ask why she is crying.He leaves her house as dawn breaks gray and pink in the high in-nocent sky, home ofGod and all the angels;never has he known such happiness.He drives past the twenty-four-hour road crews, waving idi-otically at them,bless you bless you all.Iris is home from her seminar at two that afternoon, they have two and a halfhours before it’s time to col-lect Nelson.Conversation, confession, and sex.“You’re killing me,”she says happily.Soon all the roads will be cleared, even the houses miles out oftown will have power restored, Kate will be back, life will return to normal.He no longer looks kindly at the road crews, their around-the-clock busyness seems like some terrible meddling.One last night with Iris, a few more hours, and the ferocious sexual project reveals itself: they are tearing each other apart, devouring the flesh until nothing sep-arates them.

[9]

As far as Daniel was concerned, this was torture.It might be better just to come out with it, tell Hampton:I love Iris, and she seems to love me.We belong together.

We do feel bad.Oh shut up about feeling bad.Do you think he cares? He’d like you to have brain cancer, that would be the sort of suffering he’d like for you.

Whyare youoffering up your stricken conscience—to make him feel you’ve been punished sufficiently?Are you so afraid of him?And with that question, Daniel at last connected to the core of what had been plaguing him from the mo-ment he and Hampton set off together in search of Marie.It was not really about conscience, after all.He’d been wrestling with his conscience for months now, they were old sparring partners, sometimes he pinned it to the mat, sometimes it slammed him, it didn’t really amount to much, it was a show, like the wrestling on TV.And besides:theworstsort of remorse was preferable to what had preceded it, the infinitely greater agony of longing for Iris.Remorse was the payment due for the fulfillment of his great desire.And it was, finally, a payment he was willing to make.No, it was not his conscience that churned at the center of him, making him cringe inwardly when Hampton stepped too close to him.It was fear, physical fear.

Like many men who find love when they are no longer in the full bloom ofvigor and health, Daniel has made a promise to himself to get back in shape.For a couple ofnights, he tried doing calisthenics at home, but it seemed disrespectful to Kate to be grunting out sit-ups in the same room they conduct their wounded, slowly expiring relation-ship.Those exercises were a kind ofcelebratory dance ofhealth, and his workout wear ofbaggy cotton shorts and a baggier old grayT-shirt was in fact the uniform ofhis new devotion:they may as well have borne Iris’s name on the back.He is in training to be her lover.One day soon Kate will understand that the sexual Mount Everest Daniel is in training to scale has nothing to do with her, and when this grim domestic knowl-edge is complete Daniel does not want her to conjure a vision ofhim do-ing abdominal crunches on their bedroom floor.

As a less ostentatious form ofbody toning, Daniel decides to forego lunch and to spend the time vigorously walking through the village of Leyden, which now, nine days after the October snow, is just getting back to normal, with businesses long closed for lack ofelectrical power finally reopening, and employees finally able to show up for work.The mood ofthe town is festive, as ifat the victorious end ofa war.No one can get enough oftalking about what befell them during the storm and the blackout, what they learned, what they lost, how they coped.

Daniel’s great story ofthe October storm, however, cannot be told, and its necessary suppression has dampened his normally gregarious nature.

He is content to replay memories ofhis days and nights with Iris with-out any interruption as he walks the circumference ofthe town’s com-mercial center.The problem really is that walking doesn’t feel like exercise, and as soon as he makes it once around the village, he realizes that he looks halfmad speed-walking in his suit and street shoes, and also that he is too young for walking, speed or otherwise, to make much of an impact on him.On his second time through the village, he hears someone call his name, and though he has promised himself that he will ignore all distractions, he stops immediately and turns to face Bruce Mc-Fadden, an old friend from Daniel’s childhood days in Leyden.

“Hey, bro, what it is,”McFadden says in some vaguely self-mocking approximation ofblack street slang, putting his palm out for a little skin.

McFadden, a tall, flimsily knit-together man, with long, lustrous brown hair, bright-green eyes, and a pale face with hectic bursts ofcolor at the cheekbones, is about as black as a Highland fling, and normally he does not speak in anything approaching hip-hop patois.But a love ofblack cul-ture is the original cornerstone ofhis friendship with Daniel, and Bruce still likes to black it up.And because, right now, Bruce doesn’t happen to know any black people personally, saying“bro”and talking about Satchel Paige and Miles Davis, Chester Himes, HowlingWolf, AntonioVargas, Peaches and Herb, Sonny Rollins, Sonny Liston, Sonny BoyWilliamson, and all the other black Sonnys, is something he saves for his occasional meetings with Daniel.

Except for a few years inAlbany, where he went to medical school,

Bruce has never lived outside ofLeyden.He is a part ofa thriving med-ical group, but his personal life is conducted at the very pinnacle ofcir-cumspection—no one has any idea what he does when the sun goes down, ifhe drinks, or sits alone watching television, or whether or not he has a lover, and what the gender ofthat lover might be.Even Daniel, who loves Bruce, cannot say what the mysterious doctor has devised for getting through the nights.

“Why are you walking around like that?”Bruce asks Daniel, standing in front ofthe luncheonette, with a half-eaten tuna sandwich in one hand and a paper napkin in the other.

“Exercising,”says Daniel.

”You can’t get exercise walking around like that, man.You want exercise? I’ll teach you the greatest ofthe white man’s sports.”

With that in mind, Bruce convinces Daniel to meet after work at Marlowe College, where Bruce is going to teach Daniel how to play squash.

It’s Friday;Hampton is coming back to town, and Daniel is grateful for the diversion, the company.Rather than go home and get his Nikes, shorts, and aT-shirt, Daniel buys all these things new and arrives at the gym a few minutes before his five o’clock date with Bruce.He immedi-ately goes to the glass wall overlooking the college’s swimming pool, an immense turquoise parallelogram surrounded by red and white tiles—Iris is a swimmer and Daniel is hoping that luck is on his side.

But the pool is empty.An elderly man, probably a professor, with an enormous bald head, ears as large as fists, a barrel chest from which fur rises up in fifty separate geysers, sits in a wheelchair at the edge ofthe pool, grimacing at a young man with light olive skin and shoulder-length hair, probably his physical therapist.The sight ofthe old man fills Daniel’s heart with urgency:time passes, bodies decay, every day spent without love is lost forever, the time cannot be recaptured or made up for.The professor’s legs are as thin as a child’s.He wraps his trembling, chim-panzee arms around the young man’s neck and allows himself to be hoisted out ofthe chair and lowered into the deep end ofthe pool, just to the left ofthe double-decker diving boards.As soon as the old man is in the water, he disappears, and Daniel for a moment thinks he is the wit-ness to a tragedy.But then the old man emerges;he has swum to the cen-ter ofthe pool, and he continues to propel himself with breast strokes, expelling water from his mouth in a long arcing spew.

Bruce arrives, and Daniel follows him into the locker room.In the large, windowless room, with its industrial gray carpeting and the smell ofsweat and chlorine in the air, a dozen or so college students are in var-ious states ofundress.Their movements are nervous, they dress hur-riedly, with elaborate bashfulness about their young, fit bodies, slipping into their shorts while they keep a towel wrapped around their midsec-tions, showering in their bathing suits.The older men, the guys in their fifties and sixties, display without shame their deteriorated bodies, their flaccid bellies, hunched backs, saggy asses, and flamboyantly uneven testicular sacs.

“Did you hear the news about those kids who broke out ofStar of Bethlehem?”Bruce asks.

“What happened?”Daniel cannot hear any mention ofthem without a feeling ofanxiety and remorse.

“Fucking crime spree, baby.All up and down the river.”Bruce smiles, shakes his head, it’s hard to say ifhe means to be rueful or admiring.

“I guess they’ll catch them sooner or later,”Daniel says.

”I wouldn’t bet on it.Cops up here are not used to anyone giving them any resistance.”

Daniel and Bruce begin to undress and Bruce asks the inevitable question:“Where were you during the storm?”

“Actually, I was trapped in someone else’s house for the first day ofit.”

“Oh my God, I would hate that,”Bruce says.He tosses his loafers into the locker.

Daniel glances around the locker room to see ifanyone is within earshot.Several lockers to the right, a skinny, gloomy-looking man in his late fifties, breathing heavily, bathed in sweat, unfastens a complicated knee brace.

“I was at Iris Davenport’s house.I ended up spending the night there.”

Daniel has promised himself never to mention this, but now he can’t quite recall why it’s so important to keep the secrecy intact.

“Iris Davenport?What a fox.She looks a little likeWhitney Houston, don’t you think?”

“Not really.”

“She’s been to my office.Confidentially? I tested her for glaucoma.It runs in her family.”

“When?”

“Months ago.She’s a pretty girl,”Bruce says in a distant voice, as ifhe were piecing together his memory ofher as he speaks.“Her eyes are fine, by the way.”

“Yes,”says Daniel.“I could walk into her eyes and never come back.”

Bruce glances away, clears his throat.“Whatever,”he says.Then he adds,“What’s she like, anyhow? I found her sort ofhard to get a read on.”

“She’s honest, she’s steady, she’s always present.She’s pure without being a puritan.She’s liberated without being a libertine.”

“All right.Now you’re starting to frighten me.”

Daniel blushes;in the company ofanother man, the pitch ofhis own ardor seems suddenly absurd.“I’m being undone by this whole thing,”he murmurs.“I’m totally in lovewith her, Bruce.”The reliefoffinally being able to say this to another person has upset his balance, the way you would lose strength in your legs and stumble forward after finally being relieved ofa load offirewood.

“Oh dear,”Bruce says.His sneakers are laced;he stands up and puts his hand on Daniel’s shoulder and gives it a comradely pat.“It’ll pass,”he says, as ifto comfort Daniel.“Let’s not even talk about it.”

The squash courts are on the second floor ofthe gym, a row offive white rooms with hardwood floors, the back wall ofeach made ofshat-terproofglass so that the games may be observed.All ofthe courts are empty when Daniel and Bruce arrive;they take court number one and Bruce teaches Daniel the rudiments ofthe game, beginning, as is the masculine custom, with the rules.Bruce seems fixated on the rules, rat-tling them offin a stern fashion, as ifsuspecting that Daniel might be try-ing to figure a way around them.When they finally begin to hit the ball, Daniel is confused by how little it bounces, how its hollowness and soft-ness render it practically inert, and he wonders how this game will ever provide him with exercise.But the ball becomes livelier as it heats up, and after twenty minutes on the court Daniel is breathing heavily and feels the first trickle ofsweat going down his spine.

They hear the thump ofa ball being hit on an adjoining court;another game is in progress.

“You’re a good beginner,”Bruce says.“Want to get a drink ofwater?”

They open the glass door and walk out into the broad corridor, at the end ofwhich is a water cooler.The first thing Daniel sees is Iris sitting on one ofthe brightly colored red-and-black benches in the hall.His heart flaps like a toucan in a cage.Iris sits there, with Nelson draped lan-guidly on her lap.She wears a copper-colored down vest, a Baltimore Orioles cap, jeans, and rubber boots.She glances at Daniel, and then looks away.Surely she has known all along that he is here, they all must have seen him through the glass on their way to court two.Is this really her strategy?That they should ignore each other? It doesn’t seem wise.

And he is, ofcourse, incapable ofcarrying it out.

“Iris!”he calls out, as ifseeing her here were one oflife’s funny little surprises.He grasps Bruce by the elbow and steers him over toward Iris.

”I believe you two know each other,”Daniel says.He feels hot breath on his leg and looks down.It’s Scarecrow, hitched to a dark-blue leash, wag-ging her tailless hindquarters and panting excitedly.Daniel is unreason-ably happy to see her, as ifthe old dog had risen from the dead.

”Scarecrow!Are you a member ofthe gym?”

“Hello, Iris,”Bruce says.Noticing the confusion in her face, he adds,

“It’s Dr.McFadden.”

“Oh yes, I’m sorry.I…”

“I’m out ofcontext.”He gestures toward his long legs.“You never saw me in shorts.”

Daniel chooses to take this remark as somehow scaling the pinnacle ofwit.In the midst ofhis laughter, he notices that Nelson is scowling openly at him, an exaggerated grimace, completely unencumbered by any sense ofsocial grace.He is like a bad actor miming displeasure in a silent movie.Quickly, Daniel diverts his own attention to the squash game taking place in court two.

Hampton is playing against his younger brother, James.JamesWelles has his brother’s—and, indeed, his entire family’s—light copper com-plexion, but his appearance is far from Hampton’s carefully groomed, businesslike image.While Hampton wears tennis whites, James is dressed as ifto go fishing with a bamboo pole:in cutoffjeans, a faded rustT-shirt torn at the shoulder, black sneakers splattered with paint, and no socks at all.He has the merry and defiant eyes ofa boy who always knew he was his mother’s favorite, no matter what sort oftrouble he caused.He has recently grown a little scraggly beard—hardly a beard, really, just three sprouts ofwhisker, a kind ofFu Manchu fountain springing from the center ofhis chin.His long hair is a complex nest of braids, culminating in a thick, glistening ponytail.

Daniel stands behind the glass wall and watches transfixed.James moves around the court as ifscarcely subject to the laws ofgravity, bounding and whirling, airborne, his braids flapping, his shoelaces flapping as well, letting out little yelps ofpure animal joy, his youthful, handsome face alight with the bliss ofhis own physicality.The ball hits against the back wall, and James runs after it with the antic, spendthrift energy ofa pup, in fact he overruns it, but no matter—he returns the ball by hitting it through his wide-open skinny legs, punctuating the cir-cus shot with a whoop and a raised fist.

Hampton’s reply to his younger brother’s showboating is to return the ball in the most rudimentary, formal, and correct way possible.In fact, all ofHampton’s moves on the court could be used in an instructional video, the way he cocks the racquet over his head before each stroke, the way he bends his knees, his short, punchy follow-through, his return to the center ofthe court after every stroke.His movements are dogged, mechanized, and tireless.The only emotion he shows is a slight reddening around the ears and throat when James makes a particularly unorthodox shot, since these are met with squeals and cheers from Nelson.

“Don’t cheer against Daddy,”Iris whispers to her boy.

”Uncle James is funny,”Nelson says.

Bruce catches Daniel’s eyes.Let’s go,he mouths.Daniel shakes his head and Bruce sighs impatiently.

Daniel forces himself to turn away from the game, though by now it feels as ifthe fate ofhis love affair with Irisrequiresthat Hampton be van-quished.“How are you doing?”he asks Iris.

“I’m all right.Nelson’s Uncle James is visiting us.”

“I see that,”Daniel says.Daniel has always been moved by the quality ofIris’s mothering;her kindness and her aptness around Nelson have ap-pealed to Daniel so deeply that it is practically an erotic experience to see her with her boy, but just now Daniel wishes that she would speak only tohim.

Still, he goes along with it.“Are you pretty excited to see your Uncle James?”he asks, directing his question to Nelson, who at first seems not to have heard him, and who then leers at him, first pursing his lips and then showing his little milky teeth.Of course, now he hates me.He doesn’t quite understand what he saw, but he’ll never forgive finding me in his mother’s bed.“And how about you, Scarecrow?”Daniel says, squatting down to the dog’s level.“Everything copasetic?”By way ofan answer, the dog launches herselftoward Daniel, ramming his eye with her wet nose.

“What’s the score?”Nelson screams at his father and uncle.He squirms out ofIris’s lap and hits his hard little hands against the glass wall.“Who’s winning?”

“I am,”James says, flipping his racquet up and then catching it by the handle.“I’m on fire, I’m unconscious, I can’t be stopped.”

Nelson doesn’t shout in triumph, but he squeezes his hands into fists, goes rigid, and whispers to himself:“Yes.”Nelson’s expressions are ex-aggerated, feverishly intense;it’s difficult to say whether these grimaces and gestures come from some molten, unmediated part ofhim, or if they are deliberately theatrical and insincere.Whatever their source, there is something troubling about them.

Hampton, in the meanwhile, has hit the ball in a slow, lazy arc over James’s head, who then bats it wildly, with an equally wild accompany-ing whoop.The ball sails across the court, barely reaching the front wall, which it grazes, before dropping dead and unplayable, another point for the younger brother, who celebrates by spinning around on one foot with his arms outstretched.

James, having won the point, serves, and Hampton makes his usual methodical return—it’s art versus science.James returns the shot with a dazzling and picturesque behind-the-back stroke, but from that mo-ment on Hampton proceeds to dismantle him, wearing him down with his own refusal to lose.Hampton rallies to win the game9‒7.

Nelson has retreated to Iris’s lap, and he sits awkwardly on her, his legs dangling, his arms folded over his chest, outraged over some shady business.Bruce, uncomfortable with standing there in light ofwhat Daniel has told him, and also anxious to use his workout time, has gone back to court one, where he hits the ball to himself.Daniel, however, is powerless to move.He must see the match out to its bitter end.He has been crouched a few feet from Iris, as ifhe were a squash scout studying the game, looking for new prospects.He doesn’t dare say anything to Iris, though he continually looks at her reflection in the squash court’s glass wall.She glances at him and it seems as ifher eyes are asking,What are you doing?but he cannot move.

At last, Hampton and James emerge.All ofthe levity and grace and joyousness and even youthfulness seems to have been beaten out of James, while Hampton, in victory, seems not noticeably different than he was in the beginning ofthe game, when he was losing.His long slender legs are bright with perspiration, his shirt has dark circles at the armpits, a long ragged icicle-shaped sweat stain down the middle, and his scalp glistens in the overhead light.

“You lost!”Nelson cries accusingly, jabbing his finger at the air between him and his uncle, as ifto create a shock wave that would knock James to the ground.

“Sorry, O Great Leader,”James says.His voice is weak, exhausted.

“Your daddy’s too much for me.”

Pleased to hear this, Hampton smiles at James.

James slumps onto the bench next to Iris.“I feel sorry foryou,”he says to her.“The man is tireless.”

Daniel is offended by James’s little joke.It is unbearable to think about Hampton’s untiring ardor, the sexual machinery going on and on.

“He rinses his cottage cheese to take out the last one percent ofmilk fat,”Iris says.“What do you expect?”

“Hello, Daniel,”Hampton says.He opens his gym bag and pulls out a small white terry cloth towel with which he carefully dries, first his fore-head, then the wings ofhis nose, then his chin.

“I was watching you play,”Daniel says.“I’m just learning.”He is acutely aware that everything he says could very well be subject to mul-tiple interpretations, and that one day if—no,when—Hampton learns the truth, then it will all be remembered, ransacked for meaning.

Nelson has scrambled offIris’s lap.He takes the racquet from his uncle’s hands and grabs the ball and hits it.It bounces and then rolls down the long hall, and then over the ledge, where it falls to the ground floor.

Hampton snaps his fingers and points in Nelson’s face.

“Get it,”Hampton says.“Now.”

Nelson doesn’t say anything, but the skin on his face is suddenly drawn, mottled, he looks like someone who has been in the freezing cold.

“Take it easy, Hampton,”Iris says.“That doesn’t work with him.”She turns to the boy.“Go on, Nellie, do as your father says.”

“No!!”Nelson screams.“You get it.”

The vehemence startles Iris and she lets go ofthe leash.Scarecrow goes straight for Daniel.After bounding up on Daniel and uncoiling her long tongue in the direction ofhis face, she suddenly lies down before him, resting her chin on her forepaws.Then, with a couple sharp barks, she rolls onto her back, exposing the bare pink-and-black skin ofher belly, her eyes glazed with adoration.

“Scarecrow!!”Iris calls out, her voice sharp, nervous.“What are youdoing?”

Hampton has folded his long arms over his hard, flat chest.“Seems like you’ve gone and won my doggie’s heart,”Hampton fairly drawls.

Meanwhile, on court number one, Bruce is hitting the ball to himself, harder and harder, until it sounds like gunshots.

“Do you mind ifI sit next to you for a minute or two?”

Kate is sitting in the back pew ofSaint Christopher’s Church, which is eight miles outside ofLeyden, on a curving dirt road, surrounded by open fields, where the dried remains ofthe harvested corn stalks rise and fall with the undulations ofthe land, in neat rows like markers in a cemetery.Startled by the soft, questioning voice, she turns to see the young priest next to her, tall, narrow, with an ascetic face and prema-turely gray hair.He is the sort ofman people say looks like a priest, even ifhe happens to be selling dress shirts in a department store, or walking in his baggy plaid bathing trunks on the beach.

“I didn’t hear you sit down,”Kate says.

”I’m sorry.Did I startle you?Were you praying?”

“I was really just closing my eyes.I’m collecting my thoughts.”

“I see you come in here from time to time,”the priest says.“I thought it was time we met.”

“My name’s Katherine Ellis.I’m not Catholic.”She extends her hand.

”I’m Father Joseph Sidlowski.And IamCatholic.”He takes her hand, shakes it.His touch is spectral, she could be dreaming him.

“I go to a lot ofchurches,”Kate says.“But this one is just so lovely, it’s one ofthe nicest in the area, I think.”

Father Sidlowski looks up at the planked ceiling, the simple blue-andyellow stained glass windows.“It really is,”he says, as ifthe beauty ofthe place had never occurred to him before.“Do you know its history?”

“No.”

“The farm right behind us and all the land around us, about four hundred acres, used to be owned by the Bailey family.Does that name mean anything to you?”

“I know Bailey Road.”

“We’re on Bailey Road, and there’s the Bailey Building right in the village.The patriarch ofthe Bailey family was named Peter Bailey.He outlived three wives and ten ofhis thirteen children.In his seventies—this was in about1880—he converted to Catholicism and built this church for himself and his family.There were no other Catholic churches nearby.It has something ofthe barn about it, don’t you think?Anyway, he died in his nineties and he left an endowment to the archdiocese to keep Saint Christopher’s open for one hundred years.The churchyard is filled with the remains ofBaileys, as well as the graves ofthe priests who have worked here.Part ofmy own pastoral duties is to make certain those graves are well kept.The Bailey family is scattered now, and most ofthe priests who are buried here have no family to speak of.I think sometime in the next few years we’ll see the doors to this chapel closed for the last time.We have a modest congregation and I suspect that when the hundred years are up and there is no income to support Saint Christopher’s, they’ll turn this place into an antiques shop.”

“Just what the world needs.”

Sidlowski shows his teeth in a slow approximation ofa smile.“May I ask what brings you to Saint Christopher’s?”His voice is low, confiden-tial, though there is no one else in the church.

“It’s very peaceful here,”Kate says.She looks around the small church—the dark, heavily varnished painting ofthe dying Jesus recum-bent in his stricken mother’s lap, a few votive candles twinkling in their red glass holders, the simple wooden cross, unusually austere.“I’ve been thinking a lot about…things, and it’s easier for me to have my thoughts in a church than it is at home.”

“May I show you something?”Father Sidlowski asks Kate.“It’ll only take a moment.”

Kate follows the priest through the church.Their footsteps echo in the stillness and she wonders how he could have sat next to her without her hearing his approach.He leads her through a small doorway offthe nave ofthe church and into his office.It’s a small, windowless room, with books and magazines piled in every corner.A banged-up metal desk and a swivel chair are the only furniture.The fax machine on the edge of the desk is receiving a transmission as they walk in;Kate sneaks a peek at what’s coming in—it seems to be from a travel agency, she sees a drawing ofan airplane and the words“ChristmasTravel Bargains.”The walls are bare, except for one old painting in an ornate gilt frame.The image on the canvas is ofa dark-haired woman in a modest brown robe, on her knees before a child’s crib.Her hands are clasped prayerfully and blood drips from them.The crib is suffused with golden light.

“That’s Saint Mary Frances,”Sidlowski says, his voice suddenly intimate, suffused with gentleness, as ifthis were upsetting news he must break to her.“She died at the end ofthe eighteenth century and was can-onized about sixty years after her death.”

“I never heard ofher,”Kate says.“I don’t really know very much about saints.As I said, I’m not—”

“Catholic,”Sidlowski cuts in.“I realize that.But she’s a lovely saint, one ofmy favorites.Not very well known here, but greatly loved in Naples.But do you see why I wanted you to see this painting?”

Kate redirects her attention to the image.The canvas is old, the paint is muddy, and the surface veneer is cracked into a thousand little jigsaw sections.

“She looks so much like you,”Sidlowski says.“Don’t you see the resemblance?”

Kate shakes her head.She sees nothing ofherselfin the face ofMary Frances.All there is in common is the dark-brown hair, brown eyes; everything else about Mary Frances seems merely average, even generic: average height, average weight.Oh, maybe a little something in the mouth, after all, that thin, broad upper lip, and maybe, also, a certain boyishness ofchin.And the shoulders.

“I still think ofmyselfas having blonde hair,”Kate says.“Though I haven’t since I was ten years old.But it was such a part ofmy identity, and such a part ofmy parents’celebration ofme.The picture ofmyselfthat I carry within me will always be ofsome pink little girl with white-blonde hair.Oh my God, how my parents suffered when my hair went dark.”

“It’s not just the coloring,”says Sidlowski.Whatever tact he had when first pointing the saint out to Kate is falling away now.His voice is eager, insistent.“It’s the face, the shape ofthe head, and something else, some-thing ineffable.”

“I don’t really see it,”Kate says apologetically.“But thank you, I guess.

I don’t relate to saints, Father.I don’t really believe in them.”

“But it’s a matter ofhistorical record.And this is her birthday month.

She was born October6.October6was the day ofthe storm,”Sidlowski says.“It made me think ofher.”

“Why is that?”Kate is uneasy with any mention ofthat unexpected, chaos-inducing snow.The storm has come to mean two things to her:her narrow escape from the roaming Star ofBethlehem boys, and Daniel spending the night with Iris, a night that, the more she thinks about it, al-most certainly became the occasion for Daniel’s long desire to finally find consummation.Kate cannot see a broken tree—and there are still thou-sands inWindsor County—without pain in her chest.

“Are you all right?”Father Sidlowski asks.

“Tell me about her,”Kate says, gesturing toward the painting.“What’s wrong with her hands?Why is she bleeding?”

“She was called Mary Frances ofthe FiveWounds.”He waits to see if Kate understands those wounds refer to the five stabs ofthe Roman spears in Jesus’crucified body.“She had a very difficult life.Even after she joined an order, her father, who detested her, and, ifyou ask me, har-bored and perhaps even acted upon incestuous feelings toward her, in-sisted she continue to live in his house as a servant.When Mary Frances’s father was done with her, he passed her along to a local priest, a fanatic in the Jansenist tradition, who continued Mary’s ill treatment.She re-mained the priest’s personal servant for the rest ofher life, thirty-eight more years.Yet even in the midst ofher degradation, Mary insisted on caring for others.She practiced regular personal mortifications, many of them quite painful, asking God to place in her own soul the suffering ofall those trapped in Purgatory, and asking, as well, to share the pain of her sick neighbors, most ofwhom treated her with contempt.”

He looks at Kate, sees her pained expression, and lowers his voice, almost to a murmur.

“You said you were going from church to church.Would you mind my asking why?”

“I’m being treated with contempt, too, Father,”Kate says.She steps toward him.The floor is soft, it seems as ifher feet are sinking in through the wood.A sudden dizziness, the world spins, once, twice.What’s hap-pening to me?She grabs Sidlowski’s arm to keep her balance.

Daniel is wracked with jealousy now that it is the weekend and Hamp-ton is home.He suspects that there is no one in the world who would sympathize with his agony, not even Iris.And what puts him even further from sympathy’s comforting embrace is that he is harming other people.

He is lying to Kate, though he tells himself that he would tell her the truth and take the necessary steps to separate their lives ifonly he hadn’t promised Iris not to make any precipitous moves.The fact is that Iris’s swearing him to silence fits in with his own reluctance to say the terrible thing to Kate.He is betraying Hampton, who is not really a friend or a man toward whom Daniel has ever had warm feelings, but who is, at least, a fellow human being, and worthy ofrespect and decent treat-ment.And he is betraying Iris—he has slept with Kate as a way ofkeep-ing a modicum ofdomestic peace, simply a matter ofslapping up some wallpaper to cover the cracks in the plaster.

His only comfort is theWindsor Bistro, which he discovered a couple ofweeks ago quite by accident.Before the storm, theWindsor Bistro seemed well on its way to being a losing proposition, a small, pleasant place, with a little gas fireplace and a Colonial chandelier, but there were never more than six or eight people eating at the same time.The owner and cook, Doris Snyder, a shy, frugal woman with a starburst birthmark on her forehead, stocked as little fresh food as possible, afraid, as she was, that most ofit would end up in the garbage.By the time ofthe Oc-tober snow, theWindsor Bistro was beginning to have that doomed air of a fighter looking for a place to fall.But then the storm hit, and the Bistro was the first place in Leyden to reopen, and anyone who was brave or restless enough to leave home gathered there for companionship.Doris’s confidence grew each time the door opened, and soon she was greeting everyone personally, serving free drinks and complimentary desserts.

After a couple ofnights, she convinced her boyfriend, a mentally unsta-ble but handsome man named Curtis, who had not left their house in six months, to bring his guitar in and sing his repertoire ofNeilYoung, Jim Croce, and Jackson Browne songs.

Daniel has become a regular.The place is crowded tonight and it is only his position as one ofthe original, favored customers that allows him to oc-cupy a table all to himself.The owner’s boyfriend has not come in;his place on the stool to the side ofthe bar is taken by an old grade-school friend of Daniel’s, a bushy-browed man named Chris Kiley, who accompanies him-selfon a littleYamaha keyboard while he sings sultry rhythm and blues songs about marital chaos, such as“Me and Mrs.Jones”and“Who’s Mak-ing Love toYour Old Lady (WhileYou’re Out Making Love).”These songs feel like anthems in the confines ofthe Bistro, which, aside from being the only place in Leyden open past midnight, seems to have become a refuge for people whose deepest impulses have brought them into conflict with what society expects ofthem.There at the bar sits the principal ofthe high school with the new second-grade teacher fresh from college in Colorado.

There at the table next to Daniel’s sits Clive Mason, whose wife is dying of breast cancer, with his arm around Mary Gallagher, whose husband is a state patrolman serving three years in prison for grand larceny.And now they are joined by Ethan Cohen, who owns a women’s clothing shop next to the GeorgeWashington Inn, and Shane Chilowitcz, who teaches per-formance art over at the college, where he lives with his Polish wife, who is at home minding their six children.

Got no one to turn to Tired of being alone Feel like breaking up Somebody’s home.

Ah, truer words were never sung,Daniel thinks.He looks up from his book, habitually scanning the place for Iris.Though in the week he has been coming here every night, he has yet to see her, he continually expects her to walk in at any moment.It’s maddening to be constantly on the look-out for her, but it gives him a gambler’s fervid hope that something trans-forming is just about to happen.

The singer sways behind his keyboard, surrounded by customers, who are also swaying to the music—a few are singing along.It has be-come even more crowded around the bar.There are people standing three deep, talking, laughing with piercing animation, signaling the newly hired bartender for drinks.

Standing near the bar is Mercy, Ruby’s baby-sitter.She is dressed to look older than her age—plenty ofmakeup, a tailored brown jacket over a black scoop-necked blouse, ironed jeans, heels.She looks like one of the young women at the bank—sobriety and trustworthiness mixed with a kind ofsingles-bar brassiness.She has been trying to get Daniel’s attention, and now that he has finally seen her she smiles and walks over to his table.

“Hello, Mr.Emerson,”she says.She has put so much color on her lashes it seems a struggle to keep her eyes open.She holds a glass ofbeer with a thin slice oflime floating in its amber.

“Hello, Mercy,”he says.He almost asks,What are you doing here?But, the custom ofthe Bistro prevents such snoopiness.

She takes his smile as an invitation to sit.She arranges herselfcarefully in the bentwood chair, as ifshe were taking her place on a jury.The rim ofher glass is faintly red from her lipstick.“I’ve been thinking about that stuffyou told me,”she says.Her voice drops to a whisper.“About becoming an emancipated minor?”

“It’s a big step, Mercy.It’s basically a desperation move.”

“I really have to get out ofthere,”she replies, and as she says it the man with whom she arrived at the Bistro strides from the bar to Daniel’s table.He is more than twice her age.His name is Sam Holland, he is one ofthe area’s writers, not the most celebrated but possibly the richest, and he is someone Daniel knows.A couple ofyears ago, just when Daniel, Kate, and Ruby were moving back to Leyden, Holland’s teenage son had gotten himself into a lot oftrouble, and Sam had talked to Daniel about handling the kid’s defense.

Whatever chagrin Sam might feel about being away from his wife, or from being seen with a girl two years younger than his son, is nowhere in evidence as he thrusts his hand out and grasps Daniel with a manly grip.

“Hello, Danny,”Sam says.He is wearing a blazer, a white shirt, and blue jeans;his thick, suddenly pewter hair is swept straight back.“How’d your house make it through the storm?”

Daniel thinks about this for a moment.“We took a couple ofhits,”

hesays.

“We were decimated,”Sam says, with a wide, radiant smile.He has dragged a chair over and sits close to Mercy.Daniel imagines their knees are touching.“Were you home for it?”Sam asks.

“Not in the beginning.”

“At least I was home,”Sam says.“That made it semimanageable.

Where were you?”he asks Mercy.

“At my girlfriend’s.They let us out ofschool early and like ten ofus walked over to her house.”

“Party time,”says Sam.

”Kind of, ifyou call not being able to watchTV or wash your hands a party.”

“That’s exactly what I call a party,”he says.“That’s the trouble with your generation, you don’t know a goddamned party when you see one.”

He turns back toward Daniel.“So where were you when the storm hit?”

“I was at HamptonWelles and Iris Davenport’s house,”Daniel says.

”My girlfriend baby-sits their kid,”Mercy says.“He hit her on the head with like a toy truck.She had to get twenty stitches on her scalp, but you can’t see them because the hair’s grown back.”

“That’s a lot to endure for three-fifty an hour,”Sam says.

”Try eight,”Mercy says.

”Well, for eight dollars an hour I might take getting hit by a truck—

you did say it was atoytruck, didn’t you?”He looks at Daniel, as ifhe, at least, would understand the joke:the ways we disfigure ourselves in or-der to put bread on the table.

“No one wants to baby-sit that kid,”Mercy says.“He’s like really really mean.”

“He’s not even five years old,”Daniel says.“Maybe your friends are reacting to something else.”

Mercy, having no wish to antagonize Daniel, and, in fact, wanting only to keep him on her side, lowers her eyes.

“I have to go to the ladies’room,”she says.

As soon as she is safely away, Sam leans closer to Daniel.

”I’m helping her with her homework,”he says, deadpan.

”Take her home, Sam,”Daniel says.“You really have to stop seeing her.Her father’s crazy and a cop, it’s going to end very badly.”

“I know,”Sam says.

“Don’t you worry about her, Sam? Do you know what happens to those girls?They end up dancing in a cage with spangles on their nipples.

You know what I mean?”

“Look, it’s not that simple.I could end up dancing in a cage somewhere, too.”

“You could end up in jail, is where you could end up.She’s a kid.”

“I love her.I’m drawn to her, and I don’t have a list ofreasons why.

It just happened.You think I wanted this? My whole life is in the process ofgoing down the drain.”

“Then do something about it.”

“I tried.Do you have any idea how foolish I feel, being here with…

with someone so inappropriate,”he says.“But the thing is, I can’t help it, I literally cannot help it.Everyone thinks being with a young girl is like finding the fountain ofyouth.The truth is, it’s just the opposite.First of all, I can barely concentrate on sex because I’m so busy sucking in my stomach.And then, when I get out ofbed and I make these little groans, you know, the way a man does, the knee hurts, the back, a little sore shoulder, whatever.You groan, after forty-five you get out ofbed and you make a little noise, I don’t care ifyou’re Peter Pan.So I get up, straighten myselfout, and Mercy’s all breathless, panicked.‘What’s wrong, what’s wrong?’she’s asking.‘Nothing,’I tell her,‘absolutely nothing.’And she says,‘But you were making these noises.’And I have to tell her,‘Honey, that’s what you do when you wake up in the morning.You groan.’And she nods, trying to be a good sport about it, but I swear to God, Daniel, I have never felt so fucking old in my entire life.These guys who think they’re going to get a second at bat in the youth league by hanging out with some young girl, they’ve got it exactly wrong.You want to feel young, find yourselfsome old broad and run circles around her.”

Tonight’s singer is finishing up;the applause sounds like rain on a tin roof.Daniel’s eyes habitually scan the room;he cannot let go ofthe dream ofIris suddenly appearing.He imagines her sashaying through this convivial throng, her sitting next to him, a tilted, slightly apprehensive look ofarrival and surrender on her face, her bony knee knocking against him, her night voice an octave lower, cracked with fatigue, the whites ofher eyes creamy, like French vanilla.

Through the pack ofpeople comes Ferguson Richmond, grinning maniacally, wearing a pair ofcatastrophic brown pants, his hair slicked back.On his arm is the blind girl, MarieThorne, who, though her eyes are secreted behind dark glasses, looks festive and in high spirits.

Ferguson greets him like an old friend, and Marie, too, is effusive.It makes Daniel think that the two ofthem have been talking about him, speculating about his having spent the night at Iris’s, and that now, seeing him here, at the nocturnal headquarters for the town’s transgressors, their hypothesis is proved.Without waiting to be asked, Ferguson drags two more chairs over to Daniel’s table.He sits Marie next to Daniel and then squeezes himself between Sam and Mercy.As he sits, he seems to notice for the first time how young Mercy is—in fact, he does an almost comic double take.

And then, with no apparent provocation, Ferguson reaches across the table and takes Marie’s hand and brings it to his lips, and he kisses her with loud, smacking sounds, almost in a burlesque ofaffection.The ges-ture is shocking and everyone at the table laughs, including Daniel, though the sight ofFerguson’s fantastically uncivilized behavior makes Daniel’s longing for Iris all the more excruciating.

Ferguson sees the dismay in Daniel’s face.“Seen much ofthe lovely Iris Davenport lately?”he asks.

“No,”Daniel says, in a voice not quite able to bear the weight ofeven a one-word answer.

“Old Daniel found himself at her house the first night ofthe storm,”

Ferguson explains to the rest ofthem, curling his fingers into quotation marks when he says“found himself.”

“So he tells us,”says Sam.

At home that night, Kate sips her way through a bottle ofzinfandel and talks on the phone to Lorraine DelVecchio, whom she thinks ofas her best friend, though now that Kate has moved out ofNewYork City, they rarely see each other, and their phone calls, which even a year ago were daily, now take place only two or three times a month, though what they have come to lack in frequency they have made up for in duration.Ex-cept for her undergraduate years spent across the country at Reed Col-lege, where she studied Plato and abused amphetamines, Lorraine has never lived anywhere but Manhattan.When Kate first met her, Lorraine was an editor atCosmopolitan;Lorraine had read Kate’s novel,Peaches and Cream,and had fought to have it excerpted inCosmo,only to be overruled at the eleventh hour by the editor-in-chief.

By the time the deal had fallen through, Lorraine and Kate had already established a telephone rapport.Lorraine loved Kate’s acerbic style, her pitilessness that didn’t stop with the skewering ofsubsidiary characters but also included the novel’s narrator, who was, Lorraine as-sumed, a stand-in for the author herself.But what Lorraine particularly loved about the novel was its depiction ofthe beauty business as a world ofharpies from which intelligent girls must rescue themselves—in fact, it was precisely the novel’s send-up ofdermatology, and its underlying fury at a world that attached such value to appearance, that prevented Lorraine from buying it for her magazine, where halfthe articles and nearly all the advertising were meant to encourage young women to be ceaselessly fretful about their appearance.When running a portion of Peaches and Creamwas torpedoed at the last minute, Lorraine called Kate personally to break the bad news, and she sounded so distressed that Kate agreed to meet her for lunch at the end ofthe week.

Daniel had warned Kate about Lorraine.He didn’t know Lorraine, but he was getting a sense ofthe women who became Kate’s most passionate readers, and he had duly noted the expressions on their faces when they fi-nally met Kate and realized that she, unlike her heroine or themselves, was quite beautiful.Like the heroine, Kate had been entered into Beautiful Baby contests when she was an infant, and her parentsdidopenly grieve when her hair turned from blonde to brown, and they did give her Clairol rinses when she was nine years old and send her to bed with her hair wrapped in a scarfsoaked in lemon juice, and when, at thirteen, a birdshot spray ofpimples appeared on her forehead, her father, a doctor himself, sent her to a dermatologist inWashington, D.C.—but not, as it occurred in the novel, all the way to Zurich.The other indignities visited upon the novel’s teenage narrator—how she wakes up one day with virtually a full mustache, the involvement with a Santeria cult, her entire body being en-cased in defoliating wax, the liposuction performed at midnight like a backstreet abortion—were entirely fictional, as was the section in which the mother’s bridge club accidentally drops the narrator’s diet pills into their coffee, having gotten them confused with saccharin tablets, and the subsequent freak-out, during which the ladies go after each other like wildcats and one ofthem ends up dying ofa heart attack.

“You’ve struck a chord with all women with unfortunate looks,”

Daniel said.“And when they see you they feel ripped off, like you’ve tricked them into believing you’re one ofthem.”

To Kate’s immense relief, the woman she found waiting for her at the RussianTea Room was completely presentable, in fact, great-looking—with short black hair, bright-green dramatic eyes, the serene, commanding face and ample bust ofa figurehead carved into the prow ofa whaling ship.

”Oh, look at you,”Lorraine exclaimed upon first seeing Kate.“You’re gor-geous, you bum.”She clutched her heart.“How could you do this to me?”

The accusation was made humorously and it might have been meant to flatter Kate.Yet she felt she had just been slapped in the face, and de-spite the fact that their rapport soon moved beyond what Kate consid-ered the hallucinogenic stage—a kind ofjokey alternative reality in which Lorraine pretended Kate was ravishing and she herselfwas homely and doomed—and onto a truer rapport, that first remark cre-ated a shadow presence in their friendship.This shadow presence insisted that Kate was the fortunate one and Lorraine, despite her well-paying job, numerous sexual adventures, supportive family, and brownstone apartment with a fireplace and two skylights, was the hard-luck case.It meant that Kate was somehow beholden to equalize things between them, by deferring to Lorraine.

