Teachercom's Library

Teachercom's Library

Contents

TitlePageContentsCopyrightForewordIntroductionMEGHANMAYHEWBERGMAN,TheSiegeatWhaleCayJUSTINBIGOS,FingerprintsKEVINCANTY,HappyEndingsDIANECOOK,MovingOnJULIAELLIOTT,BrideLOUISEERDRICH,TheBigCatBENFOWLKES,You’llApologizeIfYouHaveToARNABONTEMPSHEMENWAY,TheFugueDENISJOHNSON,TheLargesseoftheSeaMaidenSARAHKOKERNOT,M&LVICTORLODATO,Jack,JulyCOLUMMCCANN,Sh’kholELIZABETHMCCRACKEN,ThunderstruckTHOMASMCGUANE,MotherlodeMAILEMELOY,MadameLazarusSHOBHARAO,KavithaandMustafaJOANSILBER,AboutMyAuntARIABETHSLOSS,NorthLAURALEESMITH,UnsafeatAnySpeedJESSWALTER,Mr.VoiceContributors’NotesOtherDistinguishedStoriesof2014EditorialAddressesofAmericanandCanadianMagazinesPublishingShortStoriesReadMorefromTheBestAmericanSeries®AbouttheEditors

Copyright©2015byHoughtonMifflinHarcourtPublishingCompanyIntroductioncopyright©2015byT.C.BoyleALLRIGHTSRESERVEDThe Best American Series® and The Best American Short Stories® are registered trademarks ofHoughtonMifflinHarcourtPublishingCompany.No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic ormechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval systemwithouttheproperwrittenpermissionofthecopyrightownerunlesssuchcopyingisexpresslypermittedby federal copyright law. With the exception of nonprofit transcription in Braille, Houghton MifflinHarcourtisnotauthorizedtograntpermissionforfurtherusesofcopyrightedselectionsreprintedinthisbookwithoutthepermissionoftheirowners.Permissionmustbeobtainedfromtheindividualcopyrightowners as identified herein. Address requests for permission to make copies of Houghton MifflinHarcourt material to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park AvenueSouth,NewYork10003.www.hmhco.comISSN0067-6233ISBN978-0-547-93940-7ISBN978-0-547-93941-4(pbk.)CoverdesignbyChristopherMoisaneISBN978-0-547-93943-8v1.1015“TheSiegeatWhaleCay”byMeganMayhewBergman.Firstpublished in theKenyonReview, vol.

xxxvi,no:4.Copyright©2015byMeganMayhewBergman.FromAlmostFamousWomen byMeganMayhewBergman.ReprintedwiththepermissionofScribner,aDivisionofSimon&Schuster,Inc.Allrightsreserved.“Fingerprints”byJustinBigos.Firstpublished inMcSweeney’sQuarterly 47.Copyright©2014by

JustinBigos.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.“HappyEndings”byKevinCanty.FirstpublishedintheNewOhioReview,#15.Copyright©2014by

KevinCanty.ReprintedbypermissionofDeniseShannonLiteraryAgency,Inc.“MovingOn”byDianeCook.FirstpublishedinTinHouse,vol.15,no.3.FromManv.Nature(pp.3–

19) by Diane Cook. Copyright © 2014 by Diane Cook. Reprinted by permission of Harper CollinsPublishers.“Bride” by Julia Elliott. First published in Conjunctions, 63. Copyright © 2014 by Julia Elliott.

ReprintedbypermissionofDeniseShannonLiteraryAgency,Inc.“TheBigCat”byLouiseErdrich.FirstpublishedinTheNewYorker,March31,2014.Copyright©

2015byLouiseErdrich.ReprintedbypermissionoftheWylieAgency,LLC.“You’llApologizeIfYouHaveTo”byBenFowlkes.FirstpublishedinCrazyhorse,no.85.Copyright

©2014byBenFowlkes.ReprintedbypermissionofBenFowlkes.

“TheFugue”byArnaBontempsHemenway.FirstpublishedintheAlaskaQuarterlyReview,vol.31,nos1&2.FromElegyonKinderklavier.Copyright©2014byArnaBontempsHemenway.Reprintedwith the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Sarabande Books,www.sarabandebooks.org.“TheLargesseof theSeaMaiden”byDenis Johnson.First published inTheNewYorker,March3,

2014.Copyright©2015byDenisJohnson.ReprintedbypermissionofAragiInc.“M&L” by SarahKokernot. First published inWest Branch, no. 76. Copyright© 2014 by Sarah

Kokernot.ReprintedbypermissionofSarahKokernot.“Jack,July”byVictorLodato.FirstpublishedinTheNewYorker,September22,2014.Copyright©

2014byVictorLodato.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.“Sh’khol” by Colum McCann. First published by Byliner. Copyright © 2014 by Colum McCann.

ReprintedbypermissionoftheWylieAgency,LLC.“Thunderstruck” by Elizabeth McCracken. First published in StoryQuarterly, 46/47. From

Thunderstruck&Other Stories by ElizabethMcCracken, compilation copyright© 2014 byElizabethMcCracken.Usedbypermissionof theDialPress,animprintofRandomHouse,adivisionofPenguinRandomHouseLLC.Allrightsreserved.“Motherlode” by ThomasMcGuane. First published inTheNew Yorker, September 8, 2014. From

CrowFair:StoriesbyThomasMcGuane,copyright©2015byThomasMcGuane.UsedbypermissionofAlfredA.Knopf,an imprintof theKnopfDoubledayPublishingGroup,adivisionofPenguinRandomHouse LLC. All rights reserved. Any third-party use of this material, outside of this publication, isprohibited.InterestedpartiesmustapplydirectlytoPenguinRandomHouseLLCforpermission.“MadameLazarus”byMaileMeloy.FirstpublishedinTheNewYorker,June23,2014.Copyright©

2014byMaileMeloy.ReprintedbypermissionofMaileMeloy.“Kavitha and Mustafa” by Shobha Rao. First published in Nimrod, vol. 58. From An Unrestored

Woman, copyright © 2016 by Shobha Rao. Reprinted by permission of Flatiron Books. All rightsreserved.“AboutMyAunt”byJoanSilber.FirstpublishedinTinHouse,vol.15,no.4.Copyright©2014by

JoanSilber.ReprintedbypermissionofJoanSilber.“North”byAriaBethSloss.Firstpublished inOneStory, no.197.Copyright©2014byAriaBeth

Sloss.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.“UnsafeatAnySpeed”byLauraLeeSmith.FirstpublishedintheNewEnglandReview,vol.35,no.1.

Copyright©2014byLauraLeeSmith.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor.“Mr.Voice”byJessWalter.Firstpublished inTinHouse,vol.16,no.1.Copyright©2014byJess

Walter.ReprintedbypermissionofJohnHawkins&Associates,Inc.

Foreword

THISISTHEhundredthvolumeofTheBestAmericanShortStories.Overthepastcentury,serieseditorshave provided early support and exposure to such writers as Ring Lardner, Willa Cather, WilliamFaulkner, Dorothy Parker, Thomas Wolfe, Richard Wright, Saul Bellow, Delmore Schwartz, RobertCoover, John Updike, Shirley Jackson, and Raymond Carver, among countless others. I am deeplyhonoredtobetheeditorofthisesteemed,long-lastingseriesandtohavebeenforthepastnineyears.Formoreabout theseries, itshistory,anda samplingof thegems thathaveappeared in itspages, see100YearsofTheBestAmericanShortStories,editedbyLorrieMoore,coeditedbyyourstruly.WhenIthinkbackoversomeofthecharactersfromthisseriesthathavestayedwithmemost,Ithinkof

SarahShun-LienBynum’sMs.Hempel,thebewilderedandimperfectschoolteacherfrom“Yurt,”whichappeared in the 2009volume. I think of the lapsed recovering alcoholic therapist,Elliot, fromRobertStone’s story “Helping,” featured in the 1988volume, and in 1982, the narrator ofRaymondCarver’s“Cathedral,”whosediscomfortwithhisblindguestispalpable.Ithinkofallthetough-as-nailsmothers:Mabel,inBobbyAnnMason’s“Shiloh”;thebigotedwomanknownonlyasJulian’smotherinFlanneryO’Connor’s “Everything That Rises Must Converge.” I think of writers like Mary Gaitskill and AnnBeattie and Joyce Carol Oates and John Cheever and Ernest Hemingway and Sherwood Anderson,writers whose characters are complex, whose conflicts are often internal and unspoken, and whosedecisionssomepeoplemightdeem“unlikable.”LatelyI’vebeenmullingovertheideaoflikabilityoffictionalcharacters.Thetopicreceivedaburstof

attentiona coupleofyears ago, after thewriterClaireMessudwasaskedabout theprotagonistofhernovelTheWomanUpstairs,“Iwouldn’twanttobefriendswith[her],wouldyou?Heroutlookisalmostunbearablygrim.”Messud famously responded to the interviewer,“Wouldyouwant tobe friendswithHumbertHumbert?WouldyouwanttobefriendswithMickeySabbath?SaleemSinai?Hamlet?Krapp?Oedipus?OscarWao?Antigone?Raskolnikov?Any of the characters inTheCorrections? Any of thecharactersinInfiniteJest?AnyofthecharactersinanythingPynchonhaseverwritten?OrMartinAmis?Or Orhan Pamuk? Or AliceMunro, for that matter? If you’re reading to find friends, you’re in deeptrouble.Wereadtofindlife,inallitspossibilities.Therelevantquestionisn’t‘Isthisapotentialfriendforme?’but‘Isthischaracteralive?’”Messud’sanswerignitedbothreadersandwriters,manygladforherilluminationofatroublingbutincreasinglyprominenttrendinhowreaderstalkaboutfiction.Soonafter,TheNewYorkerinterviewedagroupoffictionwritersabouttheissue.DonaldAntrimsaid,

“Reading intopersona isawasteof timeand life;ourempathywillnotbeengagedbutournarcissismmight, and our experience will likely come without deeper emotional and spiritual recognitions andawakenings.Theauthormaneuveringforloveiscommonplaceandordinary,andtheworkoffictionthatseductivelyassertsthebrillianceorimportanceoreasyaffabilityofitscreatorisaninsubstantialthing.Ihavenoproblemwithlikingacharacter.Butifthat’sthereasonI’mreading,I’llputthebookdown.”AndMargaretAtwoodanswered,“ImyselfhavebeenidioticallytoldthatIwrite‘awful’booksbecausethepeople in them are unpleasant. Intelligent readers do not confuse the quality of a bookwith themoralrectitude of the characters. For those who want goodigoodiness, there are some Victorian good-girlreligiousnovelsthatwouldsuitthemfine.”Andyet in thecoupleofyears since then, I still somewhat regularlyencounter reviews thatattacka

character’sorevenawriter’slikability.Tolikeastoryoranovelisstill,itseems,tolikeitscharacters.One female protagonist was just last week labeled a “morose, insufferableAmerican narcissist” in amajorSundaybookreview.Anotherrenownedbookreviewlamentsthatinawell-receiveddebutnovel,

onecharacter“isn’tmuchofaheroine.She’sannoying,self-centeredand tragicallynaive.”Thefemalenarratorofoneofmyfavoritenovelsoflastyearwascalled“irritatinglyself-obsessed”byyetanothermajornewspaper.Dip a toe into the reviewsof fictiononGoodReadsorAmazon, andyou’ll find thequestion of likability everywhere. I’d hazard a guess that more female characters written by femalewriters are deemedunlikable thanmale characters or really any characterswritten bymen.HopefullyVIDA,theorganizationthatstudieswomenintheliteraryarts,andothersimilargroupswillresearchthisquestion.Inthisyear’svolumeofTheBestAmericanShortStories,wearetreatedtocharacterslikeKavitha,

theemotionallynumbwifewhocomesaliveonlyinthefaceofviolence,inShobhaRao’sgorgeousstory,“KavithaandMustafa.”WemeetadesperateabsenteefatherinJustinBigos’sdevastating“Fingerprints”andanemasculatedmanwhosellsdentalequipmentinthehilariousandprofound“UnsafeatAnySpeed,”byLauraLeeSmith.AndJoeCarstairs, a ruthlesschampionspeedboat racerandoilheiress inMeganMayhew Bergman’s unforgettable “The Siege atWhale Cay.” Here are living, breathing people whoscrewupterriblyandwantandneedandthinkuneasythoughts.DidIlikethesecharacters?Iverymuchlikedreadingtheirstories,asdidT.C.Boyle.Ilikedthehonestyoftheportrayals,andtheirpoetryandhumorandsurprise.WouldIwanttobefriendswiththesecharacters?Whocares?Tome,thatquestionistantamount to asking someoneat anart exhibit if shewould like tobe friendswith thecolorgreen,orsomeonelisteningtomusicifhewouldcaretobefriendadrum.To readers who tend to think primarily in terms of liking or disliking characters: these people are

fictional.Theydonotstandbeforeusaskingtobeliked.Theystandbeforeusaskingtoberead.Theyasktobeseenandheardandmaybeevenunderstood,oratleastfortheirmotivestobeunderstood,ifthatiswhattheauthorisafter.But,forthesakeofargument,let’spretendthesecharactersareinfactreal,thattheyarehumanbeingsstandingbeforeus.Letusopenupatleastalittletothosewemightnotlike—intheir presence,wemight experience somethingnew.Tome, facing thosewemight notwant to face iscrucial to living in a diverse world. To echo Donald Antrim, when we instinctively turn away fromsomething different or uncomfortable or what we deem “incapable of being liked,” we shortchangeourselves.Maybeweunwittinglydislikecharacterswhodoorsaywhatweourselvescannotorsimply,forwhateverreason,donot.AsthefictionwriterandcriticRoxaneGaywrote,“Perhaps,then,unlikablecharacters, the oneswho are themost human, are also the oneswho are themost alive. Perhaps thisintimacymakesusuncomfortablebecausewedon’tdarebesoalive.”Ifreadingfictionhasthepowertoenlargeourunderstandingofothersandenlivenourselves,letustrytonolongershrinkfromthesethings.WhatanhonorithasbeentoworkwithT.C.Boyle,whoseownstorieshaveappearedinthisseries

manytimes.Hecameatthejobofguesteditorshipwiththedeepknowledgeandexperienceofamaster.Hechosetwentythrillinglydiverseandstellarstoriesbyestablishedandexcitingnewwriters.The stories chosen for this anthologywere originally published between January 2013 and January

2014.Thequalificationsforselectionare(1)originalpublicationinnationallydistributedAmericanorCanadianperiodicals;(2)publicationinEnglishbywriterswhoareAmericanorCanadian,orwhohavemade theUnitedStates theirhome; (3)originalpublicationas short stories (excerptsofnovelsarenotconsidered).Alistofmagazinesconsultedforthisvolumeappearsatthebackofthebook.Editorswhowishfortheirshortfictiontobeconsideredfornextyear’seditionshouldsendtheirpublicationsorhardcopiesofonlinepublicationstoHeidiPitlor,c/oTheBestAmericanShortStories,222BerkeleyStreet,Boston,MA02116.

HEIDIPITLOR

Introduction

BACK IN THE1970S,when Iwas a student at the IowaWriters’Workshop, Iwent one evening to hearStanleyElkinreadfromhislatestnovel.Stanleywasamagneticperformer,fullyinvestedinhisrole,andwestudentsknewenoughfrompreviousencounterstoavoidthefirstthreerows,wheretheaudiencewasat risk of being sprayed with flying spittle as he worked himself into an actor’s rage. This wasperformanceatitshighestlevel,aswastheQ&Athatfollowed.ThefirstquestionwasfromastudentwhowasashopefullydedicatedtotheshortstoryformasIwas:“Mr.Elkin,you’vewrittenonegreatbookofstories,whydon’tyouwriteanother?”Stanley’sresponse:“Nomoneyinit.Nextquestion.”Washejoking?Washiscynicismpartoftheact?Idon’tknow.Butinourtimetheliterarymarketplace

hascertainlyfavoredthenovelovertheshortstory,andanyoneseekingtomakealivingoffstories,asFitzgerald did in the 1930s,would have to have been transported in time. Either that, or gone off hismeds.Andit’sinterestingtonotethatasidefromalatecollectionofearlypieces,Stanleydidpublishonlythatonecollection.AsdidJamesJoyceandPhilipRothandsomanyothers,whothroughtemperament,ambition,orcalculationwentontopublishexclusivelyinlongerform.Ahundredyearsago,whenEdwardO’Brieninauguratedthisannualvolumeincelebrationoftheshort

story,thingswerebothdifferentandthesame.Different,inthatO’Brien’sprincipalmotivationinmakinghisselectionoftheyear’stwentybeststorieswastodistinguishtheartistsfromthecommercialhacks,theoriginal from theconventional.“Therearemanysigns,”hewrote inhis introduction,“that literature inAmericastandsatapartingofways.The technical-commercialmethodhasbeenfullyexploited,and, Ithink, found wanting in essential results” and was responsible for “the pitiful gray shabbiness ofAmericanfiction.”It’sdifficulttograspjustwhathe’smilitatingagainsthere,unlessweconsiderhowthefunctionof short storieson thepagewasco-opted firstby radioserialsand films, then television,andmorerecentlytheInternet,withitspanoplyofblogs,tweets,andpostings.Thattherewasacommercialshortstorytodenigrateisfairlyastonishinginitself, likelearningthatanewDeadSeascrollhasbeenunearthed.O’Briencanrestassuredthatwenolongerhavetoworryaboutthecommercializationoftheshortstoryfortheobviousreasonthatthereisnocommercetospeakof.Ourstories—andthestoriesinthis volume stand as a representative sample—are conceived and composed solely for the numinouspleasureartisticcreationimbuesuswith,theout-of-bodyexperiencewriterandreadersharealike.Still,thenasnow,theshortstorywasconsideredinferiortothenovel,amerestepping-stonetohigher

things,andthelessdedicated(lessaddicted?lessfou?)couldfindtheirmétierinwritinglongerworks,orbetteryet,writingforthescreen.ThiswasgreatgoodnewsforO’Brien:“Thecommercializedshortstorywriterhaslessenthusiasminwritingforeditorsnowadays.The‘movies’havecapturedhim.Whywritestorieswhenscenariosarenotonlymuchlessexhausting,butactuallymoreremunerative?”Somuchforthemoney-grubbers.LetthemstandoutthereintheblazeofHollywoodsun,atthebeckandcallofactors,directors,producers,and theirmothers,while theseriouspractitionersof theformriseup to take theirrightfulplaceinthepopularandliterarymagazines.Anevangelistoftheliterarystory,O’Brienwentbeyondpraisingtheindividualwritershe’dchosenfor

theinauguralvolumetoapplaudandpromotethemagazinesthatmethisstandardsaswell,includingTheBellman, in which the top story of the year appeared (“Zelig,” by Benjamin Rosenblatt), and a newmonthly,Midland,which though itpublishedbut ten stories thatyear, found itswritersdisplaying“themostvitalinterpretationinfictionofournationallifethatmanyyearshavebeenabletoshow.”Andmore:“SincethemostbrilliantdaysoftheNewEnglandmenofletters,nosuchgroupofwritershasdefineditspositionwithsuchassuranceandmodesty.”Hyperbole?Yes,ofcourse,whenviewedfromthefarendof

the long tunnelofahundredyears’ time,buthyperbole inagoodcause.HealsosingledoutstoriesbywriterslikeStacyAumonier,MaxwellStruthersBurt,andWilburDanielasachievingthehighesthonorhecouldbestow, thatofbeingof lastingvalue—and ifhewaswrong,carriedaway inhisenthusiasm,givehimcreditheretoo.Afterall,whocansaywithanycertaintywhatliteraturewillendureandwhatwill diewith thegeneration thatproduced it?Makenomistake about it,O’Brienwasonamission tocultivatethetasteofthereadingpublicandchampionthehomegrownstory,andhewasfeistyoverittoo,singling out British critics like James Stephens, who, in his estimation, insufficiently appreciated theAmericannovelandseemedbarelyawareoftheachievementoftheAmericanstory.Butwhatofthestoriesthemselves,theselectionfrom1915thatincludedpiecesfromFannieHurstand

BenHecht(theonlynamesIrecognized,bothofwhomwould,traitorously,goontocareersinfilm)?I’dliketoreportthattherearehiddengemshere,worksequalindepthandcolortoJoyce’sDublinersstoriesor Conrad’s “Youth” or Chekhov’s “Peasants,” but that’s not the case. The stories are rudimentary—characterstudies,anecdotes,talesthatexistonlytodeliverasurpriseorthemildglimmerofirony.Andtheyareshort,forthemostpart,morelikescenesthatmighthavebeencontainedinthelongernarrativesofthisvolume.Theshortestofthem,whatwouldbecalled“flashfiction”today,atjust152words,isbyMaryBoyleO’Reilly.It’scalled“InBerlin,”andIfinditfascinatinginitshistoricalcontext(twoyearsbeforeAmerica entered the FirstWorldWar) and theway inwhich the author so nakedly attempts toextract the pathos from her episode set aboard a German passenger train. The scenario: “The traincrawling out of Berlin was filled with women and children, hardly an able-bodied man. In onecompartmentagray-hairedLandsturmsoldiersatbesideanelderlywomanwhoseemedweakand ill.”Thewoman,lostinherthoughts—dazed—keptrepeating“One,two,three”aloud,whichpromptedtittersfromthepairofgirlsseatedacrossfromher.Theoldsoldierleanedin:“‘Fräulein,’hesaidgravely,‘youwillperhapsceaselaughingwhenItellyouthatthispoorladyismywife.Wehavejustlostourthreesonsinbattle.BeforeleavingforthefrontmyselfImusttaketheirmothertoaninsaneasylum.’”Paragraph.“Itbecameterriblyquietinthecompartment.”Allright.I’msorry.Butifthatpenultimatelinedoesn’tmakeyouburstintolaughter,you’dbettercheck

yourpulse.O’Brienread2,200storiesthatyear(bycontrast,HeidiPitlor,who,asserieseditor,doestheheavyliftinghere,considered3,000),andhisaimwastodefinetheliterarystoryandelevateitabovetheexpected,themaudlin,thepatanddeclamatory.Togivehimcredit(heis,afterall,oneofthefirsttohaverecognizedHemingway’stalent, including“MyOldMan”inthe1923volume,eventhoughithadn’tyetbeenpublished,andinsubsequenteditionsherecognizedtheworkofSherwoodAnderson,EdnaFerber,J.P.Marquand,DorothyParker,F.ScottFitzgerald,andJosephineHerbst,amongmanyothers),hecanplayonlythehandhe’sbeendealt,asisthecasewithalleditorsofbest-ofanthologies.“Zelig,”thestoryhesingledoutabovealltherest,doesshowelementsofmodernsensibilityintermsofitsmilieu—Zeligisaworkingman,aRussianJewcometoAmericareluctantlybecausehisimmigrantsonisstrickenill—andinitsrepresentationoftheprotagonist’sconsciousness,whichmovestowardtheclosethird-personondisplayinanumberofstoriesinthecurrentvolume,like“TheFugue,”byArnaBontempsHemenway,orVictorLodato’sgrimlyhilarious“Jack,July.”Still,ZeligiscutinthemoldofSilasMarner,amiserand nothing more, and it’s his lack of dimension that artificially dominates the story and propels thereader toward the expected (and yes, maudlin) denouement. I can only imagine what the “technical-commercial”fictionmusthavebeenlikethatyear.TheModelTgavewaytotheModelAandtotheFerrariandthePrius,thebiplaneoftheFirstWorld

War to the jet of the Second,modernism to postmodernism and post-postmodernism.We advance.Weprogress.Wemoveon.ButwearepartofatraditionandthisiswhatmakesO’Brien’sachievementsospecial—andsohumblingforuswritersbentoverourkeyboardsinourownsoon-to-be-supersededage.TheBestAmericanShortStoriesseriesstillfollowshistemplateandhisaesthetictoo,seekingtoidentifyandcollectsomeofthebestshortfictionpublishedintheprecedingyear.O’Brienlisted93storiesinhis

Roll ofHonor for 1914–15 and 37 periodicals fromwhich the selectionsweremade. In addition, heincludedanalphabeticallistingoftheauthorsofallthenoteworthystorieshe’dcomeacross,repletewithasterisksfor theonesdeservingofreaders’specialattention.In thesamespirit, theeditorsof the2015volumelist the100DistinguishedStoriesof theyearandsome277magazines. (Inawonderfullyfussyway—and by way of encouraging competition—O’Brien also produced a graph of all themagazines,showinghowmanystorieseachperiodicalpublishedandfiguringthepercentageofthoseheconsideredexceptional.)Finally,O’Brienmadenoapologies.Thestorieshepresentedwerethebestoftheyearbyhislights—andhislightsweretheonlyonesthatmattered.IhavetoconfessthatIcametomyroleasguesteditorthisyearwithjustatadlessassurance.Thiswas

myshow,yes,butthosehundredyearsofhistory—thattunneloftime—wasdaunting.Ultimately,though,what Iwas looking forwasn’tmuchdifferent fromwhatO’Brienwas: stories that grabbedme in anynumberofways,stories thatstoodout fromthemerelyearnestandcompetent, that revealedsomecoretruth I hadn’t suspected when I picked them up. Another editor might have chosen another lineupaltogetherfromthe120finalists,butthatonlyspeakstothesubjectivityeachreaderbringstohisorherencounterwith anyworkof art. If I expected anything, I expected tobe surprised, because surprise iswhatthebestfictionoffers,andtherewasnoshortageofsuchinthisyear’sselections.Foronething,Iwasstruckbytheintricatenarrativedevelopmentandlengthofmanyofthesestories,

some of which, like the two powerful missing-child stories that appear back-to-back here due to thehappyaccidentofthealphabeticallistingO’Brienordainedattheoutset(ColumMcCann’s“Sh’khol”andElizabeth McCracken’s “Thunderstruck”), seem like compressed novels in the richness of theircharacterization and their steady, careful development.So toowithMeganMayhewBergman’s eleganthistoricalpiece,“TheSiegeatWhaleCay,”whichpresentsadeeplyplumbedlovetriangleinvolvingtheyoung protagonist, hermannish lover, and, convincingly, touchingly, the cinema starMarleneDietrich.(WhatdidMarlenedoonvacationduringthosegrimwaryears?Wheredidshego?Whowasshe?It’stestimonytoBergman’simaginationthatsuchafamiliarreal-lifefigurecanseemsonaturallyintegratedinto theworld she creates thatwe’re never pulled out of the story.) Likewise,DianeCook’s feministfable,“MovingOn,”with itsdarkshadesofKafka,Atwood,andOrwelliancontrol,developswith thepaceandpowerofamuchlongerwork,asdoesJuliaElliott’sdeliciousandwickedlyfunnyexaminationoftheasceticversusthesensualintheconventthatprovidesthesettingfor“Bride.”Longstoriesall.Verylongstories.Whichbegsthequestion,eternallybattedaboutbycritics,theorists,andeditorsofanthologieslikethis

one:what,exactly,constitutesashortstory?Isitsolelylength(the20,000-wordmaximumthatthehow-tomanualsprescribe)?Isitintention?Isitabuildingbeyondthesinglesceneoftheanecdoteorvignettebutstopping short of the shuffled complexity of the novel? LorrieMoore, in her introduction to the 2004editionofthisseries,quipped,“Ashortstoryisaloveaffair;anovelisamarriage.”And:“Ashortstoryis a photograph; a novel is a film.” Yes, true enough, and best to get at any sense of definitionmetaphoricallyratherthantrytopindowntheformwithwordandpagelimits.Formypart,Iliketokeepitsimple,asinNormanFriedman’sreductiveassertionthatashortstory“isashortfictionalnarrativeinprose.”Ofcourse,thatbringsusbacktothequestionofwhat,exactly,constitutes“short.”Poe’scriterion,whichgivesusalittlemoremeatonthebones,isthatastory,incontrasttoanovel,shouldbeofalengthtobereadinonesitting,anhour’sentertainment,withouttheinterruptionthatthenovelalmostinvariablymustgivewayto:“Inthebrieftale...theauthorisenabledtocarryoutthefullnessofhisintention...Duringthehourofperusalthesoulofthereaderisatthewriter’scontrol.”There’sanundeniablelogictothat—andamightypowertoo.Whatwriterwouldn’twantthereader’s

soulheldcaptive for any spaceof time?ButPoe, for allhisperspicacity, couldn’thave foreseenhowshrunkenanddesiccatedthathourhasbecomeintheageofthe24/7newscycleandthesmartphone.Wecanonlyhopetoreconstituteit.Ultimately,though,beyonddefinitionsorlimits,Iputmytrustinthewriter

andthewriter’sintention.Ifthewritertellsmethatthisisashortstoryandifit’slongerthanasentenceandshorterthan,say,TheBrothersKaramazov,thenI’monfortheride.Ihaveneverhadtheexperienceof expandinga short story to thedimensionsof anovelor shrinkinganovel to the confinesof a shortstory.Isitdown,quiteconsciously,towriteastoryortowriteanovelandallowthematerialtoshapeitself.“Themoreyouwrite,”asFlanneryO’Connorpointedout,“themoreyouwillrealizethattheformisorganic,thatitissomethingthatgrowsoutofthematerial,thattheformofeachstoryisunique.”Certainly themost formallyuniquepiece includedhere isDenisJohnson’s“TheLargesseof theSea

Maiden,”astoryaboutstories,abouthowwe’recomposedofthemandhowtheycompriseourpersonalmythologies.Johnsonbuildsaportraitofhisdistressednarratorthroughthestorieshetellsandabsorbs.Atonepoint,thenarratorpicksupthephonetohearoneofhisex-wives,throughaverypoorconnection,tellinghimthatshe’sdyingandwantstoridherselfofanylingeringbitternessshestillhasforhim.Hesummonsuphissins,murmursapologies,butatsomepointrealizesthathemayinfactbetalkingnottohisfirstwife,Ginny,buttohissecond,Jenny,andyet,inahighcomicmomentofcollateralacceptance,realizesthatthestoriesareoneandthesameandthatthesinsaretoo.Inasimilarway,SarahKokernot’s“M&L”switchespointofviewmidwaythroughthestorytoprovidetwoversionsofevents,bothinthepresent and the past, whichmakes the final shimmering image all the more powerful and powerfullysensual. And Justin Bigos’s “Fingerprints” employs a fractured assemblage of scenes to deepen theemotional chargeof the unease the protagonist feels over the stealthypresenceof his estranged father,whohauntsthecrucialmomentsofhislife.ThereareothersI’dliketoflagforyoutoo,butsincethisismerelythepreliminarytothemainevent,

I’ll be brief.KevinCanty’s “HappyEndings” gives usMcHenry, amanwidowed, retired, freed fromconvention,whoisonlynowcomingtotermswiththatfreedominawaythatmakesluminouswhatgoesoninthebackroomofamassageparlor,whileLauraLeeSmith’s“UnsafeatAnySpeed”playsthesamethemetoadifferentmelody,pushinghermiddle-agedprotagonistoutontothewildedgeofthingsjusttoseeifhe’llgiveinornot.Smithplaysforhumorandpoignancyboth,asdoesLouiseErdrichin“TheBigCat.”Edrich’sstorycametomeasabreathoffreshair,therarecomicpiecethatseemscontenttokeepitlightwhileat thesame timeopeningawindowon theexperienceof loveandcontainment. Incontrast,ThomasMcGuane’s“Motherlode”presentsuswithagrimmersortofcomedyandacastofcountryfolkasresolutelyoddasanyofFlanneryO’Connor’s.There’sawholemultiplicityofeffectsondisplayhere,whichisasitshouldbe,eachofthebeststories

beingbestinitsownway.ShobhaRao’s“KavithaandMustafa”isariveting,pulse-poundingnarrativethatalliestwostrangers,anunhappilymarriedyoungwomanandaresourcefulboy,duringabrutaltrainrobberyinPakistan,whileAriaBethSloss’s“North”unfoldsasalyricalmeditationonalifeinnatureandwhat itmeans toexplore theknownandunknownboth. In“AboutMyAunt,”JoanSilbercontraststwowomenofdifferentgenerationswhoinsistonlivingtheirownlivesintheirownunconventionalwaysandyet,foralltheirkinship,bothtemperamentalandfamilial,cannotfinallyapproveofeachother.BenFowlkes’s“You’llApologizeIfYouHaveTo”wasoneofmyimmediatefirst-roundchoices,anutterlyconvincingtough-guystorythatwouldn’thavebeenoutofplaceinHemingway’scanonandendsnotinviolencebutinamomentofgrace.SotoowasJessWalter’s“Mr.Voice,”astoryaboutwhatitmeanstobefamily,withoneextraordinarycharacteratthecenterofitandalastlinethatpunchedmerightintheplacewheremy emotions go to hide.Which bringsme to themostmoving story here,MaileMeloy’s“Madame Lazarus.” I read this one outdoors, with a view atmy command, but the view vanished soentirely I might as well have been enclosed in a box, and when it came back, I foundmyself in themortifyingpositionofsittingthereexposedandsobbinginpublic.Anoldman,thedeathofadog,Paris.WhatMeloyhasaccomplishedhereisnoeasything,evokingtrueemotion,tristesse,soul-break,overthetiesthatbindustothethingsof thisworldandthewaythey’reineluctablybroken,cruellyandforever,andnogoingback.