Tonight, Lorraine has a cold, and she uses the first part oftheir phone time complaining about it.Lately, Lorraine has become a little screwy about her health.As she approaches thirty-eight, the age her own mother died of cervical cancer, Lorraine is more and more putting herselfin the care ofnot only doctors but also an acupuncturist, a masseuse, an aromatherapist, two nutritionists, and even a psychic whose specialty is disease.

“I spent the day in bed,”she says.

”For a cold?”Kate asks, hoping her disapproval isn’t apparent.

”Yes, for a cold.And I was in a major O.J.mood.I really wanted to watch the trial in the privacy ofmy own home.Watching it at the office sucks, so many interruptions.”

“So? Did anything happen?”Kate could not watch today’s proceedings because, oddly enough, she was too busy finishing an article about the trial—an article that Lorraine herselfhad commissioned.

“I just had this wild premonition that he was going to crack, and stand up in the middle ofthe court and confess.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“I realize that.How’s the article going?”

“I should be done in a couple more days.”Kate feels the subtle change, she is suddenly in her writer-fending-off-an-editor mode.“Three at the most.”

“It’s not going to do us any good ifthe trial’s over.”

“The trial has got months to go.”

“Not ifhe confesses.What about Daniel?What’s his take on this whole thing? I mean, doesn’t he see it as a kind ofindictment ofthe le-gal profession, this guy who has so obviously assassinated his poor wife and now he’s just dragging out the proceedings, thanks to the efforts of a team ofhigh-priced lawyers, all ofwhom have probably entered into pacts with Satan.”

Kate is silent for a moment.“Daniel’s starting to make noises as ifhe believes O.J.is innocent.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He thinks racist cops might have tampered with the evidence.The Fuhrman thing.He thinks all sorts ofthings.”

“He actually thinks O.J.is innocent?”

“I don’t know.”Here is the hard part.“Let me take a sip ofwine and tell you what I really think.”

“Sip away.”

Kate finishes the entire glass, dabs her palm against her chin, where a single red drop clings, and then refills her glass.

“He has a wicked crush on this black woman and I think he’s tailoring his O.J.opinions to suit her fashion.”

“Oh, Kate, are you sure?”Lorraine’s voice sounds warm, motherly.

Lorraine’s compassion always comes as a sort ofpleasant surprise, though she never fails to show it.

“No, not really.But…I’m pretty sure.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“Oh, just some local mom, a perpetual grad student, with an absentee husband.”

“I’m not getting a clear picture.”

“Her name’s Iris.I really feel like killing her with my bare hands, I feel like O.J.-ing her.She’s reasonably attractive, in a freckly sort ofway.

She hasAdored Daughter Syndrome, she just sort ofsits there and ex-pects all this attention.She has some demented kid who Ruby likes, so there’s all these occasions to get together, Daniel and Iris.You should see them together.Daniel’s entire body becomes one big boner.”

“And you?”Lorraine asks.

”What do you mean?What about me?”

“Are you going to let this temptress take your boyfriend away?”

Lorraine is being far too lighthearted about this, and as a way of telling her so Kate lets that last remark hang in the air for a few extra moments.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Lorraine.When I first started noticing how fixated on this woman he was getting, I thought to myself: Oh well, who cares, live and let live, screw and let screw, whatever.”

“And now?”

“It’s getting to me.It’s having a perverse effect.”

“Oh yes, I know how that works.You’re starting to fall in love with him again, right?”

“Something like that.I don’t require a lot ofcare and feeding, you know.I don’t need to be adored, or ravished, I don’t need little poems slipped under my pillow, or a rose on my breakfast tray.But, I really do notwant him to leave me.That really doesn’t work for me.”

“We’re such idiots.”

“It’s not as ifI felloutoflove with Daniel.”

“I know.”

“I’m used to him, with all the good and bad that implies.Anyhow, we had sort ofan arrangement.We’re both moderates, you know what I mean?We hate excess, neither ofus even likesRomeo and Juliet.I feel be-trayed in that way, too.Suddenly, I sense this willingness in him to be crucified on passion’s cross.Ugh.He’s becoming a different person.”

“And then there’s the small matter ofRuby,”says Lorraine.“I thought he was so devoted to her.”

“I’m not even thinking about that.He’s not going toleaveme.He would never do anything to upset Ruby.He worships her.”

“What’s the café-au-lait absentee husband like?”

“His name is Hampton.”

“Oh God, they have the best names.Hampton what?”

“Welles.He’s Ivy League, Wall Street, so bourgeois he makes Martha Stewart seem like Karen Finley.”

“And does he think O.J.is innocent, too? It would be interesting to find out.”

“I don’t know.O.J.may be a little dark for Hampton’s taste.”

Just then, Kate hears wracking coughs coming from Ruby’s bedroom.She has been in and out ofrespiratory sickness ever since the storm—the ride home on the snowmobile did her in.

“Can you hold on for a minute?”Kate asks.

”Did you get another call? Don’t take it.”

“No, Ruby’s coughing her brains out.I better look in on her.”

“Where’s Danny boy?”

“Out.I’m not actually sure where.”As soon as Kate says this, two things occur:Ruby’s coughing stops, and a heavy, soggy sense ofemo-tional panic settles over Kate.“Oh good,”she says,“false alarm,”while in fact she is just now feeling her first intimations ofreal alarm.

“He’s out and you have no idea where?”Lorraine says.“That’s not likehim.”

“Well, lately it has been.”

“There’s nothing to do up there, nowhere to go.Where does he go?”

“There’s this place in town, a bar.Lately he’s been going there.”

“A bar?”Lorraine’s voice is full ofthe kind ofscorn that tries to masquerade as incredulity.

“It’s not that extraordinary, is it?”Kate tries to sound bemused, but her blood has begun to race.She has an impulse to simply slam the phone down and get in the car, surprise the little fucker right in his new night-time haunt.Yet just as she is about to hang up, she realizes the reason she has called Lorraine in the first place.“We had this monster snowstorm,”

she says.

“I know, I saw it on Fox.Weird.”

“We didn’t have electricity for four days, no heat, no water, nothing.

And we were trapped here, no cars were moving, every road was closed.”

“You should really move back to NewYork.”

“Last year a water main exploded under your street and your entire apartment was filled with mud.”

“True, but at least I had heat.I had lights, I could read.And I could leave, I could go to my health club, I could have a watercress-and-goat-cheese salad at Cafe Luxembourg.”

“It was sort offun, getting back to basics, the three ofus camping out.

And when the snow stopped the sun came out and it was sort ofmild.”

“I don’t ever want to be in a position where I’m glad the sun cameout.”

“But for the first day I was here alone, andthatwas a little weird.”

“Where were Daniel and Ruby?”

“At Iris’s.”

“You’re fucking kidding.”

“And while I was here alone, some boys broke into the house.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s a home for delinquent boys, mostly black kids from the city.

Some escaped during the power outage and they ended up here.”

“Oh my God.Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.They never even saw me.They came in to use the facilities.”

“They shit in your house?”

“In the toilet.”

“Well, that was civilized.”

Kate is about to say something and realizes her voice is suddenly not available to her, it seems submerged.

“Were you hiding?”Lorraine asks.“Where were you?”

Kate takes a deep breath.Okay,she thinks.Steady.“I was pretty scared,”she says.“These were not nice boys.”

“They could have raped you, killed you.”

“I suppose.A tree hit the house and they ran like hell.”

“A tree.”Lorraine snorts contemptuously.“And Daniel was at Iris’shouse.”

“That could not be helped.He couldn’t get home.”

“The poor lamb.Listen to me, Kate.Okay?”

“No, please.Don’t be smarter than me about this, don’t open my eyes to the obvious, I don’t want to be pummeled with your insight.”

“I’m just—”

“I know.I’m just not ready.Anyhow, I’m getting out ofhere.”

“Where are you going?”

“To that bar Daniel’s been hanging out at.Windsor Bistro.”

“Good.And ifhe’s there with her—”

“He’s not.”

“Just remember, ifO.J.can get away with it, so can you.”

After hanging the phone up, Kate sits in her chair and finishes her glass ofwine, waiting for her pulse to stop pounding.She goes to the window at the front ofthe house—the repairman who replaced the panes did a sloppy job and there are smears ofputty on the mullions—and looks out at the night.The sky is a steep dome ofbright stars.The moon is pale and wafer-thin;it casts its light down on the split and top-pled trees around the house;a little patch ofbrightness reflects on the chrome ofher car’s back bumper.

She remembers:Ruby, with a kind ofstart, the way you do when you drive away from the house and suddenly remember you’ve left the stove on.How can she go to theWindsor Bistro and leave Ruby all alone? How far away is it?Ten minutes, okay that’s twenty minutes round-trip.Let’s call it twenty-five, allowing for petty delays.And all she would need is fifteen minutes at the Bistro.That’s forty minutes altogether, and possi-bly a lot less.

She walks into Ruby’s bedroom.The room is softly visible through the glow ofa fairy princess night-light.Kate stands over her daugh-ter’s—her captor’s—bed and gazes down at her.She sleeps on her back, with the satin border ofthe blanket drawn up to her chin.Her skin is creamy, her brows dark and sensuous.Deep childish breaths, with a lit-tle bronchial burr at the end ofeach one.Ruby is a deep sleeper, she plunges down through the barely lit terrain ofher own inner life, one hundred fathoms deep, dreaming ofgigantic doors and talking animals.

She almost never wakes during the night—even those wracking coughs left her sleep undisturbed.Forty-five minutes,thinks Kate.She’ll never know the difference.Yet a moment later anxiety takes its customary spot in Kate’s consciousness, sits with the authority ofan old fortune-teller and turns the cards over one by one:here is the child waking, she is calling your name, here is the furnace leaking noxious fumes, here is an invisi-ble frayed wire festering in the wall, here is a thief, here is a kidnapper, and this card is five black boys coming back for who knows what.What are you thinking?What could possibly be in your mind?You are staying in this house.And he knows it.

[10]

The problem was there was no space to walk in;the woods had imploded.They were walking in circles, continually tripping over vines, stumbling over fallen trees, get-ting scraped by branches, stomping into sudden pools of still water, sometimes walk-ing right into a standing tree.It was strangely insulting, like being toyed with.

Isolated in their despair, they walked for half an hour without speaking.

Then, suddenly, a stretch where last month’s storm seemed to have done little

damage.They walked for three minutes without having to change course.And though they didn’t know what direction they were going in, the mere fact of keep-ing a constant course gave them a bit of encouragement.They were not, after all, in the middle of some vast uncharted wilderness.They were only a hundred miles north of the city.How far could you go without ending up on some stretch of asphalt or in someone’s backyard? But then they reached a devastated grove of locusts, the saplings with bark spiked with thorns, like giant, petrified roses.There were so many of them down on the ground, or leaning against each other in a swoon, that it would have been impossible to get through them or past them even in daylight.

Nightlife.Daniel comes down the stairs.In flannel pajamas, a House ofBluesT-shirt.Here comes the approximate orphan, here comes the almost father, here comes the world’s worst ersatz husband.But he feels none ofthese things.Night is the time ofdesire and love seizes him, shakes him silly.Outside:a gay dancing little flurry ofsnow blows past the porch light.His heart sings like a cello inside his chest.

Being alive is a ceaseless project ofself-forgiveness, and Daniel forgives himself.He knows he is acting badly.He knows he ought to be feverish with shame.But he’s not, he has resisted it, like those doctors who tend a ward full ofinfected patients but who themselves don’t fall ill.Daniel has resisted his own feelings ofguilt, he has become immune to himself.

The beauty ofthe world is, finally, overwhelming, it’s too fragile, too perfect, he must turn away.He faces a wall and glances at the aerial photo-graph ofhis house hanging there.Last year two men appeared at the door, a squared-offpilot with a rough face and a failed mustache, a lanky pho-tographer inTrotsky glasses and a Planet Hollywood satin windbreaker.

For three hundred dollars they offered to fly over the house and take a pic-ture ofit from above.“We can see ourselves as God sees us,”Kate had said, strangely enthusiastic about the idea.The finished product was delivered six months later when the barnstormers were back inWindsor County, and it hangs now in the living room, behind the green sofa.

Daniel, whose lover’s heart has sprouted wings, now is airborne himself, and he enters the photograph in full flight, hovering above his own house and its snow-dappled ten acres.The smoke from his chimney, a slightly darker gray than the cold, sunless air, rises up, stings his eyes.His arms are extended, he swims away from it, wondering ifat any moment he will come crashing down to earth but somehow knowing he is safe.

He points his hands upward, hears the whoosh ofthe air as he zooms to-ward the dawn moon, which remains fully risen, stuck in the sky like a coin frozen beneath a thin sheet ofice.He tucks his chin in, peers down at the little town—the cold air crashes like cymbals against his eyes.

There is the river, a blue-gray serpent upon whose chilly scales the wan-ing moon reflects.The mountains to the west are humped in mist and darkness;the lights ofa few houses and headlights flicker like the sparkle ofdew on the coat ofa sleeping bear.

He flies in through the window ofhis parents’bedroom, where Carl and Julia sleep side by side on their backs, as still as carvings on a sar-cophagus.The electronic numbers on their digital clock, burnt-orange, pulsate in the darkness ofthe room.On Julia’s side ofthe bed, the night table is stacked with books, but all Carl’s table holds is a lamp and a wristwatch, as ifhe already knows everything he cares to know.Upon the old Crouch and Fitzgerald trunk at the end ofthe bed, where extra blankets and fragile quilts are packed in mothballs, they have lain their matching plaid robes.The tidiness and modesty ofthe room makes Daniel ache with love and a mysterious sort ofpity, a pity that is also the deepest kind ofrespect.The room smells ofliniment, eucalyptus, deter-gent, and slow human decay.Daniel hovers above them, wanting to touch them but hesitating, for either he is incorporeal or they are.He rests his ear near his father’s chest, listens to the ruminative thump ofthe old man’s heart.It is time to start spreading all that forgiveness he has been giving to himself.Thank you for feeding me, thank you for sending me to school, thank you for staying the course.He kisses Julia’s cool forehead, a smooth stone in a rushing stream.Thank you thank you.

He backs out through the window, the branches ofa tall hemlock scrape against him as he gains altitude.He sees a police car, the beams of its headlights are going from side to side.He flies alongside it.His old friend Derek Pabst is at the wheel, sipping from a Styrofoam coffee cup, his uniform cap on the seat beside him.He has xeroxed pictures ofthe boys who escaped from Star ofBethlehem taped to the dashboard ofhis car.He is driving fast, his lips are gray and pursed, they are like a wall through which no words can penetrate.Derek pulls offthe county road and speeds across a short, singing bridge onto an unpaved road.His tires churn up long choking curls ofdust.

Daniel is above the river now, sailing past the mansions.He enters Eight Chimneys.Squirrels are in the entrance hall, wildly chasing each other around.The air is cold in the old dank house, colder than outside.

He hears a sound and finds Ferguson in the huge, cluttered, far from clean kitchen in his pajama bottoms, standing in front ofthe refrigera-tor, scratching idly at his pale bare chest.He suddenly grabs the heel of a roast beefand a carton oforange juice, and he heads back upstairs with it, with Daniel following.On the second story ofthe house, Ferguson turns right, walking past a dozen closed doors, until he comes to the staircase to the third floor, where once the servants lived.Marie is wait-ing for him at the top ofthe stairs, naked.Her little tangle ofpubic hair looks particularly black against her colorless skin.The skin around her nipples is wrinkled with cold.She stands on her toes, writhing with hap-piness and anticipation.“Hurry,”she whispers.“I’m so thirsty.”As soon as Ferguson is on the landing, Marie takes the carton oforange juice from him, sniffs it, and then drinks it down.She finishes with a loud, comical Ahhhh,shakes the carton to make sure it’s empty, and then lets it drop and puts her arms around her disheveled, confused lover.He lifts her up as they kiss, she wraps her legs around him.

Daniel flies to Iris’s house with one beat ofhis winged heart, blessing every house beneath him as he sails toward his beloved.She is in bed, awake and alone, propped up with the pillows behind her, and her portable computer resting on the hammock ofblanket between her knees.He lights next to her, puts his arm around her, nuzzles her neck, kisses her cheekbone, the corner ofher eye, and looks at the screen.Dear Daniel,she has written, but that is all.Her fingers rest on the keys.When Kate writes, her expression is avid, she is being fed and enjoying every bite, but Iris has a kind ofshyness even within the privacy ofher own thoughts, as ifshe is observing one part ofherselfwhile the other is half hidden behind a pillar.

Thank you,he says to her.Surely there is some way she can hear this.

Thank you for being so beautiful, thank you for not being too beautiful for me, thank you for your life, thank you for your breasts, let me touch them, can you feel that?That’s my hand, this is my mouth, thank you for being so open and wet, thank you for putting me in your mouth, thank you for grabbing at the sheets when I kissed you between the legs, thank you for digging your fingers into my back, thank you for letting me sit at your table, thank you for letting me play with your dog, thank you for looking at me with your deep clear eyes…

Iris lets out a long sigh and shuts her computer off.She reaches right through him as she places the little Compaq on her night table.She puts the pillows back in their normal places and lies flat, pulls the covers up to her chin.

And it is then that it strikes him:this will not end well.He has exceeded his capacities, he has somehow gotten more than he deserves, he has the sudden terrible knowledge that happiness ofthis magnitude can only lead to sorrow.Joy lifts you up and joy casts you down.

Now she is turning offthe lamp on the night table.Her touch is too emphatic, the lamp totters, but she catches it before it falls, sets it right.

Good girl.He lies next to her in the darkness, no living ghost has ever loved more fervently.He brings his nose almost into the crook ofher neck and breathes her in, the smell oflaundered cotton, and some inef-fable spice.

Airborne again, flying close to the treetops, heading home.He slips into his own bed, Kate is sleeping deeply.A scent ofalcohol comes off her skin.He props himself up on one elbow, disentangles a few ofher hairs that have gotten stuck into the moist corner ofher mouth.“I’m sorry,”he whispers into her ear.

She opens her eyes.She looks damaged, badly used.“What did you say?”she asks.

[11]

They continued to walk, hoping to find a clearing, a way out.Once, most of this land was pasture, grazed by cattle, but it hadn’t seen a plow in over a hundred years and left to its own had become a wild place.They climbed yet another hill—this might have been steeper because they both had to hold on to trees to pull them-selves up, or else they were getting tired.

And once they had scaled it, all they could see was more trees—except on one

side, where there was a sharp drop-off, leading to what looked like a large pond filled with black water.

“We came from that direction,”Hampton said uncertainly.He was pointing

down the hill upon which they stood, and off to the left.The night was gathering quickly, the darkness was rushing in like water through the hull of a ship, cover-ing everything.

Kate has prevailed upon Daniel to take a day and a night away from home, together, and he cannot decently refuse her.They leave Ruby with Carl and Julia, and then head out oftown on County Road100A, a curving blacktop that winds its way past Leyden’s two surviving com-mercial dairy farms—sagging wire fences, Delft-blue silos, black-and-white Holstein cows—until it runs into aT-junction, at which they turn onto the road to Massachusetts, where Kate has booked them a room—

their old room, their first room—at a huge ramshackle hotel in Stock-bridge called the Sleeping Giant Inn.

On the drive, Kate reads to Daniel from the article she has just written about the O.J.Simpson case.As Kate reads, Daniel is silent, his jaw set, his eyes hooded—she has never seen him pay such fanatical attention to highway conditions, even the shadows ofthe wind-rocked hemlocks make him brake, he is continually readjusting his side and rearview mir-rors, changing the tilt ofthe steering wheel, checking the gas and tem-perature gauges, anything to escape her two thousand words on O.J.

Kate realizes that bringing up the case is not the best way to begin their Saturday getaway, but, perversely, she is unable to refrain.She isn’t about to pretend that she has the slightest sympathy for a man who so wantonly committed murder and who is now trying to buy his way out ofit.And she cannot help but feel that ifshe can only find the right fact, the right tone, the right line oflogic, then Daniel himself will snap out ofhis ridiculous spell and see, as everyone else she knows and respects sees, that O.J.is as guilty as the Boston Strangler, or Richard Speck, or any of the other monsters.

“What do you think?”she asks.They are just turning offtheTaconic, onto the road to Stockbridge, where there is an old roadside diner, with a neon sign showing a vast, noble Indian.

“Inadmissible,”he says.

”Probably,”Kate answers.“It’s for a magazine.You know? For people sitting under hair dryers.”Yet she cannot let his legal point stand un-questioned.“But why couldn’t such information be used in court? Itis relevant that he’s been violent in the past, it helps establish a pattern of solving domestic issues in a completely brutal manner.”No, this is not what she wants them to be talking about, but she can’t give up the search for the right words, the verbal alchemy that would bring him around.

Even as she drills through layer after layer ofmurk, she keeps her hopes up for the ultimate strike, that surging thrilling gusher ofepiphanous recognition.

“I think ifI were accused ofsome terrible crime,”Daniel says slowly, seemingly as reluctant as Kate to discuss this case,“a lawyer or a writer could probably find some old girlfriend who’d be willing to trash me.”

“Well, I certainly never would.No matter what anybody said, I would always think you were a good man.”

He glances at her and colors.It looks for a moment as ifhe might even cry, and Kate thinks to herself:Good.One for my side.

The early afternoon train from Leyden pulls into Penn Station, and Iris, who has slept most ofthe ride and who nevertheless can barely keep her eyes open, stands up unsteadily and pulls her black nylon travel bag down from the overhead rack.She has packed one change ofclothes, a night-gown, a plastic zippered bag full oftoiletries (including her diaphragm), and a couple ofthick, heavy books—what Hampton calls, in his Johnny Carson voice,“weighty tomes”—she has been meaning to read for thesis research purposes, and which take up more room than everything else she has brought with her to NewYork.She has settled into a kind offugue-state ofemotional neutrality, allowing the two hours’silence and the rhythmic rocking ofthe train to lull her into a strange, sad peacefulness.

She realizes this time in the city alone with Hampton may well require ofher a degree ofwatchfulness, a certain deftness ofemotional ma-neuvering.

The arrangement is that she will taxi down to the apartment, and Hampton—who is meant to play squash at the DowntownAthletic Club with a Jamaican rum bottler—will meet her there no more than halfan hour later.But as soon as Iris steps offthe train, she sees Hampton wait-ing for her on the platform, craning his long neck and trying to pick her out ofthe stream ofarriving passengers.She knows this is meant to pleasantly surprise her, but the sight ofhim makes her spirits plummet.

He looks like a teacher striding down the rows ofdesks, passing out the questions to a surprise quiz.

He sees her.He raises his hand to signal her and she sees that—horrors—he is holding a long-stemmed rose.He has undoubtedly bought it from one ofthe vendors right here in Penn Station, but nevertheless he waves the flower at her, to signal her that this Saturday in Manhattan is meant to be one ofhigh romance.

“What happened to your squash game?”Iris says, as Hampton kisses her cheek, takes her bag offher shoulder and hefts it onto his.

“I wanted to meet you,”he says.

This leaves the question about his squash game unanswered.It isn’t like Hampton to put personal life over business—actually, Iris has always likedthis aspect ofhim—and she suspects he is here on the warm, smoky, stinking-of-diesel-fuel platform because his game has been cancelled.

She lags behind him as they make their way out.There’s an escalator, but Hampton always chooses the stairs, for the sake offitness.She ad-mires his body as she walks behind him.He is wearing his Saturday at-tire:khaki pants, a white polo shirt under a dark-green cashmere sweater, brown loafers.Even his casual clothes are carefully chosen, crisply ironed, but ofcourse there are no casual occasions for Hampton, not at the dinner table, not in bed, and certainly not out in public.

“Everything okay up in the country?”he asks.“How’s Nellie?”

She doesn’t bother to answer.He doesn’t really expect an answer, he’s just recording the fact that he’s asked.Yet when they reach the main hall ofthe station, Hampton surprises her and repeats the question.

“Everything cool with Nellie?”

The simple, truthful answer would be:No.Nelson has been agitated, clingy, explosive, nagging, and oppositional.He has been putting Band-Aids on his hands and knees without any physical reason for doing so.He has been cruel to Scarecrow to the point where the usually patient and forgiving old dog will leave the room when she hears Nelson’s footsteps.

Every night since the storm—except when Hampton has been home—Nelson has come into her bed between midnight and two and slept there until he woke both himself and his mother by peeing his pajamas.And when she has whispered to him,“Nelson, get up, let’s change your pj’s,”

he has screamed at her like some crazed motorist on the freeway after a fender-bender.This morning, when she was backing her car out ofthe driveway, he was straining to break free ofIris’s sister, who had driven her sporty little green Mazda up from Baltimore two days earlier to spend a little time with Iris before the weekend, and to give Nelson time to get used to her.Whatever level oftrust and comfort he had reached seemed to be obliterated by the sight ofIris actually leaving:he was not only kicking and howling but he was also trying to sink his teeth into his aunt’s restraining hand.

“He’s okay,”Iris says.“He was nervous about my leaving, but he loves Carol, so that made it a little easier.”

“He’ll be fine,”Hampton says.He dislikes Carol, thinks ofher as promiscuous, brassy, silly, unread;he cannot bear her prattling on about her real estate business.She is unmarried, her days are full ofoffice tasks and her nights are full ofboyfriends.Yet he cannot say anything critical ofCarol, not now.It was, after all, his idea that he and Iris spend the weekend alone in the city together, and it was, he supposed, up to her to choose who would mind Nelson.

He knows that the energy is down between them right now and he has a pretty clear idea what the trouble is:she feels neglected, the ro-mance oftheir life together has been subsumed by dailiness, it’s an old story, even the men he sees in business, with whom he almost never has a personal conversation, hint that their own clever wives grumble about the lack ofattention being paid to them, even ifthe wives themselves are in business, making deals, returning calls through the night.And Iris feels isolated, maybe even abandoned up there in Leyden—it cannot help but add to the mix ofIris’s difficulties that she is swimming in a white sea.

And so, without exactly planning it that way, Hampton escorts her on a black tour ofManhattan:lunch at a black-owned, mostly black-frequented restaurant in the theater district, a place oflarge comfortable booths andArt Deco mirrors, where gorgeous black women in black pants and black silk shirts serve them crab cakes and collard greens, and after lunch a cab ride up near Harlem, where Hampton shows Iris a block ofderelict brownstones a developer is in the process ofsnapping up.The developer is looking for investors and he has come to Hampton to help him put together an offering statement, but what Hampton wants to know is ifIris thinks it might make sense for they themselves to put in one hundred thousand dollars, that way they could make a little money and do a little good, it’s always nice when the two can be com-bined.FromAmsterdamAvenue, they go to a newly opened Black Cul-ture Museum, which was inaugurated with some fanfare onAdam Clayton Powell Boulevard a month ago, and which turns out to be not much more than a storefront but has a nice exhibition ofnineteenth-century photographs.The place is filled with people whom one does not normally see in a museum—church ladies dressed like birds ofparadise in their vermilion, chartreuse, and salmon dresses, and wrinkled old men in baggy suits.

After, Iris and Hampton take a taxi all the way down to Jane Street, through crawling, seething, honking Saturday traffic.Hampton, to keep himself from staring at the taxi’s meter, and to make the most ofhis time with Iris, does something that is not exactly his style:he begins to kiss her, right there in the cab, with the Chinese driver undoubtedly spying on them.Iris has always been the one pushing them to be a little cozier with each other in public, the one sort ofthing that struck Hampton as exhibitionist, distasteful, and, frankly, unsafe—you never knew who would be triggered by the sight oftwoAfrican-Americans kissing.And now, when he is not exactly in the mood for public display but never-theless feeling that a little conjugal vulgarity might be just what the doc-tor ordered, he discovers that he has, alas, been successful in training Iris away from kissing in cabs:her lips barely respond to his, and when he presses them more forcefully against her, she gently shoves him away and looks at him as ifhe were a naughty little boy, or a fool.“I feel a little sick from that lunch,”she says apologetically.“I think the crab might have been a little off.”And then, as ifshe were systematically obliterating the day, like someone knocking the heads offflowers with a walking stick, she says,“I don’t think we should be investing in those apartment houses, Hampton, I really don’t.I think they’re depressing, and all those devel-

opers are going to do is make them suitable for some gullible buppies and I don’t want to be a part ofthat.”

Back at the apartment, Iris looks at the eastern sky;a few clouds are tinged with the reflected red glow ofthe setting sun.The windows ofthe Sheridan Square buildings and, further east, FifthAvenue, blaze irides-cent orange.Below, the cars are suddenly turning on their headlights, the light streaming from them as cool as the moon.Hampton is in the bath-room and has been for several minutes.He has never gone into a bath-room without taking an inordinate amount oftime.She has never asked him what takes him so long, she doesn’t know and has never wanted to know.Maybe he has some disorder he is keeping secret from her.Maybe he just needs to be by himself for fifteen minutes a few times a day.Right now, she is glad for the privacy;she cannot shake that sense ofbeing un-prepared for an examination, or perhaps a cross-examination.

She sees Hampton’s reflection in the window, coming at her, superimposed over the skyline, floating like a ghost.He has taken offhis sweater and hisT-shirt and, unless she is mistaken, he seems to be shim-mying toward her, in a kind ofCalypso rhythm.Iris understands that Hampton, when he needs her, feels vulnerable and somehow trapped be-neath the ice ofhis dignity.Often, he will cover his own desire with a protective irony.She has in the past found it endearing, but now his lit-tle dance seems ludicrous, and a little demeaning.He visits the pleasures ofher body like a tourist who behaves on vacation in a way he never would dream ofat home.And like the tourist who raves about the island hospitality, there is, in Hampton’s adoration ofher, a bit ofcolonial con-descension.She is his refuge from the hard realities oflife.He has de-cided that she is more natural than he, more in tune with the primordial—motherhood, cooking, listening, fellatio, that sort ofthing.

She goes to bed with him;to refuse him this afternoon would be unwise, unthinkable.She feels he is trying to impress her, to renew his claim on her, and, even as it breaks her heart and makes her feel she is the most unfaithful, unworthy woman who ever drew breath, all ofHampton’s exertions cannot dislodge her mind from its secret orbit around her memories ofDaniel.

Each ofHampton’s kisses is not only what it is but what it is not.

She puts one hand on Hampton’s chest, grabs his hip with the other.

She shrinks back from him until he is dislodged and then she turns over, presses her forehead to the mattress, puts her arms out over her head, raises up on her knees.He is covered in perspiration.He is behind her, she is beginning to pick up his personal scent making its way through the layers ofIrish soap and Italian cologne.He is saying her name, low, gut-tural.Then there is a moment’s silence as he aligns himself with her and then she feels him going back into her.She squeezes herselfaway from him, grabs his cock, and then, rocking back, presses the head ofit against her anus.She is relatively dry, but he is slick, oily.His breath catches when he realizes what she is proposing.

“Are you sure?”he whispers.

”Yes.Do it.Just do it.”

He sprawls across her, his weight is crushing.He opens the drawer of his night table and takes out a jar ofsome sort ofcoconut-scented cream.

Her eyes are closed now, she doesn’t want to get involved in the practi-calities.She hears the plastic whisper ofthe lid being unscrewed, and then hears Hampton’s suddenly belabored, overly excited breathing.He scoops some ofthe cream up and then throws the jar onto the floor.He slaps the cream onto her, gruffand impersonal.She can feel the warmth ofhis fingers behind the slimy chill ofthe cream.And then he is astride her again.Whenever they have done this she has imagined her mother walking in.He is finished in moments.

He falls to his side ofthe bed, covers his eyes with his forearm.

”Did I hurt you?”he whispers, not looking at her.

”No.A little.I’m fine.”She is wondering what she will say when he asks her ifshe wants to come, too.But he is not his usual obliging self.

“I feel afraid oflosing you, Iris.”

She is silent.The room has gotten suddenly darker, colder.She scrambles to get under the covers.The weight ofHampton’s body presses the sheet and blankets down on her.

“Should I be?”he asks.He raises himself up on his elbows, looks at her through the corners ofhis eyes.She feels his keen, predatory intelligence.

He ought to have been a lawyer, he loves to come after you with ques-tions.“Is there any reason I should feel as worried as I do?”

“What are you asking me, Hampton?”she manages to say.She has history on her side;he has been suspicious and jealous for the entirety of their marriage, and even before.“Is this why you asked me to come to the city?To ask me thesequestions?”

He is silent.She can feel him retreating, but it doesn’t feel like he’s going veryfar.

The Sleeping Giant is a huge white clapboard hotel, with shuttered win-dows and rickety iron fire escapes.The first time they arrived, just a few weeks into their relationship, it was on one ofthose dark-blue autumn evenings, when the last ofthe sunset outlines every hill.But today, the sky is cement, there will be no sunset, and their original room, which Kate has requested, is not as they remember it.Daniel and Kate stand there, looking at the four-poster bed, which looks noisy and uncomfort-able, and which takes up more than halfthe room’s space, and at the lit-tle secretary desk, and the grim little GE television set on a metal rolling table, and the beige wallpaper with its pattern ofoverly vivid, practically rapacious peonies.Daniel sees the disappointment on Kate’s face.“I think there’s something sort ofnice about this room,”he says.

“It’s changed,”says Kate.

”Well, we’ve all changed.The room’s probably having a hard time recognizingus.”

She feels the generosity ofwhat he is saying and for a moment it draws her to him, but quickly it crosses her mind:he canaffordto be gen-erous, he is that happy, that full oflife.

Now, at the Sleeping Giant, they leave their room, first for the main desk, where Kate uses the fax machine to send her article in to Lorraine, and then on to the Dragon’s Lair, one ofthe hotel’s two bars.It’s a dark room, with old scarred tables and poster-sized photos oftheThree Stooges on the wall.The free happy-hour snacks have a contemporary flair—little chunks ofsesame chicken and fried plantain simmer in the aluminum warming trays—and the music is supplied by a heavy, open-faced young man in a turtleneck sweater singing songs by U2and REM and accompanying himself on the guitar.

“Sit, sit,”Kate says, pointing Daniel toward an empty table.“I’ll get us some drinks.What do you want?A Heineken?”She barely waits for an an-swer.As she hurries toward the bar, she calls to him over her shoulder,“Score us some apps.”She cringes at the sound ofher voice—she sounds to herself like some office flirt.Still, she is glad she is the one talking to the bartender; she doesn’t want Daniel involved in how much she will be drinking.

TheTV above the bar is tuned to a Saturday afternoon football game being played in Florida.The male cheerleaders are tossing the women high into the dark-blue air.The bartender is a man in his sixties, tall and stately, with delicate broken veins in his hollow cheeks and thick author-itative eyebrows.He looks like a New England Protestant patriarch, he should be a county judge, and Kate wonders what wrong turns have brought him to this place, standing behind a noisy bar wearing a red cut-away jacket and a black bow tie.

“I’d like a largeTanqueray martini, no olives, no ice, very dry, and a Heineken,”Kate says.

The bartender narrows his vaporous blue eyes, while his trembling hands, dappled like the hide ofa fawn, worry the silver tops ofthe mix-ers slotted into the inside ofthe bar.“I’m going to have to see some sort ofID,”he says pleasantly.

“Are you serious?”

“A driver’s license, preferably.”

“You’re making my day.”She waits, but the bartender doesn’t move.

“What’s the drinking age in Massachusetts?”she asks.“Forty?”

When Kate gets back to the table, she finds Daniel has struck up a conversation with a couple at an adjoining table.The man, who appears to be about fifty, wears a heavy blue fisherman’s sweater;his short hair is the color ofpewter, and his skin is richly, intensely black.The woman with him, who, as Kate approaches, has reared her head to let out peals ofshrill laughter, is young and white.She wears a short, spangled skirt that Kate thinks would be risky even for a woman with long, slim legs.

Kate simply cannot help thinking this, that the black man might very well be blinded by the woman’s whiteness as well as her youth, and has not yet noticed her stockiness.

“Kate!”Daniel says, with an odd excess ofenthusiasm, the way men do when they’ve been caught at something and are trying to pretend everything is just great.

Kate sits and Daniel makes the introductions.The man’s name is Erick Ayinde;his accent is a mixture ofBritish and something else far more ex-otic, which Kate guesses isAfrican.The woman’s name is Christine Kirk; she speaks softly, carefully, as ifin vigilance against her real voice.

“Erick’s a private detective,”Daniel announces.

”Really,”says Kate.“Imagine.”

“Daniel tells us you’re a writer,”Erick says.

”I wish I had more time to read,”Christine says.“I love books.Do you think you might have written something I’ve read?”

“I’m not sure,”Kate says.“Tell me what you’ve read.”

Daniel has heard this reply before and knows he must laugh to cover the aggression ofit.

“And what about you, Christine?”Kate says.She takes a long drink ofher martini.Too muchvermouth, it tastes slimy.“Are you a detec-tive, too?”

“Yes, I am, an investigator,”Christine says, with a small, satisfied smile.She knows she has been underestimated.“Erick and I were in busi-ness together, but it gotwaytoo incestuous.”

“What kind ofdetective work do you mostly do?”Kate asks.

“Matrimonial?”

“Not so much ofthat,”Christine says.

”Mostly business and industrial,”Erick says.

”And missing persons,”says Christine.“Which I prefer.”

“Do you mind ifI ask you something a little on the personal side,”

Daniel suddenly says.

“The personal side is our bread and butter,”Erick says, smiling.He tilts back in his chair, drapes his arm around Christine.

“I take it you two are married?”

“Correct,”says Erick.

”Do you get a lot ofhassle, being an interracial couple?”

Kate cannot believe he has asked this question.It is not so much its considerable impertinence, but that it reveals what is really on Daniel’s mind.

“Do you want to handle this?”Erick says to Christine.

”No, it’s okay.You go ahead.”

“Well, first ofall, thank you for your question.Actually, Chrissy and I wonder why more people don’t ask us about this.Even our friends fail to ask us what it feels like to be going through this experience.”

Here, Christine interrupts.“Short answer? It’s extremely trying.

We’re always being looked at.”

“Or pointedly ignored,”adds Erick.“We live in Beacon Hill, in an upscale neighborhood.So, in a way, we’re sheltered from some ofthe more virulent forms ofracism.We live in a cocoon.Where we shop, where we eat, it’s not a problem.”

“I see things Erick doesn’t,”Christine says.“I see it in their eyes.”

“I can live with what’s in their eyes,”says Erick.

This is a fucking nightmare,Kate thinks.Our evening is being hijacked by

these people.And I have to sit here while Daniel fantasizes about Iris by proxy.

“But how does it affect your relationship?”Daniel asks.He has always had this earnest wide-eyed aspect to his personality, but it has never seemed so infantile and jejune to Kate before.She feels like dragging him from the bar by his hair.“It seems to me that it would either tear you apart or cement you together.”

“Oh, we circle the wagons, ifthat’s what you mean,”says Erick.“No question but that sharing the antipathy ofsmall-minded people bonds us.

But that’s not our marriage’s source ofstrength.”

“Then what is?”asks Daniel.

His behavior reminds Kate ofsomething her English publisher once said aboutAmericans, how they can say more to a stranger on an airplane than an Englishman generally says to his closest friend.

“Well, what binds us is what people said would drive us apart—our differences,”Erick says.“The terrible trap married people fall into is be-lieving that their spouse is actually a version ofthemselves, and that they will act as they act, want what they want, believe what they believe.

When the spouse fails to do this, when, let’s say for argument’s sake, the husband acts in some contrary way, the wife cannot help herselffrom be-lieving he is doing so just to annoy her, or out ofdisrespect, whereas he may very well be acting in accordance with how he was raised, his own particular psychological dynamic, but she can’t see this clearly because she feels that fundamentally they are the same, two sides ofthe same coin, as much brother and sister as husband and wife.”

Kate looks in wonder at Daniel, who is rapt, as ifthis blowhard were some sort offucking oracle.She casts wildly about in her mind, trying to come up with a gesture or phrase that could instantly extricate them, move them on to dinner or, better yet, back up to their room, their dear, old, immemorial room, where, Kate thinks, they can screw their way back into each other’s good graces.

“But with Chrissy and me,”Erick continues,“our differences are obvious and undeniable.I was born in Nairobi, educated inWales and Mon-treal, and then PaloAlto, and she comes fromWorcester, Massachusetts, her father was a policeman;and we bear this in mind, all ofit, the whole curious burden ofhistory.Our life together is a constant struggle to un-derstand.We have no assumptions, and few expectations.It’s a journey, do you see?”

“I do,”says Daniel.“I see what you mean.”

“How’d you two happen to meet?”Kate asks.“I’m curious.”

“Erick was one ofmy professors at Boston College,”Christine says.

“‘Controversies inTwentieth-Century Criminology.’”

Kate smiles.“Really,”she says,“I thought universities sort offrowned on things like that.”

“Kate!”Daniel says, admonishing her, but in a somehow teasing way, as ifshe were merely being irascible and eccentric.

IfErick and Christine feel insulted by Kate’s remark, they nevertheless remain serene.“How about you?”Erick asks.“How did you two hap-pen to meet?”

Kate notices a familiar face on theTV above the bar—it’s a flushed, balding, stocky man who looks like a sinister presence in a German Ex-pressionist painting.His name is Otto Fisher and he is one ofthe net-works’main correspondents at the Simpson trial.What’s he doing onTV on a Saturday?

“Shhh,”Kate says to Daniel, Erick, and Christine.They look at theTV and Christine lets out a little groan ofdispleasure.“Bartender?”Kate calls out.“Would you turn the volume up? Please.”

Otto Fisher is standing in front ofthe courthouse in LosAngeles, looking hot and displaced in his dark suit with the bright-blue sky behind him.He has gotten word that one ofthe lawyers defending Simpson is threatening to quit the so-called DreamTeam because he is objecting to the strategy ofplaying the so-called Race Card.The lawyer is quoted as saying,“As this trial has proceeded, it has become more and more about politics—especially the politics ofrace—and less and less about the let-ter ofthe law.I believe in Mr.Simpson’s innocence, but I also believe in the law…”

“That motherfucker,”Kate says, shaking her head.“He believes in the law like he believes in the tooth fairy.”She picks up her martini, discovers it empty.“He spends months helping to drag prosecution witnesses through the slime, and then suddenly he’s too delicate to stay on the case?”