We’ve come a longway from the forced effects of BenjaminRosenblatt’s “Zelig” andMaryBoyleO’Reilly’shammerandanvilpoundingoutthelessonof“InBerlin.”Icanonlyimaginethatthisseries’foundingeditor,EdwardJ.O’Brien,wouldbebothamazedanddeeplygratified.

T.C.BOYLE

MEGANMAYHEWBERGMAN

TheSiegeatWhaleCayFROMTheKenyonReviewGEORGIEWOKEupinbedalone.SheslippedintoaswimsuitandwanderedouttoasoftstretchofwhitesandJoecalledFemmeBeach.TheCaribbeanskywascloudless,theairalreadyhot.Georgiewadedintotheocean,andassoonastheclearwaterreachedherkneesshedoveintoasmallwave,withexpertform.Shescannedthebalconyofthepinkstuccomansionforthefamiliarsilhouette,themuscularwomanina

monogrammed polo shirt, chewing a cigar. Joe liked to drink her morning coffee and watch Georgieswim.Butnottoday.Curious,Georgie toweled off, tossed a sundress over her suit, andwalked the dirt path toward the

generalstore,sandcoatingherankles,shellscracklingunderneathherbarefeet.Thepathwascoveredinlush,leafyoverhangandstoppedinfrontofacinder-blockbuildingwithathatchedroof.Georgielookedatthesunoverhead.Shelosttrackoftimeontheisland.Timedidn’tmatteronWhale

Cay.YoudidwhatJoewantedtodo,whenJoewantedtodoit.Thatwasall.Sheheardlaughterandfoundthevillagerspreparingaconchstew.Theyweredancing,drinkingdark

rumandhome-brewedbeerfromchippedporcelainjugsandtincans.Someturnedtonodather,steppingoverskinnychickensandchildrentorefill theircans.Thewomenthrewchoppedonions,potatoes,andhunksof rawfish intosteamingcauldrons, the insidesofwhichwereyellowedwithspices. Joe’s leadservant, Hannah, was frying johnnycakes on a pan over a fire, popping pigeon peas into her mouth.Everythingsmelledoffriedfish,blisteredpeppers,andgarlic.“You’remakingabigshow,”Georgiesaid.“WealwaysmakeabigshowwhenMarlenecomes,”Hannahsaidinherlow,hoarsevoice.Herwhite

hairwaswrapped.Shespokematter-of-factly,slappingthejohnnycakesbetweenthepalmsofherhands.“Who’sMarlene?”Georgieasked,leaningovertostickafingerinthestew.Hannahwavedheroff.Hannahnodded toward a sectionof the island invisible through thedensebrush, toward theusually

emptystonehousecoveredinhotpinkblossoms.Joehadneverexplainedthehouse.NowGeorgieknewwhy.Shefeltanunmistakablepangof jealousy,cutshortbytheroarofJoepullingupbehindthemonher

motorcycle.AsJoeworkedthebrakes,thebikefishtailedinthesand,andthewomenwereenvelopedinacloudofwhitedust.Asthedustsettled,GeorgieturnedtofindJoegrinning,acigargrippedbetweenherteeth.Sheworeasalmon-pinkshort-sleevedsilkblouseanddenimcutoffs.Hercopper-coloredhairwascroppedshort,herforearmscoveredincrudeindigo-coloredtattoos.“Whenthefastestwomanonwaterhasasix-hundred-horsepowerengine to testout,shedoes,”she’dexplained toGeorgie.“AndthenshegetsroaringdrunkwithhermechanicinHavanaandcomeshomewithstarsanddragonsonherarms.”“I’veneverhadthatkindofnight,”Georgiesaid.“Youwill,”Joesaid,laughing.“I’materribleinfluence.”Joeplantedherblack-and-white saddle shoes firmlyon thedirtpath to steadyherselfas shecut the

engineanddismounted.“Didn’tmeantogetsandinyourstew,”Joesaid,smilingatHannah.“Guessit’syourstewanyway,”Hannahsaidflatly.JoeslunganarmaroundGeorgie’sshouldersandkissedherhardonthecheek.“Thinkthey’llgettoo

drunk?”sheasked,noddingtowardtheislanders.“Isafifty-five-gallondrumofwinetoomuch?ShouldIstopthemfromdrinking?”

“Youonlymake ruleswhenyou’rebored,”Georgiesaid,her lithebodybecoming tenseunder Joe’sarm.“Ortryingtoshowoff.”“Don’tbesmart,love,”Joesaid,poppingherbathing-suitstrap.TheelasticsnappedacrossGeorgie’s

shoulder.“Hannah,” Joe shouted, walking backward, tuggingGeorgie toward the bikewith one hand. “Make

someofthoseconchfritterstoo.Andgetthemusicgoingaboutfour,orwhenyouseetheboatdockatthepier,OK?Likewetalkedabout.Loud.Festive.”Georgiecouldsmell fresh fish in thehotair,butterburning inHannah’span.Shewrappedherarms

aroundJoe’swaistandrestedherchinonhershoulder,resigned.ItwaslikethiswithJoe.Herauthorityontheislandwasabsolute.Shewouldalwaysdowhatshewantedtodo;thatwastheideabehindowningWhaleCay.Youcouldgoalongfortherideorgohome.HannahnoddedatJoe,herwrinkledskinclosinginaroundhereyesasshesmiledwhatGeorgiethought

wasafalsesmile.Shewavedthemoffwithflouredfingers.“Fourp.m.,”Joesaid,twistingthebike’sthrottle.“Don’tforget.”

Atquartertofive,fromthebalconyofhersuite,JoeandGeorgiewatchedtheMise-en-scène,aneighty-eight-foot yachtwithwhite paneling andwood siding, dock.Georgie felt a senseof dread as theboatglidedtoastopagainstthewoodenpierandlinesweretossedtowaitingvillagers.Thewindrustledthepalmsandthevisitorsontheboatdeckclutchedtheirhatswithonehandandwavedwiththeother.Every fewweeks therewas another boatload of beautiful, rich people—actresses and politicians—

pilingontoJoe’syachtinFortLauderdale,eagertoescapewartimeAmericaforWhaleCay,andwillingto cross 150miles of U-boat-infested waters to do it. “Eight hundred and fifty acres, the shape of awhale’stail,”JoehadsaidasshebroughtGeorgietotheisland.“Andit’sallmine.”Georgie scanned thedeck forMarleneanddidnot seeher.She feltdefensiveandchildish,butalso

starstruck. She’d seen at least ten ofMarlene’smovies and had always liked the actress. She seemedgrittyandincontrol.Thatwasfineonscreen.Butinperson—whointheirrightmindwantedtocompetewithamoviestar?NotGeorgie. Itwasn’t thatshewasn’tcompetitive;shewas.Back inFloridashe’dswum against the boys in pools and open water. But a good competitor always knows when she’soutmatched,andthat’showGeorgiefelt,watchingthebeautifulpeopleintheirbeautifulclothessquintinginthesunonboardtheMise-en-scène.Joestayedonthebalcony,wavingmadly.Georgiefloppedacrossthebed.Hertannedbodywasstark

againstthewhitesheets.“Let’ssendaroundofcocktails to theboat,”Joesaid,cominginto theroom,a large, tiledbedroom

with enormous windows, a hand-carved king bed sheathed in a mosquito net. Long curtains made ofbleachedmuslinframedthedoorsandwindows,whichwerenearlyalwaysopen,lettinginthehotairandlizards.“I’mgoingtoshowerfirst,”Georgiesaid,annoyedbyJoe’senthusiasm.Joe ducked into the bathroom before heading down, and Georgie could see her through the door,

greasingupherarmsanddécolletagewithbabyoil.“Preening?”sheasked.“Don’tbejealous,”Joesaid,nevertakinghereyesoffherselfinthemirror.“It’sawasteoftimeand

you’reaboveit.”Georgierolledoverontoherbackandstretchedherlegs,pointingherpaintedtoestotheceiling.She

couldfeeltheslightstingofsunburnonhernoseandshoulders.“Myadvice,”Joecalledfromthebathroom,“istosliponadress,grabastiffdrink,andslapasmile

onthatsourfaceofyours.”

GeorgieblewakisstoJoeandrolledoverinbed.Itwasn’tcleartoheriftheywerejokingorserious,butGeorgieknewitwasoneofthosenightswhenJoewouldbeloudandboastful,hardontheservants.Maybeevenhardonher.Theyacht’shornblew.Joeflewdownthestairs,saddleshoesslappingtheSpanishtile.Hannahmust

havegiven thesignal to thevillage,Georgie thought,because thesteeldrumsstarted,sounding like theplinkplinkofhardrainonatinroof.Itwashardtotellifitwasarealpartyornot.Joelikedtocontroltheatmosphere.Shelikedtheatrics.“Hotdamn,”sheheardJoecalloutasshejoggedtowardtheboat.“Youalllookbeautiful.Welcometo

WhaleCay.Haveadrink,already!Havetwo.”Georgie finally caught sightofMarlene, as Joehelpedheronto thedock.Shewore allwhite anda

wide-brimmedstrawhat.Evenfromyardsaway,shewasbreathtaking.Myfamilywouldn’tbelieve this,Georgie thought, realizing that shecouldnever share thedetailsof

this experience, that it was hers alone. Her God-fearing parents thought she was teaching swimminglessonsonaprivateisland.Theydidn’tknowshe’dspentthepastthreemonthsshackedupwithaforty-year-oldwomanizingheiresswhostalkedaroundherownprivate islandwearingamacheteacrossherchest, chasing shrimpcocktailswithmagnumsofchampagneeverynight.Awomanwhoentered intoashammarriage tosecureher inheritance,annulling it shortly thereafter.Awomanwhoracedexpensiveboats,whokeptacacheofweaponsandmapsfromtheFirstWorldWarinherownprivatemuseum,acylindricaltowerontheeastsideoftheisland.“They’ddisownmeiftheyknew,”GeorgietoldJoewhenshefirstcametoWhaleCay.“Myparents aredeadand Ididn’t like themwhen theywere alive,” Joe said, shrugging. “Worrying

aboutparentsisawasteoftime.It’syourlife.Let’shaveamartini.”Thatevening,asshelistenedtothesoundsofguestsfawningoverthemansiondownstairs,Georgiehad

trouble picking out a dress. Joe had ordered two customdresses and a tailored suit for herwhen sherealizedGeorgie’sduffelbagwasfullofbathingsuits.Georgiechosethelightbluetea-lengthdressthatJoesaidwouldlookgoodagainsthereyes;thesilkcrepefeltcrispagainstherskin.Shepulledherhairup, using two tortoiseshell combs she’d found in the closet, and ran bright Tangee lipstick across hermouth, all leftovers from other girlfriends, the photos of whomwere pinned to a corkboard in Joe’scloset.Georgie staredat themsometimes, theglossyblack-and-whitephotographsofbeautifulwomen.Horsewomenstraddlingthoroughbreds,actressesinleopard-printscarvesandfurcoats,writershunchedartfully over typewriters, maybe daughters of rich men who did nothing at all. She couldn’t help butcompareherselftothem,andalwaysfeltasifshecameupshort.“What I like about you,” Joe had told her on their first date, over lobster, “is that you’re just so

American.You’recherrypieandlemonade.You’reaticker-tapeparade.”She loved thewayJoe’s lavishattentionmadeher feel: exceptional.Andshe’dprettymuch felt that

wayuntilMarleneputonewell-heeledfootontotheisland.Georgiewandered into Joe’s closet and looked at thepicturesof Joe’s oldgirlfriends, their perfect

teethandcoiffedhair, looping inkysignatures.ForDarlingJoe,LoveForever.Howdid theydo theirhair?Howbigdidtheysmile?Anddiditmatter?LifewithJoeneverlasts,shethought,scanningthecorkboard.Therealizationfilled

herwithbothsadnessandrelief.OnthewaydownstairstomeetMarlene,Georgierealizedthelipstickwasamistake.Toomuch.She

wiped it offwith the back of her hand as she descended the stairs, then bolted past Joe and into thekitchen,squeezinginamongtheservantstowashitoff.Everyonewassweating,yelling.ThescentofcutonionsmadeGeorgie’seyeswellup.OutsidethedoorshecouldhearJoeandMarlenetalking.“Anotheroneofyourgirls,darling?Where’sshefrom?Whatdoesshedo?”“IpluckedherfromthemermaidtankinSarasota.”

“That’stoomuch.”“She’sahelluvaswimmer,”Joesaid.“Anddoescatalogwork.”“Catalogwork,yousay.Isn’tthatdear.”Georgiepressedherhandstothekitchendoor,waitingfortheblushtodrainfromherfacebeforeshe

walkedout.ShetookherseatnexttoJoe,whoclappedherheartilyontheback.The dining room was chic but simply furnished—whitewashed walls and heavy Indonesian teak

furniture.Thelightingwaslowandtheflickerof tealightsandlargevotivescaughtonthewell-shinedsilver. The air smelled of freshly baked rolls and warm butter. Nothing, Georgie knew, was ever anaccidentatJoe’sdinnertable—notthecolorofthewine,thetemperatureofthemeat,andcertainlynottheseatingarrangement.She’dbeenplacedonJoe’srightatthecenterofthetable.Marlene,dressedinwhiteslacksandablue

linenshirtunbuttonedlowenoughtocatchattention,wasacrossfromJoe.Marleneslidacandleaside.“Iwant to seeyour face, darling,” she said, settlingher eyeson Joe’s.Georgie thoughtof theways

she’dheardMarlene’seyesdescribedinmagazines:Dreamy.Cat-shaped.Smoldering.Bedroomeyes.JoesnortedbutGeorgieknewshelikedtheattention.Joewasincrediblyvain;thoughshedidn’twear

makeup, she spent timecarefullycraftingherappearance.She likedanything thatmadeher look tough:bowieknives,tattoos,anecklacemadeofshark’steeth.“ThisisMarlene,”Joesaid,introducingGeorgie.“Pleasedtomakeyouracquaintance,”Georgiesaidsoftly,noddingherhead.“I’m sure,”Marlenepurred. “I just love theway she talks,” she said to Joe, laughing as ifGeorgie

wasn’tatthetable.“Ilearnedtotalklikethatonce,foramovie.”Georgiesilentlyfumed.Butwhatgoodwasstartingascene?IfI’mpatient,shethought,I’llhaveJoeto

myselfinamatterofdays.“I’msureJoementionedthis,”Marlenesaid,leaningforward,“butIaskfornophotographsorreports

tothepress.”“Shehastokeepalittlemystery,”Joeexplained,turningtoGeorgie.“Isthatwhatyoucallit?”Marleneasked,exhaling.“Imightsaysanity.”“Irespectyourprivacy,”Georgiesaid,annoyedatthereverenceshecouldhearinherownvoice.“Tore-invention,”Joesaid,tiltingherglasstowardMarlene.“It’sexhausting,”Marlenesaid,finishingherglass.AsidefromMarlene,therewereeightotherguestsatdinner—includingPhillip,thepriestJoekepton

theisland,aYale-educateddrunk,theonlyotherwhitefull-timeinhabitantoftheisland.Therewerealsotheguestsfromtheboat:Clark,aflamboyantdirector;twofinanciersandtheirwell-dressedwives,whospokeonlytooneanother;Richard,amarriedstatesenatorfromCalifornia;andMiguel,Richard’smuchyounger, mustachioed companion of Cuban descent. Georgie noticed immediately that no one spokedirectlytoherorMiguel.TheythinkIdon’thaveanythingworthsaying,shethought.Sheturnedthenapkinoverandoverinher

hands,asifwringingitout.BeforeJoe,she’dneverbeenaroundpeoplewithmoney.Backhome,moneywasthelocaldoctoror

dentist,someonewhocouldaffordtosendachildtoprivateschool.Hannah, dressed in a simple black uniform, brought out fish chowder and stuffed lobster tail. The

guestssmokedbetweencourses.Occasionally,Joegotupandmadetheroundswiththewine,toppingoffthelong-stemmedcrystalglassesshe’dimportedfromFrance.Aftertheentréeshadbeenserved,Hannahsetroundsofroastedpineappleinfrontofeachguest.“Howmanypeoplelivehere?”ClarkaskedJoe,mouthopen,juicerunningdownhischin.“Abouttwohundredandfifty,”shesaid,leaningbackinherchair,animperialgrinonherface.“But

they’realwaysreproducing,nomatterhowmanycondomsIhandout.There’soneduetogivebirthany

daynow.What’shername,Hannah?”“Celia.”“Willshegotothehospital?”Clarkasked.“Irunafreeclinic,”Joesaid.“Youhaveadoctorhere?”“I’m thedoctor,” Joesaid,grinning.“I’m thedoctorand thekingand thepoliceman. I’m the factory

boss, themechanic too. I’m theeverythinghere. Igiveoutacetaminophenandmosquitonetsand I sellrum.Isellmorerumthananything.”“Well,morerumthen!”Clarksaid,laughing.Joestoodup,grabbedanetcheddecanterfullofamber-coloredliquor,unscrewedthetop,andtooka

swig.Shepasseditdownthetable,andeveryonebutthefinanciers’wivesdidthesame.GeorgiekepthereyesonMarlene,whoseemedunimpressed,distracted.Sheremovedacompactmirrorfromherbagandranherindexfingeralongherforehead,asifrubbingoutthefaintwrinkles.Whenshewasn’tspeaking,Marlenelethercigarettedangleoutofonesideofhermouth,orhelditwith

herhandatherforehead,restingherforeheadonherwristasifshewastiredoftheworld.ShesmokedLuckyStrikes,Joesaid,becausethecompanysentthemtoherbythecartonforfree.“Howdoesshedoit?”GeorgiewhisperedtoJoe,hopingforalaugh.“Howdoeshercigarettenever

goout?”Joe ignoredher, leaning instead toMarlene.“Tellmeaboutyournext film,”shesaid,drummingher

fingersonthewhitetablecloth.“We’llstartfilmingintheSovietOccupationZone,”Marlenesaid,exhaling.“Nowestern?”“Soon.Youlikegirlswithguns,don’tyou,Joe?”“Andyourpart?”Joeasked.“Acabaretgirl,”Marlenesaid.“Butthecold-heartedkind.MycharacterisaNazicollaborator.”Joeraisedhereyebrows.“Despicable,”Marlenesaidinherhuskyvoice,“isn’tit?Compelling,though,Ipromise.”“Youalwaysare,”Joesaid.Georgie sighed and stabbed a piece of pineapplewith her fork. The rum came toMarlene and she

turnedthebottleupwithonemanicuredhand.Sheevenknewhowtodrinkbeautifully,Georgiethought.JoemovedherfingerstoGeorgie’sthighandsqueezed.Itwasalmostafatherlygesture,Georgiefelt.A

we-will-talk-about-this-later gesture. When the last sip of rum came to Georgie, she finished it off,coughingalittleastheliquorburnedherthroat.“Morerum?”Joeaskedthetable,glancingattheemptydecanter.“Champagne,ifyouhaveit,”Marlenesaid.“Ofcourse,”Joesaid.Shepushedherchairbackandwenttodiscusstheorderwithaservantinthe

kitchen.Georgie shifted uncomfortably in her chair, anxious at the thought of being left alonewithMarlene.

NexttohershecouldseeMiguelstrokingthesenator’shandunderneaththedinnertablewhilethesenatorcarriedonaconversationaboutthewarwiththefinanciers.“Andyou,”MarlenesaidtoGeorgie.“DoyouplanonreturningtoFloridasoon?Pickupwhereyou

leftoffwiththatmermaidact?”Georgiefeltherselfblushingeventhoughshewilledherbodynottobetrayher.“It’snopictureshow,”Georgiesaid,smilingsweetly.“ButIsupposeI’llgobackoneofthesedays.”“Isupposeyouwill,”Marlenesaid,staringhardatherforaminute.Thensheflickedtheashesfrom

hercigaretteontothesideofhersaucerandstoodup,herplateoffooduntouched.Georgiewatchedher

walkacrosstheroom.Marlenehadaconfidentwalk,herhipsthrustforwardandhershouldersheldbackasifshekneweveryonewaswatching,andfromwhatGeorgiecouldtell,scanningthetable,theywere.Marleneslippedintothekitchen.GeorgieimaginedherarmsaroundJoe,abottleofchampagneonthe

counter.Bedroomeyes.GeorgietookwhatwasleftinJoe’swineglassanddecidedtogetdrunk,verydrunk.Thestemofthe

glassfeltlikesomethingshecouldbreak,andtheChardonnaytastedlikevinegarinhermouth.When Joe and Marlene didn’t return after a half-hour, Georgie excused herself, embarrassed. She

climbedthe longstaircase toherroom, tookoffherdress,andstoodon thebalcony, thehotaironherskin,watchingthedarkoceanmeetthenightsky,listeningtothewatercrashgentlyontotheisland.Some days it scared her to be on the small island. When storms blew in you could watch them

approachingformiles,andwhentheycamedownitfeltasiftheoceancouldwashrightoverWhaleCay.Icouldalwaysleave,Georgiethought.IcouldalwaysgobackhomewhenI’vehadenough,andmaybe

I’vehadenough.She satdownat Joe’sdesk, anantique secretary still fullofpencils and rubberbands Joeonce said

she’dcollectedasachild,andbegantowritealetterhome.Thensherealizedshehadnothingtosay.Shepicturedherhouse,asmallwhite-sidedsquareherfatherhadbuiltwiththehelpofhisbrothers,

withinwalkingdistancefromthenaturalsprings.Alligatorsoftensunnedthemselvesonthelawnorfoundthe shade of hermother’s forsythia.Down the road therewere boys running glass-bottomboats in thespringsandgirlswithfrostedhairandbronzedlegsjustwaitingtobediscovered,orifthatdidn’twork,married.Andcould shegoback to itnow?Georgiewondered.Thebucktoothedboyspressing their facesup

against the aquarium glass to get a better look at her legs and breasts? The harsh plastic of the fakemermaidtail?Hermother’sbiscuitsandherfather’soldcarandeggsaladonSundays?Sheknewshecouldn’tstayatWhaleCayforever.Butshesureashelldidn’twanttogohome.Intheearlyhoursofmorning,justasthesunwascastinganorangewedgeoflightacrossthewater,Joe

climbed into bed, reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke. She put her arms around Georgie andwhispered,“I’msorry.”Georgiedidn’tanswer,andalthoughshehadn’tplannedonresponding,begantocry,withJoe’srough

armsacrossherheavingchest.Theyfellasleep.ShedreamedofSarasota.Therewasthecinder-blockchangingroomthatsmelledofbleachandbrine.Onthedoorhungablue

star,asif tosuggestthat theshowgirlscouldclaimsuchstatus.Abucketoflipstickssatonthecounter,soontobewhiskedawaytotherefrigeratortokeepthemfrommelting.Georgiepulledonhermermaidtailandslippedintothetank, lettingherselffall throughthebrackish

water,down,downtotheperformancearena.ShesmiledthroughthegreensaltywaterandpretendedtotakeasipofCoca-Colaascustomerspressedtheirnosestotheglasswallsofthetank.Sheflippedherrubberfishtailandsuckedairfromaplastichoseaselegantlyasshecould,fillingherlungswithoxygenuntiltheyhurt.Afewminnowsflittedby,glintinginthehotFloridasunthathungoverthewater,warmingtheshowtanklikeapotofsoup.Letting thehosedrift for justamoment,Georgieexecuteda seriesofgraceful flips,archingher taut

swimmer’sbodyuntilitmadeacircle.Shecouldseetheaudienceclappinganddecidedshehadenoughairtoflipagain.Breathingthroughthetrickswashard,butafewmonthsintotheseason,musclememorytookover.NextGeorgiepretendedtobrushherlongblondhairunderwaterwhileoneofSarasota’smanychurch

groupslookedon,lickingconesofvanillaicecream,pointingather.Howdoessheusethebathroom?Canshewalkinthatthing?Hey,Sunshine,canIgetyournumber?

Thatafternoon,asthesuncrestedinthecloudlesssky,Marlene,Georgie,andJoehadlunchonFemmeBeach.Marleneworeanenormoushatandsunglassesandreclined,topless,inachair.Shepushedasideherplateofblackenedfish.Joe,aftereatinghershareandsomeofMarlene’s,kickedoffhershoesandjoinedGeorgieinthewater,dampeningherkhakishorts.Neitherofthemspokeforamoment.“Marleneneedsaplacewhereshecanbeherself,”Joesaideventually.“Sheneedsonepersonshecan

countonandI’mthatperson.”“Oh,”Georgiesaid,placingapalmontopofthecalmwater.“Isithardbeingamoviestar?”Joe sighed. “She’s been out pushingwar bonds, and she’s exhausted. She’smore delicate than she

looks.Shedrinkstoomuch.”“You’reworried?”“Sometimesshe’snotallowedtoeat.It’shardonhernerves.”“Isthiswhytheothergirlsleft?”Georgieasked,lookingoutontothelongstretchofwater.“Youcould

havementionedher,youknow.Youcouldhavetoldme.”“Trytobeopen-minded,darling.”“I’ll try,” Georgie said, diving into the water, swimming out as far as she ever had, leaving Joe

standingknee-deepbehindher.MaybeJoewouldworry,shethought,butwhenshelookedback,Joewasin a chair, one hand onMarlene’s arm, and their heads were tipped toward each other, oblivious toanythingelse.WhatexhaustedGeorgieaboutJoe’sguestsisthattheywereallimportant.Andimportantpeoplemade

youfeelnotnormal,butunimportant.ThatnighttheotherguestswentonadinnercruiseontheMise-en-scène,whileJoeentertainedMarlene,Georgie,andPhillip.Theywereseatedatasmalltableononeofthemansion’smanybalconies,candlesandtorchesflickering,bugsbitingthebacksoftheirnecks,wineglassesfilledandrefilled.“HowdoyoulikeWhaleCay?”PhillipaskedMarlene.“IpreferthedragballsinBerlin,”shesaid, inavoicethatbeliedherboredom.“ButyouknowI’ve

beencomingherelongerthanyou’vebeenaround?”Marleneleanedoverherbowlofsteamedmussels,inspectingtheplate.Shepushedthemaroundinthe

brothwithher fork. “Tellmehowyougot to the island?” she askedPhillip,who, toGeorgie, alwaysseemedtobesweatingandhadaknackforshowingupwhenJoehadherbestliquorout.“AfterYaleDivinitySchool—”“Hesailedupdrunkinadugoutcanoe.Ithreatenedtokillhim,”Joeinterrupted.“ThenIbuilthimhis

ownchurch,”shesaidproudly,pointingtoasmallstonetempleperchedonacliff,justvisiblethroughthebrush.Ithadtworusticwindowswithpointedarches,almostgothic,asifitbelongedtoanothercentury.“Hesleepsinthere,”Joesaid.“ItalktoGod,”Phillipsaid,indignant,spectaclesslidingdownhisnose.Heslurpedhiswine.“Isthatwhatyoucallit?”Joesaid,rollinghereyes.“Whatdoyouhavetosayaboutallthis?”MarleneaskedGeorgie.“Aboutwhat?”“God.”“Whywouldyouaskme?”Georgiefeltherfacegethot.“Whynot?”Georgierememberedthewaysittinginchurchmadeherfeelpretty,hermother’shandoverhers.She

could recall the smell of hermother, the same two dresses shewore to church, her thrifty beauty anddime-storelipstickandroughhandsandslowspeechandwayoflifethatwomenlikeJoeandMarlenedidn’tknow.DespitePhillip, thechurchstillhadholiness,shethought.Just lastweekHannahhadsung

“HisEyeIsontheSparrow”afterPhillip’ssermon,andithadbroughttearstohereyesandtakenhertoaplacepastwhere sheused togo inherhometownchurch, somethingpastGodas sheunderstoodHim,somethingattainableonlywhenlivingawayfromeveryoneandeverythingshehadeverknown.Thatevenif He wasn’t a certain thing, He could be a feeling, and maybe she’d felt Him here. That day she’drealizedshewashappieronWhaleCaythanshe’deverbeenanywhereelse.She’dbeenwaitingallherlifeforsomethingbigtohappen,andmaybeJoewasit.“IsupposeIdon’tknowanythingaboutGod,”shesaid.“NothingIcanputintowords.”“Youaren’toldenoughtoknowmuchyet,areyou?Youhaven’tbeenpushedtoyourlimits.Andyou,

Joe?”Marleneasked.“Whatdoyouknow?”Joewasquiet.Sheshookherhead,coughed.“IguessIhadwhatyou’dcallacrisisoffaith,”shesaid.“WhenIdroveanambulanceduringtheFirst

War.IsawthingsthereIdidn’tknowwerepossible.Isaw—”MarlenecuppedherhandoverJoe’s.“Exactly,”shesaid.“Thoseofusthathaveseenthewarfirsthand

—howcanyoufeelanotherway?”Firsthand,Georgiethought.Whatwasfirsthandaboutseeingawarwithaposhhotelroomandsecurity

detail,cooingtosoldiersfromastage?FirsthandwasherbrotherHank,sixteenmonthsdead,who’dbeenfoundmalnourishedandshotonthebeachinTarawa.“That’sexactlywhenyouneedtoletHimin,”Phillipsaid,glassy-eyed.“Youhaveaconvenienttypeofrighteousness,”Joesaid.“Perhaps.”“Idon’tseehowapriestcanlackcommitmentinthesetimes,”Marlenesaid,scratchingthebackofher

neck,eyesflashing.Philliprose,flustered.“Ifyou’llexcuseme,oneofournativewomenisinlabor,”hesaid,“andImust

attend.”HeturnedtoJoe.“Celia’sbeengoingforhoursnow.”“Herbodyknowswhattodo,”Joesaid,lightingacigarette.Joe and Marlene smoked. Georgie poured herself another glass of wine, finding the silence

excruciating.Nearbyapeahenscreamedfromaroostinoneofthesmalltreesthatflankedthebalcony.TheislandhadbeenabirdsanctuarybeforeJoeboughtit,andexoticbirdsstillfishedfromtheshore.“Grab a sweater,” Joe instructed, standing up, stamping out her cigarette. “Iwant to take you girls

racing.”Thewaterwas shinyandblackas JoepulledMarleneandGeorgieontoa smallboat shaped likea

torpedo.Itsatlowonthewaterandhadroomforonlytwo,butGeorgieandMarlenewerethinandthethreewomenpressedtogetheracrosstheleatherbenchseat.“Leaveyourdrinksonthedock,”Joewarned.“It’snotthatkindofjoyride.”Not fiveminutes later theywere ripping through thewater,Georgie’s hair blown straight back, spit

flying from hermouth, her blue eyeswatering.At first shewas petrified. She felt as if thewindwasexploringherbody, inflating the fabricofherdress, tunneling throughhernostrils, throat, andchest.Asmall sound escaped her mouth but was thrown backward, lost, muted. She looked down and sawMarlene’sjawsetintoatightline,herknuckleswhiteasherlongfingersgrippedtheedgeoftheseat.Joepressedon,speedingthroughtheblacknessuntilitlookedlikenothingness,andGeorgie’sfearbecamearush.Thebottomoftheboatslappedthewater,skippedoverit,cutthroughit,anditfeltasthoughitmight

capsize,flipover,skidacrossthesurface,dumpingthem,breakingtheirbodies.Georgie’steethbegantohurtandshebithertonguebymistake.Thetasteofbloodfilledhermouthbutshefeltnothingbutbliss,jarredintoanotherstateofbeing,offorgetting,akindofhigh.“Enough,”Marleneyelled,grabbingJoe’sshoulder.“Enough!Stop.”“Keepgoing,”Georgieyelled.“Don’tstop.”