“I’ve never seen such a fuss made over a trial in all my life,”Erick says.

”That glorified ambulance chaser is leaving because he knows O.J.’s going to be found guilty,”says Kate.“Mark my words.He’s covering his own fat ass.And he hates the new DNA guy, there’s total conflict be-tween them.”

“You seem to know a great deal about the personalities involved,”

Erick says.

“Oh, forget it.I’m totally addicted to this trial.”

“I wonder why.”

“You wonder why?”Kate says.“The man killed his wife.”

“Probably, but who knows?”

“He killed his wife.”

“Well, surely he’s not the first man in history to commit such a crime.Why all the attention this time?”Erick says.

“Yes, I wonder,”says Christine.

”That’s ridiculous,”says Kate.“He’s rich, he’s famous, he’s greatlooking, and he killed his wife.Why wouldn’t the world pay attention?”

“You don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that he’s a man of color married to a white woman?”asks Erick.

“You know,”Kate says,“ifmen ofcolor murder their white wives, it’s still against the law.”

Erick is about to say something but stops himself and instead emits a breathy, contemptuous laugh.

“What about you, Daniel?”Christine asks.“Didn’t you say you were a lawyer?”

“I’m glad I’m not on the jury,”Daniel says.“I find myselfthinking one thing one day and another the next.I was a huge fan ofO.J.’s when he was playing ball.”

“No, you weren’t,”says Kate.This is mutiny, out-and-out betrayal.

Daniel seems to her to be actually making things up.“You don’t give a shit about sports.”

Erick places a twenty-dollar bill on his check and then stands up so abruptly he almost tips his table over.“I think it’s time for dinner, Chrissy,”he says in a tight, enraged voice.He makes a brisk Prussian nod in Daniel’s direction and says,“Good evening, Daniel.”

Daniel starts to stand up, but Erick gestures for him to remain seated.Christine gathers her purse and her angora shawl and in a few moments the two ofthem are gone.

“My God,”Daniel says, shaking his head.He is visibly upset.“How did that happen?”

“I will quote Czeslaw Milosz,”Kate says.“‘In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy ofsilence, one word oftruth sounds like a pistol shot.’”

“Is that what that was?The overwhelming sound oftruth?”

His eyes look reptilian and blank as he says this, and Kate thinks,I

have my work cut out for me.

They leave the bar with the vague thought ofgoing on to dinner, not because either ofthem is hungry but because it is dark now and it just seems time.As they make their way toward the dining room, Kate takes Daniel’s arm and says, in a kind ofhaunted-house scared voice,“What if they’rehaving dinner now, too?”What she hopes for is that Daniel will shudder, too, and they’ll be bonded by their wish to see no more ofEr-ick and Christine, and that, further along, the story ofthe old black de-tective and his dumpy young white wife will become a part oftheir own lovers’folklore, taking its place in that shared history ofmishaps and faux pas that constitute the fabric ofall enduring relationships.

But Daniel is not amused.He stops short and then says,“You’re right, we can’t go in there.So?What do you propose?”

What she proposes is they go back to their room.“It’s too early to eat,”she says.“In the old days we never had dinner before nine o’clock, sometimes we’d eat at midnight.”

“That was in NewYork.Ifwe wait too long out here, we’re going to end up with a bag ofchips from some Seven-Eleven.”

“Well, at least let’s wait until nine, or even eight-thirty.”She wants to get him into their room.It’s time for her to be abject, it’s time for her to worship him, to go through all the phallocentric rituals.She tugs at him, she hopes it feels playful to him but she wonders ifperhaps she’s pulling a little too hard.Everything’s a notch or two off, he’s really mak-ing her work for this, he’s putting her through the mill, and once she wins him back he will have to be punished for this, not severely, not even so he will know he is being punished, but he will suffer nevertheless.As God is my witness, I will never be humble again.

Room301.Now that they are back in their old room, it occurs to Kate that this four-poster bed with its dourYankee spread and foam rub-ber pillows is hardly a monument to ecstasy.That first night together had been awkward, tense, a bit ofa botch.We accomplished it but we weren’t very accomplishedis how she described it to a friend.There’s a lot to be said for establishing a friendship before sex, there’s a sweetness to it and even a possible synergy, but in their particular case all ofthose hours ofcon-versation and chastity were not so much a prelude to sex as an alterna-tive.She and Daniel had already established routines that had nothing to do with sex, they had learned to be relaxed with each other, they had de-veloped a sense ofsafety, and as wonderful as those things were, they had very little to do with the fierceness and desire, the mindlessness and abandon oferotic joy.Their friendship cast a pall over their lovemaking.

The friendship needed not only to be overcome but jeopardized, re-nounced.

“Remember our first night here?”Kate says, sitting on the edge ofthe bed, patting the mattress and inviting him to join her.“We were so shy.”

“Yes,”Daniel says.“I remember it well.”His back is to her, he is standing at the window, looking out at the town’s main street.A truck is go-ing by, the sound ofits grinding gears like the roar ofa lion.Workmen have set up ladders and they are braiding Christmas lights around the poles ofthe streetlights and through the branches ofthe maple trees.

“Don’t you want to sit next to me?”Kate says.She means for this to sound teasing, and that slightly pleading tone ofvoice is meant as a kind ofsend-up ofthe whole notion ofa woman trying to get a man’s atten-tion, but the satire is leaden.It’s too true to be amusing.

“You were really weird with the people down there,”Daniel says.

”I know, it’s fine.They’re offsomewhere circling the wagons.”

“I don’t know why you did that,”Daniel says, shaking his head.

”Why were you so interested in them?”Kate asks.She can’t help her-

self, the self-righteousness in his voice offends her.“Because they’re an interracialcouple?”

“My God, listen to you,”Daniel says.The dull sheen seems to be lifting from his eyes, he is coming alive suddenly.“You really have a prob-lem with it.You feeling a little racist in your old age?”

“My old age? How fucking dare you.”

“You see?You’re more worried about your age than you are about being called racist.”

“Well, my dear, the fact is that Iamgetting older, so I’m sensitive to it.And the fact also is that I amnotracist, so I’m not sensitive to that.

Okay?”

“You’re obsessed with the Simpson case, and the Star ofBethlehemkids—”

“Those black delinquents were in our house and it seems like you’re ontheirside.”

“I’m not on their side.But the fact is, halfthe kids in that place are locked up because they’re black.You know it, I know it, everybody knows it.”

“They were in our house,”says Kate, her voice rising.“How did I know what they were going to do?They could have easily killed me, or raped me, or both.I was alone, I was completely alone.”She is standing now.She walks toward Daniel, stops.They are facing each other, less than a foot apart.“While you were all cozy and warm at Iris Davenport’s house.”

“I know, I know,”says Daniel softly.“It must have been frightening.

I’m sorry.”

“What was really going on at that house, Daniel?”Kate says.She reaches for him, but he moves away.

“Let’s not do this, Kate.”

“It’s too late for that, Daniel.I want to know what was really going on in that house.”

“We were snowed in, just like everybody else.”

“I know you were snowed in.That’s not what I’m asking.”

Daniel shrugs, as ifunable to imagine what more she could want.

”What I’m asking is did you sleep with her?”As soon as the words are out, she regrets them.And in the ensuing silence she casts frantically about for some way to turn this conversation around, or off.Is it pos-sible to simply throw her arms around him and say,Never mind, I don’t wanttoknow? It seems she could go for decades not knowing, but ifthe knowledge is there it will pierce her, it will shoot its poison into her, and then she will have to save herselffrom it.

“Well?”she says.“You’re very quiet.”

He backs up a little, he seems to be shaking.He seems to have an appetite but no talent for treachery.“What do you want me to say, Kate? I don’t know what to do here.”

“What kind ofquestion is that?You want my fucking guidance, for Christ’s sake? Just tell me, get it over with.Did you sleep with her?”

“Yes.I’m sorry.I did.”

For a moment, she doesn’t believe him.He’s just throwing it in her face, giving her a taste ofwhat it would be like, trying to shock her into shutting up.And then the moment passes, and she still does not believe him, yet at the same time, she knew it all along.

“Did you really?”she says, sitting on the bed again.

”I’m sorry, Kate.It kills me to think ofhurting you.”

Kate laughs, but she can see by his expression that laughter, or any other sign ofinstability, will be playing right into his hand.He would like nothing more than to withdraw into the relative safety ofdeciding she’s a little crazy right now.

“I think we should leave,”he says.

”Really?Any place in particular? Do you have a hot date or something?”

“No,”he says quietly.

”Do you mind ifI ask you a question?”she asks.“Would that be all right?”

He shrugs.His eyes are suddenly bright red, as ifthe sight ofher is like knives going into them.

“Are you in love with her?”

He is trying to say something, but his lips are trembling, he will not allow himself to cry, he will not try to elicit her sympathy.He nods his head.

“Is that a yes I see?”The handle toward my hand.Come let me clutch thee.

He covers his face.It seems suddenly important to Kate, a matter of life and death, that he not do that.She springs from the bed, grabs his hands, and pulls them down.His face is soaked with self-pity.

“Get out ofhere!”she screams.“Just get out ofhere!”

He backs away, gives her a wary look, somehow implying that the problem between them is her mental health.He seems to like the idea of just getting out ofthere.His hand is on the door, but he keeps his eyes on her, as ifshe might attack him.Is he going to take the car? Drive back to Leyden, go right to Iris’s house?I told her, she knows,he’ll say.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.You said…”

“No, don’t go.We’re going to work this out, okay?”

“Kate.”

“Get another room, but you’re not leaving me here.You can sleep in another room, you can dream ofyour little sweetheart in peace.But you’re not taking the car and abandoning me.We’re going to work this out in the morning, or whenever.But I’m not letting you do this, you understand me?You’re not doing this to Ruby, or to yourself, or me.”

“Kate, I think we just have to move on.”

“Move on?What kind oftalk is that? Move on.What are we? Cowboys?You get another room and we’ll talk in the morning.”

He stands there.He is silent.He closes his eyes.Is this an act ofcontrition, or is he weighing his options?

“All right,”he says.

Her heart floods with relief.His agreeing to get another room gives her a sense ofdirection and triumph.She has come up with a plan and he has agreed to it.She stands there as he goes to their overnight bag and takes out what he needs.

And then he does something intolerable.He flips his toiletries kit up in the air—a light-brown leather bag that she gave him a couple ofbirth-days ago—and catches it.She feels the blood in her face.Her muscles tighten so swiftly it feels like she’s growing taller.

“Call Ruby,”she says, as he is about to let himself out.“Let her know what you think is important.”

Their eyes meet, and she feels what she believes to be the miracle of her own strength, her own survival.Thoughts come to her like the drip ofanesthetic.He has not destroyed her, and he has not destroyedthem.

The bomb has exploded but the hole is not big enough for him to crawl through.And just look at him, he knows it, too, he’s not going anywhere.

Let him have this night, let him weep and tear out his hair.Tomorrow in the cool morning she will appear freshly bathed and combed, she will be wearing faded jeans and a black cashmere sweater, a little bit ofmakeup, theArts and Leisure and the Book Review sections ofthe Sunday paper tucked under her arm, the car keys in her hand, and a bag full ofbreak-fast goodies for the road.Then, once they are rolling, she will say the words that will end this insanity:she will forgive him.

Carol Davenport has spent the past two hours reading to her nephew, who lay in his little bed, staring up at her with his dark obdurate eyes—even as he yawned, he refused to close them.After going through a dozen ofNelson’s books, Carol was feeling frantic with boredom and exhaus-tion.Ifshe had to keep reading to put the kid to sleep, she could not bear to read any more about headstrong bunnies and brave little toasters, so she read to him from the novel she herselfwas reading—a Barbara King-solver book chosen by her reading group back home in Baltimore—and that, in fact, did the trick.Now, she stands in the darkened second-story hall ofher sister’s house, listening anxiously for any signs ofwakefulness from Nelson’s room.

Hearing none, she goes downstairs, wondering ifshe is tired enough herselfto go to bed.She has forgotten her book back in Nelson’s room, but she doesn’t dare risk waking him by going back to retrieve it.She sits on the sofa, picks theTV remote control up offthe coffee table.Sud-denly, the phone rings and she lunges for it, afraid that the high elec-tronic twitter ofit will awaken Nelson, who has been so stubborn and confrontational and whom she fears she will throttle ifhe says another word to her before morning.

“Hello?”she whispers into the phone.

”Oh, thank God it’s you,”a man’s voice says on the other end.“I know you can’t talk.Can you?Are you alone?”

Carol is so startled by the urgency—and the whiteness—ofthis voice that she is momentarily speechless.She feels exposed, out there in the middle ofnowhere, with only white people, whites in cars, whites in their houses, whites in the police station and the hospital, she feels fan-tastically and perilously alone.

“I told Kate, she knows,”the man says.“I just wanted you to know.

And this too, this too.I love you.When can I see you?”

Carol summons her courage.She grips the phone tightly and brings it close to her mouth, so that this man can feel the heat ofher scorn.

”Who the fuck is this?”she says.

[12]

“I think we’ve already been here,”Hampton said.

“Really?What makes you think so?”

It was too dark to see Hampton’s face, but Daniel could tell from the quality

of the silence that Hampton was glaring at him.Even friends would have begun to get irritated with each other by now.Being lost brought out the sort of fear that dovetails into rage.

“What makes me think so?”asked Hampton.His voice seemed completely un-

connected to his feelings;even in anger, it was melodious.Or maybe there was a connection, but Daniel didn’t know him well enough to make it.

“I think we’re making progress,”Daniel said. “Well, we’re not, we’re going in circles.” “Hampton.I’ve been following you.All right?” “We’re going in circles.” “Well, you’ve been taking us there.” “Daniel?” “What?” “Can I make a suggestion?” “Sure.What?” “Go fuck yourself.” There was a rock nearby, embedded deeply into the forest floor, covered with

moss and lichen.Hampton thought to scale it, hoping to see a break in the woods,

but the soles of his shoes were slippery, and as soon as he stood on the rock he slipped and fell hard onto his hands and knees, and just stayed there, with his head down, for several moments.

Daniel went to his side, touched him softly on the shoulder.

Hampton glanced up at Daniel.“Damn,”he said.

”Here,”Daniel said.He put out his hand.Hampton’s fingers were hard and

cold;he grasped Daniel’s hand like a statue come to life.Daniel stepped back and pulled Hampton to his feet.It was strange to be touching this man who had once had, and was now losing, everything.

Weeks pass.Anxiety.Cunning.Lies.Daniel and Iris meet whenever and wherever they can.The danger is, ofcourse, an aphrodisiac—

anAfro-disiac, Daniel thinks, but does not say it.Iris has made it clear that she is not going to be his Black Girlfriend.She has also made it clear that she is not ready to tell the truth to Hampton, which means Daniel must somehow make certain that Kate doesn’t speak to Hampton herself.And so when Kate wants to make love he makes love with her, and when she insists that they begin to repair their relationship by seeing a therapist he must acquiesce to that, as well.

And now it isTuesday, two days beforeThanksgiving, three in the afternoon, and Daniel and Kate are in the waiting room oftheWindsor Family Counseling Center.Daniel picks up an old, well-worn copy of Redbook,just for something to do with his hands and eyes, opens it up to a picture ofa delirious golden retriever bounding up to its human fam-ily in an open field, an ad for canine arthritis medicine.

They are going to talk to a therapist on Kate’s insistence, but they have come to this specific office on Daniel’s recommendation.Daniel asked the shrink who worked down the hall from his law office for a name and was told that the best person for that sort ofthing was Brian Fox.But getting the referral didn’t complete Daniel’s manly reparations, nothing could.“You call him, this mess is your doing, you make the ap-pointment,”she said, and rather than argue the matter, Daniel found it simpler to make the call.Now they are here, and Kate seems appalled by the informality ofthe place, already in some agony over what they have come to discuss, already feeling that her privacy is being invaded, her dignity compromised, her wounded pride put on display.

Daniel stretches his feet out before him, looks at the tips ofhis shoes, places his hands on his knees.He must gather himself, think ofwhat he will say, what he will not say, when Dr.Fox brings them in for their two-fifteen.He closes his eyes.

A couple ofdays ago, after making love to Iris in her bedroom, they were both covered in perspiration, and Iris pulled from her closet a small tan-and-blue rotating fan.She plugged it in, placed it on top ofher dresser, and then grabbed his hand to pull him out ofbed and stood with him in front ofthe cooling, drying breeze.“This is better than a shower,”

she said.“I don’t want you to just wash me offyou.”

He tries to rivet his attention on the magazine.He looks again at the ad for canine arthritis medicine and thinks about Scarecrow, poor Crow, slowing down week by week, day by day, tottering around Iris’s house and yard exuding beneficence.Daniel has never known such a perfect dog in his life, though he realizes that his virtually worshipful attitude toward the dog is consistent with his virtually worshipful attitude toward everything in Iris’s house, the orderliness ofher spice rack, the scent ofher hand soap, the clarity ofthe ice cubes, the amusing nature ofher computer’s screen-saver (kangaroos in sunglasses),the silkTurkish carpet her brother brought back from Istanbul, the black-and-white photographs ofNelson in their austere wooden frames, pictures Iris took and printed herself during the briefperiod she was interested in photography.

A door next to the receptionist’s window opens and Dr.Fox emerges, wearing a dark-blue suit, a white shirt, a blue-and-white tie.With his close-cropped hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and elegant goatee, he looks like a diplomat from a small Marxist nation.“Katherine? Daniel?”he in-quires softly, with a kindly smile.

Kate stares at Fox with palpable amazement and then, despite herself, she begins to laugh.Daniel, who himself was not expecting a black man, understands that Kate is feeling the irony oftheir having made an appointment with anAfrican-American to discuss their domestic diffi-culties, but he nevertheless feels she is behaving badly.

IfDr.Fox senses some racial content in Kate’s laughter, he gives no evidence ofit, and he ushers them into his office, a small, dimly lit room filled with books, green glass lamps, a small collection ofantique type-writers.His window looks out onto an old apple tree that was split in two by the October storm.When they are all seated—Kate and Daniel in khaki director’s chairs, Fox in a tufted burgundy leather seat—the re-lationships counselor begins the session by asking them their names, their ages, what insurance they carry.His voice is steady, at once emo-tionless and insistent, it’s like being pulled over by a highway patrolman.

“We’re here because Daniel has been seeing another woman,”Kate suddenly says, no longer patient enough to allow Fox to collect the stan-dard data.

Daniel is surprised at how raw this sounds.Every scoundrel he knows complains about being quoted out ofcontext, but having his behavior re-duced to the simple act ofinfidelity strikes him now not only as inaccu-rate but unjust.What about all the pointlessly lonely nights that led up to it?What about never having known passion?

“How have you come to this knowledge?”Fox asks, with funereal tact.

”It was quite obvious,”says Kate.

”I told her,”Daniel adds softly.

”Well, then,”Fox says, taking a deep breath.He pinches the skin around hisAdam’s apple, purses his lips.“So let me begin with you, Katherine—and Daniel, you’ll have your chance to speak, too, but I want to begin with Katherine, ifthat’s all right with both ofyou.Katherine, this situation you find yourselfin, how would you like to see it resolved?”

Kate’s face colors, and the sight ofit stabs through Daniel.She is nervous to be here, humiliated, and she who is so deft with words seems tongue-tied.

“I want to save what amounts to my marriage,”she says, her voice barely more than a whisper.She clears her throat.“We may not have any official documents, but this relationship means a great deal to me.Cer-tainly more than my actual marriage, which was just…crap.More than anything, I guess.And I miss my old life, I miss the way things were before all this chaos.Ifwe could go back to that, back to that nice life, I think I would be willing to forget everything that’s happened since October.”

Daniel feels he is being lured into what a man in his position must never do:looking into the heart ofthe person he is leaving.He thinks for a moment that maybe he ought to get out ofhis chair and leave.He can-not offer her hope, nor solace.IfKate is here to protect herself, or to heal her wounds, then he should not be here.He is the cause ofher pain, he is the source, that churning in her stomach, he put it there, that sense ofexclusion and exile—it comes from him.But what can he do? He can-not be for himself and for her, too.Their interests are in collision.There is no middle ground.What he wants is what is tearing Kate apart, and he cannot and will not stop wanting Iris, Iris is the most real thing.

Fox strokes his goatee, and his deep, almond-shaped eyes seem to soften, which Daniel notes, as iftrying to assess a juror’s sympathies.

”Can you say more about that?”Fox asks.

Daniel sits back in his chair, waiting for the sharp sting ofKate’s reply.He knows her well enough to imagine how irritating Fox’s insipid in-vitation must be to her.

But Kate tries to do what Fox has asked.“I’m very angry, and very hurt,”she says.“As Daniel knows.The atmosphere at home is obviously tense.Very tense.Practically unbearable.We’re all walking on eggshells.

We’re waiting to see what Daniel will do.I think even Daniel is waiting to see what he’ll do.He’s a decent man and very kind and he’s terrific with my daughter.I’m sure this whole situation is killing him.”

Fox turns briefly toward Daniel, not to elicit a response or any further clarification ofKate’s remarks but, it seems, just to see the expres-sion on his face.

“And you say you were previously married,”Fox says.

“Yes, to a man whom I wasn’t in love with.And about whom I rarely think.He has no relationship with my daughter, he lives in Hawaii on a little bit offamily money, and he is completely irresponsible.”

“Which brings us to Daniel,”says Fox.

”I’ve asked him to stop seeing this woman.”

“I see,”says Fox.“And has he stopped seeing her?”

They’re talking about me as if I weren’t actually here,thinks Daniel.

”I don’t think so,”she says.

In fact, he has seen her this morning, their parting is just three hours old, and he feels, as usual, halfmad from either having just seen her or from being about to see her.Today, he accompanied her to an immense su-permarket twenty miles south ofLeyden and followed her up and down the aisles while she shopped for her family’sThanksgiving dinner.Despite everything, Iris was excited about the holiday, which was her favorite of all the holidays—a fact that confounded Daniel, who would have ranked it close to the bottom, rivaled only by Christmas in the categories of forced jollity, depressing cuisine, and awakened feelings ofemptiness, isolation, and loneliness.Iris’s parents were coming in, as well as her sis-ter, Carol, and her brother, Andrew, with his wife and two children.

Hampton’s parents would be there, too, along with his aunt Margaret, his sisterVictoria, with her family, and his brother James, and the prospect of housing them all, the improvisation ofbeds and bedrooms, the finessing ofsmall privacies, the worries over laundry, water pressure, the orches-tration ofbathroom times, Aunt Margaret’s sudden allergies to pecans and oysters, without which a properThanksgiving dinner was unimagin-able to Iris, all these and a dozen more domestic preoccupations were ab-sorbing Iris as she filled her cart with bags ofcranberries, cartons ofbeer, gigantic bottles ofseltzer and Coke, three pounds ofbutter, bags of marshmallows, a ten-pound bag ofsugar, a twelve-pack oftoilet paper.

Listening to her as he tagged along made Daniel ache with envy ofall those people who were to be the recipient ofher care.Imagine! Pressed into this marathon ofhousewifery and to somehow keep her enthusiasm and her love offamily intact.She was an emotional genius.Ifonly he could somehow escape the frozen Butterball turkey sitting sullenly in his own refrigerator, somehow be spirited away from the embattled dinner that waits to be served at his table at home, ifonly all the laws oflogic and propriety could be suspended and he could find himself at Iris’s house for that meal, with Ruby at his side, and Hampton not only vanished but completely forgotten, gone like a puffofsmoke.

“Daniel?”Fox is saying.“This is a heavy time for you, isn’t it.”

“Yes,”says Daniel, though not quite certain to what he is agreeing.

”I hear you.”

“Yes,”says Daniel automatically.“Thank you.”

“Is there something you’d like to say to Katherine right now? Let’s imagine we are in a little circle ofsafety, and we can say whatever it was that was in our hearts and there will be no blame, no blame at all.What would you like to say in the circle ofsafety?”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s good, Daniel, but you’re looking at me.”

He turns to face Kate.“I’m sorry.”

“We’re not really in a circle ofsafety, Dr.Fox,”Kate says.“We’re more like in a circle ofhell.”

Daniel’s heart floods with fondness for Kate, a strangely nostalgic outpouring ofremembered love, as ifshe were long departed.Wouldn’t it be nice ifIris said biting and sophisticated things like that? But wit is not the source ofIris’s allure.Hers is a different sort ofgrace, unadorned and total, the grace ofthe sea, the grace ofangels, and sex.

And as for Kate:she is suffering, but how can he protect her from it, how can he even soothe her when he himself is misery’s messenger?The unmentionable truth is that he has moved on.No.Worse.He has moved up.He has entered a higher plane offeeling, a higher plane ofdevotion, and a higher plane ofpleasure.How can he make Kate understand this? He is not only leaving her, he is leaving himself, leaving everything familiar be-hind, he is slipping over the border with only the clothes on his back.

“I didn’t think we’d have to talk about a certain aspect ofthis whole thing,”Kate says, crossing her legs,“but since we’re here and…you’re here.”She gestures elegantly toward Dr.Fox.“It seems worth mention-ing.The woman Daniel was, or maybe we should say,isseeing is black.”

“How is that relevant?”Daniel says, much more insistently than intended.

“Oh please, Daniel.It’s completely relevant.You always wanted to be black, and now you’ve figured out a way to be black by proxy.”

Daniel hazards a glance at Fox, whose brief, black eyebrows have raised up practically to his hairline.“Is this true?”Fox asks.

“About the woman beingAfrican-American?Yes.But, I’m sorry, I think there’s something a little bit racist in what Kate’s saying.”

“Daniel,”says Fox,“you’re looking at me.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to say this to Kate?”

“She heard me.”

“And she won’t dignify it with a reply,”Kate says.

”She’s practically making a living out ofwriting articles about O.J.

Simpson,”Daniel says to Fox, as ifappealing to him, forging some sort ofbond, and instantly feeling the folly ofit as the therapist shifts in his seat.

“Are you still seeing her or not?”Kate says, her voice level, composed.She cocks her head as she looks at Daniel, somehow creating the impression that whatever he answers will come as a reliefto her.

But he’s not convinced.It seems entirely likely to him that ifhe tells Kate he is still actively in love with Iris, and he sees her whenever possi-ble, then Kate will not only suffer but she will retaliate.

He wishes that Iris would tell Hampton herself.Soon,she has said.I

can’t,she has also said.She fears him, fears the pain it will cause her, and is exhausted to contemplate the mess that will ensue.She worries about losing custody ofNelson—though surely Hampton could not delude himself into believing he was set up or temperamentally suitable to take care ofthe boy.

Ifit were up to Daniel, Hampton would already know.Then he would simply stay in NewYork, and those unbearable conjugal visits could cease.But Iris is more than reluctant to tell him, she seems terrified of the possibility, which makes him wonder ifshe fears Hampton will do some violence to her, that he will pummel her, that beneath that golden-brown exterior ofaffluence and elegance, family roots, princely entitle-ments, and fraternity-boy competitiveness lurks the narcissistic, sexually preening, and ultimately predatory black man who prowls, sulks, and rages through Kate’s articles on O.J.

“Well, are you or not?”Kate asks, her voice a little wobblier this time, like a tightrope walker working without a net who’s made the mistake of looking down.

Ifhe tells her the truth, he will pay for it.She will try to put a wedge between him and Ruby.She will make his life hell.

“I’ve already answered this question,”he says.

”Answer it again,”says Kate.

He shakes his head no, thinking that in some malignantly petty way this silent No can be taken to mean that he isn’t seeing Iris anymore, or it could also mean that he doesn’t want to“answer it again.”He knows he is losing his honor with these infantile games with the truth, but, then, ifhe’s willing to lose his family why not jettison honor, as well?

“What do you think about that?”Dr.Fox asks Kate.

”About what? He hasn’t answered me.He shook his head, that could mean anything.”

“I’m not seeing her,”Daniel blurts out.“I’m not seeing Iris.Okay?”

Telling this lie isn’t as sickening as he’d anticipated, he was so close to it anyhow, it wasn’t difficult, he just let himself drift into it.

“What do you think about what Daniel has said?”Fox asks again.

Kate shakes her head.“I don’t know.I’d like to believe him.”

“You don’t believe me?”asks Daniel, as ifincredulous.

”No.I don’t.”

“Then have me followed.Hire a private detective.”

“I have.”

Daniel’s first thought is ofthis morning, after he and Iris left the supermarket and drove north back toward Leyden—wasn’t there a car fol-

lowing close behind, a nondescript sedan, just the sort to be driven by some professional snoop?A mile into the drive they pulled intoWindsor Motors;Iris wanted to check out the newVolvos, and Daniel would have gone anywhere for a few extra minutes with her.Had the sedan followed them in?They walked around the lot, a light snow fell for a few moments and then stopped.A salesman descended upon them.Iris pointed to a car she liked and the next thing they knew the salesman had slapped a pair ofdealer plates on it and he was waving so long to them as Iris steered the new car out ofthe lot for a test drive, with Daniel in the passenger seat.Her eyes were brimming with tears.What’s wrong,he asked her.She shook her head, pulled out into traffic, started driving a little too fast.

He saw a tear roll down her cheek, he stopped it with his fingertip—re-membering Kate once saying that human tears were filled with bodily waste, more toxic than piss—and then licked his finger clean.You’re cry-ing,he whispered.He just gave us the car,Iris said.He didn’t ask for identi-fication, a credit card, nothing.“Here’s the keys, see you in a while, drive safely.”

She sniffed back what remained ofher first response to this novel situa-tion, and then looked at Daniel with something utterly wild, something practically feral in her expression, as ifshe had just entered a realm in which more was permissible than she had ever dreamed.

“Look at his face,”Kate says to Dr.Fox.“You must be somewhat ofan expert on the faces men make when they are totally fucking busted.”

Fox’s clock is digital so there isn’t even a ticking, all that can be heard is the longshhhhhofthe white-noise machine, like the sound ofan enor-mous punctured balloon.And then, from another ofthe center’s offices, the sound ofa muffled male voice crying out,“Not at meal time, that’s all I’m asking.Not at meal time!”

“What’s that?”Kate asks.

”Somebody else’s misery,”Daniel answers.

”Not that.That.”

“It’s the white-noise machine,”Fox says.

”Ah,”says Kate, smiling.“Then shouldn’t it be whining?”She starts tolaugh.

“I can’t believe you hired someone to follow me around,”says Daniel.

”Well, I didn’t.But I’m never going to forget the look on your face when you thought I had.”

“All right,”says Fox.“I’d like to try something here, ifthat’s okay with you two.”

“He still hasn’t answered my question about whether he’s seeing her or not.”

“What I’d like to try…,”saysFox.

”Just a second, Dr.Fox.Please?There’s no point going forward with this little session, ifDaniel’s not willing to answer my question.”

“He did answer your question,”Fox says, his voice rising with alarm, which Daniel notes with relieffor himself and a feeling ofsome pity for Kate—poor Kate, fifteen minutes into therapy and she’s alienating thedoctor.

“Let me tell you something about Daniel, Dr.Fox.He’s not terribly straightforward.He’d rather lie than hurt someone.He’s a negotiator.

No, here’s what he is.”She uncrosses her legs and then recrosses them in the opposite direction.“He’s like an orphan.He’s always covering his ass, making sure he doesn’t get sent back to the home.He doesn’t feel as if he belongs anywhere.He moves back to his hometown—and moves me back with him, by the way.He has no idea why.His parents cut him out oftheir stupid little will? He barely reacts.He wants something big to happen to him, something to tell him who he is, or make him something.

There must be a name for that, he must be a type, or something.He can tell you anything.He may end up saying that he’s black.I wouldn’t be surprised.People like him can never tell the truth, because they don’t know the truth.He’s a sweet guy, and a good man, and despite his be-havior he’s really pretty ethical.But Daniel’s been spinning his own feel-ings for so long they’re a mystery even to him.”

Fox nods, somewhat sagely, but when he strokes his goatee, his fingers are trembling.He clears his throat and murmurs something about

”trust issues,”and something further about that most unfortunate“circle ofsafety.”

Abruptly, Kate reaches over and squeezes Daniel’s knee as hard as she can.She speaks to him through curled lips and clenched teeth.

”Saysomething.”

“Do you love me, Kate?”he asks, his voice soft, almost sleepy.The pressure she exerts on the muscles right above his knee is vaguely painful, but relaxing, too.The physical punishment seems to siphon off some ofthe other, more persistent agonies.

“That’s really not the issue here,”Kate says.“Anyway, ofcourse I do.”

“I’ll take that as a no,”he says.

”You see? I can’t win.”

“All right, then let me ask you this…”

“It’s better to just express your own feelings,”Fox says.“And not askquestions.”

“I agree,”says Daniel.“But let me get these questions out ofthe wayfirst.”

“He said no questions, Daniel,”Kate says.

”You’ve had your chance to cross-examine me.Now it’s time for thedefense.”

“The whole idea ofcouples counseling,”Fox says,“is to keep youout

ofcourt.”

“Have you ever felt the kind oflove for me,”Daniel says to Kate,“that you’d rather die than live without me?”

“What do you want me to do?Audition?”

“I’ll make it easier for you.I don’t think you ever have, at least not toward me.And I think it’s a sad life, and a waste ofheart.We are capa-ble ofit.IfI am, then you are…”He points to Dr.Fox, who seems to be staring at him with alarm.“And you are, too.We all are.It’s in our wiring, in our DNA, it’s the poetry that we all are capable ofwriting, if we can find the goddamned courage.”

“I think you have lost your mind,”Kate says, slowly taking her hand away from him.“Who are you?The fucking JohnnyAppleseed ofLove? How can you say these things to me?”She looks for a moment as ifshe is going to be furious, as ifshe is going to scream at him, smack him, rake him with her fingernails, but then her face crumples and she begins to cry.She takes a handkerchiefout ofher handbag and covers her eyes.

Ifshe thinks what he says is awful, she should hear what he does not say.He is here trying to mollify Kate, when what he might really be in-terested in is shaking her until she sees how he has changed, that he is no longer the emotionally anemic man she somehow chose.He wants to ask her:Have you ever made love for six hours barely stopping? Have you ever had nine orgasms in a night? Have you ever seen me weep from the sight of your beauty?When was the last time we slept in each other’s arms? Have you ever seen my savage side? Have you ever known me to be absolutely helpless with passion? Has anyone ever stuck their tongue up your ass? Have you risked disgrace for me? Have you made a double life and been willing to hurt another person for the love of me? Have you ever been willing to give up everything for another person?You wouldn’t even do that for Ruby.

Fox finally releases them, and they hurry out ofhis office, angry and ashamed, with their eyes down, their faces closed.They have made an ap-pointment for nextWednesday, but they both know they will not keep it.

Neither ofthem ever wants to be in this place again.The medicine here cannot cure them.

The November sky is the color ofa cellar sink;a cold wind blows through the parking lot as Daniel follows at a safe distance behind Kate on the way to her car.She lets herselfin and he waits there for a moment, giving her a chance to pull away without him, ifthat’s what she wants to do.His car is at his office, a ten-minute walk, which he would prefer to being in cramped space with Kate.Yet he cannot bolt out ofthe parking lot and make a run for it;despite the danger, he feels the logic oflife, the rules ofdecorum insist that he get into the passenger seat, close the door behind him, strap on his safety belt.The car’s engine turns over.The radio comes on, a blur ofexcited talk that Kate instantly switches off.

“Ready?”she says.And then, without waiting for his answer—he was about to say sure, fire away—she throws her car into reverse and backs it quickly and without hesitation across the center’s small parking lot, straight into the front end ofa blood-redToyota.Daniel is hardly dis-lodged from his seated position, but Kate, lighter, has pitched forward and banged her forehead against the steering wheel.She barely reacts to this, not so much as touching the oozing welt with her fingers.She throws the car into drive, her car extricates itselffrom theToyota, and she drives it headlong into a gray Honda parked on the other side ofthe lot.By the time the center empties out—no one inside has failed to hear the twisting metal and shattering glass—Kate’s car is immobile and she and Daniel are screaming at each other.

The next morning, desperate to see Iris and to tell her what has hap-pened at the counseling center, Daniel brings Ruby to My LittleWooden Shoe at the normal time, but to his ravishing disappointment Nelson is already there.As he helps Ruby out ofher jacket, Daniel’s eyes search the suddenly grim and airless little day care center in case he has some-how overlooked her presence, in case she is talking to a teacher, or maybe helping out in the kitchen.Stiffwith unhappiness, his fingers fum-ble with the buttons, and Ruby looks up at him with dismay.

Nelson, seeing Ruby, comes to her side and tugs at the sleeve ofher shirt.“Come on,”he commands her.Generally, Ruby is compliant around Nelson, but today she resists.She raises her little square hands to-ward Daniel and puckers for a good-bye kiss, while Nelson glowers at them both.

“Okay, you guys, have a great day,”Daniel says.

”I don’t even like you,”Nelson replies, raising his eyebrows, extending his lower lip, shrugging.

Ruby is appalled by what Nelson says.Her cheeks blaze as ifslapped.

“Yes you do!”she fairly cries.“He’s my dad.”

“No he’s not,”says Nelson.He smiles as ifRuby has walked into his trap.

Tocomplete his mastery ofher, he takes Ruby’s arm and pulls her away.

Daniel drives away from My LittleWooden Shoe, with no destination in mind, only vaguely aware oftraffic and the fact that he is in charge of a heavy moving machine.His mind is not so much processing informa-tion as pinned beneath it, pierced on one end by the absence ofIris and on the other by the fact that Nelson is harboring a great malevolence for him.At the end ofthe winding, residential road that the day care center shares with a scatter ofone-story houses, where Daniel would normally turn right to head toward the village and his office, he instead turns left, which brings him to Chaucer Street, which in turn empties out onto the state highway leading six miles north to Marlowe College.He presses the power button on his cell phone to tell SheilaAlvarez he’ll be in an hour or so late, but the battery has worn down and the phone remains dark.

I’ll call my office when I get there,he thinks.

But get where?All he knows is that there’s a good chance that Iris is at the college, and a good chance that ifhe drives over to Marlowe there is hope offinding her.

Life, it seems, can be really very simple:you feel where you want to go, and you go there.You let your legs take you.At least the body, dog that it is, tells the truth.

Seventy years ago, Marlowe College was a sleepy, mediocre Episcopalian school with an enrollment offive hundred young men.Now, it is nondenominational, with four thousand students, twenty-four hundred ofthem women.The original old buildings still exist—ivy-covered, gray stone buildings, with leaded windows and burgundy slate roofs—but they are now overwhelmed by the modernist additions, the glass-and-steel fitness center, the broken geometry ofthe art center, the Bauhaus-ian dorms.The campus has grown, but it is still only thirty acres, with one north-south road winding through it, and another going east to west, and now Daniel is navigating his car, driving slowly as students stroll across the road without so much as a cautious glance.The air, cold and humid, is like a soaking sheet.A couple ofvery large crows land on a power line and swivel their heads toward each other as the wire sinks beneath their weight.

Daniel finds Iris’s car in the parking lot between the gym and the stu-

dent center, and he decides she’s more likely in the center and tries there first, where he immediately spots her, in the cafeteria, seated at a small wooden table in the company ofa prematurely gray, olive-complexioned man in his late thirties.He wears a silk shirt and a long, luxurious scarf, and he holds a pen as ifit were a cigarette as he leans toward Iris.Iris is dressed in a smart black skirt and a dark-green chenille sweater, with a silver bracelet and matching earrings.Daniel, struck by the sight ofher, and then further struck by seeing her in conversation with the handsome man at her table, freezes in his tracks.A steady stream ofyoung students flows past, parting ways to walk around him.Daniel is fixed to his spot, suddenly gravely dubious about having come here, and feeling a sick stir-ring ofjealousy at the sight ofIris seated with another man.Within mo-ments, however, Iris happens to look in his direction and gestures for him to come and sit with her.She doesn’t ask what he is doing here, and, of course, gives no indication that they are anything but two people whose children go to the same preschool.She introduces him to JohnArdiz-zone, who, it turns out, is her newly appointed thesis advisor in the American Studies Department.Daniel, though unasked to account for his sudden appearance, says that he has come to use the college’s library to check up on some local history as a part ofhis research about Eight Chimneys, but as soon as he is embarked on this unnecessary fiction he regrets it and simply lets it trail off.Ardizzone quickly excuses himself, saying he has a departmental meeting.He taps his pen a couple oftimes, as ifdislodging an ash from its tip, and, before hurrying off, he tells Iris that he likes her new ideas for her thesis and he hopes she can have a draft ofit before the end ofthe spring semester.

“You have a new thesis?”Daniel asks, as soon asArdizzone is safely away.

”Yes.So, what are you doing here?”

“I don’t know.I think I’m stalking you.I’m sorry.”

“It’s strange seeing you here.”Her voice drops to a whisper.“It’s strange seeing you with your clothes on.”

“Don’t excite me,”he says.

“You missed a spot shaving,”Iris says, touching his upper lip.Her short hair glistens and her fingers smell ofthe oil she has rubbed into her scalp.“Are you having trouble facing yourselfin the mirror?”

“No.”

“I am.”

“I’ve given myselfover to a higher power,”Daniel says, smiling.“And you’re it.”

“Sounds convenient.”

“It’s a lot ofthings, but ifconvenient is on the list, I haven’t noticed.”

“It’s okay,”Iris says.“I’m not trying to hassle you.But I’m finding this verydifficult.”

“I’m sorry, Iris.I don’t know what to do.”

“You want to know the truth? I’m miserable, frightened, guilty, sleepless, I feel like a criminal, and I think I’m getting a flu or something, and I’m happy, happier than I’ve ever been.”She looks over her shoulder.

”Oh shit, here she comes, perfect timing.”

“Who?”

“Kalilah Childs.This girl, this kid, I keep running into her in the library.She keeps trying to get me to join the Black StudentAlliance.”