Joelaughedandslowedtheboat,cuttingtheengineuntiltherewassilence,onlytheliquidsoundofthewaterlappingagainstthesideofthecraft.“Takemebacktotheisland,”Marlenesnapped.Georgiestoodup,nearlylosingherbalance.“Whatareyoudoing?”Joedemanded.“Goingforaswim,”Georgiesaid.Georgiekickedoffhersandals,unbuttonedhersundress,leavingitinapoolonthedeckoftheboat.

Shedoveintotheblackwater,feltherbodycutthroughitlikeamissile.“We’reamileoffshore!Getbackintheboat!”Joeshouted.Joecrankedtheengineandcircledtheboat,lookingforGeorgie,buteverythingwasdarkandGeorgie

stayed still so as not to be found, swimmingunderwater, splashless, until Joe gaveup andheaded forshore.Georgieorientedherself, lookingupoccasionallyat the faint lightson the island, theonly thing that

keptherfromswimmingoutintotheopensea.ItfeltgoodtoscareJoe.Todowhatshewantedtodo.Toscare herself. To risk death.To do the one thing shewas good at, to dull all of her thoughtswith themechanics of swimming, the motion of kicking her feet, rotating her arms, cutting through the water,dippingher face into thewarmseaandcomingupforair,exertingherself,exhaustingherbody,givingeverythingovertoheart,blood,muscle,bone.Thatnight,Georgiecreptintothebedroom,feelingalittlelesshelplessthanshehadthenightbefore.Thebedwasempty,assheexpecteditmightbe.EvenifJoewaswithMarlene,shewouldstillbeworried,andGeorgielikedtheideaofkeepingJoeupatnight.Shewenttothebathroomtocombherhairbeforebed.Shestaredatherselfinthemirror.Theoverhead

lightwastoobright.Hereyeslookedhollow.Sheshouldeatmore,drinkless,shethought.Asshereachedforthecomb,sheheardwhimperinginthewalk-incloset.Herheartbegantobeatquickly.Shetiptoedtotheclosetandopened thedoor to findJoesittingwithherbackagainst thewall, silkblousesoaked insweat,acacheofgunsandknivesatherfeet.Shewasbreathingquickly,chestheaving.ShelookedupatGeorgiewithglistening,scaredbrowneyes.“Goaway,”shesaid,hervoicehoarse.“Don’tlookatmelikethis.”Georgiestoodinthedoorway,tanlegspeekingoutfromunderneaththewhite-cottongauzegownJoe

hadboughtforher,unsureofwhattosay.“AreyouOK?”sheasked.“Areyousick?”“Isaidgoaway.”ButGeorgie sensed hesitation in Joe’s voice and kneeled down beside her, sliding two guns away,

bringingJoetoherchest.Joegavein,sweatingandsobbingagainstGeorgie’sskin.“Youcan’tbegintounderstandwhatIsaw,”Joewhispered.“Therewerebombswhistlingoverhead,

dropping in front ofme as I drove.Thereweremenwithout heads, armswithout bodies, the smell ofgangrenewehadtowashfromtheambulance—everyday, thatsmell.Thereweretheboyswhodied.Iheardthemdying.Theirfaceswereburnedoff.Theywerenothumananymore.Icanstillseethem.”“Shh,”Georgiesaid.“Thatwasalongtimeagoandyou’rehere.You’resafe.”“Whydidyouleavemelikethat?”“Ijustwantedtoswim.”“Ithoughtyouweredead.”“Where’sMarlene?”“Asleep.Inthestonehouse.”GeorgiekissedJoetenderlyontheforehead,cheeks,andfinallyhermouth,andeventuallytheymoved

tothebed.Georgiehadneverbeentheaggressor,butshepushedJoeontoherbackandpinnedherwristsdown,straddlingher,bitingherneckandshoulders.

Thatnight,astheylayquietlyonthebed,theycouldhearthefaintsoundsofawomanscreaming,notinangerbutinpain.Celia,Georgiethought,wincing.Whenmorningcame,Joeactedasifnothinghadhappened,andGeorgiefoundherstandingnakedon

thepatio,newsboycapoverher shorthair, her tonedandbroadbody sunnedandconfident, bigwhiteAmericanteethclenchingacigarfromwhichsheneverinhaled.“ShallwehavebreakfastwithMarlene?”shesaid.“Ijustthought—”“Don’tthink.Don’tevermakethemistakeofthinkinghere.”

Georgiecametothedinnertablethatnightwitharenewedsenseofentitlement.Shebelongedthere.Shesatdown,consideredherposture,andtookalongdrinkofwhitewine,peeringattheguestsovertherimofherglass.Marlene came into the dining room like a bull. She plowed past the rest of the company, ignored

Georgie,andreachedforJoe’shandacrossthetable.Hannahsetshrimpcocktailsandslicedlemonsinfrontofeachguest.PhillipandJoewereinanargumentaboutusingtheboattotakeCeliatothehospitalinNassau.“Justputheronthegoddamnboat,”Phillipsaid,ignoringhisfood.“She’sbeeninlaborfortwodays.”“WhatdidtheydobeforeIwashere?”Joeasked,exasperated,lettingherforkhittheplateindisgust.

“Tellhertojustdothat.”“Darling,haveanotherglassofwine,”Marlenesaid.“Don’tgetworkedup.”“Have you seen her?” Phillip demanded. “Have youheard her? She’s suffering. She’s dying.What

don’tyouunderstand?”“I’veseensuffering,”Joesaid.“Realsuffering.”“Oh,don’tpulloutyouroldwarstoriesnow,”Phillipscoffed,tossinghisgreasy,unwashedhairtothe

side.“Joe—”Georgiebegan.“It’snotyourplace,”Marlenehissed.“Justputherontheboatandlet’sgo,”Phillipinterrupted.“Let’sgonow.She’sgoingtodie.I’mgoing

togetastretcherandwe’llputherontheboat.”“You’lldowhatItellyoutodo,”Joesnapped,solemnandintimidating.“Forstarters,youcanshower

andsoberupbeforeyoucometomydinnertable.”Georgielookeddownatherplate,atonceashamedofJoe’ssavageauthorityandinaweofit.“Doyouwanttogooutsidewithme?”shewhispered,lightlytouchingJoe’sshoulder.“Walkthisoff,

thinkaboutit?”Joeignoredher.Phillipstoodupfromthetable,foggyspectaclesslidingoffhisnoseinthewetheat.“Soberup?Please.

You’re so regal, aren’t you? The villagers hate you. You punish them for infidelity and you’ve got adifferentwomanhereeverymonth.Youwalkaroundwithamachetestrapped toyourchest likeyou’rejustwaitingforanuprising.Maybeyou’llgetwhatyouwant,”hesaid.“They’retalkingaboutit,youknow,”hesaid.“Maybewe’lljusttaketheboat.”Joe stood up and leered at Phillip, practically spitting across the table. “They can hateme all they

want.Theyneedme.Whydon’tyougetbackonthatgoddamncanoeyoucameinon?Yaledegree,myass.You’readeserter.Don’tthinkIdon’tknowit.”“Youdon’tknowanythingaboutme,”Phillipspatback,stormingoutofthediningroom.Georgiecould

hearhimshoutingashemarchedawayinthestillair.“Blessedistheonewhodoesnotwalkinstepwiththewicked!”“IthinkweshouldtakehertoNassau,”Georgiesaid,turningtoJoe.

“Ohplease,”Marlenesaid,rollinghereyes.“Itisn’tthetimetointerfere.”“It’stherightthingtodo.”“Whatdoyouknow?”Marlenesnapped.“Alittlerumwillmakeusallfeelbetter,”Joesaid,forcingasmile.“Hannah?”“Itdoesn’tmakemefeelbetteratall,”Georgiesaidquietly.Shehadbeendeterminedtoholdherown

tonight,tolookMarleneintheeye,toprovetoherthatsheandJoewereaworthycouple.Butshequicklysensedalossofcontrol,ofconfidence.“It’sallaboutyou,isit?”Marleneasked.“You’reluckytobehere,darling,youknowthat?”“Weneedtogetthehelloutofthisroom,”Joeannounced,knockingoverherchairasshestoodup.Joegatheredherguestsinthelivingroom,whichwasfullofplushsofasandpolishedtablescoveredin

crystalashtrays.Mountedswordfishandacheetahskindecoratedthewhitewashedwalls.Joeput on aLesBrown record andopened a cigar box.She clampeddownon a cigar and carried

aroundadecanterofScotchintheother,toppingoffherguests’drinks.“Norestraint,”shesaid.“Drinkasmuchasyouwant.It’searly.”Georgieleanedagainstawindow,gulpeddownherdrink,andstaredoutattheblacksea.Joepulled

herawayandintoacorner.“Areyouhavingagoodenoughtime?”sheasked.“Areyouangry?”“Whatdoyouthink?”Georgiesaid.“You’redrunk,”Joesaid.“What?”Georgieasked,voicefalselysweet.“I’mtheonlyonewho’snotallowedtohaveabignight?”“It’sjustunusualforyou,”Joesaid.“WeshouldtaketheboattoNassau,”Georgiesaid.“You’reslurring,”Joesaid.“Andbesides,I’vesaidno.IfIgo,I’llloseauthority.”“Youmightloseitanyway.”Joewassilentandturnedtorefreshherdrink,pausingtotalkwiththefinanciers.Georgiestayedatthe

window.Shecouldheartheislanders’voicesoutside.Shecouldn’tunderstandwhattheyweresaying,buttheywereloudandanimated.Hannah,whowasmakingtheroundswithaboxofcigars,lingeredbythewindow,aworriedexpressiononherface.Wouldthenativeislandersriot?Orworse,attackthehouseandguests?Maybe.Butwhatweighedmost

heavilyonGeorgiewasthesenseofbeingcomplicitinCelia’ssuffering.Marleneapproached, lockingeyeswithher.She toppedoffGeorgie’sglasswithstraight rumand lit

anothercigarette.“Gotuglyinthere,didn’tit?”shesaid,exhaling.Georgienodded.“Betyoudon’tseethateverydayinthemermaidtank,”Marlenesaid.“ButJoecanhandleit.Evenif

youcan’t.Thoseofusthathavebeentothewar—”Georgie held up a hand, stopping Marlene. She felt claustrophobic, drunk. She knew she wasn’t

thinkingclearly.Herbodywaswarm from the rumandwine and she felt anxious, as if sheneeded tomove.“TellJoeI’moffforawalk.Tothinkaboutthings.”“Stayoutawhile,”Marlenesaid,callingafterher.Georgie left the house through the kitchen and walked away from the group of islanders who had

clusterednearthedock.Shewantedtotellthemthattheywereright,thattheyshouldtaketheboat,butshewastooashamedtolookthemintheeyes,tooafraidtospeakagainstJoe.ShewantedtotalktoPhillip,soshefollowedthepathofcrushedoystersandsandnorthtowardthesimplesilhouetteofthesmallstonechurch.

Georgierecalledthehymnhermotherlikedtosing—“OGod,OurHelpinAgesPast.”Shewastone-deafbutcouldn’thelpherselffromsinging.Asthewordscame,hertonguefelttoobigforhermouth,butstill thesoundofhervoicefilledherwithunexpectedserenity.She tookanotherdrinkfromthecrystaltumblershe’dtakenfromthehouseandsangthefirstverseagain,andthenagain,untilshecouldfeelhermother’snailsonherback,calmingherdown,lovinghertosleep.ShefoundPhillippassedoutonawoodenbenchinfrontofthechurch.“Phillip,” she said, gently rocking himwith her hands.Hewas shirtless and his skinwaswarm.A

singlesilvercrossJoehadgivenhimhungaroundhisneckandacrosshischest.“Phillip,”shesaid.Hestirredbutdidn’topenhiseyes.Shepinchedtheskinabovehishipbone.“What?”hesaid,openinghiseyesintoslits.“Taketheboat.Justtakeit.”“I’minnoshapetodriveaboat.”“Youhaveto.Someonehasto.”“Ilikeyou,Georgie,”Phillipsaid.“Butyouhavetoleavemethehellalonenow.”Hewavedheroff

withonehand,theothertuckedunderneathhishead.“Butyousaid—”“Igiveup.Youshouldtoo.”Herolledawayfromher,turninghisfacetowardthebackofthebench.Shetookanothersipofherdrinkwhilewaitingforhimtorollbackover.Whenhedidn’t,shewalked

to theplacewhere the sandy islandbrokeoff intohigh cliffs andbegan towalk the rimof the island,staringatthewaterbelow.Lookingdownatthewavesfromthecliffs,sherememberedFlorida.Sherememberedsippingonthe

air hose anddrinkingCoca-Colawhile touristswatchedher through thickglass at the aquarium show.SometimesGeorgiehadtoremindherselfthatshecouldnot,infact,breatheunderwater.“Whateveryoudo,”theaquariumownerhadsaid,“bepretty.”Andso thegirlsalwayspointed their toesand ignored thecharleyhorses in theircalvesor theway

theireyesbegantostinginthebrackishwater.Georgierecalledthefeelingofherhandsonthearchofanotherswimmer’sbackastheyperformedanunderwateradagio,thefatigueinherbodyaftertheback-to-backFourthofJulyshows.Sherememberedatimewhenshefeltgoodaboutherself.She thought of Joe, and her arm aroundMarlene’s back. She thought of the stone house, and for a

minute,shewantedtoleaveWhaleCayandreturnhome.Buthomewouldneverbethesame.IndaystheyachtwouldpullawayandJoewouldwakeherupwithcoffeeinbed.Hannahwouldmake

hereggs,runnyandheapedonasliceofwhitetoastwithfruitontheside.Shewouldtakehermorningswimsandreadabookunderneaththeshadeofapalm.Andwouldthatbeenough?Theyhadarockintheyardbackhome.Herfatherusedtoliftthecopperheadsoutofthegardenshed

withhishoeandslicethemopenwiththemetaledge,theirpoisonousbodieswrithingwithoutheadsforamomenton topof the rock.The spring ritualhadhorrifiedand intriguedGeorgie, and itwaswhat shepicturednow,standingabovethesea,swaying,thefeelingofrocksunderneathherfeet.Butshemightneverseethatrockagain,shethought.It was dark and she couldn’t see well. There was shouting in the distance. She felt bewildered,

hysterical.Shesetdownherglassandtookoffhersandals.Shewouldfeelbetterinthewater,stronger.Withcasualelegance,shebroughtherhandsinfrontofherbodyandoverherheadanddoveoff the

cliff.Asshebegantofalltowardthewater,fallingbeautifully,toespointed,shewonderedifshe’dgottenmixedupandpickedthewrongplacetodive.Shewasfallingintothetankagain,thebrackishwaterinhereyes,butnoonewaswatching.Shewascherrypie.Shewasaticker-tapeparade.

Herhandshit thewater first.Thewater rushedoverher ears, deafeningher.Her limbswentnumb,adrenalinemovingthroughheruntilshewasuprightagain,gulpingair.Shetreadedwater,fingersmovingagainst thedarksea,pushingitawaytokeepherselfafloat.There

wererocksjuttingoutfromthewater,anearmiss.Therewerestrangebirdsnestingin the tallgrass,anativewomanbleedingon a strawmattress in ahuton the south shore, a stonehouse strangledby figtrees.

JUSTINBIGOS

FingerprintsFROMMcSweeney’sQuarterlyASTORY:Aman,onceawealthybankerbutnowanonymousinrags,retired,richerthanever,wanderedthestreetsofourcity.Hedugthroughtrash,atetrash,sleptonsidewalks,walkedwithaslightlimp,asifhe had years before suffered aminor stroke, or a terrible beating.Years before, in fact, hiswife andchildrenhaddiedonahighway.Afterdrinkingawayadecadeofhislife,themanquitalcohol,quithisjob,quithislife.Hebecamesomeoneelse.Dowestillthinkitpossible?Tobecomesomeoneelse?Weknowthis is justastory,so:Hewandered thestreetsofourcityandhesmiledatanyonewhomethiseyes.Andtothosewhothenreturnedhissmilewiththeirown,hewouldspeak:“Excuseme,ma’am,”or“Sir,justamoment,”andhewouldfake-limpwithallhisdignity—theycouldseethisnow,theoneswholooked—andhewouldreachoutahand.Thosewhotookit—veryfew,veryfew,Godsaveusall—wouldfindhehadpressedintotheirpalmahundred-dollarbill.Andwasalreadywalkingaway.Another story:Sometime in your teens, in high school, around the timeyour father started showingupagain, your housewas robbed. In the night, the family asleep.No one awoke, no onewas hurt. In themorning:“Mom,where’sthecar?”Theslowrealization:missingVCR,missingjewelry,missingwalletsandpurses.Alsomissing:abaseballcapfromyourbedroom,aCabbagePatchdollfromyoursister’s.“Areyousure,areyousureit’sgone?”saidyourmother,yoursistercrying.“Whywouldsomeonestealadoll?”Yourstepfathersilent,raging.Thepolicefoundthecarafewblocksaway,intheprojects,amanasleep,passedout,highasakite,behindthewheel.Ittookweekstogetthesmellout.Your fatherdidn’t showup againuntil a fewdays after the robbery.Sitting at the table, shaking for

alcohol:“It’shorrible,son.Youshouldhaveanalarmsystem.”Hecomes,asifbymagic,onlywhenyourmotherandstepfatherarenothome.“Justpourmeonedrink,son.”Thismanyou cannot sayyou love, cannot sayyoudon’t.He is themysteryman, thequestionmark.

Afterafewweeksofhisvisits,alwaysatnight,thehouseempty,yoursisterasleep,hestoppedshowingup.Thelastvisityouknockedhimtotheground.Helimpedtothedoor,fakingitalittle,maybe,itwasimpossibletoknow,andhesaidsomethingdeliciouslycruel.Butyouhaveneverbeenabletorememberwhatitwas.Hesaid,YoureyesareliketwosapphiresinawindowinChinatownonthekindofdaythatmakesamanwanttogetdownononeknee.Thatwasthefirstdate,yourmothertellsyou.Talkedlikethatforafewmonths,thentheygotmarried.Hersecondmarriage,hisfirst.Mariehadintroducedhertohim,theItalianguywhoownedthedeliacrossthestreet.HehadnoticedherwalkingbyonedayandaskedMariewhoshewas.Onthefirstdateheworeaboutsixgoldchainsaroundhisneck,paidforeverythingwithafatwadofhundred-dollarbills.Theydidcocaineanddrankbeer,andhewhippedoutthelineaboutthesapphires.Smoothcustomer,shesays.Lookathim.Andyoulook,youremember:whiteT-shirt,twogoldchains,pressedslacks,blackloafers.Hedresses

likehisbrothers,hisfriends.Cookingcalamariandclamscasinoonthedeck,workingatthedeliallday,askingyouwhyyouwanttodateaniggerorkissingyourmotherbehindtheear,hehaslookedthesamesincethedayyoumethim,whenyouwerefouryearsold.Yourmotherwantedatleastafatherforyouandyoursister.Shegotaman,twenty-oneyearsolder,whoworshippedher—evenifheeventuallylostthewordsforit.Onthefirstdate,shetellsyou,Ihadnoideahe’dbeenlivingwithanotherwomanandherdaughterforalmosttenyears.Anentirelydifferentfamily.Itoldhim,Look,youmakeadecision.Andhe

leftme.Nextmorning,thereheis,atthedoorwithasuitcase,cigaretteinhislips.Shesmiles.Thatfucker,youshouldhaveseenthelookonhisface.Butshehadn’tyettoldhimshewasseparatedfromherhusband—thathehadtriedtokillherandwas

still trying to find her and his children. Like the new man she knew she would marry, she had anunshakablesenseoftiming.Yourfatheratthetableinjacketandtie.Haveyoueverseenhimnotinjacketandtie?RaisedaJehovah’sWitness,helearnedearlythatonemustrepresentGodasHiswitness,andwhenyouknockonsomeone’sdooritcan’thurttohavepressedyourslacks.Hedownsaglassofginlikemilk.Lastweekyousawhimonacornerbeggingforchange.Therewasacutaboveoneeyebrow, likea

boxer’scut, swabbedwithVaseline.Hesmileddrunkenlyat thosewhopassed,his smilewidening forthosewholaughedathim.Youhidbehindabusstop,backpackslungoveryourshoulder.Whenthebuscameyouhoppedon,andfromthebackyouseemedtocatchhiseyes.Yourfather,thevillageidiot,thefallenpreacher,hisowncutman,asadclownsmilinginadirtysuit.Buthewasalreadylookingaway.Hedrinksarocksglassofvodka.HedrinksaplasticcupofScotch.HedrinksaDixieCupofouzo,a

beersteinofsherry,amugofwarmChardonnay,hedrinkshandfulafterhandfulofwaterfromthekitchensink,combshishairwithhisfingers.Hehasstoppedshaking.Youarejustgettingstarted.The thief had come in through the kitchen window that led to the deck. The deck had been underconstructionbutabandonedbythetimeweboughtthehouse.Thepreviousowner,acop,losthisjobandacoupleyears later lost themortgage.Atauction in1983mystepfathergot thehouse for justover fortythousanddollars. Itwason adead-end street overlookingBunnell’sPond, fiveblocks fromBeardsleyTerrace,oneofthecity’seighthousingprojects.Thehousewasfilledwithemptytallboybeercansandnudiemagazinesfilledwithblackwomen.Therewerepostersofnakedblackwomen—theirskingreased,hair curled and wet, lips parted—on the walls of the bedroom, bathroom, living room, kitchen. Theceilingswere painted brown, the carpetwas dark chocolate shag.Onewallwas cocktail-olive green,anothercat-tonguepink,anotherflaking,cheapgoldwallpaper.Onthefirstdaywearrived,armedwithgarbage bags, disinfectant, sponges, and rubber gloves,we noticed again the deck jutting out from thebackof thehouse.Wewalkedup thesteps,mystepfather,mother, sister,and I,andsaw thedeckhalf-built,thewoodnaileddowntwoyearsbeforenowblondandrawinthesun.Oneofuspeeredthroughthekitchenwindow, a hand visored over our eyes. Inside, forwhoever looked first: a florid signature ofdefeat.AstoryaboutBermuda.Afathervisitshistwochildrenthroughawindow.Legallyheisallowedtoseethemthroughawindow,andthewindowmustnotbeopenmorethanfourinches,court’sorder.Hebringscandy,toyssmallenoughtopassthrough.Heholdstheirsmallfingersinhishand,theirfacesshimmeringbehindglass.Onedaythemotherisblow-dryingherhair,orrunningtowardburnedtoast,oryellingatagirlfriend or boss over the phone—and he convinces the boy, the smart one, the one who watcheseverything, toopenthewindowwider.Notwiththepromiseofcandyorbaseballcards,butwith—weforget.Buttheboyisnowbeingpulledthroughthewindowbyhisarmsandhismotherisscreamingasshe pulls himby the legs, and tomake sure the scene doesn’t get too comical the boy starts to cry insilence.Thefatherwins.Whenhe isarrested, twenty-twominutes later,at the trainstation inNewHaven, thepoliceaskhim

whatinthehellhewasthinking.“WeweregoingtogoliveinBermuda,”hesays.

Somenightshewouldbringpaperbacks.I’dpourhimadrinkandhewouldflipthroughdime-storebooksonnutritionortheparanormal.BooksonLosAlamosandtheLindberghbaby.TheSalemwitchtrialsandthe Connecticut witch trials. The Pequot graveyards that, he said, protected my great-great-great-grandmother. Cancer cures buried by the government. The Ouija board in the trunk of JFK’s limo.CoenzymeQ10andhowtoliveononlywater,honey,andcayennepepper.Oncehebrought threedifferentbookson theBermudaTriangle. Itwasnot something to scoff at,he

said.Thedisappearances andghost blips onNASA radarwerenot coincidenceor fantasy. ItwasourAtlantis,hesaid,tryingtospeaktous.Alsomissing:twoslicesofbread,halfapoundofdeliturkey,ahandfuloflettuce,afatsliceoftomato,andlotsofmayonnaise,scoopedoutwithfingers.Thethiefhadleftthedregsofhislate-nightsnackonthekitchentable,alongwitharustyknife.Theknifewasnearlybrown,andlookedlikesomethingsomeonemightusehikingorhunting,whoknew.Noonehikedorhuntedaroundhere.Andtherewasmayonnaiseeverywhere, oilymayonnaise fingerprints all over the house.On the jewelry box: fingerprints.On thecoffeepot:fingerprints.Onthetoiletflush(buthedidn’tflush):fingerprints.Onthephotoofmyfatherandmeonthedesk(thefatherclearlydrunk,theboyonhisshouldersscreaming,butlook,maybeinjoy,indelight,andthefather,let’sfaceit,thefatherishappy):fingerprints.Thecopsdusteditall,didn’tneedanyofit.Asleepatthewheel.Highasakite.Marie iscombing thegreenglobof jelly intoherniece’shair.Sheholds thecombinonehandand thejellyisstucktothepalmoftheother.Shedabsfromtheglobeveryfewseconds,wipingdifferentpartsofherniece’shead, thencombinguntil thegreendisappears.Herotherniece is theoneyou like,butyoucan’trememberhername.YousitonthefloorplayingagamecalledConnect4.Hereyesaregreen,herskinbrown.Herhair isbraided tightlyandclose toherhead,withyellowandpinkbutterflybarrettes,likeyoursister’s.Youbeathereverytime,butshedoesn’tseemtocare.Mariemakeschickenandricefordinner.Sheputsyoutobedonthecouch,tellsyouyourmotherwillbebackinafewdays.Youthinkthatyouhaveneversleptsohighintheair.Thesixteenthfloor.Youmightbeintheclouds,butitistoodarktosee.FatherPanicVillagewas torn down a fewyears ago. Itwas one of the remaining housing projects inBridgeport.Whenmy father grew up there, itwas calledYellowMillApartments.My neighborhood,whereIlivedwithmymother,stepfather,andsister,hadoncebeencalledWhiskeyHill.ItwaswheretheIrishmobstersdistilledandhidtheirwhiskeyduringProhibition.MyfatherknewthecityinawayIneverwould.Eachstreet,building,andpatchofgrasshecoulddescribeintermsofitsformerself.HeknewthestoryofThomasBeardsley,themanwhodonatedacresofparktothecityundertheconditionthatitneverchargecitizensadmission.Myfatheralwayssneakedusinthroughtornfencesorsecretdirtpathwaysofftheinterstate.HerefusedtopaydirtyAmericanmoneytoenjoythelandthatBeardsleyhadpromisedhim.Beardsley’s statuewasonce stolen,when Iwas in grade school—then,mysteriously, the next day, putbackinitsspot.Thiswasnotcoincidence,myfathersaid.Intheparkwehidinplaceswheresecuritywouldnotfindus.Webroughthotdogsandbagsofwhole-

wheatbread.Hetaughtmehowtobuildfireswithoutmatches.HetoldmethePequotnamesofplants.Herippedsassafrasfromthegroundbyitslongrootsandlater,inhisapartment,hewouldboiltheserootsandpourmeamugofhotunsweetenedrootbeer.Hewouldnotallowmesugar,thewhiteman’spoison.HegavemeaquarterforeachapricotpitIate.Heexplainedthequalitiesoflaetrile:acompoundoftwosugar molecules, one of them cyanide, which detaches when—and only when—confronted with theenzymesreleasedbycancerouscells.Hegavemebaggiesofapricotpitstotakehometomymotherandsister.

He drank while he drove me home, a forty-ounce bottle in a bag between his legs. He tipped hischauffeur’scaptopoliceofficers,whosatstudyingusatredlights.Your mother tells you the story of your stepfather: Out of prison, he finds his way back east, gets abasementapartment inBrooklyn, findsa jobbusing tablesat aGreek joint, just something toholdhimovertillhefiguresthingsout,getshisheadstraight—talkstosomeguysfromtheoldneighborhood,seeswhat’scooking.Andamonthandahalflater,afterhavingrobbedtwojewelrystores,threehomes,andadeliveryvan,he’sheadedwestagain,back toCalifornia, sunnyCalifornia,1958,walking thehighwaywithhisthumbout,hisbrokenthumb,snappedbyFatFrannie—yourstepfather,justatwenty-eight-year-oldhood,convictedfelon,abouttogetcaughtagain,spend,thistime,twelveyearsinprison.FatFrannietakes his thumb in his hand and snaps it, clean with indifference. “Tomorrow. The rest of themoneytomorrow,youfuck.Justlikeyouroldman.”Yourstepfatherinslacksandajacket,maybeahat,afedora,darkbrownwithablackfeather,withhis

brokenthumbinthewind,justneedstogetbacktoCalifornia,Friscomaybe,there’sthatonegirlmadehim breakfast, eggs and ham and coffee, orange juice,California orange juice, no one evermade himbreakfastlikethatever,thenunsintheorphanagewould’vesaiditwasasin,Californiaitselfasin,therising sunof thedevil, andawoman ina chemise, that’swhathe thought itwascalled, a chemise thecolorofpeaches,cookinghimbreakfastaftertheyhadmadelovewiththecurtainsopen.Butwhatdoeshedo?HeleavesherforNewYork.Andnowwhatdoeshedo?Hegetsintoatruck,theonlyvehicletopulloverfortheforty-ninemileshe’swalked,somewherenow

inNewJersey,onwindy78.Hestepsupintothetruckandbeforeheevenlooksatthedriver,thegunisinhislap.“Outofthetruck,friend.It’smytrucknow,”hesays.Twenty-eightyearsold,drivingaNabiscotrucktoCalifornia,aday,almostexactly,untilhe’scaught.Hegetsoutofthecanwhenhe’sforty.Therewas the time he crashed into a girder on I-95, his ridiculousCadillac suddenly in front of herCutlass.Iswerved,shesays,andIdon’tknowhow,therewastrafficallaroundus,butIgotovertotheedgeofthehighwayandpulledover.Isawhiscartotallywrecked.Icouldn’tmove.Thepolicecameandyourfather,he’ssitting therecovered inblood, thesteeringwheelwassplit inhalf fromhischest,youknowyourfather,he’sbigbutbackthenhewashuge,andbothhiseyesblackandblue,andhisleg,therightone,wefoundoutlater,broken.Buthewasawake,andhekeptlookingatme.Thecopsaretryingtogethimtosaysomething,whatdayisit,who’sthepresident,howmanyfingers,youknow,andhe’ssittingthereinallthisblood,lookingrightatme.ThewholehighwaywasblockedoffandIwasstandingrightinthemiddleofit.Canyouimagine?RightinthemiddleofI-95inbroaddaylight,alltheseambulanceandpolicelights,juststandingrightthere.Doyouknowwhathedid?Whentheycutoffthedoorandgethimontoastretcher,he’slookingatmeagain,andrightbeforetheyputhimintheambulance,hegrins.Shepauses.Ihadjustlefthimthatmorning.Weweregoingtohismother’ssoIcouldgetyouandyoursister.Itoldhimitwasover.DoyouunderstandwhatI’msaying?Shefinisheshercigarette.Yourfather,shesays,thewayshehasalwayssaidit.ArocksglassofScotch.Aplasticcupofvodka.Thedifferencebetweenyourmotherandme,hesays,ismydemonsarereal.Satan’sangels.Theyvisit

me, son. Last night, he says, then stops. These angels, he says. They oncewalked the earth.God hadalreadyexpelledLuciferfromHisKingdom,andLucifer, listen,son,bitter,angry,proud,hadbegunhisreignonearth.HesenttheseangelstobreedwithWoman.TheoffspringweretheNephilim.Theyweregiants,demigods.Theystoleland,beattheirneighbors,rapedtheirowndaughters.Listen.InthebeginningoftheOldTestament,rightthereinGenesis,hesays,thetaleofthesehumandemonsisthereforanyonewhowantstosee.Lookaround,hesays.Theyneverleft.