“Maybe ifwe start necking she’ll go away.”

“Too late,”Iris says.

Moments later, Kalilah Childs is at their table, a dark, fleshy nineteen-year-old girl in faded denim overalls and work boots, wide-eyed, cornrowed, wearing a multitude ofrings, bracelets, and necklaces.

The jewelry is, for the most part, African, though she also wears a pearl necklace given to her by her parents when she graduated first in her class from her Quaker high school in Philadelphia.A scent ofsandalwood is on her clothing.Rarely serene—she is acknowledged as a genius at Mar-lowe, and the pressure is immense—Kalilah now is particularly agitated.

She looms over Iris and looks as ifshe might pounce upon her.

“Have you heard what happened toAlysha?”Kalilah says.She doesn’t acknowledge Daniel’s presence.“Three guys jumped her at that pizza place out on Route One Hundred, and one ofthem kicked her in theear.”

“Oh no,”Daniel says, though as soon as his expression ofshock is uttered, he realizes that in this particular situation he is meant to be quiet.

“Is she all right?”Iris asks.

”She had to go to the hospital.Now she’s in her dorm.Her mother’s coming up from Brooklyn to take her home.”

Iris nods, taking it in.“Actually,”she says,“I don’t think I know Alysha?”She says the name uncertainly.

“You would ifyou ever came to a meeting,”Kalilah says.The finger she shakes at Iris has three rings on it.

Iris presents Kalilah with a slow, composed smile, one that would have stopped Kalilah in her tracks ifshe were two years older or ten per-cent more perceptive.

“When am I supposed to go to a meeting, Kalilah?”Iris says.“I’m trying to get my work done and raise a family.And going to school when you’re older is really difficult.You can’t understand.You’ve got a supple young brain, and all this fire and certainty and sense ofpurpose.I’m struggling just to get through, and don’t have anything left to go to any damn meeting.”

“You’re not old!”Kalilah says, her voice rising—it’s hard to say ifit’s out ofconviction or discomfort.“And we need every one ofus.Look at what happened toAlysha.”

“I’m sorry for what happened to her.”Iris puts particular emphasis on the final pronoun.

“Well it could have been you, or me, or any one ofus,”Kalilah says.

“That’s why we need the Black StudentAlliance, and that’s why you need it, too.”As Kalilah says this, she turns slowly and lets her eyes fall to rest on Daniel.

“You know what, Kalilah?”Iris says.“I don’t join clubs, or groups, or any ofthat stuff.Okay? Oh, sorry.Kalilah Childs?This is Daniel Emerson.”

“Nice to meet you,”Daniel says, halfrising from his chair.

”Hello,”Kalilah says, her face pleasant, a little placid.

Daniel thinks this would be as good a time as any to leave.Iris senses his thought and places her hand on his wrist.

“What ifmy friend Daniel wanted to join your club?”Iris says.

“Would that be all right?”

“No, and anyhow I bet he’s not even a student here.”

“Well, let’s say he was.Then could he join?”

“Come on.It’s forAfrican-Americans only, students and faculty.”

“Well, I would never join that kind ofthing.I don’t think I could be friends with Daniel ifI joined a club that excluded him.How do you think I’d feel ifDaniel belonged to an organization that didn’t allow African-Americans? Do you think that would be all right with me?You think that wouldn’t be grounds for ending the friendship?”

“Well, he does belong to a group that excludes you,”Kalilah says.“It’s called the white race.I presume you’ve heard ofit.Try joining it.”

“Daniel didn’t join it,”Iris says.

”Well, he’s in it.”

“Actually, I resigned,”Daniel says, at last able to speak.“But it’s like the Mafia, you know, they keep pulling me back in.”

“That’s pretty funny,”Kalilah says.

Iris looks at her watch.“I’ve got class,”she says.She picks up her briefcase, zippers it shut.A tremble goes through her hands and Daniel realizes just how angry she is.“You know, Kalilah,”she says.“You’ve got a great future ahead ofyou in politics, ifthat’s what you choose.”

“That sounds like a put-down, coming from you,”Kalilah says.

”You just don’t take no for an answer, and maybe that’s good.But it doesn’t work with me.You think you’re the first person who’s ever told me I need to be doing this or that for my people?You think I haven’t heard it from both sides ofmy family?And both sides ofmy husband’s family, too? I’ll tell you the same thing I say to them.You believe in free-dom? Great.Then let me be free.Is that so hard? I’ve got one little life to live, that’s all, that’s the whole thing.Don’t I have the right to live it the way I choose?Why do I have to do what you want me to do?Why do I have to join your group, and say you’re like me and I’m like you and we’re all together? It’s really shit.You know that, Kalilah? It’s total shit.

And ifyou want to talk about racism, let’s think about this—you look at me and all you see is brown skin.You don’t know what I’m going through in my life.You don’t know what kind ofresponsibilities I’m dealing with, or what the pressures are, or anything else.You don’t know what I eat, or where I live, or what I want, you don’t know ifI sleep on my back, or ifI’m wanted for murder inTennessee.All you’re registering is the pig-mentation.So how are you different from some white racist?”

“You don’t give us a chance to know you,”Kalilah says.

By now, Iris is standing.“That’s what I’m doing now,”she says.She kisses her fingertips and touches them against Daniel’s cheek.Then, be-fore another word can be said, she turns and walks quickly away.

Daniel and Kalilah watch her cross the cafeteria, and then are left with each other and the silence between them.

Thanksgiving arrives.Daniel and Kate are fleetingly bound together as they collaborate on a story to explain the bandage on Kate’s forehead, as well as her black eye, as they sit at the dutifully laden table with Ruby, and with Carl and Julia Emerson.

The Emersons are amazed but not inquisitive as they listen to the story ofKate’s car’s jammed accelerator, and Daniel, to lend some verisimilitude to the tale, hints darkly that a very serious lawsuit may be in the offing and that Kate may be living on easy street by next year.“And I’m going to get my beak wet on this one, as well,”he says, uncorking the wine, walking nervously around the table and filling glasses.

Carl and Julia look as ifthey have recently graduated at the head of their class in the Prussian PostureAcademy.With their shoulders squared, their backbones straight as pool cues, they surreptitiously warm their hands, rubbing and squeezing them under the cover ofthe starched linen tablecloth.When the turkey is brought steaming and fragrant to the table, they follow it carefully with their eyes but make no comment, no ooohofpleasure, noahhhofanticipation.Their faces show no gaiety;in fact, they came close to not showing up at Kate and Daniel’s house at all.

After more than seventyThanksgivings, the thought ofmissing one struck them as being something less than tragic, and, further, they both suspected that somewhere during the long, gluttonous, tryptophane-infused afternoon there was a very real chance that their son would fi-nally vent his rage over being eased out oftheir will.

Daniel, for his part, has no such plan.He is glad his parents are here, glad he and Kate and Ruby do not have to face this holiday feast on theirown.

Kate, too, is glad for the Emersons’presence.Though she does not find them altogether agreeable company, and, more important, she is quite sure they don’t care for her—her southernness makes her seem alien to them, her life as a writer seems vain, her single-motherhood was bad planning, and they also suspect she is a lush—they are, nevertheless, family, and right now the idea offamily seems important to Kate.

As for Ruby:everyone’s voice seems too loud.The food smells like medicine.Her patent leather shoes, unworn for months, feel full of sand.She feels continually as ifshe has to go to the toilet, but when she does nothing comes out.Her stomach has hurt her all day, and the day before that, and the day before that, too.She cannot stop wondering what everybody would do ifshe pounded her fists on the table and screamed.

Three hours later, Carl and Julia, exhausted by the meal, by the concertina-wire tension in the house, Ruby and her constantly imploring them to get down on the floor with her and watch her play with her Le-gos, or to read to her, leave.They leave what is left ofthe fifteen-pound turkey, leave bowls ofstuffing, quivering masses ofcranberry sauce, a casserole ofyams and Brussels sprouts, two pies, pumpkin and pecan, they leave a spatter ofcandle wax on the heirloom white ofthe table-cloth, bowls ofnuts, wine glasses blurred by greasy fingerprints.In the end, not very much food has been consumed, and even less ofit has been enjoyed, but the meal is registered in the Great Book ofHolidays, and Daniel’s parents, much to his surprise, give him a last-minute embrace as they are making their way out the door—a little eruption ofaffection that he believes to be expressive oftheir boundless reliefto be finally getting out ofthere.“Stay in touch!”Carl shouts over his shoulder, as they scam-per toward their car.The sky is a flat chalky black, the murkiness ofwater in which a paintbrush has been swirled.

Daniel closes the door, turns to survey the conditions ofhis house arrest.He cannot see the dining room, but he can hear the angry clatter of dishes being cleared;nor can he see the little den in which they keep theirTV, but that, too, he can hear.Ruby is watchingLittle House on the Prairie,her favorite show.It seems to be aThanksgiving special, she wants to watch make-believe people enjoy the holiday.Daniel will wait a few moments before going in to join Kate on cleanup—right now, he is sure she is slugging back the wine people have left in their glasses, and he doesn’t want to walk in on it, doesn’t want to have to react.He checks his watch.It is only a few minutes past eight o’clock and he stands at the edge ofwhat remains ofthe night, feeling hopeless and beset, as ifpeer-ing across a river too broad to cross.He imagines the dinner over on Ju-niper, probably in all the confusion and conviviality ofa large family gathering they are just sitting down to eat.He imagines the laughter, the little side comments, the well-worn repartee ofbrothers and sisters.

Daniel forces himself into the dining room.Sure enough, the wine glasses are all empty.They are all four on their side and placed around the turkey carcass on the great white platter, which Kate has just lifted offthe table.Daniel collects the two bottles ofChilean cabernet and, as he suspected, they are both empty, not even a little tannic slosh at their base.He hates to calculate, but the math ofthis is inevitable.Two bottles equals twelve nice glasses ofwine.He himself has had two, his father one, his mother her usual festive zero, leaving nine for Kate.Nine glasses ofred wine do not a lost weekend make, but nevertheless:it’s still nine glasses.But wait!There’d beencocktailsbefore the first bottle had been uncorked.A dish ofolives and a little platter ofsmoked salmon, both of which Daniel had picked up himself that morning at one ofLeyden’s new gourmet shops, obligingly openThanksgiving morning.The little appe-

tizers had been laid out and Kate had asked,“Who wants a drink?”No-body really did, but Daniel, thinking he was somehow covering for her, said he’d have one, too, and she brought out a quart ofone ofthe Nordic vodkas and poured a neat one for Daniel and one for herself, and now that he thinks ofit she drank it down with nary a shudder, so the chances are it was not her first little taste ofthe day.

Daniel is unable to help himself from making a bit ofa show ofputting the empties in the recycling sack.“Poor old soldiers,”he mutters over their socially responsible grave, and when Kate fails to react to that he pushes the matter.“That was pretty decent wine, wasn’t it?”Kate is at the sink, with her back to him.The scalding water rushes out ofthe tap—he’s got to remember to turn down the temperature on the hot-water heater, while he is still on hand—and a cloud ofsteam rises from the basin.She is motionless;the plates and glasses remain on the counter next to the sink, and Daniel figures that she is waiting for him to do some real work here, something a little more useful than checking the empty wine bottles.He joins her at the sink—he will rinse and she can put things into the dishwasher, the pots and pans can soak until morning.But as soon as he is next to her, or, really, a few seconds after that, because it takes a few beats to come up with the courage to glance at her, he sees that her face is a deep sorrowful pink, her eyes are shut, and her hollow, downy cheeks are slick with tears.He places a hand on her shoulder.

“Get your fucking hand offofme,”she says in a whisper.

He lifts his hand slowly, lets it hover in midair for a moment, and then brings it to his side.

“What do you want me to do, Kate?”

“I want you to die.”

He sighs, shakes his head, and says,“Short ofthat.”He can scarcely believe he’s said something so glib, he tries to cover it quickly.“Why don’t I clean up here?You did most ofthe cooking.”

She picks up the five dinner plates and drops them into the sink.They land with a crash, yet somehow none ofthem break.Then she goes for the platter upon which the turkey still stands, but Daniel stops her before she drops that, too.He slowly wrests the platter from her.At first she resists, but then she seems to lose interest in creating any further havoc.She puts her hands up, steps back, like a criminal who has just been disarmed.

“You want to do the dishes? Do the fucking dishes,”she says.

He is so imprisoned by the grisly emotional logic ofa love affair at its end point that he almost shouts, No, goddamnit, he willnotbe doing the dishes.True, Kate cooked the turkey but he, always the more domestic one in their sinking domestic partnership, was responsible for the cran-berry sauce, the vegetables, the salad.And what is there to cooking a turkey?You put it in the oven, deck it out in some sort ofReynoldsWrap biohazard suit, peek in on it every hour or so, and in the meanwhile you can be sneaking little pulls on the oldAbsolut.But then, sanity and self-interest, not always boon companions, do a little synchronized swim-ming across his brainpan and he realizes that his relieving Kate ofall household duties would be the very best thing he could do right now.

“Fine,”he says,“I’ll be glad to.You should get some rest.”

She looks him up and down, wanting to quarrel but too exhausted and too full ofwine to bother speaking.She is wearing flowing black trousers, a white satin blouse, she has braided her hair up in a little deft twist, but all her beauty has fallen into a heap.She drags her feet as she trudges across the kitchen, the little squared heels ofher black pumps scrape and bang against the floor;they are the noisy, tottering footsteps ofa little girl wearing her mother’s shoes.Daniel doesn’t say anything more, he is afraid to look at her.He doesn’t want to do anything to im-pede the progress ofher retreat.All he wants her to do is go upstairs, lie down, and then pass out, dressed, undressed, makes no difference.

He rinses the dishes, the glasses, the silverware, sticks everything that fits into the dishwasher, and then, thinking that ifKate is really going to pass out she will have done so by now, he creeps up the steps and looks into their bedroom, where, sure enough, she is not only in bed but un-der the covers, with the lights out.A little exhausted sigh oflight from the hallways casts its pale dull depressive patina into the bedroom; Daniel can make out what seems to be Kate’s white blouse and the tips ofher shoes on the floor.So:she has undressed.Meaning:she is not nap-ping, she is turning in for the night;this is not a pit stop, this is a crash.

Kate rarely mentions her briefhusband, but more than once she has told Daniel that Ross loved to fuck her when she was passed out loaded.Al-cohol was like cement blocks tethered to her sleeping brain, sinking it twenty fathoms deep, rendering her impervious to human voices, bark-ing dogs, sanitation trucks, phones, alarm clocks, light, cold, heat, shaken shoulders, kissed lips, fingers up her vagina, and, from time to time, full copulation.Every so often, however, she would be briefly aroused from her stupor and come streaming up to the surface ofcon-sciousness like a scuba diver swimming up through a thick red velvet ocean ofwine, and catch Ross at it.She would either tell him to stop it, or she would not—both responses had their dark satisfactions.

The result ofone ofthose sneaky copulations was Ruby, and now Daniel slips out ofthe bedroom and goes downstairs to check on the little girl, who has dozed offin front oftheTV.Some nitwit in charge ofpro-gramming has decided to showPlatoonon Thanksgivingnight.TheSamuel BarberAdagio for Strings is on the soundtrack, its piercing melody ac-companying the men as they kill and die in the lush jungle.Daniel digs be-neath the sofa cushions and finds the remote, mutes the sound, hoping to protect Ruby, but the sudden absence ofsound awakens her.

“Hey, Monkey,”Daniel whispers, hoping she will remain drowsy.

”What’s this?”she says, looking at the screen.

”Nothing,”he says, hitting the offbutton.“It’s time for bed.”

“What was that?”

“A movie.”

“Can I watch it?”

“You won’t like it, honey.It’s not for kids.”He sits next to her.“Are you feeling okay?”

She hates to admit it—mainly because she doesn’t want him to use it as an argument against her watching theTV.Nevertheless, she would like some sympathy, the occasional magic ofan adult’s commiserating voice.

”My stomach hurts.”

“Still?”he asks.

She nods.She detects alarm in his voice and it brings tears to her eyes—the strange kind, the kind she knows will not be shed.

“Where does it hurt?”

“My stomach.”

“But where?”

She moves her hand in an indistinct circle around her abdomen, as if waxing a tabletop.

“Does it feel more throw-uppy, or more poopy?”

She shrugs, looks away, suddenly delicate.He has the feeling ofhaving misspoken on a date.

“How long have you had it?”he asks.“Since dinner?”

“Every day,”she says.She reaches for the remote control;Daniel pulls it away from her, but she persists, and he gives it to her.She presses the on button and the set comes on just as one ofthe soldiers inPlatoon catches a bullet in the back.Her face is so impassive, Daniel can’t tell if she has registered the image.She begins to scroll through the channels, one after the next, looking for a station showing cartoons.

“Where’s Cartoon Network?”she asks.

They have had a satellite receiver on their rooffor months now, but with hundreds ofchannels to choose from, Daniel is still the only one who knows where the various networks and cable stations are on the scroll.

Even Kate, a hard-core aficionado ofCNN, often asks Daniel for her show’s three-digit address.He is the one who brings the groceries home, who lugs them from the car, he is the one who mows the lawn, rakes the leaves, shovels the snow, salts the icy sidewalk, carries the firewood in from the shed and stacks it next to the hearth, he is the one who opens the flue in November and yanks it shut again in May, he is the one who pushes the reset button on the boiler when it inexplicably shuts down, who sets the Havahart traps for the squirrels in the kitchen, who traps the milk snakes in the dirt-floor cellar, who opens the windows so that the occa-sional bat can escape, he is the one who changes the batteries in the smoke detectors—what in the world will they do without him?

“It’s too late for cartoons,”he says to Ruby.

”What time is it?”A note ofdesperation in her voice—she knows what’s coming.

“Almost ten,”he answers, yawning.

”Where’s Mom?”she asks.

”She’s sleeping, too.Come on.”Daniel stands.He grips her by her armpits, the heat comes straight through the fabric ofher cotton turtle-neck.He lifts her, she grips his ribs with her knees.What ifthis is the last time he ever lifts her into his arms? Ofcourse it’s not, he tells himself.

But he also knows that day will come.In the end, she may come to love him again, but first there will be hurdles to jump in a long steeplechase ofhate.

The usual bedtime ritual for Ruby—the washing, the brushing, the stories, the back scratching—usually runs close to an hour, but tonight she allows herselfto be put to sleep in twenty minutes, after which Daniel checks in on Kate again, and after that he goes downstairs, puts on his overcoat, and leaves.The night air is cold and tastes ofwood smoke.The stars pulsate like wounds.He slides into his car, starts the en-gine, and backs away from the house without putting on his headlights.

When he is safely away from the house he switches on his lights and sur-prises two deer who have been standing on the side ofthe road.He won-ders ifhe is making a terrible mistake—the kind you can never live down, the kind that defines your life, that creates a before and an after—byleaving Ruby alone in the house with her mother.But he comforts himself:Isn’t that how the world goes?Aren’t there at this very moment millions ofkids in their little beds, with their drunken parents right down the hall?

When he has put that proverbial country mile between himself and his house, Daniel realizes that once again he has no destination.The Bistro is closed for the holiday—though surely halfits clientele could use a place to repair to—and he neither wishes nor dares to drive by Iris’s house.He finds his cell phone in the glove compartment and dials her number.One ofDaniel’s clients, a postmarital stalker, from whom Daniel has unconsciously learned certain desperate techniques ofinfor-mation gathering and track covering, has told Daniel that ifyou want to make a phone call and don’t want your number to show up on caller-identification hardware, or to have your number retrievable by the re-cipient’s pressing*69,then you can block your number from coming up bydialing*67before making the call, which Daniel does now before di-aling Iris’s number.His plan:IfIris answers, ask her to meet him at his office;ifanyone else picks up, simply terminate the call.

The call is answered on the second ring.A man’s voice.Hampton.

Fucking hell.Daniel hits the offbutton on his phone, tosses it aside, and steps on the accelerator, plunging the car deeper into the night.

Guided only by the logic and habits ofdriving, he speeds through the village and turns onto a little two-block stretch offrame houses, given the grandiose nameVanderbilt Drive;from there, he takes a left onto Hammersmith, to his office.IrmaThomas is playing on his tape deck:It’s raining so hard I can scarcely catch my breath…He pulls into the driveway that leads to the parking area behind the building, which is just an un-lighted patch ofblacktop, with amateurishly drawn yellow lines indicat-ing the parking space for each ofthe building’s clients, and he doesn’t notice Iris’s car until he is turning into his own slot and the outer edge ofhis headlights sweeps against the side doors ofher blueVolvo.

He bangs his fist against the steering wheel, rocks back in his seat.

Iris has gotten out ofher car, she is walking toward him.He opens the door.He hurries toward her, takes her in his arms.

“It’s you,”he says, talking and kissing her at the same time.

”I was just going to leave,”she says.

”Do you have time?”

She shakes her head no.“Do you?”

“Kate’s asleep.Passed out, actually.”It strikes him as a terrible thing to say, but even as he realizes that he proceeds to make it worse.“I actu-ally feel nervous leaving Ruby alone with her.”

“You should go back.We both should.”

“How did you know I’d be here?”Daniel asks.

“I didn’t.I just had to get out ofthe house and I decided to come here.Hampton’s brothers Jordan and James—”

“I met James,”Daniel interjects.

”And his sisterVictoria are completely obsessed with this fucking video game James brought over.All that brotherly competition, it’s re-ally exhausting.And they’ve got Nelson all gooned up over it.It’s the worst kind ofviolent fantasy game for a kid like Nelson, but try telling that to Hampton.He just laughs, like there’s something cute and naïve about my concerns.”

“Leave him then, live with me.”

Without any particular change ofexpression, the look offrustration and anger on her face changes to melancholy, it’s like moving a radio dial the breadth ofone cricket leg and hearing completely different music.

”Don’t,”she says.“It’s not funny.”

“Am I laughing?Am I even smiling?”

“Where were you all my life?”she says.“Why weren’t you there when it was time to get married?Where were you?What were you doing?”

“I don’t remember,”he says, pulling her close.“Let’s go upstairs,”he murmurs into her ear.

They have already been at each other a few times in his office;they have made love on the floor, with Iris on Daniel’s lap and Daniel in his chair, with Iris naked and bent over the desk, propped up on her elbows, her hands clasped as ifin prayer, or with her arms outstretched and her hands grasping onto the edge ofthe desk for traction while Daniel emp-ties himself into her from behind.As they walk in tonight, and Daniel turns on a floor lamp and then steps behind Iris to help her offwith her coat, they both realize that more than any other single room, this utili-tarian space, with its sense ofgrievance and redress in the glassed-in bookshelves, with its evidence oftime wasted and time standing still in the standard-issue magazines on the low table in the waiting room, and the tax-deductible elegance in the blue-and-gold weave oftheTurkish rug Daniel bought at an auction at a Holiday Inn across the river, this two-room suite, this place ofbusiness, this professional outpost ofa man who willfully jettisoned his main chance to make any kind ofname for himself in his field, this is as close as anything they have to call their own.

Where in the world can they go?They have used her house, going from room to room, trying to find a bed in which they don’t feel criminal, they have parked like teenagers along various dirt roads and woodland paths, and they have been together at the Catskill Motel, the Bittersweet, the Stuyvesant Motor Lodge, a Sheraton, a Motel6,the Flying Dutch-man, and in Cabin3ofa squalid scatter oftiny tourist cabins calling it-selfthe MorpheusArms, always checking in under assumed names and paying in cash, sometimes only able to stay for a halfhour, and never re-turning anywhere a second time.

“Where does everyone think you are?”he asks her, hanging her coat on the coatrack, and then putting his own over hers.

“Hampton’s mother wants some Pepto and I said I’d find someplace open and get it for her.”She glances at her watch, shrugs.“We actually have some in the house—Pepto-Bismol is to theWelles family what chicken soup is to Jews—but I just hid it in my purse so I could have an excuse to get out ofthere.”She takes an unopened bottle ofthe lurid pink liquid out ofher pocketbook and shows it to Daniel.

He is thrilled by her cunning.Its dishonest, calculating nature doesn’t disturb him at all.

“Kind oflow, isn’t it?”she says, dropping the medicine back into her bag.

“I think when people love each other, they’ll do anything to be together,”Daniel says.“Everything that is in the way has to get either shoved to one side or beaten into dust.You do whatever is necessary.”

“Great.Let’s go on a killing spree.”

Daniel gestures toward the oak file cabinets.“Most ofmy cases, there’s not much passion behind them, but now and then I have to rep-resent someone who’s driven by some desire—for another person, for money, whatever—and I never understood how someone could risk wrecking their life, or ruining the lives ofpeople around them, or actu-ally hurting someone, just to get what they want.But I think that’s be-

cause I never really wanted anything myself, I mean really wanted it, the way I wanted you.”

“You mean you don’t anymore?”

“Now more than ever.It’s the only real thing.”

“There’s no place in the world for us, Daniel.Nothing will ever come ofthis.Just memories, fantastically painful memories.”

“That doesn’t have to be true.”

“Too much is against us,”Iris says.“Do you see how people look at us when we’re in public?”

“Fuck them.”

“Well, one day we’re going to be tired ofbeing in a freak show.”

“That’s because we’re here inTinyTown.We could go to a city.”

“Where could we go?”

“Anywhere.New York.”

“NewYork?That belongs to Hampton.I could never.Where could we go?We couldn’t stay here.OrWashington, Atlanta, San Francisco, Chicago.He’s got family in so many places.Where could we live?”

“Anywhere.London.Hong Kong.Amsterdam.Oslo.What difference does it make? I would go anywhere.And I’d do anything.I’d crawl through broken glass ifI could just be sure that at the end ofthe day I’d be getting into bed next to you.”

“You’re too focused on what you want, Daniel.”

“I can’t help it.I think I was hardwired to be with you.I’m telling you, Iris, nothing else matters.To me.”He has grabbed her elbows and is pulling her closer to him, but she turns her face away.

“I love being with you,”she says.“I love what you see in me, and I like who I am around you.”She looks at him, with such sudden seriousness it almost makes him laugh.“It’s the greatest freedom I’ve ever known,”she says.He is about to say something but she stops him.“But what are we going to do?”she says.“IfI ever tried to leave Hampton, it would be like a war.”

“Fifty percent ofmarriages end in divorce,”Daniel says.

”Not fifty percent ofHampton’s marriages, or anyone else in his fam-

ily.With them, every wedding is a royal wedding, part ofsome grand al-liance.They’re all demonstrating some idea they have ofperfect family life, and I can guarantee you one thing, he would make my life hell.He’d be merciless.In terms offinances…”

“Who cares about that?”

“I do, Daniel.Come on, be realistic here.This is my life we’re talking about.And Nelson’s, too.He’d go for custody, Hampton would, he would try to hurt me in any way he could.”

“He could try for custody.That doesn’t mean he’s going to get it.He won’t.The courts are used to these guys who suddenly are Father ofthe Year.Hampton’s not set up to raise a kid.And he’s not that great with Nelson.He bullies him.”

“You know, these family court judges,”Iris says.

”Idiots,”says Daniel.

”Yes, well, a lot ofthem areAfrican-American.African-American women.I think they’d give Hampton whatever he asked for.They would, wouldn’t they?Tell me I’m wrong.Please.I wish you would.But you can’t! I’m not going to lose my son!”

“Iris…”

“And I’ll tell you another thing,”Iris says.“IfHampton thought I was leaving him for a white guy, that would make it all the worse.”

“I’m not all that white.”

“I’m being serious, Daniel.”

“Sorry.But he’s not all that black, that’s for sure.”

“What are you talking about? He’s not all that black?You don’t really know what you’re talking about.Hampton is a black man, he feels it, his world is based on it, his social life, his business, his identity, he may be light-skinned and think like a banker, but I can promise you ifhe ever found out I was fucking some white guy, he’d be Louis Farrakhan before the day was out.It would be the ultimate betrayal.”

“Is this what you came here to talk about?”Daniel says.He lets go of her, and, just as he feared, his touch was all that was keeping her close.

She drifts away from him, stands at the window.Drops ofmoisture—rain? snow?—are forming on the black glass.

“No.I wanted to come someplace where you might be, or at least somewhere that belongs to you.I’m just so crazy about you, it’s ridiculous.”

The phone on his desk rings with a sound as sudden as a rock through a window.Daniel thinks,This is either a wrong number or trouble.The an-swering machine picks up, SheilaAlvarez’s soothing voice.After the tone, Kate’s voice:“I just called you on your cell phone but you’re not answering, so I’ll leave this happy holiday message for you at your office, Asshole.I woke up from the little nap you so considerately convinced me to take, and guess what I found?An unattended child and a sink full of dirty dishes.So, Asshole, are you having fun?”

Daniel finally rouses himself and turns the volume offon the machine, so the only evidence ofKate’s continuing diatribe is the light—as red as a pinprick ofblood—blinking offand on.

[13]

There was a break in the black sky and the platinum moonlight poured down on them.The whites of Hampton’s eyes glittered.His shirt was dirty, his khaki trousers were covered in burrs and black with mud at the knees.Daniel looked down at his own hands.There was a scrape on the heel of his hand.And then the crack in the sky healed, and the moonlight disappeared.

TwoSundays later, there is an afternoon party at Eight Chimneys, to inaugurate the Eight Chimneys Foundation, which MarieThorne has set up as a first step in turning the old house into an official NewYork State Historical Site.Despite Susan Richmond’s antagonism to the proj-ect—she can’t bear the thought ofticket-holding strangers traipsing around her property, and she also knows that the entire scheme has cre-ated a little dome ofprivacy, a secret spot in which Ferguson and Marie can carry on their repulsive flirtation—leaving the planning ofthe party itselfto Ferguson and Marie is beyond her powers offorbearance.Fergu-son is as domestic as Buffalo Bill, and Marie’s ideas for the party are pa-thetic, culled from some grotesque guide to“elegant living”—caterers cooking and serving hot appetizers, expensive booze, chamber musicians from Marlowe College, vases filled with Casablanca lilies.Marie, despite having been born and raised on the property, seems to have no idea that such froufrou touches have no place at Eight Chimneys, where one en-tertains simply and cheaply.Susan feels that ostentation is the province of the middle class, who always seem to be saying“Look what we have!”

whereas at Eight Chimneys one likes to behave in such a way that implies

”We’ve all had enough chamber music and porcini tarts, and the long, tiresome trek through the gardens ofplenty has led us to believe it’s a hell ofa lot more fun to fill up a few bowls with potato chips, get store-brand sodas at the Price Chopper, jeroboams ofcheap wine, and not make such a big deal out ofeverything.”Susan cannot resist a chance to express her own artistic talents, and on each ofthe ninety invitations sent out she cre-ates a tiny watercolor, usually just a few wavy blue lines to symbolize the river, but sometimes a finely wrought chimney, or a cow.

The invitation in Kate’s hand has been personalized with the wavy blue lines.Beneath the times ofthe party, from2:00to4:00p.m.,there is a line that readsdonation: twenty-five dollars per person.On Daniel and Kate’s invitation, Susan has drawn a circle around the amount, with a line running offthe circle that leads to the messageno exceptions!Kate has been going on about the boorishness ofthis re-minder since its arrival onTuesday, and now, sitting at her dressing table, putting on her lipstick, with the invitation propped up against the mir-ror, she suddenly sees Daniel in the glass and begins again.

“Does Susan Richmond really think we’re going to try and sneak in without paying?”she asks.She doesn’t turn to face him but watches his reflection in the mirror.His hair is still wet from the shower;his eyes are dark and startled in the middle ofhis scrubbed face.He has lately be-come meticulous about his grooming, as he has with every other detail ofdomestic life, from getting up with Ruby every morning and making breakfast for the family, to the dutiful little good-night kisses he places on Kate’s cheek at night.He is like a British officer in captivity, keeping up his own morale with close shaves and crisp salutes.

“I’m sure it’s a joke,”he says.He checks the time.“You look very nice.”Which is his way ofsaying,“Hurry up, it’s time to leave.”

“I’ve started a new novel,”she suddenly announces.

“That’s good.It’s great.I’m really glad.”

“You are?”

“Ofcourse I am.”

“Yes, well, we’ll see.But it does seem that connubial bliss was interfering with my creativity.Ever since…youknow, the big confession, I’ve really felt inspired.And this book—well, I don’t even want to talk about it.I don’t want to jinx it.It could all disappear.I could spend the rest ofmy life just writing articles.”

“I’m really glad,”Daniel says.“Are you almost ready?”

“Ruby?”she asks, still gazing at him in the mirror.

”I think she’s all set.I’ll go check.”

Except for not loving Kate, Daniel has been a model partner since his confession in the hotel room two weeks ago.No socks on the floor, im-peccable table manners, he has even purchased over the Internet some spray he squirts on the back ofhis throat at night, which has virtually eliminated his snoring.The respect he shows for her sleep is boundless.

Not only has the snoring stopped, but he no longer tugs at the blanket, and when he rolls over nothing ofhim so much as grazes her, she cannot even feel his breathing, he has less presence than the dead, and in the mornings he is quieter than the rising sun when he slips out ofbed to mind Ruby and get her offto school.Yet he is not entirely cold, not like someone who is furious, or who wishes to punish you.Ifshe rolls next to him in bed, he is accepting.Ifshe presses herselfagainst him he gathers her in.Ifshe kisses him, he kisses her back.Ifshe wants to fuck, he fucks.

He is entirely at her disposal.Her every wish, it seems, is…no, not his command, but his opportunity to commit some further act ofpenance.

”Got me one ofdem penitent boyfriends,”Kate said to Lorraine over the telephone the other day.“Dem’s the best kind,”answered Lorraine.

Daniel finds Ruby in her room, brushing the bright-yellow hair ofa chubby-faced doll with a pug nose, a prissy mouth, and blue, unforgiv-ing eyes.Neither Daniel nor Kate would have bought such a toy for Ruby—they would rather supply her with little cars, plastic horses, building blocks, books—but she’d fallen under the doll’s spell at day care and the teachers let her take it home.“Are you about ready, Monkey?”

Daniel asks.He feels so guilty around Ruby that he has made his voice overly cheerful.

“I want to play with Ginkie,”Ruby says.She turns the doll around on her lap, gazes into its bright blue eyes.

“You can bring Ginkie with you, ifyou want.”

“No.She can’t go out.”Ruby has long contended that the doll is afraid to leave the house—it seems part ofa strategy to make certain that it never gets returned to the day care center.

“It’s going to be fun,”says Daniel.“And besides, there’s not going to be any grown-ups home, so you have to come along.”

“What about Mercy?”

“She’s busy.”

“Is she going to be at the party?”

“You never know.”

“Can I really take Ginkie?”

Daniel picks Ruby up, notches her onto his hip.The weight ofher balances him, somehow damps down the anxiety.

The three ofthem drive to the party, through a mild November afternoon.The sun is high and hazy in the pale-blue sky, it looks like a little stain on a shirt.The wreckage oflast month’s storm is still everywhere in evidence—collapsed old barns, fallen trees, heartbreaking wreaths on the side ofthe road where people lost their lives.

He drives slowly, not wanting to telegraph how anxious he is to arriveat the party.Kate, who since beginning her novel has taken up smok-ing again, lights a cigarette and cracks the window to let out the smoke.

“Don’t smoke!”Ruby cries out, the way they all do in unison at her day care center, duringAwarenessTraining, when the kids are introduced to all God’s dangers:Don’t smoke! Don’t drink! Don’t touch me!

Kate rolls her eyes, inviting Daniel to share her exasperation, but at the same time she reaches behind her and gives Ruby’s knee a humorous little squeeze.

“Are there going to be other kids at the party?”Ruby asks.

After a briefsilence, Daniel answers.“I don’t really know for sure.I imagine so.”

“I want Nelson to be there,”Ruby says.“Was he invited?”

“I don’t know who was invited,”Daniel says.He feels Kate’s eyes on him, and his voice wavers.

“Oh, I certainly hope Nelson is there,”Kate says, taking one last drag ofher cigarette and then tossing it out the window.“With his lovely par-ents.That would make everything special.”

“He’s nice,”Ruby says, stretching her arms and legs.The child seat seems suddenly a size too small for her.

“Oh, he’s fantastic,”Kate says.“The whole family.”

She glances at Daniel, notes his discomfort, and wraps her hand around the crook ofhis right arm, momentarily throwing his steering off.

They are riding through the village now, past the church in which the four ofthem heard theMessiaha few weeks ago.It seems like months, years.

She remembers Daniel and Iris, the little looks they traded.Was he al-ready fucking her? He claims not, but it’s probably ridiculous to assume scrupulous honesty from him.Maybe he was.Maybe Kate was already be-ing played for a fool.When she was young the thought ofsomehow being the butt ofa joke was at the absolute zenith ofher jealousy, nothing was worse than thinking someone might be reveling in putting something over on her.But now, to her surprise, the possibility that Daniel and Iris might have taken some grotesque pride in fooling her barely registers in Kate.It seems the most trivial part ofthe story.This is a story about sad-ness and loss, about getting a shocking wake-up call to put her house back in order, this is a story about what she had to learn in order to make things right again.She wonders ifshe is deluding herself, but that thought is sim-ply too painful.Instead she thinks:I should thank them,trying that one on for size.But no, it doesn’t fit, either.Too big.Or too small.Something.

They drive on the curving, bucolic blacktop that goes past Leyden’s riverside mansions.The estate next to Eight Chimneys, which for two hundred years had been known as Eliade, has finally been sold offby the dissolute progeny ofits original owners and is now called Leyden Farms.

A wooden roadside stand has been built across the road from the en-trance gate where bushels ofgolden delicious and Macintosh apples are sold—a puzzling bit offrugality on the new owner’s part.He is a middle-aged television producer, specializing in hospital dramas, and he paid close to eight million dollars for the estate.It’s difficult to see how the two or three hundred dollars made annually from selling apples could make much difference to him.Perhaps they’re a tax dodge.

A mile later, they come to the crumbling stone gates ofEight Chimneys.

The estate’s gatehouse sits at the edge ofthe road—a small stone house that is an architectural miniature ofthe mansion, and in even worse repair.

“These people are so crazy,”Kate says.“Everything is falling apart, it’s just chaos everywhere.”

“I’d think you’d like this sort ofthing,”says Daniel.“It’s sort ofsouthern.It’s Faulknerian.”

“IfI wanted to be in the South, I would have stayed in the South.I think people ought to take care ofwhat they have.I hate things going to wrack and ruin.And Daniel?This isn’t Faulknerian.Everything creepy and south-ern isn’t Faulknerian, just like everything annoying isn’t Kafkaesque.”

The long driveway between the road and the main house has somehow gotten worse since the last time he drove it.The potholes have dou-bled in depth, and now Daniel must dodge the crowns offallen trees—once he drives directly into one ofthe craters.When they reach the main house, there are only five cars in front, and one ofthem has no tires and has obviously been there for quite a while.

“You said it was going to be a big party,”Ruby says.

”It will be,”Daniel says.“We’re just a little early.”

“When’s Nelson coming?”Ruby asks.She hugs her doll close to her.

”I don’t know ifhe’s coming at all, Monkey,”Daniel says.“But there will be other kids, I promise.”

“You promise?”asks Kate, amazed.

”Yes,”Daniel says.And Kate shakes her head, clearly implying that Daniel, ifhe had the proper humility, would never make another prom-ise for as long as he lived.

They are met at the door by Susan, wearing a rust-colored corduroy jumper, such as you would see on a schoolgirl.Her graying hair is twisted into a long braid.Her face looks moist and dense, like the inside ofan apple.

“Hello, Kate,”Susan says, extending her hand.Her voice is frosty, edged with contempt.She is punishing him for his participation in Fer-guson’s and Marie’s scheme.“It’s nice to see you.We’re putting coats in here.”Then, turning toward Daniel,“Ifany ofthe politicians show up, I’ll leave them to you.I can’t stand politicians.”

She leads them into what had once been the conservatory, a large room with floor-to-ceiling casement windows.The room is empty, ex-cept for an antique telescope standing gawkily in a corner, and a long oak table upon which the guests can deposit their coats.“Isn’t this the room where Professor Plum did it, usinga…candlestick?”Kate murmurs to Daniel.Susan is walking a few feet in front ofthem, with her hand rest-ing on Ruby’s shoulder.

“We haven’t met,”Susan says to Ruby.“I’m Susan Ferguson.”

Ruby has never been addressed in quite this tone.There is no inflection in Susan’s voice that would suggest she is speaking to a child.Con-fused, and a little thrilled, as well, Ruby looks up at the strange woman.

”Is this your house?”she asks.She holds her doll behind her back to hide it from Susan.

“Oh please, don’t remind me.Look.”She gestures toward the wallpaper, faded blue and dirty white, showing a repeated pattern ofa little girl in a pinafore holding a hoop through which jumps her dingy little dog.“Not to mention…”She points to the warped floorboards, then the copper-colored stains on the ceiling.Susan sighs, takes Ruby’s coat from her.“You know, at a certain point, you just give up.”She looks down at Ruby, gives her a curious little frown, as she wonders why this child seems so unresponsive.“Are you in school?”she asks.

The party is centered in what the Richmonds still call the ballroom, and, in fact, it is a room where dancing sometimes occurs—though now it is either raucous, sweating rock and roll, or the sacred, ceremonial steps ofApache rain dancers or Sufi dervishes, performers brought in by Susan.People are beginning to arrive, but Daniel is too nervous by now to do more than nod a distant hello to each ofthem.It is striking him with some force that coming to this party is a grave mistake.IfIris doesn’t show up, it will break his heart, his indelible disappointment will show like blood on a sheet.Ifshe does appear—then what? How will he be able to keep away from her?

He stands, with Kate, near the fireplace where four-foot white birch logs are smoldering.The brick wall ofthe hearth is coated with creosote, black and sticky.Kate speaks to him through the side ofher mouth.

”Thank God we hurried getting here.I think it’s important to be among the very first to arrive.Don’t you?”

“There’s no kids here,”Ruby says.

”There will be, I’m sure ofit,”Daniel answers.

”I want Nelson,”says Ruby.

Daniel stares at the fire.He knows Kate is looking directly at him, but he pretends to be absorbed by the progress ofthe flame as it slowly burns through the logs.His face is scalding;the fire burns his thoughts away, and he stands there as ifhypnotized.When he finally steps away he sees a few more people have arrived, and that Ruby has found the food on the other side ofthe room and is grabbing handfuls ofpotato chips.

Susan has taken it upon herselfto point out a mural on the ballroom’s ceiling to Kate, who has a plastic cup ofwine in her hand.

“Ferguson’s great-grandfather Payson Richmond commissioned a Portuguese artist to make this mural.Payson wanted a picture ofheaven, he wanted stars, which you see, and a moon, over there, and he wanted to see God.More than anything he wanted God up there, looking down on all the wonderful people.But the artist, whose name was Barbieri, was a devout atheist.You see, no saints, and certainly no God.Payson in-sisted that Barbieri get back on the scaffolding and find a place for God and Barbieri ofcourse refused, and before anyone could intervene the two ofthem were fighting like kids, slapping each other in the face, push-ing, and Payson ended up slipping on the floor and hitting the side ofhis head, which caused him to lose the hearing in his right ear.”

Kate seems amused as she listens to this.She has a taste for the sort ofceaselessly self-referential anecdotes families like the Richmonds like to tell.She herselfuses phrases like“old family”and“good family.”She believes in genealogy, she believes in birthrights, she feels that the deeds and misdeeds ofour ancestors are a large part ofwho we are.Daniel prefers not to believe in such things, the idea that who we are is deter-mined by our ancestors has never appealed to him, and now, ofcourse, it is repellent.Yet he is relieved to see Kate staring up at the mural with Susan.Kate’s neck is long and still firm.She is wearing a black skirt, flat-tering and tight, a bolero jacket, clip-on pearl earrings.Her hands are on her hips.She looks lithe, high-spirited, ifhe didn’t know her he would want to.How strange it feels not to love her.That love had once felt so stable, dependable, its very lack ofdrama made it feel eternal, and now, to feel so little, to feel almost nothing outside ofrespect, and a desire not to hurt her too badly, is like waking up one morning and finding that you no longer can enjoy the taste ofbread.

Ferguson, meanwhile, is on the third floor, in the room into which Marie has moved.There’s a little hooked rug on the floor;the walls are bare except for an old brass bell that used to be connected to a system ofpulleys controlled from a panel in the butler’s pantry and could be rung to summon whatever maid might be using that room.Ferguson sits on the edge ofMarie’s bed, dressed in work pants, a frayed white shirt, while she dips a comb into a glass ofwater and grooms him.“Hey, take it easy,”he says, as she rakes the comb through his hair, but she is deter-mined to bring his unruly mop under control.She combs his hair straight back and when she finally finishes, Ferguson stands up and walks stiff-leggedly to the window, where he sees his faint reflection swimming in the old wavy glass.“Great,”he says.“Now I look like a Mexican.”

“I doubt it,”says Marie.She kisses his forehead.“IfI help you save Eight Chimneys…”

“I’ll be forever in your debt,”Ferguson says.

”That’s sort ofwhat I’m counting on.It’ll put us on the same level.I won’t be poor little Marie, I’ll be the girl who saved you.”

When the party is in full swing, Marie plans to make a little speech.

She wants to thank everyone for coming and to give a briefoverview of the Eight Chimneys Project, which is what she is now calling the plan to turn the house into a historical site.Ferguson has come to her room, however, not only to kiss her, and to walk with her down to the old ball-room, but to talk her out ofmaking her speech.Susan must not be over-shadowed in that way, it will be humiliating to her, and that would be unkind and even a little dangerous.But now that he is with Marie he finds that he doesn’t have the heart to tell her not to address the guests.

She deserves the credit and she deserves the recognition.And the per-sonal significance that this afternoon must hold for Marie has suddenly become touchingly clear to him.What a triumph, what a turn ofevents, what a change offortune.Here, after all, is a girl who was raised by one ofthe estate’s old servants, a girl whom destiny seemed to have marked for a life ofutter insignificance.How could anyone with a heart interfere with her moment ofglory?I’ll stand next to Susan while Marie makes her speech,he thinks.Maybe I’ll put my arm around her.

“Are you ready?”he asks Marie.

She touches her throat, and then the pearl necklace that Susan and Ferguson gave her on her sixteenth birthday.She is dressed in an oatmeal-colored woolen suit.It seems like something women wear to the office.Ferguson has no idea how she chooses her clothes;he’s meant to ask her but it keeps slipping his mind.

“Do I look all right?”she asks.

”You’re beautiful.You make me very, very happy.”

She seems truly surprised by his tenderness.He rarely says sweet things to her ifthey aren’t in bed—in fact, the best part ofsleeping with him is getting to hear that gentle voice.

“I wish Dad were here,”she says.

”I do, too, honey,”says Ferguson.“I really do.Now let’s go down there and shock the hell out ofeverybody.”

Marie stops in her tracks.“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.Nothing.I have no idea why I said that.Fumes from the lead paint on these old walls.”He links his arm through hers and steers her through the doorway.

Ferguson and Marie come down just as State Senator Phil Russell joins the party.Russell is a stocky, ravenous man, dressed in a brown suit.Thirty years ago, he was a football star at Sacred Heart, aWindsor County Catholic high school, and his chin, nose, and forehead still show the scars ofhis three years on the offensive line.He surveys the room with wary eyes—this bastion ofthe faded aristocracy is not on his regu-lar beat.Russell runs on the Republican and the Right to Life tickets;he has been warned by his staffthat while the Richmonds’Republican roots are deep, Ferguson and Susan are at the end ofthe line and their house is a gathering place for eccentrics and flakes.

As Ferguson and Marie make their way toward Russell, Susan swoops him up and escorts him over to meet Daniel.By now, forty or fifty people have shown up, but not Iris, and Daniel is trying to keep his composure.

“Daniel, I’m sure you know Phil Russell,”Susan says.“Mr.Russell,

Daniel Emerson has agreed to act as our attorney in this whole business.

Isn’t that nice ofhim?”

For a moment, Daniel wonders ifSusan is somehow under the impression that he’s not going to bill them, but then he realizes this is merely her manner.

“Nice to see you,”Russell says, squeezing Daniel’s hand, his shoulder.

“What a wonderful party.”

“It certainly is,”Daniel says.He has found a place to stand near the center ofthe room where he can feel the cool draft whenever the front door opens, so he knows when new people have arrived.He feels the flutter ofthe breeze on his pant legs, but when he looks past Russell he sees Upton Douglas, a portly, white-haired real estate broker, swinging his way in on a pair ofyellow crutches.Douglas was knocked to the ground by a falling branch during the October storm and he broke his leg in four places.They’ve known each other casually for years, and when Douglas sees Daniel staring at him he smiles.

Daniel suddenly notices that Phil Russell is looking oddly at him, and Daniel quickly says,“It’ll be great to see this old place brought back to its former glory.”

“It’s really something,”Russell says.He has been taking in his surroundings and his eyes are registering some alarm.Eight Chimneys’ derelict state unnerves him, it seems to suggest a kind ofmadness.“What do you think the square footage is in this place?”

“I don’t think houses like thishavesquare footage.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”He smooths his shirt over his cinderblock stomach.“It’s going to take a lot more than state historic money to put this puppy back on its hindquarters again.We’re going to have to think about the Fed, and private donations.”He smiles his high school hero smile.“But that’s okay, we’re going to make it happen because it’s the right thing to do.”

Daniel sees Kate across the room, talking with noticeable animation to a man in his fifties, a writer from the city named Barry Braithwaite.Braith-waite, a small, sickly man with bloodshot eyes and yellowed fingers, has written several articles about O.J.Simpson, mostly concentrating on the sociopathology ofthe coddled athlete.Kate has her hand on his shoulder and whispers something in Braithwaite’s ear.Braithwaite tucks his chin in and looks at her with considerable amazement, as ifshe has just made the most transgressive remark he has ever heard, and then he laughs.

Just then, Derek Pabst comes in, dressed in a dark-brown suit, a yellow shirt, and brown tie.He looks uneasy as he sways in the entrance to the ball-room, squeezing his large hands together, rolling his broad shoulders, and casting his eyes around for a familiar face.It is not that Derek is a stranger to the people here, but most ofthem are too wealthy and too grand to be a part ofhis social life.He has issued them speeding tickets, brought them sad news about missing dogs and cats, shot rabid raccoons on their porches, been in their homes after break-ins, and even responded to a couple ofdo-mestic abuse calls, but drinking wine and chatting with this collection of doctors, lawyers, academics, writers, and the idle well-to-do on a Sunday afternoon in a mansion by the river is outside his usual experience.When he sees Daniel across the room, his face lights up with relief.

“Hello, good buddy,”he says, grabbing Daniel’s elbow.

”Hello, Derek,”Daniel says.He is about to ask,What are you doing

here?but he stops himself.

Derek looks around, taking in his surroundings.“You hear all these rumors about what this place is like on the inside, but it’s not so bad, not like I thought.”

“Derek Pabst,”Daniel says.“This is Phil Russell.”

Russell puts his hand out and Derek shakes it, but he is clearly distracted.

“Is Kate here?”he asks.

”She’s over there.What about Stephanie?”

“She’s home with Chelsea.”Derek peers around the room.“Where’s Kate.I actually need to talk to her.”He senses the confusion in Daniel’s eyes.“I’ve got a little more information about those runaway kids from Star ofBethlehem, I know she’s concerned.”He suddenly sees her.

”There she is.”He smooths his tie against his shirt.“I’ll be right back.”

As soon as Derek is gone, Russell looks at his watch.“Point Mary Thorne out for me, will you?”he asks Daniel.“She’s the one who sent us the invitation.”

“Marie.She’s right over there, come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Russell repeats the name softly to himself, committing it to memory.

As they make their way to the other side ofthe ballroom, Daniel looks for Ruby, who is suddenly not in sight.By now, most ofthe guests have ar-rived.The talk is loud and excited;people are still telling their storm sto-ries.Ferguson is in front ofthe fireplace, heaving a four-foot birch log in, and Susan is at his side, with her finger hooked through his empty belt loop, and looks to be speaking to him with extreme displeasure.Marie, holding a plastic cup ofwhite wine, is talking with Ethan Greenblatt, Marlowe Col-lege’s young president.Marie’s attention is rapt, though she seems not to realize how unusually tall Greenblatt is and her eyes are fixed not on his face but his chest.IfGreenblatt finds this unnerving, he is nevertheless unde-terred from going on at some length about oddities in the history ofEight Chimneys—though born in Montreal and raised in PaloAlto, Greenblatt knows as much as any ofthe river aristocracy about the town’s grand past.

“Do you know,”he says, in a voice that is at once declamatory and ironic,“MarkTwain, Charles Dickens, EdithWharton, and Ernest Hem-ingway all have spent the night in this house, and there is no other struc-ture on record in which all four ofthese luminaries have stayed.”When Greenblatt sees Daniel and Russell approaching, he rests his hand on Marie’s shoulder, as ifto prevent them from stealing her away.“And its political past is actually more extensive and, well, paradoxical than its cultural past.Dorothy Day, Frederick Douglass, Winston Churchill, Oc-tavio Paz, all the Roosevelts, ofcourse, WoodrowWilson—”

“Sorry to interrupt,”Daniel says.

”I’m just finishing, Daniel,”Greenblatt says.“I’m making a plea.”He raises both hands as ifto hold Daniel off, and then petitions for Marie’s attentions again by touching her lightly.“I would like Marlowe College to be somehow involved in the Eight Chimneys Project, in either curat-ing or administrating the museum, ifit so happens that it comes to pass.

Obviously, we can’t help in terms offinances, but we could bring a lot ofexpertise and legitimacy to the project, and it would be a real boon to our history department, which, by the way, already rivals the best his-tory departments in the country.”

“We’re okay on legitimacy, Ethan,”Marie says.“What we’re looking for is money.”

Just then, Daniel hears Ruby’s voice rising high above the wall-towall murmur ofthe party.At first, the sound alarms him, but then he hears it for what it is:a long trill ofjoy, and he knows there is only one person who can make Ruby quite that happy.Nelson’s here.

Daniel hurries to the entrance hall.Ruby holds Nelson’s hand and jumps up and down, trying to incite him to her level offrenzied joy, but Nelson is having none ofit.He is glancing over his shoulder at his par-ents, who are taking their coats offand looking around, trying to figure out where to put them.

“Ruby, Ruby, calm down,”Daniel says, making his presence known.

He would like to think he is smiling casually, though he can’t be sure.

“You were right!”Ruby says.“They’re here!”She pushes her doll onto Daniel.“Hold this,”she says, and then turns to Nelson.“You want chips?”

“Hey, you two,”Daniel says to Iris and Hampton.In his desire to sound chipper, his voice comes out far too strongly.“Coats are in there, in the conservatory.”A rush ofdizziness.It seems he has forgotten how to distribute his weight when standing.He tries to look only at Hampton but is unable to keep his gaze offIris.She is wearing a black sweater and jeans;she has a little Band-Aid on her right thumb and he resists the im-pulse to ask her how she hurt herself, and further resists the more ab-surd but equally powerful impulse to take her hand and kiss it.Iris has Hampton’s coat and she carries it offwith her own, leaving the two men alone for a moment.A wild stab ofdisappointment goes through Daniel—ifIris had given the coats to Hampton, she and Daniel could have had ten seconds ofprivacy.

“Nelson, come back here,”Hampton commands.Nelson stops as if on the end ofa leash and turns around to look at his father.Hampton crooks his finger and Nelson dutifully walks back to his side.Like Daniel—just like Daniel, in fact—he wears khaki trousers and a blue blazer, though his are more expensively tailored.The ceiling fixtures cast a brilliant light on his hairless dome.

“Where are we?”Hampton asks Nelson.

”Sorry,”Nelson says.

”Question repeated.Wherearewe?”

Iris emerges from the coatroom.She is pushing up the sleeves ofher sweater.Her face is expressionless.

“In a house,”Nelson says.

”Correct.So? Can we please haveinsidebehavior?Which means no running, no loud voices.All right?”

How would it play ifI slugged him? Daniel wonders.

Nelson nods yes, and backs out ofthe entrance hall without taking his eyes offHampton, as ifto never turn his back on the king.

Then Daniel and Hampton, and Iris between them, walk into the ballroom, without looking at each other and without saying a word.Fer-guson is standing on an old harp-backed chair in front ofthe fireplace, with his hands cupped over his mouth.“Attention, everybody,”he calls out.His voice is authoritative, but with something good-natured in it, too, something that recognizes the absurdity ofshouting at a roomful of people inWindsor County on a warm Sunday afternoon in November.

”We’re going to take you all on a grand tour ofthis house, this wonder-ful house, which I speak ofnot with the pride ofownership but the hu-mility ofstewardship.”There is a smattering ofapplause;someone even sayshear hear.

“What’s this about?”Hampton asks.

”We’re here to support the house,”Iris says.“So they want to show it to us.Why is that a problem?”

Hampton shakes his head.He is clearly here against his wishes.He sees Nelson and gestures for him to come, which the boy does, immedi-ately, with Ruby following.

Ferguson jumps offthe chair and tosses wine from his plastic cup into the fireplace, igniting a sudden whoosh offlame.“Everybody line up along the west wall, and we’ll exit the ballroom through the double doors, and go straight to the portrait gallery.”

The guests are good-natured and compliant, and a line immediately forms.“I’m going to find Kate,”Daniel announces, forcing himself away from Iris and Hampton.

He cranes his neck, trying to find her in the crowd.

”Ruby can come with us,”Iris says.

The suggestion seems intimate and kind.Daniel cannot even look at her for fear ofgiving everything away.There is still no sign ofKate, and Daniel is the last out ofthe ballroom as the tour begins.Then he sees her, coming out ofa bathroom near the main stairway.She seems startled to see all the guests in a line, making their way up the stairs.The tip ofher nose is red;it looks as ifshe might have been crying.

“Tour,”Daniel says.

“Let’s get out ofhere.”She looks at the doll in Daniel’s hand, furrows her brow.

“We just got here.Come on.They’ll show us around.You’ve never really seen this place.”

They can hear Ferguson’s voice from the landing ofthe second floor.

“On the way to the portrait gallery, you’ll notice quite a few first-rate paintings in the hallway.And you’ll also notice a few blank spots, where paintings have been taken down and brought to Sotheby’s.”

“Did you know she was going to be here?”

“Who?”

“Please, don’t insult me.”

He hadn’t meant to, it was just the first word out ofhis mouth.“No,”

he says.“How could I?”

“Don’t answer my question with a question.I’d actually rather be lied to than subjected to that.It’s how my father spoke to me, that demean-ing, patriarchal bullshit.”

“I didn’t know she was going to be here.”He feels he could make things a little easier ifhe could only touch Kate right now, just put a hand on her shoulder, but he is somehow unable to manage the gesture.It is as ifthat hand, the hand that could bring comfort to Kate, has been am-putated, he has cut it offlikeVan Gogh’s ear.

Kate exhales as ifshe has been holding her breath for a long while.

“We should have brought two cars,”she says.

The tour passes directly over them, thunderously, shaking the ceiling.

Marie says in her high, ringing voice,“The rooms to your left will not be public space, but over here, to the right…”

“They’re being given a tour by a blind woman,”Kate says.

They are interrupted by the sound offootsteps coming down the stairs.It’s Susan Richmond, moving in a daze, holding on to the banister for support.She stops midway and peers down at Daniel and Kate, and then shakes her head and continues her descent, holding her chin up now, to affect a certain grandeur.“Intolerable,”she says, and then when she has reached the bottom ofthe stairs she walks up to Daniel and Kate, as ifthey were exactly the people she had hoped to find.“That little weasel is leading a tour ofmy house.IfI stayed up there for one more second I was going to go insane.”She steps in front ofthe mirror hang-ing in the entrance hall, the glass wavy, the backing showing through, framed in plain wood and shaped like a large slice ofbread.She peers at her reflection, frowns.“Hmm.Maybe I’ve already gone insane.”And then, turning toward Kate, she says,“I never told you how much I en-joyedPeaches and Cream.I just roared, that poor, ugly girl, and all the troubles she had.I gave it to Ferguson to read, but he never reads any-thing.Oh well, at least he doesn’t pretend to, he’ll actually come right out and say he hates reading.Either he disagrees with the author, in which case it annoys him, or he agrees, in which case it’s a waste of time.”

“I don’t see how he could agree or disagree with my book,”says Kate.

“It’s a novel, it would be like disagreeing with someone’s dream.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.That’s marvelous.”She turns to Daniel.

“We’re going to have to pull the plug on this, Daniel,”she says.“I don’t care what Fergie and his little friend say.This is intolerable.Ifwe’re hav-ing money problems we’ll just have to find another way to solve them, even ifit means that we go into the village every day and work at the hardware store.Anything would be better than this.”

As Susan announces this, the tour, with Marie at the head ofit, begins down the stairs.The force ofthe collective footsteps is so great that a faint cloud ofplaster fills the sunlight that pours into the entrance hall.

“Next,”Marie is saying,“we’ll go down to the house’s original cellar, which was part ofthe famous Underground Railroad, in the years pre-ceding and during theAmerican CivilWar.”The strain and the excite-ment ofconducting this tour seem to be exacting their price.Marie’s voice has become a little shrill, and she gestures wildly, as ifwaving away a swarm ofgnats.“We envision this as one ofthe highlights ofthe tour.

Right now, you’ll have to use your imagination, but when we have every-thing set up it will be a sort ofdiorama ofthe period, with lifelike fig-ures ofslaves.”She turns to face the guests and suddenly loses her footing.Ethan Greenblatt, who is directly behind her, manages to catch her by the jacket—ifit weren’t for him Marie would be in a heap at the bottom ofthe stairs.

“She’s not above a lawsuit,”Susan says to Kate.Then, to Daniel:

“Don’t mention anything to Marie about our stopping this ridiculous project ofhers.I’ll tell her myself, it seems only fair.”

Marie is rattled by her near fall, but she continues with the tour, bringing the guests down to the ground floor, turning left in the entrance hall and leading them all through the conservatory, the dining room, the main kitchen, and then the summer kitchen, where the door to the cel-lar can be found.

Iris and Hampton walk through the entrance hall, followed by Ruby and Nelson.When Ruby sees Kate and Daniel, she calls out to them with her customary exuberance.“You’re missing it, you guys.Come on, we’re going down to see where the slaves hid.”She holds her hand out.

“Let’s take a look,”Daniel says to Kate, taking Ruby’s hand.

Ferguson has seen to it that the cellar is well lit for today’s party—

there are standing and clip-on lamps every few feet—but he has not been able to dispel the dank gloominess ofthe place.With its packed dirt floor and thick, fabriclike cobwebs, it seems more like a cave than a part of someone’s house.It smells ofrain and mold.Strips ofpink fiberglass in-sulation hang from the ceiling.Generations ofbroken wooden chairs line the walls, awaiting repair.In fact, the entire place is a terminal ward for stricken furniture, some ofit too valuable to dispose of, some saved for no apparent reason.Old leather chairs ooze cotton, dozens ofold oak chairs stand along the wall with their cane seats torn, unraveled, or miss-ing altogether.There is a small QueenAnne sofa upon which someone seems to have poured white paint.There’s a rolltop desk missing all ofits drawers, and with one ofits legs replaced by an unpainted two-by-four.

There are skis, tennis racquets, a croquet set, sleeping bags, a punching bag covered in dust hanging from a beam.There seem to be literally hun-dreds ofpaint cans, some without their tops appear to be empty, others seem brand-new.There are at least twenty large cartons ofchina, a dozen rolled-up rugs secured with twine and stood up on their ends, drooping and leaning into each other like a family ofdrunks.In a corner, someone has abandoned an old, elaborate model train set, its tracks ravaged, its cars toppled, its miniature landscape oftrees, cows, and water towers scattered—it looks like the transportation system ofa country that has lost a long, ruinous war.

At the north end ofthe old cellar is a cast-iron coal-burning furnace, unused for decades.Some twenty feet to the side ofthe furnace, the dirt and stone wall is paneled over with wide wooden planks, newly painted white.Marie stumbles for a moment on her way to the wall, and then when she reaches it she rests her hand on it.“Is everybody watching?”she calls out.

She spreads her small hand out as far as her fingers will reach, and then, applying pressure, slides a false panel in the wall over a few inches.

Then she grabs hold ofthe edge ofthe opened panel and drags it further to the side, revealing a vast, dark emptiness.

“This is where the runaway slaves were kept,”she calls out.“Sometimes there’d be just one or two ofthem, sometimes as many as ten.

Then, when the coast was clear, they’d get herded out and sent on their way—to Canada, mostly.Where they’d be free.The great thing about this space is that the temperature is always sixty degrees, winter and summer, as is true with many ofthe rooms in Eight Chimneys.”

Marie goes on for a while longer, telling everyone aboutWendell Richmond, who was the master ofthe house from1820to1882,and about the escaped slave who gave birth to a child in this cellar, and about the artifacts ofthat time that have recently been recovered—the little tin earrings, the diary filled with sketches oftrees, fields, and other fleeing slaves, the un-explained human teeth.Then, finally, she steps into the old cloister and feels in the air for the lamp that has been set up—she has never looked more like a blind girl than at this moment, groping for the switch with al-most spastic waves, like a kid pretending to have lost her sight.

The light comes on, revealing two mannequins that Ferguson got from the Fashion Bug at theWindsor Mall.One ofthem is dressed in overalls and a straw hat, the other in an old gingham dress, and both of them have been freshly painted brown.Ten by ten, the guests walk into the secreted room, have a look, and presumably imagine themselves hid-ing and hungry in such a place.It smells ofmud that has been there for-ever, and the paint that only yesterday was sprayed on the mannequins’ faces.When Daniel crowds in to look around for himself, Kate, refusing to be a part ofthe tour’s grand finale, has already left, and when he feels the tip ofa finger against his backbone, Daniel’s heart quickens:he knows it is Iris’s touch.He takes a deep breath and feels it again.It is just one fin-ger, a circumspect gesture, a child’s, a prisoner’s, but the force ofher fin-gertip stirs his blood.Then it is time for them all to turn around and let the next wave ofguests come in to look at what is, after all, just a storage room in the cellar ofan old house.When Daniel faces the other direction, he is behind Iris and Hampton, Nelson and Ruby.He could return the se-cret little touch, but he doesn’t dare.He doesn’t trust his hand;it is not inconceivable that once he touches her he will not be able to stop.

Upstairs in the ballroom, the party has become more animated.The guests, released now from the dutiful march through the house and its claustrophobic conclusion in the cellar’s secret room, and further re-leased from the slightly hectoring quality ofMarie’s voice, are gossiping and joking with each other in increasingly excited voices.Daniel is look-ing to see where Kate is now and finally sees her across the room, stand-ing with Derek, whose face is very close to hers and who is speaking to her with what appears to be great seriousness.Daniel sees Iris, too;she’s talking with Ethan Greenblatt.Then he sees Susan with Marie.Susan is holding Marie by the upper arm and seems to be scolding her.Marie tries to yank her arm away but Susan’s grip is too strong.She continues to speak to Marie, with a rather cruel, powerful smile on her face, and suddenly Marie breaks free.

Marie leaves the ballroom and heads straight out ofthe house, without so much as a jacket or a sweater.Seeing this gives Daniel a small jolt ofconcern, but before he can give it much more thought, Daniel is set upon by Upton Douglas, who swings his way over on his crutches, accompanied by a willowy middle-aged woman with an elegantly un-happy face, a widow from Buffalo, to whom Douglas has been showing houses in the area.Upton wants Daniel to talk to her about how grand it is to live in Leyden, its beauty, and convenience, its friendly atmo-sphere and myriad cultural events, and Daniel is trapped in this seem-ingly endless conversation.

Finally, he feels a tug at his back pocket.It’s Ruby.

”Can I have Ginkie?”she asks.

It takes him a moment to understand she wants her doll, and another moment to realize he no longer has it in hand.And then he remembers: when he felt Iris’s finger on his spine, his hands instinctively opened and the doll slipped from his grasp.

“Oh, you know what, Ruby?”he says, scooping her up.“I think I accidentally left her downstairs.”

“Where?”

“Just wait here.Find Mommy, and I’ll find Ginkie.”

He sets Ruby down and waits there for a moment while she hurries offto find Kate.When she has disappeared into the crowd, Daniel walks out ofthe ballroom and makes his way through the dining room, the kitchen, and the summer kitchen, where he finds Ferguson and Derek huddled together in intense conversation.Ferguson’s shoes are covered with fresh, wet dirt;there is a muddy patch on his right knee.

“Daniel,”Ferguson says,“Marie’s gone missing.”

“Have you seen her?”Derek asks.

”I saw her leave,”Daniel says.“Maybe halfan hour ago.”He has his hand on the door leading down to the cellar.He can barely even form this thought in his own mind, but the fact is that he hasn’t seen Iris for a while and he cannot help but wonder ifshe is still somehow in the cellar.

“Well, you know whatIthink,”Derek says to Ferguson.“She’s blind.

I don’t care how well she knows the property, things are torn up out there and where there used to be paths there’s nothing but fallen trees.

And those boys from the juvey home are still at large and for all we know they could be out there right now.”

“My God,”says Daniel.“You and Kate are really focused on thosekids.”

“You would be, too, ifit happened to you,”Derek says sharply.

”What do you think I should do?”Ferguson asks.

”You want me to call it in?”

Ferguson sighs, looks away, and Derek presses him.

”I appreciate your wanting to be discreet…”

Ferguson sighs.“Call it in,”he says.

”I’ll be right back,”Daniel says, opening the cellar door.

”Where are you going?”Ferguson asks.

”My kid left her doll down there,”Daniel says.He waits for a moment and then quickly heads down the stairs, holding on to the banister, his legs trembling.

A few lights have been left burning and he easily makes his way past the Richmond family’s cast-offpossessions.The sliding door to the secret room is still halfopen, and by the time he pulls it all the way to the side his heart is pounding violently.

“Hello,”Iris says.She has been sitting on a small, rough-hewn bench and she rises as Daniel walks in.She is holding Ruby’s doll.She and Daniel stand there facing each other for a moment, and then she hands the doll to him.“Here.”

“Thank you,”he says.The two painted mannequins seem to be staring at him.He looks at Ruby’s doll for a moment and then lets it drop from his hands.He puts his arms around Iris.

“I was waiting for you,”she whispers.

[14]

Daniel and Iris rearrange their clothes.They are reeling.Their legs are weak.Desire summoned but unresolved leaves them nervous yet vague, like people awakened while dreaming.

“Wait here,”Iris whispers, her lips an inch from his mouth.She turns to leave but he catches her, stops her, just to show that he can.She slips away from him and hurries out ofthe cellar, he hears the heels ofher shoes clacking against the wooden stairs,bang bang,it’s like being buried alive and listening to the hammer driving the nails into the coffin.

He waits, and when he finally comes back upstairs, he is still trembling, but no one pays attention to his arrival, no one asks where he’s been, or what the matter is.They are gathered in front ofFerguson, who is addressing them all.

“All right, then,”he’s saying,“here’s what we’re going to do.First, I want to thank you all for your help.My family appreciates it and I ap-preciate it, and I think ifwe go out there, and just do this in an orderly way, we’ll find Marie before she hurts herself.The police have been in-formed, but there’s not a hell ofa lot they can do right now.I don’t know what we’re paying our taxes for, but it’s not for helicopters.So it’ll be up to us.”

Nine men and five women volunteer to form a search party to find poor Marie.Everything capable and charismatic in Ferguson is on display as he addresses the volunteers.His voice is powerful, confident;he has even produced a topographical map ofhis holdings, and he stands before it now and taps at it with his blunt, oil-stained forefinger.

“This is where we are right now.The house is right in the center of the property, plus or minus three degrees.We can radiate out from the house, and since we’ll have seven teams, each team can cover roughly a forty-five-degree slice ofthe pie.”

Susan has come up close beside him.Her expression is at once proprietary and serene, like a cat about to stretch out next to something it has killed.She is holding a large wicker basket with both hands;it is filled with what appear to be thick, red cigars, with pictures ofmedieval lions printed on them.

Gathered in the entrance hall, beneath the stained and sagging grandeur ofthe painted ceiling, the volunteers choose their partners.

Daniel doesn’t care whom he is paired with, as long as it’s not Hampton, but luck would have it otherwise.Hampton may not like Daniel but at least he knows him, however uneasily, and without actually saying any-thing he stands next to Daniel, as iftheir searching for Marie together is a foregone conclusion.

“We need a way ofsignaling when we find her,”Susan is saying.“I’ve got Roman candles and everyone should take one.Ifyou find her, light the fuse, and the rest ofthe search party will know.”

“Where did you get those?”asks Ferguson.

”Remember when we had that Burmese purification ceremony two Septembers ago?”Susan says, dropping the basket onto the floor.She cannot help reflecting upon how Ferguson had mocked the ritual, as he mocked all rituals, or anything new—except the ritual ofinfidelity and the novelty ofa new young body.“Help yourselves,”she says.She figures that everyone here knows that Ferguson is screwing Marie, and probably they assume that Marie has fled the house because Susan finally told that little whore what she thinks ofher—and they are essentially correct in that assumption, though“finally”might not be the right word, since Marie has known ofSusan’s enmity all along, and why she picked today ofall days to overreact is anybody’s guess.Ofone thing, however, Susan is certain:Marie will try to find a way ofturning this irritating little drama to her own advantage.

“Be careful,”Susan announces, as the guests take the Roman candles out ofthe basket.“They pack quite a wallop.”

The search party files out ofthe foyer, onto the porch.Daniel and Hampton head south-southwest, across a ruined expanse ofwild grass that soon leads to a dense wood ofpine, locust, maple, and oak.

Once they are in the woods, the remains ofthe afternoon light seem to shrink away.The shadows ofthe trees—a shocking number ofwhich have fallen to the ground from the weight ofOctober’s sudden snow-storm—seem to pile on top ofeach other, one shadow over the next, building a wall ofdarkness.There had always been paths through the woods, made by the herds ofdeer that traversed these acres, or left over from the old days when there had been enough money to maintain and even manicure the Richmond holdings.But the October storm had dropped thousands oftrees, and the paths are somewhere beneath them, invisible now.Daniel and Hampton can’t take two steps without having to scramble over the canopy ofa fallen tree, or climb over a trunk, or a crisscross oftrunks, slippery with rot.And where there aren’t fallen trees there are thorny blackberry vines that furl out across the forest floor like a sharp, punishing fog.

Here and there are little white throw rugs ofsnow.

”These vines are like razor wire,”says Daniel.Everything he says seems potentially disastrous, every word packed with black powder and a short fuse.

“Damn!”said Hampton.A snarl ofvines has caught his cuffs, and as he yanks his leg free, the thorn tears his skin right through his sock.

“Are you all right?”Daniel says.They are halfway up a gentle slope—

it seems to Daniel that ifthey could get to the top ofthe hill, they might be able to seeoverthe trees and gain some sense ofwhere they are.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”Hampton touches his ankle and then looks at his fingertip:red.“I just wish Ferguson took care ofhis own mess.”

“You mean Marie?”

“He’s sleeping with her in his house, with his wife there.Insanity.

What does the man expect?”Even now, he speaks formally, his voice deep and honeyed, every syllable distinct.

“Not this, probably.”Daniel stands ten feet from Hampton.He feels moisture from the forest floor seeping through the thin soles ofhis Sun-day shoes.“Anyhow, are we really sure Fergie’s sleeping with Marie?”

“That’s what Iris tells me,”Hampton says.“Ferguson’s known Marie since she was a little girl.And since he and Susan don’t have children, it’s like a sublimated incest.”

“Is that what Iris says?”

“Hasn’t she said it to you?”Hampton asks, raising his eyebrows.

Oh Jesus, he’s closing in,thinks Daniel.

They walk.The crunch oftheir footsteps.The cries ofinvisible birds.

Daniel cups his hands around his mouth and calls Marie’s name, silenc-ing the birds.The noise oftheir footsteps on the brittle layer ofdried leaves that covers the forest floor is like a saw going tirelessly back and forth.They have no idea where they are going.

They zigzag around fallen trees and swirls ofbramble.Daniel walks in front.He looks over his shoulder.Hampton is having a hard time keep-ing his balance.

“I’m ruining these shoes,”Hampton says.He leans against a partially fallen cherry tree and looks at the sole ofhis English cordovan.The leather is shiny, rosy, and moist, like a human tongue.

“Are you all right?”asks Daniel.

Hampton nods curtly.“I hate the woods,”he says.“I don’t even like trees.I prefer landscape that’s flat and open, where you can see what’s out there.”

“Well, you’re a long-range planner,”says Daniel.“So that figures.”

Hampton frowns.He seems to be questioning Daniel’s right to be making glib generalizations about him.

“My wife tells me she sees a lot ofyou during the week,”he says.

“Well, you know, the kids,”Daniel says.“Kate’s daughter worships your son.It’s Nelson this and Nelson that.Constantly.”

Hampton tries to remember the little girl’s name.He recalls it was the name ofone ofhis aunts—but his mother has four sisters by blood and three stepsisters, and then all those sisters-in-law.Hampton was raised in a swirling, scolding vortex oflarge, vivid women.

“It’s like seeing what it’ll be like when Ruby falls in love,”says Daniel.

Ah, right:Ruby.Actually, none ofhis aunts had that name, no one came any closer to that than his aunt Scarlet, a well-powdered librarian, whose upper arms were like thighs, and who, nevertheless, was usually in a sleeveless dress, which displayed not only her fleshy arms but her vaccination, a raised opacity ofskin and scar the size ofa pocket watch.

And Scarlet wasn’t even her name—it was Charlotte, but one ofthe other nephews mispronounced it and Scarlet stuck.

Hampton presses a button on the side ofhis watch, the dial lights up like a firefly for a moment.

“It’s almost five o’clock.”

“It’ll be dark soon,”says Daniel.“I wonder ifanyone’s found her.”

“This is so messed up.”

“Marie!”Daniel shouts, but his voice drops like an anvil ten feet in front ofhim.

“I have to be on the nine o’clock train tonight.That Monday morning train’s no good for me.”

Daniel keeps quiet about that, though he is by now, ofcourse, fully aware ofHampton’s hours ofdeparture and arrival.Infidelity is an ugly business, but it makes you a stickler for detail.You’re an air traffic con-troller and the sky is stacked up with lies, all ofthem circling and circling, the tips oftheir wings sometimes coming within inches ofeach other.

They reach the top ofthe small hill, but the sight lines are no better than below.The only sky they can see is directly above them, gray, going black.

“What do you think?”says Daniel.

”I think we’re lost,”Hampton says, shaking his head.

“Next they’ll be sending a search party after us,”Daniel says.He notices something on the ground and peers more closely at it.A dead coy-ote like a flat gray shadow.Sometimes at night, he and Kate could hear coyotes in the distance, a pack whipping themselves up into a frenzy of howls and yips, but this desiccated pelt, eyeless, tongueless, is the clos-est he has come to actually seeing one.

“What do you have there?”Hampton asks.

”The animal formerly known as coyote,”Daniel says.

Breaking offa low, bare branch from a dead hemlock, Daniel pokes the coyote’s remains.Curious, Hampton stands next to him.A puffof colorless dust rises up.The world seems so deeply inhospitable—but, of course, it isn’t:they are just in the part ofit that isn’t made for them.

Here, it is for deer, foxes, raccoons, birds and mice and hard-shelled in-sects, fish, toads, sloths, maggots.Hampton steps back and covers his mouth and nose with his hand, as ifbreathing in the little puffthat has arisen from the coyote will imperil him.Iris has often bemoaned her husband’s fastidiousness, his loathing ofmess, his fear ofgerms.He has turned the controls oftheir water heater up and now the water comes out scalding, hot enough to kill most household bacteria.There are pump-and-squirt bottles ofantibacterial soap next to every sink in the house;ifIris has a cold, Hampton sleeps in the guest room, and ifNel-son has so much as a sniffle, Hampton will eschew kissing the little boy good night, he will shake hands with him instead and then, within min-utes, he’ll be squirting that bright emerald-green soap into his palm.

An immense oak tree lies on the ground;Hampton rests his foot on it and then shouts Marie’s name.The veins on his neck swell;Daniel has a sense ofwhat it would be like to deal with Hampton’s temper, about which he has heard a great deal from Iris.No wonder Iris hasn’t told Hampton a thing.She is afraid.How could I have not seen it before?Daniel wonders.She has not told him, she will never tell him, and if she does Hampton will kill her.Or me.

Discouraged, exhausted, Hampton sits on the fallen tree—and immediately springs up again.He has sat upon the Roman candle in his back pocket and it split in two.He quickly pulls it out, with frantic gestures, as ifit might explode, and tosses the top halfofthe candy-striped card-board tubing as far from him as he can.

Now his back pocket is filled with the Roman candle’s black powder, a mixture ofsaltpeter, sulfur, arsenic, and strontium.If I kick him in the ass, he might explode,thinks Daniel.He has a vision ofHampton blasting off, sailing high above the tree line, smoke pouring out ofhis behind.

Suddenly, in the distance is a pop, and then a plume ofiridescent smoke rises above the trees, a vivid tear in the dark silken sky.

“Someone’s got her,”Daniel says.“I just saw a flare.”

Hampton looks up.Only a small circle ofsky is visible through the encirclement oftrees.“What’s a damn blind girl doing out here? Even with eyes you can’t make your way.”

“She was raised here,”Daniel says.“Her father was the caretaker.She came back to look after him when he got sick.Smiley.”

“Smiley?What do you mean?”

“That’s what everyone called him.I used to see him in town whenI

was a kid.”

Hampton shakes his head.“These people, they’re living in another century.They got their old family retainers, their fox-hunting clubs, their ice boats, they play tennis with these tiny little wooden racquets, and New Year’s Eve they put on the rusty tuxedos their grandfathers used to wear.”

“They can be pretty absurd,”Daniel says.“They’re halfmad, but it’s okay, ifyou have a sense ofhumor about it.”

“That was the first thing Iris ever said about you, how you have this terrific sense ofhumor.”

“Class clown,”says Daniel.“In my case, middle class.”

Hampton is still pinching black powder out ofhis back pocket, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger.He tosses the powder into the darkness, as ifscattering ashes after a cremation.He rakes a handful of dead leaves offofa wild cherry tree, one that is still standing, and uses them to wipe his hands.“I used to make Iris laugh all the time.”

“I used to make Kate laugh, too,”says Daniel.He says it because he has to say something.He cannot simply let Hampton go on about Iris and not say anything in reply.It would be too strange, and it would be suspi-cious, too.“First couple ofyears, I had her in hysterics.”

He notices that Hampton’s shaved head has suffered a scrape.There’s a little red worm ofblood on the smooth scalp.

“Kate doesn’t think you’re funny anymore?”

“No, she doesn’t,”Daniel says.

”Iris thinks you’re funny.Maybe you’re funnier around her.”

“Maybe she’s just very kind.”

“Or very lonely.”

As far as Daniel is concerned, this is torture.It might be better just to come out with it, tell Hampton:I love Iris, and it seems she loves me.We belong together.We do feel bad…Oh, shut up about feeling bad.Do you think he cares? He’d like you to have brain cancer, that would be the sort ofsuffering he’d like for you.Why are you offering up your stricken con-science—to make him feel you’ve been punished sufficiently?Are you so afraid ofhim?And with that question, Daniel at last connects to the core ofwhat had been plaguing him from the moment he and Hampton set offtogether in search ofMarie.It is not really about conscience, after all.

He’s been wrestling with conscience for months now, they are old spar-ring partners, sometimes he pins it to the mat, sometimes it slams him, it doesn’t really amount to much, it’s a show, like wrestling onTV.And besides:the worst sort ofremorse is preferable to what preceded it, which was the infinitely greater agony oflonging for Iris.Remorse is the payment due for the fulfillment ofhis great desire.And it is, finally, a payment he was willing to make.No, it is not his conscience that churns sickly at the center ofhim, making him cringe inwardly when Hampton steps too close to him.It is fear, physical fear.