Afterhefallstotheground,youtoweroverhim,andthatiswhenhegetsbackupandtakesoffhisclownnose. Flattens it like a silver dollar and slips it into a pocket of his oversized trousers. Takes off hisdentedstovepipehat,hisenormousbowtie,wipeseachcheekstippledwithgraygreasepaint,andsayssomethingthroughhislipssmearedwhite.Beforeheleaves,hesays:WhenyouwereababyIgaveyouabathbutIdidn’tknowhowhotthewaterwas.Icouldn’ttellyourmother,explain;shejustkeptscreaming.Shewasinhernurse’saideuniform,shejustgothome.IntheambulanceIprayedtoJehovah,firsttimeinyears,Iwasprayingandyourskin,itlookedsoredandyou,Ican’trememberifyouwerestillscreaming.Ihadneverbathedyoubefore.Iwasyourfather.Iwasoffbooze.Drivingacabandmakinggoodmoney—thisiswhat,1977,1978?JimmyCarter.Yourmothertookmeback.Maybeitwas.Amistake.Icanstillhearyourvoice,screamingtome,whenwewereupinthesky.Thecircuswhenyouweretwoorthree.Youwantedtogetdown,buttheridewasbroke,wewerestuckupthereforwhat.Overanhour.Icouldseetheocean,and,acrosstheSound,LongIsland.Icouldseethewholecircusbelowus, inminiature,just like at the BarnumMuseum. Do you remember? All the little tightrope walkers and clowns andweightlifters,allthewildanimals,thecottoncandy.Themusic.Then,limpingtowardthedoor,hisvoiceslurredwithwhiskey,victoriousinitscruelty,thelastthinghe

eversaidtome:WecouldseeallthewaytoBermuda.Overtwentyyearslater,walkingearlyonemorningintotheprivatecountryclubwhereItendedbar:thelockonthebar’srefrigeratorbusted,twoemptybottlesofBurgundyinthetrash,themaîtred’stieslungoverthebar’smirror.Asifallhehadwantedwastofinallycatchhimselfintheact.Youdreamofwaking in thenight,orhalf-waking,or less,but there issomething there.Youcannotseeanythingexceptyourdesk,yourhomeworkfromthenightbeforelitupalittlebythestreetlightoutside.Yourpencil.Yourbaseballcap.Then,morefaintly,thetelevisiontotheleft,restingonasmallbookshelf.A poster of Larry Bird above it, his green Converse almost black. Out the window the streetlight ishidden,butitslightsiftsthroughatanangle,andontherightsideofyourroom,rightinfrontofyourbed,isadarkness.Anditmoves,likeamuscle,likeaheartbeat,beforeyouwakeup.Another story: this one true.Amarried couplewanders the streets of the city for years.Everyone hasgrownusedtotheirpresence.Theyneveraskformoney.Theysleeptogether,spooning,inahousemadeofcardboardandblankets.Theirfacesareruddyandwithoutexpression,andwhennotasleeptheyarealwaysinmotion,alwayssearchingthroughgarbageforsurvival.Thefirsttimeyouseethemyoudonotknowanyofthis.Youarewithyourfather,holdinghishand,and

youarewalkingjusttowalk,astrollthroughdowntownonaSundayafternoon.Heishummingasong,maybeaboutrainbutitissunny,andhehumssoloudlyyoucanfeelitinthepalmofyourhand.Hebeginsto swing your handwith his, slightly, as if in awind. Then you see them, ahead. Theman is diggingthroughameshtrashcanonacorner,hisarmburiedtotheshoulder,andheislookingatyou.Thewomanstandsbesidehim,lookinginsideoneofmanyshoppingbagshungfromhershoulders.Themandoesnottakehiseyesoffyouandyoucannotlookaway.Yourfatherstops.Helooksatyou.Hekneels.Son,hesays,itisrudetostare.Somepeoplehaveveryhardlives,anditishardtounderstandformanyofuswhytheylive thisway.But theyarehumanbeings,andJehovahmadethemthesamewayhemadeyou,me,yourmother,yoursister.Iwantyoutosayyouaresorry.Iamrighthere.Gosayyouaresorrytothatmanandwoman,andIwillberightherewaitingforyou.Butyoucan’t.Youbegintocry.YourfathersaysitisOK.Tojustwaithere.Youwatchhimashewalks,inhislong,slowstrides,inasuitandtie,towardthemanandwoman.He

iswearinganewhat,andyourememberthatwasthereasonyoucamedowntown,soyourfathercould

buyanewhat.Hestopsjustacouplestepsfromthemanandwomanandtheylookathim.Theman’sarmremainsinthetrashbutisnowstill.Afterafewseconds,themanlooksatyourfather’shand,whichisheldouttohim.Themanlooksatthewomanbriefly,thenhetakessomethingfromyourfather,looksatit,thenputsitintohispocket.Hegoesbacktoriflingthroughthetrashandthewomanbeginstoyellatyourfather. She begins to scream, her face turning even redder, you cannot hear or understandwhat she issayingbutyouknowshehatesyour father,hatesyou,hatesmany,manypeople.Youwant tohelpyourfather, themanwhohasonlyrecentlycomebackintoyourlife,clean-shavenandspeakingofGod,youwanttoruntowardhimanddefendhim,protecthim,butnowheisholdingouthishandtothemanagain,hehastakenoffhishatandisholdingitouttowardtheman.Thewomanisnowsilent.Themantakesthehat,abrand-newfedorawithafeather,andputsitonhishead.Andlooksatyou,asifforthefirsttime.

KEVINCANTY

HappyEndingsFROMNewOhioReviewALLHISLIFEMcHenryhadlivedwithsomeonewatchinghim:amother,afather,awife,adaughter,hiscustomers.Hedugwells fora livingandhiscustomerswerecattle ranchersandwheat farmers,whichmeant theywere always about to go broke, exceptwhen theywere rich. They didn’tmake a show ofwatchinghimbuttheydid.Assholesandelbows:athinghelearnedinhighschool,doingpick-and-shovelworkonanextragangfortheMilwaukeeRailroad.Itdidn’tmatterhowmuchyougotdoneorhowmanymistakes youmade or how smart youwere. The only thingwas to look like youwereworkingwhenSorenson,thestrawboss,cameby.Ijustwanttoseeassholesandelbows.Sohelearnedtolooklikehewasworkingwhenheworked.Helearnedtoactlikeafatherwhenhis

daughter was around, to look like a husband when Marnie needed a husband. He did what peopleexpectedhimtoormaybealittlemore.Healwaystriedformore.McHenryhadabriskpracticalmanner,plasticglasses,andacrewcutthatturnedgrayearly,anall-purposecharacterthatdidn’tchange.Hegotalongwithpeople.Itwasawaythrough.Hewasn’texpectingtofindhimselfwithnobodywatching,butherehewas,agefifty-nine.Marniehad

gonefiveyearsbefore,apancreaticcancerthatburnedsoswiftlythroughherthatMcHenryneverfeltituntil shewas buried. Still sometimes it felt to him that the death had never happened, an unreal, uglydream.ThenCarolyn,theirdaughter,hadendedupinGuangzhou,China.Thistoofeltunlikely.ShehadgoneofftoMissoulaandendedupasadualmajorinChineseandbusinessandnowshewasimportingChinesebalersandhayrakesandmakingcrazymoney.TheySkypedeachothereveryfewweeksbutitwasnothinglikehavingheraround,justapictureonacomputerscreen.McHenrytalkedabouthowbusyhewasandhowthingsweregoingfineandsoon.Hewasstillherfather,evenifshewasontheotherside of theworld. Plus the timewas impossible for him to figure out. Hewould call her on SundayafternoonanditwouldbeMondaymorningwhereshewas.McHenryapprovedonprinciple.IfyouweregoingtogetthehelloutofHarlow,youmightaswelljust

keepgoing.Andhelikedthefactthatshewasgoodwithmoney.Hefeltlikehehadgivenherthat.StillitwasjusthimandMissy,thelittlepapillondogthatMarniehadgottenjustbeforetheyfoundout.

Itseemedlikeadirtytrick.Clawsskitteringonthewoodfloors.And then these twokidsdownoutofBillings talkedoneof theirdads intobankrollingabrand-new

computer-controlled Japanesedrilling rig.McHenrydid themath.Theywere losingmoney every timetheytookajobfromhim.Theyhadtobe.Buthecouldn’tunderbidthem,despitethefactthathisrigwaspaidfor.McHenryknewbetterthantoexpecthiscustomerstoturndownalowbid.TheseweremenwhowoulddriveninetymilestotheSam’sClubtosaveanickelontoiletpaper.McHenry could have waited them out. But one afternoon, when he got off the phone with Gib

Gustafson, awheat farmerMcHenryhad known since kindergarten, amillionaire, telling him that theyweren’tgoing tobeable todobusiness—afterhegot that call,McHenry justgot angry. IfMarniehadbeenthere,ifCarolyn.Buttheyweren’t.Byfivethatafternoonhewasoutofthebusiness,rigsold,truckssold,FORRENTsignontheshop.Wasthisamistake?Maybe.Hehadall themoneyhewasgoingtoneed,fromsavingsalongtheway

andfromMarnie’slifeinsurance.Thehousewaspaidforandsowastheshop.Evenifnobodyrentedit,andnobodywasabletostayinbusinessinHarlowanymore,itwasstillworthfiveorsixtimeswhathehadpaidforit,theyearaftertherailroadlefttown.Hehadacoupleofrentals,andnocrew,bythen,thatwasdependingonhim.

Butthequiet.Thephonejustdidn’tring.Andifhedidn’tgetlaidprettysoonhewasgoingtogooutofhismind.Hehatedtothinklikethis.He

wasnotacrudeman,notnaturally.Butthiswasthesimplefactofthematter.McHenrywasnotanoldman,notyet, andwhateverhad switchedoffwhenMarniegot sickhadgotten switchedbackon againsomehow.Herememberedoneofhiscrew—anextraguy,afriendofsomebody’s,notoneoftheregulars—talking about his day off, going to a massage place in Billings. He shut up about it when he sawMcHenrywaslistening.Butitstuckinhismind.Youcouldjustpayforit.Andnobodywaswatching.McHenry lived with these thoughts for two or three months and then decided he needed to go to

Billingstoseewhatthetruthofthematterwas.Ittookhimanotherfewweekstogatherhisnerve.ItwasAprilbeforehemadeit.Springhasagoodreputation,he thought,drivingsouth throughspittingsnow,but itmaybeshouldn’t.

NotMontanaspring,anyway.Justahardseason.EasterSundaywithMarnieinherflowerydressesandthefreezingrainjustpoundingdown.HefoundtheBangkokSunshineoutbytheInterstate,aloneandkindofforlorn-lookinginagiantgravel

parkinglotbehindthetruckwash.Hispickupwastheonlycarinthelot.ApinkbuildingwiththewordMASSAGEinredneon,awhitedoor.Momentumcarriedhiminsidewhereayoung,not-quite-prettyAsiangirl in a swimsuit top and a piece of flowery cloth for a skirt sat reading a magazine in a languageMcHenrydidn’trecognize.“Thirtyorsixtyminutes?”sheasked.“Idon’tknow,”saidMcHenry.“Sixty,Iguess.”“That’sahundred,”shesaid,andMcHenrywasshocked.Hedidn’tknowwhathewasexpectingbut

thiswassomehowasubstantialamountofmoney.Butitseemedtoolatetobackoutnow,anditwasjustthisonce.Hecouldaffordit.“Idon’tseeyoumuch,”saidthegirl.“Thisismyfirsttime.”“Areyouacop?”“No.”“Okay.Roomtwo.Andpeopleusuallytip.”Itwasaroomwithabedandaposterofabeach.Thedoorhehadcomeinandanotherdoorandathird

heguessedwasacloset.Nowindows.Linoleumfloors, everythingeasy toclean, likeaveterinarian’sexamroom.McHenrysaton thebedandwaited. Itwas tallerandnarrower thana regularbedandhecouldfeelplasticunderthesheet.Itwasaroomwithoutanymusic,hethought,toomanypeoplepassingthroughandnobodystayinglong.Thesadnesscamebacktohim.PHUKET,saidtheposter.Hedidn’tknowwherethatwas.Itlookedbeautiful,inafacelessway.Palmtreesandblueskies.ThenthefardooropenedandanotherAsiangirlwalkedin,smiling—alittleshorterandrounderthan

thegirlatthedeskbutdressedthesame,herbreastsspillingoutoftheswimsuittop.Herhairwaslongandboundatthebackwitharedribbon.Shewasbarefoot.“Youhavetotakeyourclothesoff!”shesaid,laughing.“Otherwiseitdoesn’twork.”McHenryhadallowedhimselftoforgetthispart.Hehadnothadhisclothesoffinfrontofanybodyfor

alongwhile,anybodybutdoctorsandMarnie.Anurgetofleearose,wassuppressedbyanactofwill.Sheopenedthecloset.Hetookhisshoesoff,thenhispants.Thenhehesitated.“Comeon,”shesaid.Butlightly,playfully.Shewasaliveiftheroomwasnot.Hewenttherestofthe

waynakedandthenlayfacedownonthebed.Coldplasticunderathinsheet.Shecoveredhisasswithatowelandbenttolookhimsidewaysintheface.“What’syourname?”sheasked.“Bill,”helied.