They continue to walk, hoping to find a clearing, a way out.Once, most ofthis land was pasture, grazed by cattle, but it hadn’t seen a plow in over a hundred years and left to its own had become a wild place.They climb yet another hill.This one might have been steeper—because they both have to hold on to trees to pull themselves up—or else they are getting tired.

And once they have scaled it, all they can see is more trees—except on one side, where there is a sharp drop-off, leading to what looks like a large pond filled with black water.

“We came from that direction,”Hampton says uncertainly.He points down the hill upon which they stand, and offto the left.The night is gathering quickly, the darkness rushes in like water through the hull ofa ship, covering everything.

It seems to Daniel that they have walkeddownthe hill, as well as walking up it.In fact, they may have traipsed up and down it three or four times.But he chooses to not argue the matter.

“All right,”he says.“I have no idea.”He touches the Roman candle in his back pocket.Maybe set it offright now, before it got any darker.But how much darker could it get? Better to save the flare for later, ifneeded.

“Do you know how to get out ofhere?”Hampton asks.

”No.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Fine, lead the way.”

They halfwalk and halfslide down the hill, with their arms in front oftheir faces to protect themselves from the saplings.

The problem is there is no space to walk in;the woods have imploded.They seem to be walking in circles, corkscrewing themselves into oblivion, continually tripping over vines, stumbling over fallen trees, getting scraped by branches, stomping into sudden pools ofstill water, sometimes walking right into a standing tree.It is as ifthey are be-ing toyed with.Isolated in their despair, they walk for halfan hour with-out speaking.

Then, suddenly, a little stretch where last month’s storm seemed to have done little damage.They walk for three minutes without having to change course.And though they don’t know which direction they are going in, the mere fact ofkeeping a constant course gives them a bit of encouragement.They are not, after all, in the middle ofsome vast un-charted wilderness.They are only a hundred miles north ofthe city.How far can they go without ending up on some stretch ofasphalt or in someone’s backyard? But then they reach a devastated grove oflocusts, the saplings with bark spiked with thorns, like giant, petrified roses.

There are so many ofthem down on the ground, or leaning against each other in a swoon, that it would have been impossible to get through them or past them even in daylight.

“I think we’ve already been here,”Hampton says.

”Really?What makes you think so?”

In the blindness ofthe night, Daniel can sense from the quality ofthe silence that Hampton is glaring at him.

“What makes me think so?”asks Hampton.His voice seems completely unconnected to his feelings;even in anger, it is melodious.

“I think we’re making progress,”Daniel says.

”Well, we’re not, we’re going in circles.”

“Hampton.I’ve been following you.All right?”

“We’re going in circles.”

“Well, you’ve been taking us there.”

“Daniel?”

“What?”

“Can I make a suggestion?”

“Sure.What?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

There is a rock nearby, embedded deeply into the forest floor and covered with moss and lichen.Hampton tries to scale it, hoping to see a break in the woods, but the soles ofhis shoes are slick, and as soon as he stands on the rock he slips and falls hard onto his hands and knees, and just stays there, with his head down, for several moments.

Daniel goes to his side, touches him softly on the shoulder.“Here,”he says.He puts out his hand.Hampton’s fingers are hard and cold;he grasps Daniel’s hand like a statue come to life.Daniel steps back and pulls Hampton to his feet.It is strange to be touching this man who once had, and is now losing, everything.

“You know,”Hampton says,“even in the dark I can still sort ofsee you.Your white skin picks up every little bit oflight there is.”

“Yeah?”

“I guess you can’t see me at all, can you?”

Daniel doesn’t want to say no;he just shakes his head.He wonders if Iris’s scent is on him—surely Hampton would recognize it.He moves a little farther away.This great secret life suddenly feels like groceries coming out ofa wet paper sack.

“What’s it like being lost out here with a big oldAfrican-American man who you basically do not know.”

“What are you talking about, Hampton?”

“Just that.I’m curious.I see white people all the time, but I rarely have the opportunity to ask them certain things.Do you know many black people, Daniel?”

“A few.I used to know more.Out here, it’s more difficult, obviously.”

“But here’s where you are, it’s what you chose, youmovedhere.”

“Not to get away from black people.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Ifyou want to know the truth, I think my prejudice goes the other way.Black people have something I’ve always wanted.”

“Rhythm?”

“That’s ridiculous.”He backs still farther away, stumbles, rights himself.

”All right.Sorry.What is it we black people have that you’ve alwayswanted?”

“Family.Community.”

Hampton laughs—a sudden, rude bark ofamusement.

”I know how it sounds,”says Daniel.He searches his mind for something to substitute, some innocuous generalization, something admiring ofblack people that won’t seem too utterly stupid and condescending.

Hampton is silent.He takes a deep breath, a man controlling his temper.

”Is that what you see in Iris?”he finally asks.“Someone in touch with her feelings who can put you in touch with yours?”

So here it is,thinks Daniel.A kind ofexhaustion ofstrategy begins to overcome him, a growing incapacity to dodge and maneuver.The lies he has told weigh him down, it is as ifthey were stones with which he has filled his pockets.His psychological step is increasingly heavy and un-sure.One day, Daniel thinks, Hampton will replay this conversation in his mind and every lie he has told will be vivid and repulsive to him.But, for now, Daniel must stay the course.

“I see everything in Iris,”Daniel says quietly.

”Don’t be deceived by her skin and her hair.She’s as white as the bankers I see down in the city.”

“Let’s not do this here, okay, Hampton?You want to talk about this,

I’ll talk about it.But let’s get out ofthese woods, go someplace where we can sit down.”

“So you’re making the rules?”

“I’m asking.”

Another silence.Daniel hears Hampton exhale.

”Fine.Wait here for a second, all right? I have to urinate.”Even this announcement is made in Hampton’s public speaker’s voice.

There’s a break in the black sky and the platinum moonlight pours down on them.The whites ofHampton’s eyes glitter.His shirt is dirty, his trousers are covered in burrs and black with mud at the knees.

“I’ll wait here,”Daniel says.

Hampton’s footsteps crunch over the dried leaves, fainter and fainter.

Where is he going? Uphill? It’s hard for Daniel to tell which way Hamp-ton is walking, and then, ten seconds later, fifteen at the most, he can’t hear him at all.

Daniel walks a couple ofcareful, shuffling steps until he feels the hard presence ofyet another fallen tree.He crouches down, runs his hands along the bark.No branches, no large knots.He sits carefully on the tree trunk and waits.He cannot continue with these lies—he remembers thinking this, the nearness ofthis confession is what will come to haunt him.He will remember thinking that the ordering ofevents, the careful timing ofwhen the truth can be released, all ofit is being taken out ofhis hand.

Hampton’s piss seems to be taking an extraordinarily long time.The cold wind rustles the treetops.A presence ofspirits?Who knew? From someplace quite near comes the sound ofa pack ofcoyotes, a frenzy of yips and yowls.

Daniel loses patience, stands.“Hampton?You all right?”There is no answer.Even the coyotes are silent, for a moment.Daniel wonders if Hampton has simply decided to ditch him, to abandon him in these ru-ined woods.A rush ofmalevolence streaks through him, like a comet with its rock- and ice-strewn brilliance, its searing, filthy light.For a mo-ment, he despises Hampton as much as he had during the very worst nights oflonging for Iris, when sleep was impossible and there was no end to the hatred he had for the man who had everything Daniel wanted.

“Hampton?”Daniel says, much louder this time.He hears the slight hysteria in his voice, feels it in his throat.“Hampton? Hampton!Are youthere?”

He makes some vague, stumbling effort to find him.Seeing almost nothing, Daniel makes his way up the steep hill.He must grab on to the trees along the way to power himself up.Hadn’t they been on this steep hill before? Isn’t this the one with the sharp drop-offinto a pool ofblack water fifty feet below? Or is this another one just like it?

Daniel scrambles to the top ofthe hill.His face stings and when he touches it he realizes that he must have gotten hit by a branch.His fin-gertips are wet.He is bleeding.

“Hampton?”Silence.He feels a wind at his back and turns quickly.He is right on the edge ofthat fifty-foot drop-off.

A jolt offear goes through him.He has a vision ofHampton springing up and hitting him on the shoulders with his open hands, and send-ing him falling offthe hill and into the water.

And as soon as that thought occurs, he realizes that is exactly where Hampton is, in that black water below.He has fallen.Those shoes, those pricey, prissy fucking shoes.He is down there, probably facedown in thewater.

Daniel stands there, not knowing what to do.Should he skid down and see ifhe can find Hampton? It seems insane.He might have gone in another direction, he might right now be back at the spot at which they’d parted, wondering where Daniel has gone.

The cold wind parts the clouds and moonlight shines down again.

Daniel looks down, sees that he is only a foot from the edge ofthe hill.

Again he steps back.His heart is leaping up and down inside ofhim, like a creature trapped in a well.He is suddenly exhausted.He has an over-powering desire to sit down, close his eyes, but forces himself to care-fully inch closer to the drop-off.The ground is an impasto ofpebble, pine needle, and slippery cold mud.

He gets down on his hands and knees.The clouds are already making their way back to the moon, he has only a few moments oflight.He peers down at the pond—and there it is:the unthinkable.Hampton.

Facedown in the water.Arms stretched out before him, jacket balloon-ing, making him look like a hunchback.

Daniel claps his hand over his own eyes, turns away, sits there, draws up his knees, shudders.

Do something.

It seems as ifhe were paralyzed.

Do something.Now! Ifonly he had raced down, ifonly Daniel had taken that steep, plunging run toward the water with total abandon.He was screaming,Oh my God, oh my God,but he was not selfless.He kept his face covered.He slowed down when he lost traction and began to skid.And when his foot caught on an exposed root and he fell to the ground, he stayed there for an extra heartbeat or two, trying to gather his strength.He would re-member the clumsy caution ofhis descent.

When he is nearly down the slope, he loses his footing again.He does not fall but he has to run in an awkward, stiff-legged way to keep his balance.

His momentum takes him into the water, right up to his knees.The cold is like being hit in the shins with a tire iron.Hampton’s form has drifted to-ward the center ofthe pond.Daniel calls his name.This time his shout is not stillborn, it blooms in echoes.But there is no reply, no movement.

Daniel takes another step and the bottom ofthe pond falls away.In-

stinctively, he rears back, stops himself from going forward, from going under.Panic is upon him, merciless and annihilating.The water rushes into his clothes, it is like the paralyzing sting ofan insect, something to render him helpless so he can be consumed.He has never been a strong swimmer, in fact, he can barely swim.There is no chance ofhis rescuing Hampton, ifthere was any Hampton left to rescue.Daniel backs up a step, and then another, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the Ro-man candle.

He crouches at the edge ofthe pond, jams the base ofthe Roman candle into the ground.The fuse is plastered to the side ofthe cardboard cylinder and Daniel has to tease it up with his fingernails, makes it stand straight out so that he can light it.He digs in his front pocket for matches.Quarters fall out, as well as his keys.He finds the matches.They are damp, and the first one doesn’t light.But the second one does.His hands are shaking but he finally gets the flame to the fuse.It sparks up with a sudden, nervous hiss.Someone will see it, someone will come.In the meanwhile, he will try to force himself back into the water, ifit is at all possible.The wind is parting the clouds again, the moonlight is start-ing to come through, a long platinum spoke ofit.The fuse burns slowly for the first couple inches, but then accelerates.

He realizes that the candle is pointing right at him, that it is going to fire into his face, and he jerks his head away and quickly pushes the can-dle forward.

He scrambles up.Then, in the darkness, against all probability:he hears a voice.“Hey, what are you doing?”He looks up at the sound and sees Hampton standing at the top ofthe hill.

There is an instant when Daniel is almost wild with relief.It is as if he loves Hampton as much as he loves Iris.

The Roman candle ignites, and the first fireball from it rises and flies, making a sound like air being sucked out ofa pipe.It launches at a forty-five-degree angle and never reaches the sky.It strikes Hampton and buries itselfdeep into the softest part ofhis throat.Hampton just stands in place.There is enough moonlight now to see his expression.He is stunned, hurt.His mouth opens.His hand clasps the object in his throat, but he doesn’t appear to be trying to pull it out.It’s almost as ifhe’s holding it in place.His legs buckle and then they are useless.He sits down, heavily, his head falls forward and then his body tilts to the side.

He topples over and starts to roll.

Daniel runs up the hill, shouting.But even now his progress is impeded;he looks over his shoulder, back down at the pond.He is still in the grip ofthe notion that Hampton, another Hampton, the real Hamp-ton, is in the water, he can’t quite shake it.Though now the clouds are moving quickly and the moonlight is streaming down, and Daniel can see what he could not see before—in the water is a partially submerged log, the top halfofa tree that has been snapped in two by the storm, its gan-glia ofdead branches surrounded by leaves.

[15]

Six months pass.The spring is winding down, reverting to the insolent, unpredictable nature with which it began, cold one day, warm the next.Though the schools have weeks before closing for summer, the Leyden teenagers are behaving as iftheir vacations have already begun, prowling the streets beginning in the late afternoon and staying in their packs through the evening.Now it’s about four in the afternoon, a bright, mild day, the sky like a child’s drawing, and Derek Pabst drives his patrol car through Leyden’s small commercial neighborhood, past the Koffee Kup, which seems to serve everyone in town who drives an American car, and then past theTaste ofSoHo, where most ofthe cus-tomers drive imports, and then pastWindsor Hardware, which has be-gun stocking more Italian crockery and ornate English fireplace utensils.

For the most part, the stores on Leyden’s little Broadway are the same ones that were there when Derek was a boy—the Smoke Shop, Moun-tain Stream Realty, Buddy’s Card Shop, Candyland, Donna’s Uniforms, the WindsorPharmacy, Sewand Vac, Kirk’s VarietyStore, Finand Feather, Tack andTackle, and the Stoller and Hoffman InsuranceAgency.

Derek cruises through town without expecting to see anything he will have to react to.Except for traffic violations, he has never seen a crime in progress in his twelve-year career.He has been, for the most part, after the fact—showing up after a house has been burgled, after a wall has been covered with graffiti, after a wife has been smacked around by her drunken husband.Finding MarieThorne in the Richmond woods last November had been the most dynamic moment ofDerek’s career, and the satisfaction of that feat was all but cancelled by, first ofall, her not wanting to be found, and, secondly, by the hideous accident that took place in those same woods a halfhour later.Nevertheless, Derek remains alert as he makes his custom-ary rounds.You make your presence known, you show the flag.It reminds people they are living under the rule oflaw, it makes everyone feel safer, it brings out the best in them.He stops at the town’s central traffic light, where Broadway intersects with Route100,the county’s main road that goes south to NewYork City and north toAlbany.The wind swings the hang-ing traffic light back and forth like a censer.A processional ofhigh school kids crosses the street in front ofhim, fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds in cargo pants and tank tops, a mixed group ofboys and girls, horsing around, shoves, laughter, their skin glistening, all ofthem in hormonal overdrive.

As is Derek himself.Spring always awakens his longing.He thaws like a river, his blood rushes, he can hear it as he lies in his bed and waits to fall asleep.The constellations wheeling in the spring skies seem to exert undue influence on him.It is not only that he is seasonally overcome with lust, but that the lust itselfhas such a melancholy weight to it.He watches the teenagers as they make their way through the white lines of the crosswalk and come percolating up onto the sidewalk.Is that Buddy Guyette’s daughter in those pale, distressed jeans? My God, the ass on her.He feels a little twist ofsensual agony.Then he sees Mercy Crane, whose father is also a Leyden cop.She is alone, walking with her eyes cast down, wearing baggy clothes to hide her shape.She looks dejected, her hair hangs lank and dirty over her eyes, she slings her backpack over her shoulder and holds on to the strap with one hand.

Mercy looks up, sees Derek through the sun-struck windshield, with its reflections ofrooftops and upside-down trees.She raises a practically lifeless hand in greeting, ekes out a tiny smile.

Derek drives another quarter mile and turns into the driveway leading to the Richmond Library, originally funded by Ferguson Richmond’s family a hundred years ago.Now it’s a public library, funded halfby the state and halfby the town.It’s a pleasant old brick building, with some-thing ofthe Russian dacha about it, flanked by locust trees.Derek likes to come here to smoke in private, sitting on the hood ofhis car, savoring the taste oftobacco, letting the nicotine simultaneously jack him up and cool him down, and think about his life.A few years ago, the town built a basketball court behind the library, and though the cement has cracked and the baskets aren’t regulation height, there’s often a decent pickup game going on for Derek to watch while he smokes.

He steers his car with the heel ofhis left hand, using the right to pluck a cigarette out ofhis breast pocket.As he swings around the library and approaches the court, he can hear the excited young male voices, the pounding ofthe ball on the cement, and then he sees something that gal-vanizes him, sends a rush ofadrenaline through him.

TwoAfrican-American males, fifteen to eighteen years old, one tall, the other taller, one thin, the other thinner, one black, the other blacker, and both ofthem fitting the description oftwo ofthe escaped Star of Bethlehem boys who are still at large.Unsnapping his holster strap as he gets out ofthe car, Derek walks quickly toward the basketball court.It’s a two-on-two full-court game, shirts versus skins, both the black kids have their shirts off.Derek approaches from the north and the action is under the south basket, so no one sees him right away.But then some-one makes a basket, the ball is taken out ofbounds, and the flow ofthe game reverses.Derek is still fifteen or twenty yards from the fence sur-rounding the court.As soon as he knows he’s been spotted he breaks into a run, shouting,“Hey, you, stay where you are.Don’t move.”

The white boys do as they’re told, but the blacks know better.They practically fly through the gate on the south end ofthe court and into the cornfield that’s on the Richmond Library’s eastern edge.In the past, the corn would not have been knee-high this time ofyear, but the farmer who normally harvests these thirty acres moved toArizona, and last year’s crop, ten feet tall and dark brown, is still standing.The boys are invisible.

Derek doesn’t bother to chase them in.As a boy, he ran from friends, rivals, and even the police through this very same field ofcorn, and he knows exactly where the boys will emerge—they will take the natural path that empties out onto the open land right behind theVFW post.He walks quickly back to his car, but before he gets in he shouts at the white boys:“You be here when I get back.”

It takes barely a minute to drive to theVFW.It’s a squat little asphaltshingled lodge, with squinty little windows and white pebbles in the parking area.Two flags snap smartly in the breeze—the red, white, and blue and the black POW-MIA.Derek parks his car in front and makes his way to the rear ofthe building.A long sloping lawn heads right down to the cornfield.He walks a few feet into the dried brown rows oflast year’s crop, just deep enough in to conceal himself, about ten feet to the right ofthe deer path that boys have been using for probably a hundred years.His heart is pounding with anticipation.He will listen for their footsteps, and when they are almost out ofthe field he will step into their path with his gun drawn.For a moment, he considers unlocking the safety, but he thinks better ofit.He is not without self-knowledge and he senses within himself a desire to do some harm.

Derek waits in the field.The drone ofan airplane passing overhead, the drone oftraffic, the drone ofa million flies who have come to feast on the corn’s rot, the drone ofa motorcycle just picking up some speed.

He feels a cold trickle ofsweat going down his spine.He disengages the safety on his gun.

After ten minutes, it’s obvious that those black boys must have found some other way out.Nevertheless, Derek continues to wait, while the sweat accumulates at his belt line and the humming ofhis mind winds tighter and tighter, higher and higher.At last, he forces himself to con-cede his plan has not worked.He walks back to his car, returns to the basketball court.

The white boys have waited for him, as instructed.He’s watched these two grow up.They used to blush, literally wring their small hands with pleasure when he spoke to them, but now they are at the age ofse-crets and not one ofthem can look directly into his eyes.They claim not to know the name ofeither ofthe black kids they were playing ball with not fifteen minutes ago.

“Ever see either ofthem before?”Derek asks, pretending to believe them, keeping up the fiction that they are all on the same side in this matter.

This isn’t even dignified with an answer, not a grunt, not even a slight shifting ofweight.

“What about it, Todd?”Derek says, figuring he’ll have better luck singling one ofthem out.He choosesTodd becauseTodd’s a good kid, with a brother in the Marines and a schoolteacher mother, on the one hand, and a father who took offfor Hawaii to live in a nudist commune, on the other hand, soTodd’s got to know right from wrong.

“We don’t know them, Officer Pabst,”Todd says.Christ, what a piece ofwork this kid’s become, the insincerity wrapping around his voice like red stripes on a candy cane.“We were just playing a little B-ball with them.”

“A little B-ball,”Derek says.

”Are you charging us with something?”asksAvery Hoffman, an aging cherub with a messy mustache.Avery’s father is a lawyer with the public defender’s office who has argued so many losing cases that he’s become one ofthose crackpot small-town cynics who sense a deal, a fix, or a con-spiracy in every transaction.Derek thrusts his eyes uponAvery with the force ofa nightstick, but the kid doesn’t fold.“Cause ifyou’re not,”he continues,“we’d sort oflike to get back to our game.”

Derek laughs invitingly, but the boys remain silent, removed.“I’ll tell you, this was a real nice town to grow up in.”The boys exchange glances, which Derek quickly tries to evaluate.Are they treating him like an old-timer? Bad enough.Or are they acknowledging some little secret held among them?Worse.He lowers his voice, moves it to one side, like fold-ing back the lapel ofyour jacket to reveal a shoulder holster.“And I want to keep this a nice town, you understand?Those individuals you were play-ing basketball with?They don’t belong around here, not running around.”

“Why is that, Officer Pabst?”asksTodd, laying it on pretty thick now.

”Because they escaped from a juvey home,”Derek says, letting Todd think he’s being taken at face value.“And since then they’ve been breaking a whole lot oflaws.They’ve been going up and down the river, breaking in, bothering people, taking shit, making their own rules.They almost raped a woman right here in our town.”

“Ifyou know so much about them,”Avery says,“then how come you’re like‘What’s their names’and everything?”

“Come here,”Derek says, softly beckoningAvery forward.

”No,”Avery says.

”I said come here.”Derek grabsAvery’s shirt and pulls him forward until their noses are touching.“Be nice,”Derek whispers into the boy’s suddenly gray face.

“We really don’t know those guys,”Todd says, his voice rising.“We were just playing and they came over.We don’t know them.”

Derek listens toTodd but keeps his eyes onAvery.“Is that right?”

Derek says, barely whispering, and he holds on untilAvery finally caves in, nods.Derek pushes him away.

Back in his patrol car, Derek has ample time for reconsideration and regret.He has forgotten little ofhis own youth, recalling not only the scrapes with the law, the lies, the reckless adventures, but also remem-bering with a painful clarity how it allfelt—that sacramental sense ofloy-alty toward your friends, how it swelled in your heart, that mad beliefin each other, how you’d do anything for them and they’d do as much for you and with all ofyou pulling for one another no one could bring you down.

As far as those boys are concerned, he’s the enemy, not only old but a cop.

Without admitting to himself where he has been driving, Derek pulls into Kate’s driveway, just as a yellow-and-black van from Centurion Se-curity Systems is backing away from the house, its wheels spinning, throwing up pebbles.Kate is still in the doorway, holding the signed copy ofher maintenance agreement with Centurion, and when she sees Derek she waves the sheet ofpaper over her head, because he has been after her for months to get the house wired up.

As has become their custom, she invites him in for a cup ofcoffee.

She gets her coffee delivered by UPS from a warehouse in Louisiana, bright-yellow cans ofdark roast with chicory, and Derek tells her with each cup that it is the best coffee he has ever tasted.“And as a cop, let me tell you, I know my coffee.”She knows he is flirting with her when he says this, but she is willing to let that happen.When she and Daniel first moved to Leyden, she dreaded somehow being involved with Daniel’s former life in the town, and Derek was emblematic ofall the old friends ofwhom she wished to steer clear.Derek was worshipful and beseech-ing around Daniel, and his wife, the perfume-soaked and the socially am-bitious Stephanie, with her bleached hair, and coarse skin, was anathema to Kate, and provided yet another reason to avoid Derek.But now, Kate looks forward to Derek’s visits and his interest in her offers moments of relieffrom the loneliness ofher days as a single woman.He is surely not what she would have chosen for herself, but she enjoys him the way she enjoysTV, as a slightly enervating diversion.He has a pleasant voice, deep and manly, beautiful hands, with long, tapered fingers, and the hair on his arms is like a boy’s, the color ofhoney.

“I don’t know why I waited so long to have a security system put in,”

Kate says, nursing a cold halfinch ofcoffee while watching Derek enjoy his fresh cup.They are seated in the living room, on the black corduroy sofa in front ofthe fireplace, which is now filled with dried goldenrod and purple loose strife.

“I feel better that you got it done,”says Derek.“Especially…”

“What?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I think I saw two Star of Bethlehem kids on the loose today, two from the gang who broke into your house.”

“Where?”

“In town.I tried to talk to them, but they saw me coming and they took off.Any doubts I had about them being the two…”

“It’s so strange.They just won’t go away, will they.Why don’t they go back to the city, or wherever it is they came from?They want to live in the country, near the river, and enjoy our various cultural and natural re-sources.Is that it?”

Kate laughs, but her voice is soft, far from her usual tone ofsly provocation.When Derek first started coming around, Kate adopted a more feminine and compliant voice in a kind ofcompensatory spirit, the way very tall people will stoop a little around others so as not to tower over them.She didn’t want to intimidate Derek—whom she calls“poor Derek”when she mentions him to people like Lorraine—and she slipped into a somewhat frail persona with him, seeking his advice, deferring to him on matters of worldly practicality, and keeping in check such verbal habits as sarcasm, ar-cane cultural references, and wordplay.Derek, for his part, has also con-structed a kind ofalternative selffor his meetings with Kate.Rather than sitting at her table as a man who has lived his whole life within the confines ofone small community, a man who has married his high school sweetheart, he has changed himself into a kind ofexiled big-city cop who has ended up in Leyden because ofsome secret catastrophe back in the big city.That both Kate and Derek are in disguise makes their time together unreal yet relax-ing;it’s like being at a masquerade ball, but one in which the disguises are not so elaborate, and you always know with whom you’re dancing.

Kate and Derek continue to talk about her new alarm system.Kate says that one ofthe reasons she agreed to move out ofthe city was that she liked the idea ofliving in a place where she wouldn’t have to worry about crime.Derek tells her that crime inWindsor County has gone up nearly ten percent in the past four years, though it’s been mainly in the larger towns in the south ofthe county.Then they talk awhile about the O.J.case, though here Kate has to be careful because Derek knows next to nothing about it, he keeps falling back on the simplest statements, like,“Man, that guy had everything, and now look at him.”They are do-ing their best to avoid the inevitable conversational juncture when they will begin talking about Daniel, whose behavior, motives, and present-day life have ended up at the center oftheir every conversation.

This time, it’s Derek who brings it up.“Any word from our wandering boy?”he asks.The way he talks about Daniel is different from how he discusses crime and safety.His voice when he mentions Daniel is toler-ant, bemused, and morally superior.

“As a matter offact, I talked to him today.”

“Really?”Derek says, his voice rising a little.

”He wanted to pick Ruby up at day care.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Well, it was just as well for me.I knew I was having the alarm system put in, but they wouldn’t give me an exact time.”

“So? Is she going to spend the night there?”

“Yes,”she says.“I could use a night off.”

“Well, I guess it’s good for her to have a male role model or something.”

And now the subject is properly launched, it wafts above them like a big lazy balloon.

“This place where he’s living,”Kate says.“I finally got the courage to go over and take a look at it.”

“He’s over on SalterTurnpike.”

“A little suburban-style house, with a carport and fake shutters.”She stops herself, realizes that sort ofarchitecture wouldn’t disturb Derek, that in fact his own house could be described like that.“And inside, really dreary.I asked him,‘Who decorated this place? Lee Harvey Oswald?’”

“Three years ago, I was called out on a domestic abuse on SalterTurnpike and the guy turned out to be my tenth-grade English teacher, Mr.

Machias.Man, I loved busting that guy, and he’s like trying to strike a bargain with me while I’m leading him out to the car, he’s saying,‘Mr.

Pabst, we’re both men ofthe world.’Men ofthe world.His poor old wife’s in there with a broken nose and a chipped front tooth and he’s try-ing to bond with me.”

“So what are you saying, Derek?That it’s a bad neighborhood?”

“Here’s what I think.There are no bad neighborhoods, there’s just bad people.”

Oh, thank you for your hard-won wisdom of the streets.“Daniel looked really uncomfortable, having me in his house,”she says.“He was swaying back and forth, talking a mile a minute, and he had his hand sort oftucked be-hind him, massaging his kidney like he does when he’s very, very nervous.”

“He was nervous? He should beashamed.He should be on his knees begging you to forgive him.”

Kate shrugs, but Derek is saying exactly what she wants to hear.She finds that she has a practically limitless need to hear her side ofthings af-firmed when it comes to the breakup ofher household.Once, she would have guessed that she would want to preserve her pride, that she would put up a brave front and mount the traditional romantic defense ofnon-chalance, or philosophical acceptance.But that hasn’t been the case.Kate wants there to be no mistake in anyone’s mind about whose idea it was to separate.She is the wronged party, any spin on that is immoral.And whenever she thinks she has had her fill ofpity, she finds that she has a craving for just one more helping.

“He looks terrible,”Kate says.“He must have lost at least twenty pounds, and he’s got these crepe paper dark patches under his eyes.His health is shot.”

“He shouldn’t even be talking to you about his health,”Derek says.

“He’s lost that right.”

“It’s not like cops and robbers, Derek, this is real life.Whatever he’s done, he’s still important to me.And ifhe’s developed some kind of heart condition…”

“He had a heart attack?”

“I don’t know what he had.But I do know he’s wasting away.And for what?”

“HamptonWelles,”Derek says softly.

”But that wasn’t Daniel’s fault!”

Derek nods.It is, in fact, what he, too, believes, but he doesn’t like to hear Kate say it.

“And I do think,”Kate continues,“that in terms ofhim and Iris, it’s been devastating to them.I think it’s hard for them to even see each other.”

Derek is entirely sure that Daniel and Iris are seeing a lot more of each other than Kate cares to realize—he has seen them coming out of theWindsor Bistro, seen her car in front ofDaniel’s house—but he thinks better ofmaking the point.Sometimes you can lose by winning.

“You’re a very brave lady, Kate,”he says.“I mean it.You’re really taking it well.”

“Can I offer you another cup ofcoffee?”

“No, I better not.I’m having trouble sleeping anyhow.And this stuff is a whole lot stronger than anything I get at home.”

“Meow,”says Kate, making Derek laugh with such a burst ofmanic nervous energy that his face goes crimson.Kate looks at him with a mild gaze, but soon she is laughing, too, and they continue to laugh, as ifher joke were a kiss and they wanted to prolong it.

And then the laughter subsides and they are left with each other and the silence, which Derek, finally, cannot endure.

“You ask yourself,”he says, shaking his head.

”What?”

“What you’d do in her particular individual situation.”

“Iris? WithDaniel, youmean?”

“Whatever anyone says about it being an accident, Daniel lit the fuse.

What would you do with someone who did something like that to yourhusband?”

“Well, first I’d like to actually have a husband.”She realizes as soon as the words are out that it’s not a good or even acceptable joke.She knows Derek is attracted to her, that he has been coming around with the hope ofone day taking her to bed, and she doesn’t want to encourage him, any more than she would want to absolutely discourage him.And, sure enough, the wisecrack has made him uncomfortable.He shifts in his seat, recrosses his legs.

“You know Hampton, don’t you?”Derek asks.

”A little.”

“What’s he like?”

“Extremely dignified, what people used to call a Credit to His Race.”

“Man,”Derek says, with a sad shake ofthe head, as he so often does when Hampton’s fate is discussed.He touches the hollow ofhis own throat, also a practically ritualized gesture between them.

“Poor Daniel,”she says.“I can’t help thinking Iris is sort ofholding him hostage.”

“Hostage?”

“Psychologically.”

Derek glances away, as ifthis were a bit rarefied for his tastes.

”Daniel feels responsible…AndIrisisnofool.She’s perfectly capable ofmanipulating the hell out ofDaniel, without even halftrying.

He’s doing her shopping, he’s mowing the lawn, he’s like her servant.”

“I can’t believe you,”Derek says.“You’re sitting here feeling sorry for him.The whole town’s talking about what a rat he is, and the person he hurt the most is feeling sorry for him.You’re a very understanding person.”

“I’m not understanding.I’m hurt.I feel incredibly hurt.It’s just…

well, it’sDaniel.He’s a sweet man.But he’s rootless, that might be the problem.I should have put it together when he came up with the plan to move back to this place.He wanted to be near his parents, strange as it sounds.All that unfinished business, it’s true what they say.Some of those unloved kids have the hardest time leaving home.They think it’s al-ways just about to happen, the things they’ve been waiting their whole life for.And then they get fixated on the idea ofpassion, some big bang theory.You know what I mean?An explosion that will create, or re-create, the world.Maybe that’s why he got so attached to this woman, this woman who is really basically a stranger to him.He wants to be res-cued from his own emptiness.And I think he sees her as the perfect mother, too—even though she was willing to throw her marriage out the window.But she’s very touchy-feely with her kid.Daniel loves that, be-cause he understands it, and it’s what he missed.Then you take all that, and you mix in all ofDaniel’s goddamned pro bono idealism, and his whole fixation on theblackthing, and how they’re supposed to be more feeling than us, more emotionally present.All that nonsense.”

“Nonsense?You call what he did nonsense?”

“Daniel doesn’t want to hurt anybody.”

“But he has,”says Derek.“He’s lucky he’s not facing charges.”

“It was an accident, I think that much was obvious to everybody.It was just the worst horrible freak luck.That thing, that rocket goes off and severs poor Hampton’s carotid artery.God.It would have been bet-ter ifhe’d died right then and there.”

“He pretty much did.”

“That’s not true.He’s getting around, he’s walking, feeding himself.

He’s probably fucking that wife ofhis.”She puts her hands up as ifto shield herself.“Sorry.I don’t know where that came from.”

A silence descends upon them.From outside the house, they can hear the blue jays raucously quarreling around the bird feeder;they seem per-fectly willing to slaughter each other over a beakful ofthistle.Sometimes it seems so obvious:the world is a place ofrelentless brutality, the only reason anything is alive is that it can kill something else.

Derek has left the window down in his car and the squawk ofhis radio drifts toward the silence ofthe early evening.

“Your radio,”Kate says.

”I can hear it.”

“What’s it saying?What’s going on?”

“Not a damn thing.”And then, in a moment ofinspiration, he decides to risk it all in one sentence.Suddenly it’s easier than holding back, eas-ier than pretending he has not been dreaming ofKate, has not fallen in love with her.All that has happened has happened for a reason, starting with Daniel getting kicked down the stairs and moving back to Leyden, and then the freak early snow, and those black kids terrorizing Kate, the whole karmic chain ofevents, including MarieThorne getting lost in the woods.It all had to click together just so.

Kate is frowning at the open window, through which the noise ofthe police radio drifts.

“Should you be paying attention to that?”she asks.

He takes her hand.“Everything I really want to pay attention to is right here,”he says.

[16]

Despite his being in a constant state oftension from recalling and reliving the moment he lit the fuse ofthat Roman candle, despite his flulike feelings ofremorse over breaking up his family, despite his con-stant worry over Ruby’s well-being, her psychological health, her physi-cal health, and even her moods, despite his having taken down the photograph ofthe dear little girl because the sight ofit on his beige bed-room wall makes him weep, despite the many times he has called her on the telephone when she seems indisposed, distracted, and does not want to talk, despite his taking her to feed the swans that live near the shore ofa nearby monastery and turning around for a halfminute and her dis-appearing for nearly ten minutes, despite having received numerous nighttime drink-and-dial telephone calls from Kate, despite his some-times wondering how he could have thought for a moment that he could live without her, despite his having let down more than a few ofhis clients, despite the wreckage he has made ofhis practice, his career, and his reputation, despite his going from a respected and well-liked figure in his little town to a person about whom people gossip, ofwhom peo-ple do not approve, around whom people seem less than comfortable, despite the difficulties he and Iris have seeing each other since Hampton’s injury, despite his having developed a searing, steely pain in the middle ofhis heel, as ifit has been pierced by an arrow, especially in the morn-

ing, when he can barely get out ofbed the pain is so severe, despite the fact that his assistant, SheilaAlvarez, has turned contemptuous toward him, and snapped her fingers in his face and said,“Hello?”when he failed to answer one ofher rapid-fire inquiries, despite Iris’s little boy’s con-tinuing in his dislike for Daniel, his squirming away from his touch, glar-ing at him from across the Burger King booth, despite bouts offeverish nostalgia for his old domesticity, its regularities and comforts, despite his more or less despising where he now lives, where he has yet to get a de-cent night’s sleep, where he is obliged to buy cumbersome, backbreak-ing bottles ofspring water because what comes out ofthe tap smells like leprous frogs, where the idiot landlord, who has never had a tenant be-fore, continues to hover around, mowing the lawn on Saturday morn-ings, watering the scraggly, parsimoniously producing rosebushes, pruning the juniper bushes, which smell like cat urine, and who com-pulsively continues to chaperone Daniel’s relationship to the house as if the depressing little bungalow were a young virgin and Daniel himself a notorious Lothario, despite his having lost ten pounds ofmuscle and not an ounce offat, despite wiry curls ofgray hair suddenly appearing on his sideburns, despite his having begun fifteen books without getting to the end ofany ofthem, this is the happiest he has ever been.

Much ofthis happiness is purely physical.It is an animal joy, a stunning erotic completeness such as he has never experienced.Daniel had always secretly believed that people who went on about their sexual hap-piness wereexaggerating, they werelike those restaurant reviewers who compare a bowl ofsoup to a glimpse ofheaven.They were sexual gour-mets, they were like those wine critics who justify their expense-account indulgences with words that not only elevated their simple human plea-sure into some bold adventure ofthe senses but also claimed to be ex-tracting arcane nuances ofpleasure that only they could discern.

Yet now that he is with Iris, Daniel has becomeone of those people.Since the night ofthe October snow, he is a connoisseur ofsex, and ifthere wereanyone in the world with whom he could share his newly found joy, he would have become a proselytizer for the holy church ofphysical love.

For one thing, he is finally able to make love while positioned on top, which he has not been able to do since getting kicked down the stairs back on Perry Street.The long fall left him with a strained lower back, a pro-clivity toward muscle spasms, and a sciatic nerve that was like the third rail in a subway tunnel, humming with pain.It also left him unable to do what the missionary position requires, and so, week by week, and then month by month, Kate mounted Daniel and, in her words,“did all the work.”But now the pain is gone and its absence is fantastically rejuvenat-ing to him.Daniel is restored to his youthful self, shot through with the vigor and flexibility ofa man in his twenties, but a chastened, wised-up man in his twenties, one who will not waste his youth.

It is night and Daniel hovers a mere fifty feet above the town, sitting in the air just as comfortably as ifit were a chair, his legs crossed, his hands folded in his lap, his thumbs tapping each other.The first couple of times he became airborne, he expended absurd amounts ofeffort mov-ing around, or just staying aloft.He would thrust his arms in front ofhim because this is how Superman made himself aerodynamic in the movies.

Then, after a while, in a moment ofirritation and exhaustion, he thought to himself:I don’t really mind if I come crashing down,and he gave up, he simply offered himself to the elements like a swimmer succumbing to the sea, and it was fine.His presence there is as easy and uncontested as his presence on earth.He has already flown over the entire town, beam-ing down his prayers oflove and happiness to all who are sleeping, and to all whom sleep eludes.

Now, rocking back and forth on the currents ofnight air, able to move himself from here to there on the power ofthought, he hovers protectively over Iris’s house, feeling all the ferocious animal longing for her that he once felt when touching her was but a dream, feeling, in fact, more desire for the Iris who he has come to know than he had ever felt for the phantom Iris.The Iris he has come to know, the Iris who he has kissed, the Iris he has is not exactly the Iris for whom he once longed.That Iris was cast into the shadows when Hampton had his stroke.None ofthe changes that have come over her are really what he would have once hoped for.The Iris he once so deliriously craved was languid, while the Iris he knows now is ex-hausted, the Iris he courted wanted to be amused, and the Iris he has achieved wants to be comforted.And not necessarily by him.

And then, as he floats back and forth, just a few feet above her roof, but unable to enter her house even as a specter, Daniel first learns that he is not alone in the nightlife ofthe skies over Leyden.At first, he thinks he has seen an owl or some other nocturnal bird ofprey, and his second thought is that some small object has fallen from space, a meteorite, a scrap ofcosmic garbage.He turns and sees, ofall people, Derek Pabst flying rapidly, wildly due west, dressed in a pair ofdark-blue boxer shorts and a Boston Red SoxT-shirt.Derek seems not to have noticed Daniel, and though Daniel has no desire to speak to Derek, some instinct ofcamaraderie overtakes him and he calls out to his old friend.Derek, a look ofgreat anxiety on his face, turns toward the sound ofDaniel’s voice, fails to see him, and then begins to tumble head over heel, zoom-ing out toward the outskirts ofthe village like a ball oflightning.

When he turns to resume his watch over Iris’s house, she is there, facing him.She is only inches away, her nightgown streaming behind her, a look ofwonder and bewilderment on her face.

“Am I dreaming?”she asks.She starts to drift away and he catches her by the wrist, pulls her close to him.

“You’re awake.”

“I’ve had a terrible night, such a terrible, terrible night.”

“Hampton?”

“When you spend all this time with someone who cannot speak, it forces you down into yourself, but in the worst way.We’re not meant to be silent, but to him words have no meaning.So I sit there with him, and I think about you, and ifthere’s no one else around…”She stops herself, looks down.She starts to lose altitude and Daniel catches her again.She presses her lips to his palm and then places it on her breast.Her breath comes in broken pieces, as ifit must turn at right angles to escape her.“Ifthere’s no one around,”she says,“I just say what I’m thinking.I say,‘Hampton, I’m in love.I’m in love with a man who thinks I’m smart and beautiful.”

“Everyone thinks you’re smart and beautiful, Iris.”

“I stopped loving him, Daniel.Long ago.Being with someone so broken—even ifyou love them, it takes everything.How do you do it when you already stopped loving them?When you already felt trapped.When your heart is…elsewhere.He’s grotesque now.He’s frightened, he cries, and every day he gets physically stronger.But how can I leave him?”

A sudden wind comes offthe river and pushes her closer to Daniel.

“Everything in the world is telling us we don’t belong together,”he says miserably.

“Don’t you love me anymore?”

“Ofcourse I do.But it doesn’t have anything to do with that, not now.How much can love do? It’s buried.”

“I don’t feel buried.I used to, but not now.Look at me!”She spreads her arms and then raises them above her and begins to gain altitude, slowly at first, and then she soars.

“I want to see him!”Daniel shouts after her, but ifshe hears him she gives no sign ofit, she continues to rise.Unnerved, Daniel returns to his own bed.

He switches on the light on his bedside table.The lamp is shaped like a calla lily;he bought it in town, thinking that it was an iris, and that Iris would be touched by it, or at least like it.But no matter how many times she has come to this room, she seems never to notice the lamp.Nor has she mentioned the expensive brass bed he’s installed, or the five-hundred-dollar goose down comforter, or the black lacquered end tables, or the Navaho rug, or the Parisian jazz club poster, with a piano keyboard curling across it like a black-and-white woolen scarf.It all seems like a miscalculation, the fancy boudoir accoutrements.He props a pillow against the chilly brass bars ofthe bed’s headboard, picks up the book he’s been reading.He remains on his back, turns the page, and then switches to his side, propping up his head with one hand.The hand covers his right eye and the world instantly disappears.He sits bolt upright, his heart rac-ing;as soon as he removes the heel ofhis hand from his right eye the world returns.He covers the eye again.Darkness.He is blind in one eye.

[17]

Daniel is learning how to live with one sighted eye, learning to cope with the peculiar flatness ofthe world, the odd augmentation of sound, the unnerving momentary losses ofbalance, the trepidation be-fore stairways, the sense ofplunging while merely stepping offa curb, and he is even learning to live with the pervasive feeling that there is something or someone just behind him, or just to the side ofhim, a threatening presence that is out ofrange ofhis reduced arc ofvision, and that this peripheral, punishing phantom is about to pounce, grab, push, stab, or shoot him.What he is still having particular trouble with is keep-ing the secret ofhis sudden infirmity.He wants to talk about it, he wants help, he wants a little credit for how well he’s coping;concealment is against his nature, and now he must add the arrival ofthis partial blind-ness to his stockpile ofsecrets.

Finally, however, Daniel submits to a series oftests, under the aegis of Bruce McFadden.First, Bruce conducts his own examinations, and then, finding nothing amiss, he sends Daniel toWindsor Imaging, for an MRI and then a CAT scan, and when all the results are in he sits with Daniel in his office to go over them.Among the other decorations in McFadden’s office—and it’s an eccentric old space, filled with angles and oddities—are framed black-and-white photographs ofsome ofhis favorite blind musicians:Ray Charles, StevieWonder, Roland Kirk, Al Hibler, Ivory Joe Hunter, BlindWillie McTell, the Five Blind Boys ofMississippiandthe Five Blind Boys ofAlabama, together in the same photo, which makes it an artifact ofunusual distinction, and the English jazz pianist George Shearing, the one white face in the lot.

“It’s the old joke,”Bruce says, tilted back in his Swedish orthopedic chair, with its childishly bright-blue upholstery and its brilliant chrome hardware,“the one that goes,‘I’ve got good news and bad news.’”His feet are on the desk, he has knit his fingers behind his neck.“But the good news is good enough, maybe you won’t even care about the bad.There’s nothing wrong with your eye, Daniel.The retina, the cornea, the optic nerve, everything’s shipshape.In fact, you’ve got the ocular vigor ofa teenager.You don’t even need glasses.”

“Except that I can’t see,”Daniel says.

”Yes, well, that’s the bad news,”Bruce says.“We’re going to have to explore the possibility that the origin ofyour difficulty is not physical.”

“Meaning?”Daniel asks, though an instant later the question answers itself.

“Your eye is fine.Your vision will most likely come back.After your life—”

“You think mylifehas made me blind?”

“I don’t know what’s made you blind, Daniel.All I can tell you is what the tests say.And they all say your eye is healthy.”

Daniel falls silent.He hears a sound, turns toward it.The branch ofa maple tree, its leaves large as hands, blows in the breeze, scraping against the outside ofthe window.

“Guilt’s a bitch,”Bruce says.He sits forward, folds his hands, he’s coming to the end ofthe time allotted.

“I don’t feel guilty.How could I? I’ve turned a blind eye to everything.”

Bruce smiles, he looks relieved.“It may turn out to be as simple as that,”he says.

“I’mjoking,Bruce.”Daniel’s chin juts forward, he widens his eyes.“Jesus.”

“I feel sorry for you, Daniel.I really do.You’re under a lot ofpressure.”

Daniel tries to smile, but then, failing that, he tries to compose himself into a sort ofmanly grimace, but even that will not hold.He feels his lips quiver and he feels the surge oftears.He takes a deep breath, covers his eyes.There are certain things he has not been able to say, not even to Iris.She, into whose consciousness he has wanted to pour himself since first meeting her, she turns out to be perhaps the last per-son to whom he can reveal the remorse he feels over Hampton, over Ruby, over Kate.She already has a broken man in her life.Every step he has taken into the light ofIris’s love seems to have ushered him along on an equal journey into, ifnot the heart ofdarkness, then, at least, the darkness ofthe heart.It is not what he had expected.What happened to the world opening wide, what happened to joy? How could the achieve-ment ofall that he has desired cast him into such withering isolation?

“I don’t think this needs to be said, Daniel,”Bruce says.“But nobody blames you.You realize that, don’t you?”

Daniel reaches across the desk and clasps Bruce’s hand.“Oh my God,”he says.“I can see! I can see!”

For a moment, Bruce looks confused, as ifhe is about to believe some kind ofmiracle has occurred.But then, he regains his composure.“Very funny,”he says.“Ha ha ha.”

Even with the appalling evidence ofHampton’s ruination an inch or two from her face, the reality ofwhat has befallen him, her, all ofthem, remains elusive to Iris.The waking dream ofeveryday life obscures his injury, there is so much else to do, so many people, so much work—dishes to be washed, clothes to be folded, tunes hummed, a minute goes by, ten, and the space in her mind labeled“Hampton”will, without her governance, be silently, unconsciously occupied by the familiar man to whom she once swore allegiance and then betrayed, that infuriating, belittling presence.

And the parade ofpeople who march in and out ofher house.It’s like Memorial Day.Here come the fire trucks, here comes the Little League, here come the Elks.Iris has kept a journal, meant at first to be a recepta-cle for her pain, for the remorse, the guilt she must share for what has happened to Hampton, and a place to map and describe the dark sea ofsex and happiness in which she is sometimes swimming, sometimes sailing, and sometimes sinking—but little ofthat ever makes it into the diary.It is crowded out, eclipsed, and then obliterated by a constantly expanding cast ofcharacters, the people who come in and out ofthe life ofthe house.

There are the doctors, the nurses, the medical technicians, all with names, all with stories, one has a limp, one is diabetic, one lost three fin-gers to frostbite in the peacetime PolishArmy, one smokes clove ciga-rettes, one is a Sufi, one sang backup for PaulaAbdul, each and every one ofthem stakes a separate claim on her attention.

And then:family.There are pages and pages in her journal about the comings and goings ofher family, and Hampton’s family.They have all risen to the occasion.Iris’s sister Carol is a constant presence.Ofthe first ninety days ofHampton’s convalescence—though that perhaps is the wrong word for it, convalescence implies a process, an end point, and Hampton’s global aphasia is permanent—Carol was living with them more than halfthe time.But not counting Carol, the first to arrive was Hampton’s mother, who descended into the hell ofJuniper Street in her dark-blue suit and wavy silver hair, wearing orange lipstick and a large diamond ring, and seemed to think that ifshe taught Hampton to speak once she can do it again.Then came Hampton’s brother James, who for all his hippy ways, his bewildering openness to spiritual margi-nalia, could do nothing useful;he sobbed and wailed, in a frenzy until fi-nally it fell to Iris to comfort him.Then arrived Hampton’s oldest brother, Jordan, a Congregationalist minister in Bethesda, gaunt, wid-owed, and remote, who, when Iris asked ifhe was going to pray over Hampton, looked at her as ifshe had asked ifhe handled snakes or rolled on the floor speaking in tongues.Next came her two favorite brothers, Louis and Raymond, in business together back home, getting rich selling BMWs (LouRay Motors) and speculating in real estate (Davenport De-velopment, Inc.).Then her father arrived, a month after the accident, as ifwaiting for the smoke to clear so he could set matters straight, strolling into the ruination likeYojimbo, somehow carrying with him the medical authority ofthe entire Richmond Memorial Hospital, where he had been head ofFood Services for thirty-eight years.Then Hampton’s old friends, the Morrison-Rosemonts, up fromAtlanta, and then more brothers, more sisters, his parents again, her parents again.She is run-ning a bed-and-breakfast for the genuinely concerned, throwing in lunch and dinner, too.All ofthem have different ideas, different needs, differ-ent dietary requirements.Some are helpful, some are pains in the ass, and all ofthem, each and every one ofthem, wants, finally, to know the same thing:Who has done this thing to Hampton?

“Oh, the man I love, the man I will sneak out ofhere to see as soon as the coast is clear, as soon as I hear you snoring behind the guest room door,”is what Iris does not say.“A friend ofmine named Daniel, it was an accident,”she also doesn’t say.“Ifyou need someone to blame, then blame me,”is likewise on the list ofunuttered things.But she can’t re-main silent, she can’t refuse to answer their very reasonable question, she cannot drum her fingers on the side ofher head and say“Da da da.”And so she tells the story again and again, drawing it out so it can seem she is not stinting on the details, beginning with the party at Eight Chimneys, the trouble between the Richmonds, the disappearance ofMarieThorne, the storm-wrecked woods, the flares, and on and on, and no matter which way she spins it the end is always the same—her silence mixes with the silence ofher listener, and the two silences combine in the air and create a kind ofHoly Ghost ofthe Unspoken, and that spirit looks down upon them and whispers:a white man did this to him.

It’s late at night, one day or another, Wednesday, Thursday, it doesn’t re-ally matter anymore.Daniel has fallen asleep in front oftheTV set, with his hands folded in his lap and his feet up on the coffee table.It is a shabby threadbare sort ofsleep, mixed in with the sounds ofthe movie he has been watching—The Guns of Navarone—as well as the still unfamiliar ru-minations ofhis house.His dream life is thin and discontinuous, just im-ages, moments, nothing quite memorable, it’s like reading the spines of the books in a vast secondhand shop.Here he is decanting a bottle ofred wine, trying to push a mower through wet grass, being driven to court byAnthony Quinn, and then Ruby appears, she looks overheated, as if she’s been running, she opens her mouth and instead ofwords or any hu-man sound there comes the chime ofa doorbell,dingdong dingdong…

Daniel awakens, his heart racing.He tries to get up but his legs are gran-ite.He grabs his trousers, pulls one leg offthe table and then the other, it feels as ifhe’s been left for dead on the side ofthe road.The ringing of the doorbell is continuing.“Just a second!”he cries out.

He doesn’t have the presence ofmind or the sense ofselfpreservation to ask who it is, he simply drags himself through the living room, passes beneath the little oval archway to the foyer, and opens the door to find Iris on his porch, wearing a sweater that is much too large for her—Hampton’s?—and dark glasses, though it is eleven at night.The air smells ofnight-blooming flowers.

“I need to see you,”she says.

He reaches for her, pulls her to him, and as he embraces her he feels a sickening twist ofintuition:Hampton has died.She nuzzles her face into the crook ofhis neck.He pulls away to get a better look at her.

“Are you all right?”he whispers.

”I just had to get out ofthere.”

“What’s going on? Has anything happened?”

“Hampton’s mother is there, and his sister, with her daughter, Christine, this skinny ten-year-old nervous wreck, scared ofher own shadow, constantly bursting into tears.They’re all nervous wrecks, and between them and the nurse there’s no room for me.I can’t pee without some-one knocking on the bathroom door.”

“How’s Hampton?”

“The same.Every day, the same.Except stronger.He takes walks, he eats, but the speech thing, you know.He can’t leave the house because he cannot speak.He has one word.Da-da.Da-da, da-da.It means yes, it means no, it means I’m hungry, I’m cold, it means whatever he wants.

And believe me, everyone is meant to understand that this da-da means he wants a soft-boiled egg and that da-da means he wants a back rub.”

Her voice is level, slightly hard, but her eyes show the injury, the pity, and the fury ofliving with a man who has been ruined.

“It feels really strange,”Daniel says.“You know.That I’ve never seen him.”

“How can you?What would you do?Walk in? Pay him a visit?”

“I don’t know.But it just seems strange.I feel I should.After all…”

“Well, it just can’t happen.”She is startled by the harshness in her tone.“Maybe sometime,”she adds.“Just not now.”

“I need to take responsibility,”Daniel says.

”I’m taking responsibility,”Iris says.“Every day.And that’s enough.

He doesn’t even know exactly what happened to him.He certainly doesn’t think it had anything to do with you.I would have to draw him a series ofcartoons, and he still probably wouldn’t understand.Come on.Please.I don’t want to talk about it.I need a break from all that.”

Brusquely, even roughly—he forgives and even enjoys the bullying haste ofit—she leads him to the bedroom, pushes his shoulders.He falls onto the bed and she swoops onto him in a fury ofneed.He tries to speak against the sorrowful pressure ofher kisses and their teeth click against each other.

He feels that she isn’t ready yet, but she wants him inside ofher now.

Her sudden intake ofbreath whistles through her clenched teeth.Her eyelids flutter and she presses her fingers into his back, urgently.She whispers the details and the extent ofher pleasure into his ear, and even as he feels the joy ofbeing with and within her, a thought presents itself: Why,he wonders,didn’t she let me make her ready before I entered her?Why didn’t she let me touch her, why did she want me to push my way in?It is a thought ofsurpassing pettiness—how could the man who once had longed so fer-vently for the chance to kiss the instep ofher foot now quibble over the details oflubrication? But even as he continues to make love to her, even as he feels the sweat pouring offofhim, even as he times his movements so as to bring her pleasure, to hear that stunned, despairing, and unde-fended little yell she makes, even as her grip tightens and he feels himself drawn into the inevitable engulfing swoon ofcoming, even now he cannot repress the memory ofthat sharp little intake ofbreath.The conclusion is inescapable:the forceful penetration is what she is used to, that is what she once had with Hampton, and this is what her body craves, this is what she hungers for, and—right now—this is what she requires.

Yet somehow, through force ofwill, and by doggedly obeying the commands ofhis own desire, he is able to stay with her, and now they lie next to each other, panting and relieved.In the dim light ofhis bedroom-in-exile (he cannot imagine making his life in this house;he occupies it like a fugitive),Iris dozes off, her legs pressed together, her arms at her side, like a child miming sleep.A gentle snore hovers above her lips.

Daniel props himself up on his elbow and gazes down at her.Her breasts are nearly flat against her, the nipples elongated and with a slight droop from two years ofnursing Nelson.Her belly gently swells with each breath.What ifhis child were growing in there?

Not wanting to disturb her sleep, and not trusting himself to keep from touching her, Daniel slips out ofbed and walks as softly as he can into the front room.Naked, he sits on the sofa, finds the remote control under a cushion, and turns on theTV.The Guns of Navaroneis no longer playing, and he flips through the channels looking for something that can hold his interest for ten or fifteen minutes, after which time he feels he ought to wake Iris.He settles on one ofthe all-news cable channels, where a black lawyer named Reginald McTeer is holding forth about the O.J.Simpson case.Daniel has often seen McTeer’s endlessly smiling, media-friendly face onTV.The program must have sent a crew to McTeer’s office because he is seated at a grand desk, with shelves oflaw books framing a view ofmidtown Manhattan behind him.recorded earlier todayflashes on the bottom ofthe screen.McTeer is a stocky man in a dark suit and his signature ten-gallon cowboy hat, bright white with a red satin band.A picture ofhis light-skinned wife and their three fair children is on his desk, as well as photographs ofMcTeer enjoying his expensive hobbies and vacations—on safari, in the cockpit ofhis Mooney, on horseback, and with various well-knowns from the worlds ofpolitics and entertainment.He speaks like a man comfortable with the sound ofhis own voice, with the exhorting enthusiasm ofa preacher, or a Cadillac salesman.

“You know, Jim, all the media’s going crazy because Mr.O.J.Simpson got himself a team offirst-rate lawyers.Everyone’s going on about justice for sale.And I say:more power to him.This isAmerica, baby.

Everything’s for sale.You think the poor get the same medical care as the rich? Everything is for sale, top to bottom.What you’ve got to under-stand is that’s how the system works, that’s just what the man’s got to do.

InAmerica green trumps blackandwhite.”

McTeer smiles, and then suddenly theTV shows Jim Klein sitting in the cable station’s studio, watching McTeer on a large monitor.Klein, a silver-haired man in a blue blazer, once a newscaster for one ofthe net-works, and now nearing the end ofhis broadcast career, swivels in his chair and faces another large monitor.

It’s Kate, in Leyden, sitting on the sofa in the living room.Daniel stares at her image for several seconds, not even entirely believing it is actually her.She looks relaxed.Her legs are crossed, her delicate, patri-cian hands are folded onto her lap.She wears a white blouse, a strand of pearls.As she speaks, her name appears in writing on the bottom ofthe screen:kate ellisauthor and simpson expertnew york.

“You know, Jim, it’s very interesting,”Kate is saying,“and not without significance, that, for all his talk about the law and justice, and about the green and the white and the black, Mr.McTeer fails to mention that he was himself part ofthe original team oflawyers put together for Simpson’s defense.”As soon as she says this, the broadcast goes to a split-screen format and McTeer can be seen shaking his head, and waving his hand dismissively at the camera, clearly indicating that Kate’s comments are beneath contempt.

But Kate cannot see McTeer and she continues, undaunted, her cultured voice brimming with self-confidence.Daniel leans forward, his hands resting on his square, bare knees.She seems entirely herself, yet at the same time somehow perfect for television.It’s been months since he has seen her looking so relaxed.“Mr.McTeer was asked to be a part of O.J.’s DreamTeam and he declined.Why?Well, a statement Mr.McTeer made to the press last year should put his actions in a clear light.He said…”Kateglances at a little notebook she has left next to her on the sofa.With a lurch, Daniel recognizes it—it’s a little spiral notebook with a picture ofa whale on the cover, which he bought for her two summers ago on a weekend trip to Nantucket.“‘Life is too short, and life is too precious, and there are still things on earth that money can’t buy.’”

“With all due respect, Ms.Ellis, you can’t believe everything you read in the press,”McTeer says.“There are more writers out there than you can shake a stick at, and some ofthem are putting groceries on the table by writing a lot ofdamn foolishness about O.J.Simpson.”

“Okay,”Jim Klein says.“Let me ask you something, Kate Ellis.You’ve been perceived by some as O.J.Simpson’s most potent enemy in the press, and there have been a few—and I’m sure you’ve heard this, so I’m not saying anything you haven’t dealt with, and I’m certainly not trying to imply any agreement with this statement—but some have said that your articles about the case…”Klein picks up a thick, glossy magazine and holds it up to the camera:the cover is a portrait ofO.J.,his skin sev-eral shades darker than its actual color, posed on a dark street, grinning, holding a pair ofleather gloves in one hand, with the other hand hidden behind his back.“Show a certain insensitivity to the racial implications of the case against Mr.Simpson.”

“There are no racial implications, Jim.None that matter, anyhow.”

“Mighty easy for you to say, Miss Ellis,”McTeer says with a laugh.

”This is a murder case, Mr.McTeer,”Kate says.“Not a debate about civil rights.”

“Are you a lawyer in your spare time, Miss Ellis?”McTeer asks.

”No.But, ifit matters, I happen to live with a lawyer, and a very fine lawyer…”

Instinctively, Daniel grabs the remote control, but then is unsure whether he wants to turn the volume up or down.He points it toward the set without pressing any buttons.Behind Kate, not quite in focus, is the fireplace, the mantel covered with framed snapshots ofthe three ofthem.

“I fell asleep.”

Startled, abashed, as ifcaught with pornography, Daniel looks at Iris.

She, too, is naked, with one hand massaging her eyes and the other fig-leafed over her middle.

“A woman has been brutally murdered,”Kate is saying,“and there is at this point a good chance that the man who is clearly responsible for her death is going to go free.All the talk about racist cops…”

“What is this?”Iris asks, sitting next to Daniel, draping her leg over him.

”TV,”says Daniel.

”Who is she talking about?”

“O.J.Simpson.Who else?”

“I don’t know.”

“That this man has become some sort ofrebel-hero to theAfricanAmerican community,”Kate is saying,“is completely ludicrous, and of-fensive.That rappers and other prominent blacks are wearing‘Free O.J.’ T-shirts is also ludicrous and offensive.We have to ask ourselves:Are we a nation oflaws, or aren’t we?”

“We are a nation oflaws,”McTeer says.

”Who’s that freak?”Iris asks.

”Reginald McTeer, a lawyer.”

“And the foundation ofour legal system,”McTeer continues,“is a man or a woman is presumed innocent until proven guilty.Without that presumption, there is no justice.And without justice there is no peace.”

Kate rolls her eyes.“I don’t know anyone who doesn’t believe that O.J.Simpson murdered Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman.”

“I know plenty ofpeople who have grave doubts about that, Miss Ellis,”McTeer says.“You should get out more.The whole world isn’t in the editorial offices ofsome fancy magazine.Go into the kitchen in some of the lavish restaurants where you eat and ask the people who have been cooking your food, ask them what they think, or ask the woman who cleans your house.”

“I’m the woman who cleans my house, Mr.McTeer, and I say he’sguilty.”

“She’s in your house,”Iris says.

”I know.”

“Look at the windows.It’s light out.When was this?”

Daniel puts up a hand to silence her.“Wait.”He has surprised himself.A few months ago he would have gone to practically any lengths to hear the sound ofIris’s voice and now he is shushing her.“I just want to hear this,”he adds softly.Then, still nervous that he may have hurt her feelings, he further adds,“It was videotaped earlier today.”He pats her knee reassuringly.

Iris grabs his hand, ferocious yet playful.She kisses the back ofit, turns it over and kisses his palm, and then puts first one finger and then a second into her mouth, and sucks on them, and then, when he lets out a little involuntary whimper ofpleasure, she slides offthe sofa, positions herselfbetween his legs, forces his knees apart—not that he resists her in any but the most perfunctory way—and buries her face in his lap, kiss-ing his cock until it rises, at which time she moves her head back a little and accepts him into her mouth.

“We have witnessed a travesty ofjustice,”Kate is saying.

Daniel, his eyes closed now, gropes for the remote control and turns offthe set.

Iris leaves shortly after.Daniel returns to his bed, which is full ofthe warmth and aromas ofsex.He tries to sink into it, but sleep seems to have turned its back on him, and he gets dressed and drives into the vil-lage for a drink or two (or three or four—who cares?) at theWindsor Bistro, though it is after midnight.As he nears the Bistro and sees that its dark-red neon sign is still lit, bleeding its deep, pleasantly lurid colors into the black air, he feels a little swoon ofpure gratitude for the place and everyone who makes it run:how monstrous the night can be with-out a place to go.

It’s crowded at the Bistro, more crowded than he’s ever seen it.Is the entire town wracked with desire, unable to sleep? Daniel stands near the entrance, next to the coatroom, which, now that it’s summer, is filled with elaborate arrangements offlowers.He looks in on tonight’s crowd, he is not quite ready to venture further in.It’s not as ifthe people here tonight are strangers to him—everyone in Leyden is familiar, to a cer-tain extent—but they are not people he really knows, not people he can confidently call by name.They’re a boisterous bunch, gathered together in groups ofsix, seven, or eight, with wild laughter being the order of the night.Tonight’s customers are acting as ifthey were having their last manic round ofgrog on a sinking ship.The owner’s normally saturnine boyfriend, rather than playing from his usual repertoire offolk-rock torch songs, is leading some ofthe customers in“Rainy DayWomen.”

And I would not feel so all alone / Everybody must get stoned.

Daniel thinks ofhimself as one ofthe original customers ofthe Bistro, one ofits founding fathers, but whatever favoritism Doris Snyder, the Bistro’s owner, used to show him is not available tonight.She works feverishly behind the bar, mixing margaritas with one hand and filling bowls ofpretzels with the other, and when Daniel makes a little implor-ing gesture in her direction her eyes are as expressive as thumbtacks.

He finds a small, empty table in a distant corner and sits down, resigned to a long wait before he is served.He scans the room, looking for Deirdre, Johnnie Day, Calliope, or any ofthe other college-aged girls who have not yet managed their way out ofLeyden, and who supple-ment their lives ofpottery, yoga classes, organic garden design, and whole foods catering with employment at the Bistro.However, the first person with whom he makes eye contact is Susan Richmond, who is holding a beer mug and swaying to the music, like a shy person all alone who wants to appear to be enjoying herself.

An hour ago, she was back at Eight Chimneys, lying in her own bed, unable to sleep, and her mind in that vulnerable state had been seized with a desire to see her husband—it was as ifwakefulness had compro-mised her mind’s autoimmune system, made it easy prey to resentment and longing.The jealousy was like rabies, it commanded her, the infection ofit made her want to sink her teeth into something.She felt helpless against its power.She paced through the vast gloom ofher sighing, creak-ing house, turning on lamps, going into rooms she hadn’t visited in months, surprising the visiting Bulgarian folk dancers who were drinking gin and poring over old maps in the library, and then coming in on the busy chipmunks in the ballroom, the circling bats in the kitchen, and even braving a peek into Marie’s little cell.

Susan has agreed to let Marie stay on at Eight Chimneys.It seems less humiliating that way.The girl can stay but whatever happens between Ferguson and his blind whore must remain private, not only from Susan herselfbut from the outside world—particularly that, particularly the outside world.Yet despite the agreement, Susan knows that sometimes Ferguson and Marie slip offthe property, and the Bistro is one ofthe places they go.Susan has come here to find them, and has not, though she has remained here for over an hour, partly to prolong the charade that she is simply out for a bit ofnight air and a couple ofdrinks, and partly because those drinks have made her drunk.

Her face lights up at the sight ofDaniel.She has never held any particular fondness for him—in fact, his association with Ferguson and Marie, and then his so catastrophically injuring Hampton on her land, withherRoman candle, has put him in her“bad news”category.But tonight she responds to the sight ofhis familiar face with a wave and a broad smile ofrelief, because for her entire time in the Bistro she has not seen anyone she knows.

“Hello, there,”she says, seating herselfheavily at his table.The scent ofalcohol wafts offher skin.“What a crazy place!”

“Hello, Susan,”Daniel says, giving her name particular emphasis.He likes to use her name frequently when they happen to meet, largely be-cause he is sure she is having trouble remembering his.“I must admit, Su-san, I’m a little surprised to see you here.”

“Why do you keep saying my name? My God, it’s annoying.”

“I’m sorry.Annoying Susan Richmond is surely the last thing I want to do.”

“Is it because you think I don’t remember you? I know exactly who you are.You’re Daniel Emerson and you ditched your perfectly lovely, smart-as-a-whip wife.You’re one ofthe boys.”She fixes her large, bleary eyes on him, and then raises her mug in mock salute.

Daniel wonders how to respond to this—should he just take it in stride, pretend it’s nothing more than a little rough kidding—or should he strike back at her?A waitress comes to their table.Susan orders an-other beer, though her mug is far from empty, and Daniel asks for a co-gnac, and decides on the path ofleast resistance:he’ll pretend she means no harm.

But before he can say anything, Susan breathes up a bitter snort of laughter and wags her finger in his face.“When do people around here start living up to their responsibilities?You’d think that almost killing a man would have brought you up short, but from what I hear you and Iris are still going at it hot and heavy.”

“Hot and heavy?”Daniel is reduced to this, pointing out little excesses in diction.

“Yes.It’s curious, isn’t it? On the face ofit, you and Ferguson couldn’t be less alike.He comes from all this historical tradition, and you come from nowhere.He’s all about contemplation and you’re all about work.But beneath it all, you’re both men, or aging boys, that’s more like it, and you’re carrying on in exactly the same revolting way.What my un-cle Peter used to call‘Letting the little head think for the big head.’May I ask you a question?”

“Look, Susan, this isn’t—”

“What gives you the right, that’s what I can’t understand.What gives you the right to cause so much damage, and to hurt people?To really, re-ally hurt people.And it’s the worst kind ofpain, worse than slapping someone in the face, or stabbing them.Because what are you doing, when you get right down to it?You’re making a fool ofsomeone.”

“Are you calling Kate a fool?That would be making a big mistake.”

“What would you think ifright now your wife was home and feeling so brokenhearted that she decided to drink poison? How would that make you feel?”

“Are you thinking ofpoisoning yourself, Susan?”

“Me? I should say not.”

“Then what makes you think Kate is?”

“Some people do just that.”

“Most don’t.”

“I just think that what you’re doing is very dishonorable, that’s all I’m saying.The whole thing is shabby.”

The waitress returns with their drinks and places them on the table.

“Doris sends these over with her compliments,”she says.

Daniel realizes that Doris is making up for the empty stare she dealt him when he first walked in, and then, quite without meaning to, he wonders ifshe would be making these liquid reparations ifhe were sit-ting with Iris instead ofthis bulky, somewhat ridiculous woman, with her blotchy white skin and fierce, entitled eyes.Iris has already given him the tour ofLeyden and pointed out the various shops in which she is rou-tinely treated like a thief, either physically trailed by an employee or con-stantly scrutinized by whoever is working the cash register.All the once benign spots ofhis youth.

The tour came last Saturday, when he dared to accompany her on an errand to theWindsor Pharmacy, where, in fact, the clerk treated her with friendliness and respect—since Hampton’s convalescence, she was a regular there and they’d come to know her.After she bought surgical gloves and a sheepskin mattress cover, they chanced a stroll down Broadway, with Daniel carrying her packages as ifthey were her books and he were walking her home from school.She would in all probability never have mentioned her run-ins with Leyden’s commercial class ifDaniel hadn’t sighed and gestured to all the little shops and said,“Such a sweet little place, isn’tit?”

“Depends who you are,”she said softly, because it depressed her to have to talk about all ofthe instances ofprejudice, the sheer rudeness that entered into practically every day ofher life.Iris did not care to dis-cuss the details ofher life as part ofthe long and terrible story ofRace inAmerica—she thought she deserved both more and less than to be counted among the victims ofracism.Yet there was something in Daniel’s voice when he called Leyden“sweet”that made her want to bring him up short.She wanted Daniel to know thathereis where she was forced to sit for fifteen minutes before anyone came to take her or-der, andhereis where she had to show three pieces ofidentification be-fore they’d take her seventeen-dollar check, andhereis where she would never buy a Danish backpack ifher life depended upon it because the bitch who owned the store had rubbed the top ofNelson’s head, and then whispered to a friend,It’s supposed to be good luck.

Daniel has not been paying attention to what Susan is saying, and when he forces himself to focus on her, widening his eyes in an approx-imation ofinterest, his attention is seized by the sight ofKate winding her way through the Bistro on her way to his table.Her friend and edi-tor Lorraine DelVecchio follows behind her.Both women wear sum-mery black dresses, with spaghetti straps, and both women carry snifters ofcognac.Without any fanfare, Kate sits in the empty chair closest to Daniel, letting her breath out with a little sigh and allowing her shoulder to graze his for a moment.Lorraine, however, is left standing.

Nervously, his voice booming, Daniel introduces Lorraine and Susan, but Susan’s energy is turned onto Kate.“I was just giving your stupid man here a piece ofmy mind,”Susan says.

“Well, you have to be careful,”Kate says.“Daniel’s already oftwo minds about most things, and now ifyou’ve given him a piece ofyours, that might be more mind than he can handle.”

Daniel feels a nostalgic twinge ofgratitude toward Kate, for coming to his defense without seeming to, and for being so quick offthe dime: her playful caste ofmind, which was sometimes, during their time to-gether, numbing and de-eroticizing, turns out to be one ofthe things he misses most about her.

“I saw you onTV,”Daniel says.

Kate makes a little yelp ofdismay, covers her face, but spreads her fingers so she can peek out at him.

“Wasn’t shefabulous?”Lorraine says, pronouncing it so as to leave little doubt that she isn’t the sort ofperson who normally says“fabulous.”

“You were great,”Daniel says.“I loved the crack about cleaning your house.”

“That show goes on so late, I was sort ofhoping no one would see it.”

“And she lookedfantastic,”Lorraine says, again with comic, distancing emphasis.

“You really thought I was okay?”Kate says to Daniel.“That means a lot, coming from you.”She reaches for his hand, pats it as ifcomforting him.Her touch is as warm as breath.Her perfume is a mixture ofmusk and orange.The lines around her eyes have deepened.She is wearing a delicate little cross that has halfdisappeared into her cleavage.“I didn’t even want to be home when they aired it.Lorraine’s here to distract me.”

Lorraine notices an empty chair at a nearby table, but as soon as she makes a move to retrieve it the doors to the Bistro fly open and three men, or boys, charge in, one ofthem holding a handgun and the other two carrying rifles.Their faces are covered by rubber Halloween masks: Frankenstein, Dracula, and Mickey Mouse.Frankenstein, who has the handgun, leaps onto the little stage behind the bar and holds a gun to the singer’s head.Dracula and Mickey Mouse push their way into the room, waving their rifles back and forth, shouting,“On the floor, on the floor, get your sorry asses on the motherfucking floor.”And even though the Bistro’s customers are plunged into a collective terror, it takes several long moments for any ofthem to comply.

Daniel and his party lie upon the floor.He and Kate both lie facedown, chins resting on left forearms to keep mouth and nose offthe boozy grime, and their right arms reaching toward each other, until their fingers touch.

“Don’t worry,”Daniel whispers.

Kate doesn’t make a sound, but she mimes the word“fuck.”

What was once a raucous crowd ofnightlife revelers is now fifty-eight extremely quiet men and women, all ofthem on the sticky floor, except for Doris, who remains standing behind the bar.Her boyfriend is wide-eyed, his face drained ofcolor, he is a corpse with a guitar.He remains in his folding chair, with a gun to his head, held by a robber disguised as Frankenstein.Sometime during the transition ofthis being a room full of drinkers to this being a room full ofpeople lying flat on the ground, someone has told Doris to open up the cash register and now she is hand-ing its contents to Frankenstein, who looks weirdly attenuated and grace-ful, reaching toward her to receive his bounty while keeping his gun pressed against her boyfriend’s temple.When he has the money, Dracula comes over and takes it from him, and drops it in a mesh laundry bag, at which point Frankenstein yanks the wires ofthe bar phone out ofthe wall.He grabs the singer by the back ofthe shirt, lifts him out ofthe chair.

Mickey and Dracula go from person to person, collecting cash, credit cards, cell phones, keys, watches, and jewelry.Mickey Mouse stands over them, crouching, to collect their worldly goods;Daniel, despite having told himself to do nothing to antagonize him, cannot resist the impulse to peer through the eyeholes in the masks, to somehow make contact with the human eyes within:shiny brown eyes, young, arrogant, glitter-ing with energy.He drops his wallet and forty dollars in cash into the laundry bag, which tops it off.Mickey pulls the drawstring, ties it in a knot, and then slides the unshapely sack across the floor, toward the bar, where Frankenstein picks it up.Dracula has another laundry bag under his shirt, he pulls it out and holds it open in front ofKate.She is slow to empty her purse into it, and he prods her with the greasy barrel ofhis rifle—it stencils a little broken O on her skin, and she utters a sound of distress, more from surprise than anything else.

“All right,”Daniel says, in a level, almost paternal voice.“We’re all going to be real, real careful here.Okay?”He doesn’t want to make a re-assuring gesture with his hand, or any gesture, but he slightly widens his eyes, as ifto say,Listen to me, I know what you’re going through.

“Fuck you,”Dracula replies, his voice muffled behind rubber.Eventually, with everything ofvalue collected—even tie pins, cufflinks, and ciga-rette lighters—the three masked men leave.No one has tried to be heroic.

Even as those who have been told to lie down begin to get to their feet, the Bistro remains fearfully silent, except for the sounds offeet and furniture scraping on the floor.Kate has put her arm around Lorraine, who is sobbing softly, and Daniel, who now that the crisis has passed feels light-headed, al-most giddy with relief, stands next to Kate, pats her shoulder reassuringly.

“It was those boys, wasn’t it,”Susan Ferguson says.“The ones who ran away during the storm.I heard they were still in the area, taking things, camping in the woods, or in empty houses.It was them.”

Kate nods slowly, her lips pursed.“I think you’re exactly right,”she says.

”Oh, we don’t know that,”Daniel says.“We don’t know anything.”

His voice is completely wrong, he sounds like he is trying to jolly them out oftheir thoughts.

Marcia Harnack, a lawyer who specializes in real estate, is standing nearby and has heard their conversation.“That’s what I was thinking, all through it,”she says.She is a woman with the body ofa strong man and the voice ofa shy little girl;she clasps her hands when she speaks, as if asking for forgiveness for being too large.“Star ofBethlehem.It’s what I thought when they first came in.”

“Why did you think that?”Daniel asks.

”They were definitely black,”says George Schwab, short, hard, and hairless, a little seersucker bomb in his blue-and-white suit.He has been selling offfive-acre parcels ofhis family’s old orchards, and Marcia has been helping him structure the deals.

“And how’d you figure that?”asks Daniel.

”I saw their skin, that’s how,”says George.He rises up on the toes of his tasseled loafers and clenches his small fists, as ifa lightning bolt of fury has just gone through him.“We were almost slaughtered like a bunch ofcattle in here.”

“You didn’t see their skin, George,”Daniel says.“No one did.”

“Don’t tell me what I saw and didn’t see,”George says, his voice getting higher, as ifit, too, had toes to rise upon.“You’ve got your own agenda.”

By this he clearly means Iris, and Daniel’s attachment to her, but Daniel has no choice but to ignore it.By now, two ofthe customers whose cell phones have been overlooked are calling the police;others join in the speculation and argument.

“They’re the ones who robbed the Goulianos house,”Fortune Pryor says.

”They completely trashed that sweet little house where Esther Rothschild used to live,”LibbyYoung says.

“This is really fucked up,”Daniel says.He feels like standing on a chair and exhorting the lot ofthem.His neighbors have become a dangerous collective, drunk on its own bad ideas.“This is really really really fucked up,”he says, louder now.He feels Kate’s wifely, cautioning touch on his elbow.“They could have been Chinese,”Daniel shouts out.“They could have been Mexican, Polish, they could have been kids right from here.”

“Shut up, Emerson,”someone bellows from the front ofthe bar.

There is a scattering ofapplause, murmurs ofagreement.

“No one saw their skin,”Daniel says, as forcefully as he can.

”I did.”This is shouted by George.

”I did, too.”

“I did, too.”

“I did, too.”

The more opposition Daniel meets, the more righteous indignation he feels.His eyes burn in their sockets, fury courses through him, his legs tremble.“I’m ashamed ofthis town,”Daniel cries.

Now Kate’s gentle touch has become an urgent tug.She pulls him toward her and says into his ear,“Daniel.Please.We’ve all heard you.”

“Can you believe this shit?”

“They just think you’re going on like this because you’re with Iris.”

She says it with extraordinary kindness.Her eyes are soft with sympathy, she shakes her head.

“Let’s just get out ofhere?”Lorraine says.“Can we please?”

Derek Pabst and another Leyden cop are the first ofthe police to arrive, followed shortly by four members ofthe state police.It takes nearly two hours for statements to be taken and reports to be written up, and when the Bistro’s customers are finally able to leave it is nearly three in the morning.No cars have been stolen, but since all the keys have been taken, the customers must either call for a ride home or walk.It is Daniel’s habit, however, to leave his keys in his car and he leads Kate and Lorraine through the cool night rain to his car, two blocksaway.

As he drives them back to what was once his house, Lorraine, in the backseat, exclaims,“I just don’t get it.You left your keysinyour car? I just don’t understand why you’d do that.”

“He always leaves them in the ignition,”Kate says.They are already a mile out ofthe village, driving through the wet, luminous night.

“It doesn’t make sense,”Lorraine says.

It strikes Daniel that perhaps she means to suggest some foreknowledge on his part, or even a degree ofcollusion with the robbers.And though confronting Lorraine is as far from Daniel’s temperament as reaching over the backseat and giving her a smack across the face, he can-not resist asking her,“What are you suggesting, Lorraine?”

“Everyone in the whole place seemed to know who those guys were,”she says.“And you were jumping through hoops to make them think otherwise.”

“And?”

“It’s just weird, that’s all.”Lorraine is slumped down, the back ofher hand is pressed against her forehead.

“Our nerves are shot,”says Kate.“All ofus.I’ve never been robbed before.”She clutches her chest, trying to make light ofit.“Oh my God.

I’m a crime statistic.”

“They didn’t rob you the first time they came to your house?”Lorraine says.

“No, not really.I told you.They wanted to use the facilities.”

“Gross.”Lorraine shudders.“But you were right next to them.Were they the same ones who just held us up?”

“How can she know that?”Daniel says.

”It’s important,”Lorraine says.“They should catch those fucking kids and feed them to the wolves.”

“I agree,”says Daniel.“Or maybe a lynching.”

“Our nerves are shot,”Kate repeats.She pats Daniel’s knee, and then leaves her hand resting on it.

“They took two hundred and thirty dollars offme,”Lorraine says.

“And my wallet, my address book, my Filofax, all my credit cards.Mylife was in that bag.”

“That could be the problem right there,”Daniel says.

”Fuck yourself,”Lorraine says.

They arrive at Kate’s house.The windows blaze with light.A weather-worn old Ford is in the driveway.Kate sees Daniel react to the unfamiliar car and tells him,“That’s the baby-sitter’s.”He nods, surprised by the little trickle ofgratitude that goes through him.Lorraine climbs out ofthe back door, waits for Kate with her back to them both.Kate powers down her window and says to Lorraine,“I’ll be right in.I just want to talk to Daniel.For a minute.”Lorraine shrugs without turning around and trods offto the house.

Kate waits for Lorraine to let herselfin, and then she turns to Daniel.

“I miss you.What do you think about that? Do you miss me?”

“Derek was acting so strange toward you in there.Did you notice that? It was as ifhe was furious with you.”

“It’s fine.We had a communication problem, and it’s all ironed out.

Can you answer my question? Do you miss me?”

“Ofcourse I do.And Ruby.How is she?”

“Fine, we’re both fine, we’d like you to come home.”The ping ofthat little hammer blow ofconfession breaks her voice.

“Kate…”

“You know what?”she says.“I never told you, I mean I never actually said the words‘I love you.’But I do.I love you.”Her eyes glitter, the color rises in her face.She seems moved, even inspired by her own words.Hav-ing said what was for so long unutterable, she now feels capable ofsaying anything.“I love you.You’re my guy, you’re my sweet man.I just assumed you knew, but now I see that sometimes it needs to be said.”

“This is so painful, Kate.”

“You’re involved in something with her that’s simply never ever ever ever ever going to work out, and I want to give you the chance to get out ofit, and come back.You deserve that chance, Daniel.You really do.Peo-ple get stuck in their bad decisions and they think nothing can undo them.Can I be honest with you?You look like you’re about to pass out.

But I know what’s going on in that house ofhers.That man’s not going to suddenly get better.She’s going to be looking after him for a long, long time.And that’s the best-case scenario.We don’t even want to talk about worst-case.But the fact is, you did this to him.For whatever rea-son, it was you.”

“Whatever reason? It was an accident!”

“Maybe you’ve been looking to even the score ever since those black guys kicked you down the stairs.”

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard.”

“Blacks and whites don’t get along,”she says.“Too much has happened.It’s ruined.Ifsomething doesn’t begin well, how can it end well?”

Daniel is silent, trying to think ofsomething to say, some way ofending the conversation without enraging her, a way ofsending her into the house that won’t be humiliating.But Kate interprets his silence as Daniel’s somehow being swayed, or evenmovedby what she is saying, and she puts her hand on his chest in a familiar, nostalgic way, and then quickly leans in to him with a deep, possessive kiss.

[18]

Morning.Warm dusty light pours through the uncurtained windows.

Daniel has kicked the covers offhis bed, and though he has slept only four hours, he is awake.His penis is hard, in a slightly disconcerting and even irritating counterpoint to his otherwise grim state ofmind.Re-lax, you idiot.He stares at the ceiling, with its chicken-skin paint job, and thinks about the money he lost last night.His mind is pierced by the pic-adors ofsudden money anxieties.He has made the mistake oftotaling up the money he would have made had he stayed in NewYork at his old firm.

He is minus about three hundred grand from that lovely decision.Two years now, he has been living in the half-life ofhis former affluence, but some time ago, without his admitting it to himself, his savings were de-pleted, the clothes he had bought when he was flush had begun looking like old clothes, his hair has forgotten what it is like to be cut by a master, and he no longer has that cheerful, ironic, healthy animal sheen ofa young man with more money than he needs.He has never computed how much money he had been saving by living with Kate.Even coming up with about halfofthe monthly mortgage payments—and lately he has come to suspect that the sum she requested was less than half, that she was float-ing him to an extent—he was exempt from phone, electric, and heating bills;and groceries, which he usually paid for in full, used to cost in a month less than he was now spending in restaurants in a week.

Courting Iris has cost a king’s ransom.Before he secured this little $1,400per month tract house—he knows he is being robbed—he was spending hundreds ofdollars per week on hotels, motels, and inns.He has spent $3,800he can’t afford on a pair ofdiamond earrings Iris can’t wear.(Sometimes, she puts them on when she comes to see him, but mostly she forgets them, and last time when he asked why she wasn’t wearing them she said that diamonds make her think ofapartheid, which struck him as unfair and aggressive.) He spends money on having her sidewalk shoveled and her lawn mowed when he is unable to take care of it himself.He brings bags ofgroceries into her house when the coast is clear, and leaves them on the porch when members ofHampton’s or Iris’s family are on hand, and he has never collected a penny in reim-bursement.He has brought her car into the shop for a new transmission and simply paid the bill.He bought her a purple-and-blackAmish quilt that was hanging in the window ofan antique store in town because when they walked by it one day she slowed down and looked at it.He forces himself to stop thinking ofthe tabs he has picked up, the munifi-cence that has been his second nature.He is not regretting it, not a ges-ture, not a penny.Receiving these things never failed to delight Iris, who, as it turns out, is becoming very careful with her money;Hampton’s cof-fers are rather full and his disability insurance is not only coming up with biweekly checks that approach what he was making before the accident but is also paying out for those occasional medical expenses his health in-surers manage to duck.Nevertheless, Iris’s frugality seems to be grow-ing.She patrols her house, turning offlamps.Daniel has watched with amazement as she scratched a single postage stamp offa letter because the post office failed to cancel it and she thought it could be used again.

Ifanything is left over on her dinner plate, even at the humblest restau-rant, she will ask the waiter to have it wrapped—a halfofa baked po-tato, thirty peas, a chicken wing.One ofthe reasons Daniel often asks her to wear those diamond earrings is sometimes he suspects she has soldthem.

Money money money.

Daniel’s phone rings and he lunges for the receiver.It’s only seventhirty.He has not had time to settle on a plausible narrative why some-one would call him this early, and there is a moment ofpure fear before he hears Kate’s voice, which for some reason settles his nerves.

“I’m not waking you, am I?”she says.This is a continuation ofan old relationship myth—because he sleeps less than Kate, she acts like he needs no sleep at all.

“What’s up?”he asks.He struggles to sit up in bed;as soon as he stirs, the shifting ofhis blood recalls the feel ofher kiss five hours ago.

“Ruby is freaking out here.She’s just desperate for you to take her toschool.”

“Really?”

“Can you manage it? It would mean the world to her.”

He suspects there is something less than the absolute truth in what Kate is saying.Ruby may have said she would like Daniel to bring her to day care, but it was most likely a matter ofKate asking her,Would you like Daniel to bring you to school today?and Ruby saying okay.After all, months have passed since Daniel moved out ofthe house and not once in that time has Ruby requested his chauffeuring services.It seems more than coincidence that Ruby would suddenly ask for him on a morning when Kate is in particular need ofa few hours more sleep, and after a night when she had kissed him.And Kate’s willingness to turn Ruby over to him is also a little suspect—she has been consistently grudging in allowing him to spend time with the little girl who was practically his stepdaughter.When permission is granted it is always qualified with the warning that he better not be taking her to Iris’s house, and that Iris and even Nelson not be included in whatever little plan might be in the offing.Nevertheless, Daniel is not about to turn down a chance to spend time with Ruby and he says he will be over to pick her up in twenty minutes.

He arrives, in fact, in less time than that.Although he comes here regularly to pick Ruby up for their sad little dates, and, in fact, was just here a few hours ago dropping offKate and Lorraine, he is taken some-what by surprise by the loveliness and tranquility ofthe house and its acres.The rosebushes, after two reluctant summers, seem to have found their confidence and now are in full red-and-white flower.The lawn is a particularly luxurious dark green.The shutters have been painted at last; concrete urns ablaze with geraniums sit on the porch.Has the place ever looked so relaxing?A nasty little stab ofenvy.He lives in a crummy rented house.Iris’s house, though certainly adequate, is also rented.Of the three ofthem, Kate is the one with roots—and how strange, since it seems to him she is the one with the least reason to be inWindsor County.Kate has left the door open, which he takes to mean that the alarm system has been deactivated and he is to simply let himself in, but he knocks and waits for her nevertheless.She comes to the door and her eyes peer out skeptically beneath furrowed brows, she seems to be im-plying he is being deliberately difficult by not waltzing right in.

“Is she ready?”Daniel asks.Ruby hears his voice and races in from the kitchen, in practically maniacal high spirits.He hasn’t seen her in a cou-ple ofweeks and the first thing he notices is she has gotten a little chubby.In fact, she has gone from stocky to rather fat.Noticing this makes him feel petty and ungenerous, and he picks her up and holds her tightly, as ifto make it up to her.“My God,”he says, without meaning to, “you’re getting so big!”

“It’s nice ofyou to do this,”Kate says.She looks surprisingly fresh and composed, considering she usually requires nine or ten hours ofsleep and is operating on four at the most.

“I’m so glad to have the chance.Is Lorraine still around?”He doesn’t even know why he’s asked, he’s simply lofting the ball back to Kate’s side ofthe net.

“She fled the countryside for the safety ofthe city.I looked out the window at six o’clock and there was a taxi in the driveway, and then I saw her running for it.I guess she was trying to make the six-twenty.”

She rakes her fingers through Ruby’s hair, untangling it, but keeps her eyes fixed on Daniel.

He gets Ruby out ofthere as quickly as decently possible—he cannot shake the idea that Kate has engineered this whole thing as a way offur-ther implicating him in the life ofhis old family, and since he cannot fathom that there is the slightest possibility ofhis being drawn back into the old domesticities, it seems more humane to be briefand even a lit-tle remote.He makes only minimal eye contact with Kate as she hands him Ruby’s insulated snack bag, made ofbright scarlet fabric with aVel-cro flap.Yet when he has Ruby strapped into the child seat in the back of his car—he has kept the clunky gray-and-beige thing there despite his changed circumstances—he feels an unexpected swoon ofloneliness and nostalgia.Buckling the straps ofthe seat recalls those mornings that now seem a lifetime ago when he began every day with Ruby, and the plea-sures ofthose drives to My LittleWooden Shoe, when her sweet physi-cal presence filled the car, and her little piping voice was like birdsong, and for ten minutes he could see the world through her unjaded eyes, ten minutes when the trees were goblins, the crows were looking directly at her, the sky was a zoo, and the grammar school a shining city on the hill.

“How’s everything going back there?”he asks.He reaches back to pat her but misjudges her position and touches nothing but air.

“Fine,”she says.She catches his fingers and squeezes them affectionately.

Oh I wish, I wish, I wish,he thinks, though he could not say for certain what he wishes for.To be back with Kate? He does not believe that is the case.To have Ruby somehow belong to him? It’s out ofthe question.Yet there is something he longs for, something he has lost, and then, in a lit-tle flare ofself-knowledge he knows what it is.The privilege ofhis own comfort.He has lost his easy life.He has lost Kate’s house, her conver-sation, her soft, beautiful hair—he can barely believe he is thinking this, but then:there it is.He has lost Ruby, he has lost sleep, he has lost his energy, he has lost his sense ofhumor, he has lost his sight in one eye, he has lost ifnot his mind then at the very least his untroubled mind.And he has given it all away for something that seems to be slipping through his fingers.

When they are close to My LittleWooden Shoe, the familiar feeling ofanticipation comes back to him, a pure and wild animal eagerness.Iris could very well be pulling into the parking lot at this very moment.It’s fifteen minutes past eight o’clock.He knows she has a nine o’clock sem-inar at the college.The nurse who helps look after Hampton on the morning shift sometimes brings Nelson to day care, but Iris tries to do it herselfwhenever possible, and now, beneath a low, soft, blue-and-gray early summer sky, Daniel speeds the last mile ofthe way.

Her car is there, its doors dappled with mud.Hurriedly, Daniel takes Ruby out ofthe car seat and carries her across the parking lot, the peb-bles crunching eagerly beneath his feet.

Before he and Ruby reach the door, Iris comes out in what appears to be a great rush.She is wearing a maroon skirt and jacket, black high-heeled shoes.She looks hurried but hopeless.Nelson is beside her, try-ing to keep pace.Then Iris sees Daniel, with Ruby in his arms.Daniel’s first thought is that Iris will somehow misconstrue this, will think that he has spent the night at Kate’s house, or is in some aspect ofreconciliation.

But Iris, in fact, does not seem to be speculating about anything.

“Mrs.Davis just called the school,”she says, moving right past Daniel.“She has to leave in fifteen minutes and there’s no one home to look after Hampton.”

“Oh no,”Daniel says, following after her.“What happened to Mrs.Davis?”

“What difference does it make? I have to get home.He’s sleeping, he won’t be up until noon, at the earliest.But he can’t be in an emptyhouse.”

Daniel places Ruby on the ground and she and Nelson begin talking, smiling, and gesturing, like old friends in their mid-forties.

“You’re all dressed up,”Daniel says.“Are you supposed to be somewhere?”

“Yes.”She gestures helplessly, a mixture oftemper and surrender.

“I’ve got a meeting with my advisor.I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Fucking Mrs.Davis!”She doesn’t bother to lower her voice.“And now this one…”She waves in Nelson’s direction.“He’s insisting on coming home, too.May as well.No sense putting him in day care ifI’m going to be stuck in the house no matter what.”She reaches toward Nelson, pulls him close to her, caresses his face, his head.For a moment he luxuriates in his mother’s love, but then, suddenly, he squirms away from her.

“I thought all those people were there,”Daniel says.

”They’re gone, they left early this morning.Who can stand it?”

“I can look after him.He’s sleeping.He won’t know.I’ll just bethere.”

“You can’t do that,”Iris says.

”How long do you need?”

“An hour and a half, two at the most.No, I can’t.It’s too strange.”

“It’s okay.Don’t forget.”He smiles.“I have almost no career.All I have to do is make a couple ofcalls, I can do that from your house.”He is about to say,It’s the least I can do,but he stops himself.Iris is looking at him intently;it takes him a moment to realize why:she is trying to de-cide under what rules ofconduct it would be permissible to have Daniel looking after Hampton, even ifit’s only ninety minutes, even ifHamp-ton will never know, even ifthere are the emergency phone numbers Scotch-taped onto the wall next to every phone in the house, even ifthis will never ever happen again.

“You’re not going to see him, you know,”she says.“Not unless you go upstairs and watch him sleep.And, Daniel, I don’t want you to do that.

I forbid you, I really do, I forbid you to do that.”

“I won’t.I wouldn’t.I’m trying to help you here, Iris.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Okay, then?”he says.

”Okay.”

“Good, then that’s it.”He is wringing his hands, trying not to touch her.

”I really appreciate it.You don’t have to do anything, all you have to do is be there.”

“You better hurry.”

“Thank you.”She is surprised how formal this sounds.She clears her throat.“I really appreciate it.”

“I’m glad to help.I’ll bring Ruby, okay?”As soon as he says it, he wishes he hadn’t, but he doesn’t want to complicate matters by taking it back.Besides, Ruby will take care ofNelson, which Daniel cannot really manage.And Kate will never know.

I love you,Iris mouths.

He presses his hand to his heart, as ifhe has been stabbed.

”Ruby?”he says.“Would you like to go to Nelson’s for the first part ofthe morning?”

Iris doesn’t have time to drive back to her house, she doesn’t even have time to transfer Nelson’s car seat to Daniel’s car, and she certainly has no time to jolly Nelson out ofhis annoyance that he is not going to be spending the morning with his mother after all.Daniel makes his way to Juniper Street with the kids in his backseat, Ruby snugly strapped in, while Nelson, as ifto announce his policy oftotal noncooperation with Daniel, refuses to keep his seat belt on.Each time Daniel glances into the rearview mirror, he sees Nelson glowering at him, and before long the boy’s antipathy becomes so wounding and, frankly, so irritating that Daniel feels it might be an appropriate act ofdiscipline to slam his foot on the brake and send the boy pitching forward.

Mrs.Davis, a thin, tired-looking fifty-year-old black woman, is waiting nervously by the front door.She is so fretful that she doesn’t even in-quire as to why Daniel is coming there to look after Hampton, though she has never seen Daniel before.Perhaps his being with Nelson proves his legitimacy.She gives Daniel no instructions, nor does she offer any explanations or apologies.In fact, all she says is a quick hello to Nelson, and“Now I’m really late”to Daniel, and then she puts a tan ski jacket over her uniform, though it is at least seventy degrees outside.

“Mrs.Davis!”Daniel calls out, when she is nearly out the door.“Wait!”

She turns toward him with a practiced, opaque expression, unapproachable.“Yes,”she says in a tone that says no.

He doesn’t know exactly what to say, but he is suddenly afraid to be in charge.“Is there anything I need to know here?”

“When’s Mrs.Welles coming home?”Mrs.Davis asks.

”In about an hour and a half.”

“That man ain’t going nowhere in the next ninety minutes,”she says, moving past Daniel and out onto the porch.An old FordTaurus is at the curb, with an immense kid ofabout eighteen at the wheel, wearing a sleeveless shirt.The car rattles as it idles, inky exhaust pours out ofthe tailpipe.Daniel stands on the porch and watches Mrs.Davis hurry to-ward the waiting car—had it been there all along?The driver starts to get out but she waves him back in;she goes to the passenger side and lets herselfin, and a moment later theTaurus pulls away with an unmuf-fledroar.

Daniel goes back into the house and as soon as he is inside he can tell by the quality ofthe silence that the children are no longer there.He goes to the kitchen and looks into the backyard.An olive-green tent has been pitched between two hemlocks;Nelson is standing next to the flap while Ruby crawls in, and then he crawls in himself.Daniel wonders for a moment whether he ought to go out and show the flag ofadult super-vision, but then he thinks it would be pointless.

He wanders through the house, looking for a spot where he can unobtrusively sit while the time passes.What had seemed at first like a fa-vor he was capable ofdoing for Iris seems now perilous, foolish, and strange.The entire success ofthe gesture hinges on Hampton staying asleep, and though Daniel is still enough ofan optimist to believe that Hampton will not awaken before Iris’s return, now that he is in the house—with its signs ofsuffering everywhere, a cane in the corner, a table filled with amber medicine bottles, brightly colored plastic baskets filled with laundry, piles ofblankets for the frequent house guests, the loving family who come when they can to share the burden ofHampton’s affliction—now that he is breathing the Lysol-tinged heat ofthis airless, sunny room, Daniel realizes not only that he is perched on the precipice ofdisaster but that he has been on this increasingly exhausting edge for months now.

He sits on the sofa facing the empty fireplace.Next to it is a large wicker basket filled with mail.Idly, Daniel looks in and sees that it is all for Hampton.Daniel scoops his hand into the pile, lets them fall;it’s like a write-in campaign, an appeal to the governor for neurological clemency.Free the Hampton One, let him come back to renew his sub-scriptions, make his donations, place his order, balance his checking ac-counts, look after his investments, go to Bermuda.

Scarecrow comes waddling down the stairs, roused from her spot next to Hampton’s bed.She seems to have aged years in the past six months.Her rump is massive now, her gait slow and uncertain, her brown eye is alert, but her blue eye, once keen and electric, is now milky and opaque.She moves toward Daniel, lowers her snout, and pushes the top ofher head against his legs.He strokes her silky ears, and she emits a deep, mellow groan ofpleasure.

“Oh, Scarecrow, Scarecrow, what in the world are we going to do?”

Daniel says, in that plaintive murmur people sink into when they are opening their heart to an animal.The old shepherd raises her snout, looks up and her tongue unfurls from her mouth, lands on Daniel’s chin, and then sweeps up over his lips.“What are we going to do, Scarecrow? What’s going to happen to us? It’s pretty messed up, isn’t it, Scarecrow? How did everything get to be so broken?”

Daniel slumps back in the chair, continues to pet the dog.He closes his eyes and is about to sink into sleep when he is startled and revived by the sound offootsteps directly overhead.Hampton is awake, awake and moving.His first impulse is to hide;he stands up and his legs tremble for want offlight, his good eye looks for the quickest way out ofthe room.

He tries to calm himself by thinking that perhaps it is someone other than Hampton upstairs, or even ifit is Hampton, then he may not be coming down—he is going to get a drink ofwater, or take a leak, or maybe he has heard the children in the backyard and he is going to a win-dow to gaze out at them.But no:this is merely a story Daniel is telling himself, a little explanatory fable that will allow him to believe that the worst is not about to happen.

Now the footsteps are on the stairs, coming down, and Daniel has not run, he has not hidden.He sits down.He will seem less threatening, less intrusive, seated.He crosses his legs, left to right, then right to left, and then leaves them uncrossed, the knees slightly parted, his clammy hands folded between them.He ransacks his mind for something to say, an ex-planation for why he is here, an apology, a bit ofsmall talk, and then he remembers what should have been impossible to forget—Hampton cannot understand a word, not spoken or written, and all Hampton him-selfcan say is that single stunned syllable:da.Da Da Da.

How strange, then, to finally see him, this strong, beautiful man whose throat was pierced by a rocket, this ruined prince who has lost everything.He is dressed in copper-colored pajamas, with white piping around the pockets and down the leg.The top buttons ofhis shirt are open, the scar just below theAdam’s apple looks like a wad ofchewed-up gum, and someone has spread talcum powder on his throat all the way down to the chest.He is freshly shaved but his eyeglasses have been snapped in two and then repaired with tape á la Ferguson Richmond.It seems unthinkable that Hampton would be wearing broken glasses, it is, for the moment, the saddest thing in the world.Sadder than his slack mouth, the corner ofwhich is yanked down and to the side, sadder than his dull, unblinking eyes, sadder than the cologne Mrs.Davis has splashed on him, and sadder, even, than the fact that he is wearing his wristwatch, with its lizard-skin band and nineteen jewels, its expensive Swiss ner-voussystem, its mini-clocks at the bottom giving the time in London and Tokyo.

“Hello, Hampton,”Daniel says.He knows he cannot be understood, yet he can’t simply stand there and say nothing.And even ifthe words are gibberish to Hampton, even ifto his bombed-out brain the sounds Daniel makes are no more decipherable than the chattering ofa monkey, perhaps the context will do, the logic ofthe moment, the gesturing hand, the smiling mouth, the deferential little bow.

“Da,”Hampton whispers.He shuffles forward a step.He hasn’t noticed that Scarecrow is underfoot now and on his second step he catches the dog’s paw beneath his foot.She lets out a high, piercing yelp.Hamp-ton is startled.His eyes widen, his mouth opens—his expressions are guileless and large.His personality, no longer projected through the scrim oflanguage, has now an intolerable purity.He looks down at the dog and smiles.At first it seems to Daniel that there is some cruelty here, but then Hampton pats the dog’s head with a wooden herky-jerky move-ment, and Daniel realizes that the smile was one ofrecognition:Scare-crow’s cry has made more sense to Hampton than Daniel’s hello.

When he has comforted Scarecrow, made his amends, Hampton straightens up again, looks at Daniel, taking him in in a long, silent gaze.

Daniel feels he must somehow communicate, but the only sign language he can think ofis gestures ofsupplication.He folds his hands, low-ers his head, and sorrowfully shakes his head.Yet even this does not seem enough—what could be? He wants Hampton to be restored.Short of that, he wants to be forgiven, he wants Hampton to give that to him, to lift him offthe hook and set him free, to place an exonerating hand on Daniel’s shoulder and admit to the idea—submit to it, ifthat’s what it takes—that what happened in those woods was a fluke and had nothing to do with Daniel and Iris.Daniel will not allow himself to beg for mercy, he will not try to urge Hampton to see that the two ofthem are simply men who have been caught in the Rube Goldberg machinery oflife.

Then, for no particular reason, he has a fleeting thought:Ruby.How long have those two been out there?A halfhour? More?

But the thought evaporates because Hampton is crying.He is drumming his long fingers against his head—shaved by Mrs.Davis, nicked here and there, the cuts left to dry in the air—and he is shaking his head, more vociferously than a simple no, he is shaking it to clear it, to dispel some merciless, obliterating beast that lives within, eating his words.

Tears as thick as glycerine streak down his cheeks, and his mouth is twisted into a scowl ofgrief.Daniel’s heart, in a convulsion ofempathy, leaps, as ifto its own annihilation.

Inside Nelson’s tent, the sunlight, filtered through the nylon, is pale green.The unmoving air smells ofdirt, candy, and child.Nelson and Ruby sit on two beige bath towels that serve as the floor in Nelson’s hide-away.Between them is a Styrofoam cooler that Nelson uses as a recepta-cle for his playhouse provisions.The lid is offand he is showing Ruby his treasures one by one, some ofthem his, some ofthem appropriated.A bottle ofElmer’s glue, a manicure set in a leather case, a half-eaten PowerBar, an eyecup, a flashlight, several batteries, loose kitchen matches, a hand puppet ofsome kind ofAmerican Indian princess, a block ofbaking chocolate, and a gun, given to Hampton by his own father for the safety ofthe house, stored and then halfforgotten in the drawer ofhis night table, on hand in case a robber should enter the house, or some vicious white kids looking for a little racial adventure, a gun sneaked out ofthe house by Nelson several days ago, which has gone unmissed, a pistol that has seen its better days, the front sight chipped, the blacking on the trigger guard and the barrel peeling off, but with an aroma Nelson finds entrancing, narcotic, a mixture ofold steel and oil.

He picks it up, careful to keep the barrel pointed toward the ground, and bends his head ceremonially over it, breathes in the blunt, manly bou-quet, and then he lays the pistol in both his hands and holds it out there for Ruby to take her turn.

Hampton walks across the room and sits on the sofa Daniel has occupied.He covers his face with his hands, his feet move up and down as ifhe were walking.There is room on the sofa, but Daniel cannot sit there.Instead, he kneels in front ofHampton.Hampton uncovers his face, and tentatively, as ifhe and Daniel were creatures, different species, he offers his hand.And Daniel, upon taking it, and feeling the cool weight ofit, the simple skin and bone ofit, realizes in a grievous instant what he has at once known and prevented himself from knowing all along, the knowledge he has carried in his belly and denied:they are all ofthem ruined, Iris, Hampton, and himself, ruined.

“Oh, Hampton,”Daniel says.

Hampton looks away, a sheen ofdullness shrink-wrapped onto his eyes.“Da, da,”he says, barely audibly.

“I’m sorry,”Daniel says, knowing it cannot be understood.But maybe God is listening.“I’m so sorry.”

“Da.”

“Do you want anything? Something to drink or eat?Anything.Is there anything I can do?”

“Da.”Hampton turns further on the sofa, twisting his body, almost looking behind himself now.The fabric stretches between the buttons of his copper pajamas.His feet continue to pump up and down, his legs waggle, he is squirming like a child desperate to relieve himself.

The children have a gun.The gun is loaded.The safety is disengaged.

And when the gun fires the sound is so far removed from Daniel’s ex-pectations and so divorced from his experience oflife that at first he barely reacts to it.A truck’s backfire, a sonic boom.But Hampton re-sponds immediately.He leaps offthe sofa, runs across the living room to-ward the kitchen and the back door, and Daniel, awakened to reality by Hampton’s response, follows, and now he knows that what he has heard is a gunshot.

Hampton and then Scarecrow and then Daniel race across the backyard.Daniel is shouting now;he can’t really understand what has hap-pened.In the few seconds it takes to get from the back porch to the tent, Daniel has two thoughts.Only one shot was fired, is the first thought, and let it be Ruby who is unhurt, is the second.

Hampton, in his rush, has lost his slippers.Daniel, who must wait for Hampton to crawl in before he himself can enter the tent, shouts out Ruby’s name, but there is no answer, and then he calls for Nelson and is likewise met with silence.

Finally, Hampton is in the tent and Daniel follows, and the children are there, Ruby a frieze offear, Nelson cool, a blank, but it’s clear in his slightly narrowed eyes and the stubborn, impervious set ofhis mouth that he is ready to deny everything.The bullet has gone through the side ofthe tent about a foot above Ruby’s head, and a brilliant, slow-turning rod oflight shines through the hole.Daniel stares at it for a moment as ifit were the presence ofGod.

The tent is too small for the adults to stand up.Daniel rises into a simian stoop and gathers Ruby into his arms.The feel ofher, the com-fort ofher heft, causes him to straighten, and the pressure ofhis head against the top ofthe tent unfastens it from its pegs.The center pole wobbles and a moment later the entire tent deflates, tips over.

“You’re wrecking it!”Nelson screams.

”Where’s the gun, Nelson?”Daniel says.His voice is calm, gentle.The children are alive, unhurt, the anger is gone.Life is so precious, time is so short, we’re all in it together…

“You’re wrecking the tent!”Nelson continues to shout.

”Da da da,”Hampton says, sobbing, the tears coursing down his stricken face.He places his hands on Nelson’s shoulders, pulls him close.

”Da,”he cries.And then, lifting his face, he shouts it out again, toward heaven.

“Where’s the gun, Ruby?”Daniel murmurs into her ear, and she points to the Styrofoam cooler, which is now partly concealed by the collapsed tent.Daniel places her on the ground—her frightened little hands grip his trousers—and he pulls the green nylon offthe cooler’s lid, opens it up, and there, on top ofNelson’s heap oftreasures, lies the pistol.

“Okay, please, everybody stand away,”Daniel says, retrieving the gun.

But Hampton cannot understand what Daniel is asking, and Nelson is staying with his father, and Ruby adheres to Daniel.He picks the gun up, careful to keep his hand as far as possible from the trigger, pointing the barrel straight down at the ground.He backs away, moving as ifafraid the gun might spontaneously fire again.Hampton, Nelson, Scarecrow, and Ruby follow him, and now he stands in the middle ofthe backyard, holding the gun and trying to resist the impulse to heave it into the trees.

And now he is pounding his heel into the ground, digging out a hole so that he might bury the gun, but after a few moments the madness ofthis is apparent and he stops.

Hampton presses his hands on Nelson’s shoulders, instructing him to stay exactly where he is, and then he walks over to Daniel and reaches for the gun.“Da,”he says softly, in a somehow reassuring way.Daniel, at a loss, anxious to be rid ofthe gun, relinquishes his awkward possession ofthe pistol, and then steps back, gathers Ruby in.What did I just do?he wonders, as he imagines Hampton firing the gun.But Hampton puts the safety lock on, and then flicks the magazine catch, which is right behind the trigger guard, and then slides the magazine case open at the base of the grip and empties out three cartridges.He puts the cartridges into the pocket ofhis pajama bottoms and hands the empty gun to Daniel.

They walk toward the house, just as Iris is coming through the back door and stepping out onto the porch.Her initial frown ofbewilderment is quickly supplanted by alarm.To see her lover, her husband, two children, and a gun is more than can be understood, but it can surely be evaluated.

“Daniel, Jesus Christ, what is going on here?”

“Da da da,”Hampton says, excited to see her.

”Did you know there’s a gun in your house?”Daniel says.

”Da da da…”

“Tell me what’s happening?”

The terror ofthe gunshot is just catching up to Daniel, like those near misses on the highway that take a minute or two to rattle us, to make hands shake and hearts race.“Did you know there’s a fucking gun in your house?”he says, his voice rising.“Did you know that?”

“Yes.Sort of.It’s not something I think about.”

“Da da…”

“It’s not something you think about?Well, your son does.Your

son…”His voice curdles around the word.He hears it himself, won-ders for a moment at the ugliness with which he has infused it, and then he sees Iris’s suddenly steely gaze.Fuck it.Yet even the phrase, and the way it stiff-arms his feelings, the way it pushes him out oflove and into the emptiness and foreverness ofhis own solitude cannot stop the anger that is enveloping him like a trance, and when Nelson walks past him, Daniel is astonished by his own sudden desire to throttle the boy.

“Da da da da da da.”

“What is he doing down here?”Iris asks.

”He got up, he came down.What was I supposed to do?”

“Oh Jesus,”says Iris, while making a series ofcomforting gestures toward Hampton.Easy now, it’s okay, I’m here, easy, easy…Nelson is next to her now, pressing his forehead into her stomach.She staggers back a step, touches him, holds him.

“What in the fuck are you people doing with a gun in your house?”

Daniel says.

“You people?”Iris asks.“I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“You know what I’m saying, don’t try to turn this into somethingelse.”

“Well,wepeopledon’t always feel safe when we’re living in a house surrounded byyou people.”

“Da! Da!”

“All right, Iris.”He feels tugging at his shirt and looks down at Ruby.

Her face is flush, her eyes immense and glittering.

“Why is he saying that, Daniel?”

“It’s okay, honey.We’re going to leave now.”

“But why is he saying that over and over?”

“He’s not feeling well, baby.”

“He’s not feeling well?”Iris says.

”All right,”says Daniel.“You supply the answer.Your kid just fired a bullet two inches over her head, so I’m sure this would be the right time to fill her in on all the neurological details.”

Daniel lifts Ruby offthe ground.“Sorry,”he says.“There’s something about a kid getting a bullet in the head that puts me a little on edge.”

“I didn’t do it,”Nelson whimpers, looking imploringly up at Iris.

“Shh,”she says, soothing his forehead.Then, to Daniel,“No one was hurt.The only person hurt around here is Hampton.”

“Thanks to me.”

“Okay, ifthat’s how you want it.”

Hampton, walking now toward the porch, toward his family, bumps into Daniel, and Daniel, with a vivid surge oftemper, grabs the gun out ofHampton’s hand.He doesn’t know what he will do with it—he thinks again ofsimply heaving it—but he is certain that it must no longer be in Hampton’s possession, nor with any ofthem.He will take it to the river.

Or to the police.Yes, the police…

The police the police…He thinks it over and over, incorporating the unfamiliar idea into his little corner ofconsciousness.And then he turns and sees the police have indeed arrived—Derek Pabst and Jeff Crane.They enter Hampton and Iris’s backyard, exuding confidence and implacability with every long stride.Their service revolvers are still hol-stered.They hold their caps in their hands, like country folk calling on neighbors.

“Da da da da…”

Crane, boyish at forty, with neatly combed reddish hair and a prim, self-righteous mouth, sees that Daniel is holding a gun.Hampton and Iris stand together on the porch.

“You want to place that weapon on the ground, Dan,”Crane says.

Daniel does as he is told, immediately.

”We got a call about someone doing some shooting around here,”

Derek says.

“My fault,”Daniel says, knowing he must, knowing any other answer will cause more trouble than his taking the blame.

Crane picks up the pistol, checks to see ifthere are any cartridges.

Daniel watches him, wonders ifCrane knows how far his daughter, Mercy, has gone to escape his world.

“Da da da da da da da da da da da da da da…”

“What the hell is he saying?”Crane asks.

“He’s all right,”Derek says.“Don’t worry about that.”Then, to Daniel:“Whose gun is this?”

“Mine.”

“Yours?”Derek tucks his chin in, shakes his head.“Why’d you fire it?”

“Derek, come on.Obviously it was an accident.”

“That’s a hell ofan accident, man.”

“Was anyone hurt? Did it hit anything?”

“Scared the hell out ofat least two people.Enough to call.”Daniel sees it playing out.Derek does not believe him, he knows Daniel hasn’t brought a concealed weapon to this house, but he’s going to let it pass.

“Is this weapon registered in your name?”Crane asks.

”Yes, it is.”

“Mind ifwe take a look?”

“I don’t have it with me,”Daniel says.He turns away from Crane, directs his request to Derek.“How about I bring in the paperwork a little later on?”

Derek looks at Iris, Hampton, and Nelson on the porch, and the three ofthem are silent, their faces blank, their gazes slightly averted, as his eyes carefully move over them.Satisfied, Derek turns back toward Daniel and, indicating Ruby, he says,“You’re carrying pretty precious cargo there, buddy.”

“I know, Derek.I know.”

“It would be a hell ofa thing.”

“I know.”

“Kate know you’re here?”

“No.”

Derek nods, his lower lip slightly extended.After a silence that seems to go on and on, he asks,“You all right?”

“Me?”asks Daniel.

”Yeah.”

“I’m fine, Derek.Just a stupid mistake.”

Derek gestures to Crane, time to leave.Crane hands the pistol back to Daniel.

“You okay?”Derek asks Ruby.

”I’m fine,”she says.“It was stupid.”

While they are talking, Iris, Hampton, and Nelson go inside their house.Daniel doesn’t notice until he hears the door close behind them.

He only wants to go home, but he drives to his office instead.He can no longer afford to pay SheilaAlvarez’s salary—nor can he bear her occa-sional disdain—and he has cut her hours to two halfdays a week.When he lets himself into the office he is surprised to see her there.She is at her desk, behind a pile ofwhat looks like at least a hundred files.

“What are you doing here, Sheila?”

“I’ve been going through the files.There’s a lot ofpeople who owe you money, did you know that?”

He shakes his head no.

She looks at him and then she, too, shakes her head.“You poor thing,”

she says.“Just look at you.”She swivels her chair, puts her back to him, and resumes entering numbers on a calculator.“Your parents were here about twenty minutes ago,”she says.“They dropped an envelope on your desk.”

He goes into his office.He and Iris cleared offhis desk last time they made love here, and now the only things that are on it are his telephone and the envelope left by Carl and Julia.He opens it.

Dear Dan,

You’re going to think we’ve gone senile, but we’ve decided not to change our wills, after all.The Raptor Center can do without us, and we’re going to keep things the way they were.

Much love,

Mother and Dad He stares at the words on the page until they blur and swim away.So the birds won’t be getting his parents’money after all.He buries his face in his hands.Was this why he’d come all this way? Had he just been given what he had been seeking all along, this small, glancing caress?

He is exhausted, he feels unequal to the task ofhis life.He is not put together for such difficulties.

Three hours later, at two in the afternoon, Daniel is in his house, drinking a warm beer, staring out his small living room window at what he can see ofthe white oak in front, he is crouched deep down into the cellar ofhimself, waiting for the storm to pass.He does his best to speak kindly and rationally to himself, but he is inconsolable.He thinks ofthe tone ofIris’s voice as she spoke to him from her porch, the distance, the contempt.As soon as there was anger she spoke to him as ifhe were, first and foremost, a white man.What happened to love bringing history to its knees? How could all those old adversities be having their way?

He weeps.Stops.Drinks.Belches.Stares.Weeps.Weeps.Tries to talk himself down, as ifhis life were a drug, a bad, a terrible, a most power-ful and devastating drug that he must survive while it works its way through his system.

He has lost everything, and there is nothing he can say to himself that can change that.

Kate will never trust him with Ruby again.

Recoil.Try to think ofsomething else.

Hampton.No.Not now.Something else.

Monkey mind swings from branch to branch.

A perfect, pulverizing memory offalling down those stairs.

My God, there is no safe thought, nothing in his mind that is not lethal.

Ruby’s hands.Kate’s kiss.

Those boys in their masks.

That rocket’s fire in the deep wooded night.

And then, most terribly ofall, wherever the monkey swings there is Iris.Her shoes.The smell ofher scalp, her breath.The ten thousand de-tails ofher life fill the tree and then fly off, a terrifying flutter ofwings.

Cut the tree down, pull out the roots, and a river takes its place.And in that river she is there.Her hands, the taste ofher, her hair, her darkness, her car, her keys, what she might say next.

The phone is on his lap, but it does not ring, nor can he dial it.He cannot hear her voice, not that voice from the porch.If that’s how you want it.

Hours pass.Darkness bleeds across the floor, he pushes his chair back, afraid to have it touch him.

Then, atlast, the phone rings, but he does not answer.It chirps in his lap, the machine comes on, he hears his own terrible voice, and then a dial tone.Night fills the room like floodwater.He lifts his feet, tucks them beneath him.

At eight o’clock, Iris arrives.He first sees her headlights flare against his windows, then he hears her footsteps.She lets herselfin with-outknocking.

“Daniel?”she says softly, into the darkness.

He clears his throat, afraid ofhis own voice.“Right here,”he says.

She fumbles for a lamp, turns it on, the bulb dull, quite helpless against the night.She is wearing a redT-shirt, baggy shorts, sandals.She is holding a clear blue plastic container offood.

“What are you doing?”she asks.

He can tell by her face what he must look like.There’s nothing to do about that now.

“Thinking.”

She sighs.She understands what that means.

”That was so terrible, Daniel.I’m sorry.”

“You’resorry? Oh my God, Iris.I don’t even know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say.Look.”She holds the plastic container higher.

“I made some rice and beans.Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know.”

She takes his hand, pulls him out ofhis chair, and leads him to the relative neutrality ofthe kitchen.She seats him at the table, opens the con-tainer, and then finds a fork in the silverware drawer.She sits across from him, gestures for him to eat.

“I put a little extra hot sauce in it,”she says.“The way you like it.”

He tastes it.Its hotness feels cleansing.

”And hardly any salt,”she says.“I’ve noticed you never salt your food.”

He takes another bite.He hasn’t eaten since yesterday.He sees her glancing quickly at her watch.

“You have to leave?”he asks.

”No.Well, actually, soon.”She gets up, carries her chair next to his, and sits again.She runs her fingers through his hair.

“Who’s home?”he asks.

”I’ve got somebody new, a really sweet Jamaican lady named Sandra.”

She crosses her fingers.“Want to see something?”She stands, lifts her T-shirt, exposing her belly.“Look how fat I’m getting.”

“I don’t see it.You look the same.”

“Are you kidding? Look!”She grabs an inch ofskin, shakes it.“I might be pregnant.”

Daniel struggles to keep his expression detached.But he thinksif

only.He takes another mouthful ofher food.

“That would be all we need, wouldn’t it?”says Iris.

”Do you really think you might be?”

“I don’t know.I sure feel bloated.Who knows? Maybe we can be one ofthose couples who think they can solve the world’s problems by cre-ating a new race, or a non-race, or whatever.”

“That might be a good idea.”

She smiles, shakes her head.“I actually have to go.I told Sandra I’d be right back.”

“How’s Hampton? Nelson?”

“Let’s not even talk about them.Can you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have to leave, honey.I’m sorry.”

“Thanks for the food.”

“You were starved.”

“It’s good.Soul food.”

“Not really.There’s no ham hocks or any ofthat old-timey crap.”

“It’s still soul food.”

Iris kisses his forehead, strokes his hair again.

”Do you still love me?”

“Yes,”Daniel says.

”This is so hard.”

“I know.”

“Don’t you sometimes wish…?”

He reaches for her.“No,”he says.“It’s too late for that.There’s no turning back.”

Content

A Ship Made of Paper Scott Spencer