“I’mTracy,”shesaid.“Relax.”McHenrytriedtomakehimselfrelax.Butthebodydoesn’tlie,andhetensedatthetouchofherhandon

hisshoulder.“OK,OK,”shesaid.“It’sgoingtobeOK.”Sheturnedthelightsdownquitelow,andmusicseepedin

fromthecorners.Hesmelledsomethingcomplicatedlikeherbsorhaybutpleasantandthenshetouchedhimagainwithwarmoilonherhandsandhelaystillthistime.Itwaslikegettingahaircut,thewayheknewwhereherbodywasaroundhim, theaccidentalbrushofherbreastsonhisskinasshebentoverhim.Smallasshewas,shehadafirmhandandsurprisingstrengthandafterafewminutesheunderstoodthatsheknewwhatshewasdoing.Herbreastswereeverywherebuthewasn’teventhinkingaboutthatnowormaybethinkingaboutthatfromadifferentdirection,becauseitwasjustverynice.Hedidn’tknowtillnowhowmany troubleshewascarrying inhisbody.They justkindof stoppedbeing thereafter awhile.Hefeltlightandfree.Shemassagedhisfeet,whichwassomethingthathadneverhappenedtoMcHenrybeforeandalthough

helikedit,hefelt thepressureonunexpectedplaces,as ifhis liverandhis testiclesandevenhiseyeswereallconnectedsomehowtoplacesinhisfeetandhehadnotknownthis.Thensheworkedherwayuphislegs.Itwaspleasantbuthefeltvulnerable.Herhandjustgrazedhisscrotum.Somethingwokeupthenandstayedawakeassheworkedonhisback,hisneck.McHenryhopedhewasintherightplace.Heletgoforawhile.Timepassed,hewasn’tsurehowmuch.Itwasn’timportant.Alltouch,allher

handsandmusicofakindhegenerallyhatedanddimlightsandthescentoftheoil.Thenwhenhehadbasicallyturnedintoapuddleofgoosherolledhimoveronhisback.Thetowelcameoff.Tracyputitbackonafterhalfaminutebutshemusthavenoticed.Shedidhisfeetagainfromanotherangleandthenhisfaceandthenhischest.Allthiswasabsolutely

newtoMcHenryandsurprising.Also,herbreasts,justtouching,spillingoutofhertop,andthefeelofhersmall strong hands and the scent of her perfume mixed with the scented oil. This should have beenrelaxingbutMcHenrygotmoreandmoreagitated inhisneed.Didheneed to ask?Howwouldhegoaboutasking?Whatwerethewords,whatwasthecode?Shemustsee.Shemustknow.Intheend,hedidn’tneedtoknowanything.Tracyworkedhiscalvesandthenhisthighsandthenleaned

downtowardhim,herbreastsdangling,andwhisperedinhisear:“Happyending?”“Please,”saidMcHenry.“Twentyextra.”“Please,”hesaid.Shelaughed,butpleasantly,droppedthetoweltothefloor,andgothimoffwithherstronglittlehands.

Itdidn’t takemuch.McHenrykepthiseyesclosed,all touchandscent. Ifhekepthiseyesclosed, thismomentwouldneverend.Itwasmagic.“OK,”saidTracy.“Seeyounexttime.Shower’srightoutsidethatdoor.”McHenryopenedhiseyes.Hewasnakedinaroomwithastranger.Thelightswerestilldimbutthe

magicwasgone.Tracysmiledathimandwaspleasant.Heunfoldedhispants,foundhiswallet,gaveheratwentyandthenanother.Hewouldhavestoodtherehandinghertwentiesallnightifshehadwantedhimto.Hehadmadeafoolofhimself.Heunderstoodthatmuch.Hemadeittwoweeksbeforehewasback.Thegirlatthefrontdeskdidn’tlikehimanybetterthistime.ShesaidthatTracywasbusybutshecouldgetoneoftheothergirlstotakecareofhim.Eitherthatorhecouldwait.McHenrywaited.Nobodyelsecamethrough,justhimandtheboredgirl,readingamagazineinwhathe

assumed was Thai or Vietnamese. Remember what you’re doing, he told himself. That girl is withsomebodyelseinthenextroom.It’swhatshedoes.It’sherjob.

Stillhefelttheexcitation,likebeesorbutterflies,atthethoughtofseeingTracy.Itwasn’tlove.Hewasalmostsure.Butitwassomethinglikeit.Noteventhesightofatruckerinaballcapcomingoutofthebackcoulddeterhim.Hehadnoticedtheeighteen-wheelerintheparkinglot.Itwashardnotto.Shewasshorterthanheremembered,butprettier.“Thatgirloutfront,”hesaid.“Idon’tthinkshelikesme.”“She’sabitch,”Tracysaid.“Shedoesn’tlikeanybody.”ThistimeMcHenrylethimselfwatchher,atleastatfirst.Tracywasbrisk,professional,exactinher

movements,thewayshecuppedherhandtotaketheoilfromthebottle,forinstance.Sheheldittheretowarmbeforesheletitrainontohisback.Beneaththeclothskirt—wasitasarong?—sheworelime-greenstriped underpants, like a kid would wear. She was clothed and he was naked. She was at work, incharge, sheknewwhere shewas andwhat shewasdoing.WhileMcHenrywaswayoutpast the safeshallows.Thismadenosensetohim,thefactthathewashere.Andthenitdidn’tneedtomakesense,hewasjustallbodyagain,allgooanddrool.Atleastatfirst.He

wentdownagainintoandthenbackupwiththenearnessofher,thebody.Whensherolledhimoverthistime,shedidn’tbotherwiththetowel.Infactshetouchedhimthere,alittle,justlightly,thenwentonwiththemassage.Whenshewentfromhisfacetohisfeet,shetouchedhimagain,asifshewerebefriendingit;andwhenshehadworkedherwayuphisthighs,whenitwastimeforthehappyending,shemovedsoeasilyandautomaticallyfromonethingtotheotherthatitwasnotliketheyweretwothingsatallbutjustonemovement.She left.He lay empty and adrift, on his back on the bed. Theymust change the sheets, he thought,

betweeneachoneofus.Whatifthiswasnotwrong?Heturnedthethoughtaroundonthedrivehomeinthedark,awhitecrust

oficeat theedgeoftheheadlights.Heknewhe’dneverdoathinglikeTracyifhehadtoexplainit toanybody. IfMarnie were alive, if Carolyn were around. He wasn’t a cheater. But just in himself, hecouldn’t figure outwhatwaswrongwith it. Hewasn’t stealing tenderness from anybody or spendingsomeoneelse’smoney.Ontheotherhand,heknewhewouldn’twanttogetcaughtdoingthis.Sothatwassomething.Buthecouldn’tfigureoutwhowasbeinghurt.Tracyherselfseemedcheerfulenough.Thencamethisotherthought,whichMcHenrydidn’twantinhisheadbutwhichwouldn’tleave.That

thoughtwasthis:What if thiswassomethingbeautiful thathehadshuthimselfofffromhiswholelife?What if they were wrong, the watchers?Maybe there was really nothing badwith this. Had he beenmistaken his whole life? Until now, near the end. Something sad here. Even with Marnie there wassomethingfurtive,alwaysinthedark.ThatonetimetheywenttoMexico,justthetwoofthem.Itwasaglimpseofsomething.Buttheycouldneverquitebringithome.Fucking,hethought.Hehadbeenusingthewordhiswholelifeasacurse.Whatifitinsteadturnedouttobeablessing?Notathoughthewantedtohave.ButMcHenrycouldnotputitaway.

Hewoundup in aChristianSinglesgroup, runby the churchwhere theyused to spendChristmas andEaster.Hecouldnotbetrustedbyhimself.ThiswasMcHenry’sconclusion.Heneededminding.TheChristianSinglesmixedinthelobbyoftheGravesHotelonthefirstFridayeveningofeachmonth.

AlthoughthismonthwasMay,itwasstillcoldout;menandwomenbotharrivedinCarharttbrown.TheGraveshadacoffeeshopoffonesideofthelobbyandabarofftheothersoyoucouldgoonewayortheother.McHenryoptedfordrink.Itwaslookinglikealongnight.“Lookatyou,”saidTomLaFrance.“CometomeetusonaFridaynight.Iwaswonderingifyoumight

jointhegroup.”“Justputtingatoein,”saidMcHenry.“Nice bunch.Good to get somenewblood in, though, I’ll tell you.”He leaned closer toMcHenry,

insidethebloomofhiswhiskeybreath.“Thesameoldfaces.Afterawhileyou’vemadetherounds.”

“It’sasmalltown,”saidMcHenry.“Inthemiddleofnowhere,”saidLaFrance.“Oh,well.”Theyleftthebarandjoinedthegroup:aboutadozenaltogether,withonlyfourmen.Someofthemwere

peopleMcHenryhadknown(andinLaFrance’scase,disliked)sincehighschool.Thewomenespeciallyhadmadeaneffort,redlipstickandprettyskirtsandcityshoes,butineveryoneoftheirfaceswerethemarksofweather,ofalifelivedoutdoorsinaplacewherethewindhurriedandthesnowflew.ThemenweredressedWesterninbootsandsportcoats.Theylookedathomeintheseclothes,whilesomeofthewomen looked likean impersonation,acostume.Thesewerewidows,mostof them,andhad theshorthair and hard practical faces ofMontana wives, their girlishness erased by weather and work. Theydidn’tlookathomeintheirprettydresses.AllbutLydiaTennant.Shewastenyearsyoungerthantherestofthemanddressedforaskiresortin

sporty,brightcolors.ShehadmarriedintotheMaclays,anoldranchingfamily,andhadsomehowstuckitoutafterherhusband,Tom,waskilledinanavalanche,threeorfouryearsago.Shehadtwokids,bothboys, McHenry thought. He had never considered her as a possibility. But here she was, presentingherselfasasingle,smiling,makingsmall talk, looking tanandpretty in the lobbyof theGravesHotel.Thiswasinteresting,atleast.But before he couldmake hisway to her, hewas sidelined byAdeleBaker, one ofMarnie’s good

friends,anEnglishteacheratthehighschool.Shewasplump,energetic,dry.“Arewemovingforwardorgivingup?”sheaskedhim.“I’venoidea,”McHenrysaid.Hewaswaryofher;shethoughtbeforeshesaidthings,andyouwere

likelytogetyourselfintroubleifyoujustsaidthefirstthingthatcameintoyourhead.Heasked,“Whatdoyouthink?”“Igaveupseveralyearsago,”shesaid.“I’mjustheretogetoutofthehouse.”“Oh,metoo.Gettingtheshacknasties.”HelookedovertoseewhereLydiawasintheroom—thefarside,bythebardoor,withTomLaFrance

standingatherelbow—andAdelecaughttheglanceandlaughed.“Nofair,”shesaid.“What’snot?”“Youandshearetheonlytwonewfacessincelastsummer.Ibelievethatalmosteverybodyelsehas

datedalmosteverybodyelse.AndbydatedIdon’tmeandated.Don’tbeshocked.”“IthoughttheseweretheChristianSingles.”“We’reallChristianandwe’reallsingle,butwe’renotalwaysbothatthesametime.”“You’vebeensavingthatoneup.”“Maybe,”Adelesaid.“It’salongwinter.ComebuymeadrinkandI’lltellyoualloursecrets.”

ThatSaturdaytheywentbirdwatching,orbirding,asitwasnowcalled.AdelewantedtogotoFreezeoutandMcHenryhadn’tbeenthereindecadessotheywent,threehourseachwayandiffyweatherbuttheywent.Theyleftatseveninthemorning,whichwasearlyforAdeleonaweekend,shesaidso.McHenryhadbeenupfortwohours.Itwasn’tadate,theyagreedonthat.Theydidn’thaveanothername.AdeledroveherHonda,whichonlymadesense—McHenrystillhadtheExpeditionfromhisdrilling

days, which smelled of dirt and petroleum and got eleven miles to the gallon. But he hadn’t been apassengerinawhileanditwasstrange,fillinghergo-cupfromthethermosandwatchingtheweather.Itreallyhadbeenquiteawhile.Marnieneverdrovewhentheywentplacestogetherunlessshewasdrivinghimtothehospital,whichhadhappenedacoupleoftimes.Butjustsittingbackandrelaxingandwatchingthesnowfallonthefarhills—thiswaslikesomethingoutofhischildhood,adistantmemory,watchingthetelephonewiresloopbyintheirrhythmofriseandfall.

“Youmissher,”Adelesaid.“Hell,ImissherandIwasn’tmarriedtoher.”“It’sbeenawhile,”McHenrysaid.“Feelanybetter?”“Idon’tknow.Imean,sure,betterthanthatfirstfewmonths.Ittookawhiletoseethepointofkeeping

thingsgoing.Ithelpedhavingthegirlaroundbutshewasn’taroundthatmuchexceptsummers.Itwaskindofhappeningtobothofusatthesametime,youknow?Idomissthat.”“Butshe’sdoingwell.”“Iknowsheis.I’mnottalkingabouther,I’mtalkingaboutme.”McHenrylaughed.“Carolyn’sperfectly

allright.I’mtheonethat’smessedup.”“You’reallright,”Adelesaid.“Maybe,”saidMcHenry.Infacthedidn’tknow.Itfeltlikehewastellingastoryanditwasatruestory

but it wasn’t who he was. Wasn’t where he lived. He looked at Adele, who drove with greatconcentration, slightly hunched forward over the wheel, and knew her for part of that story—he hadknownher,neverwell,forthirtyyearsatleast—andyettheknown,thefamiliar,seemedstrangetohim,andonlythethoughtofTracyseemedhisown.Thisfeltmysterious.Hefeltlikehedidn’tknowhimself.ThesnowstormdrifteddownoffthehillsandontotheroadandAdeleflippedthewipersonandleaned

even farther forward.She seemed likeacomiccharacter from thisnewdistance.McHenry felt, small,upholstered,flowery.Thoughthiswasunderestimatingher.Shewasaseriousperson,intelligent,andshehad been very good toMarnie in her last year. It just seemed impossible to think of her in bed. Thatsadness,again,thatwasteofyearsthatshouldhavebeenjoyful.“Youweremarried,”McHenrysaid.“Istillam,”shesaid,blinkingintothestorm.“Howdoesthatwork?”“HisfamilywasCatholic,”shesaid.“Hedevelopedmentalproblemsafterweweretogether.Imean,I

guesshehadthemallalong.Buttheyprettymuchtookoverafterawhileandhelostcontrolofhislife.”“I’msorry,”McHenrysaid.“Ididn’tknowthat.”“Really?”Aquickglanceover,toseethathewasn’tlying.“Ithoughteverybodyknew.Atownthesize

ofHarlow.ItalkedaboutitwithMarnie,Iremember.”The sadness again, at the secrecy and fear that had kept them from bright life. It was too late for

Marnie.McHenrythoughtitwastoolateforhimtoo,andmaybeforAdeletoo.Thishadmeantsomething.Marniehadknownbutnevertoldhim.“Whereishenow?Yourhusband,Imean.”“He’s inSeattle,” she said. “Kaiser, a long-term-care place.They tried tomakehimbetter but they

wreckedhismindfromtrying,allthedifferentdrugsandtreatments.Hehadaverybeautifulmind.”“I’msorry,”McHenrysaidagain.“Itwasalongtimeago,”shesaid.“I’msureIcouldfindalawyertostraightenitout,iftherewasever

anyneed.It’sjustnevercomeup.”She shrugged. It wasn’t a hint. Nothing was going to happen between the two of them. The deep

elemental strangeness of another life, even one as familiar asAdele’s, andMcHenry naked and aliveinside.Itwasjustsuchastrangeworld.TheygottoFreezeoutalittleafterten—acoupleofcarsandpickups—blueskiesandacoldbreezebut

shootsofrawgreeninthegrass.Springwascomingafterall.Theybundledupandcarriedfoldingchairsand binoculars and in Adele’s case a bird book and a life list. McHenry had an old, heavy pair ofLeupoldsthathadbeenkickingaroundintheglovecompartmentoftheExpeditionforyearsbutAdelehadan immaculatemedium-sized Leica pair. Shewas going to add a few to her list today.Only then didMcHenryrealizehowboringthisdaywouldbe.Hecouldlookatbirdsforabouttenminutes.

Theywalked over the last rise. Therewas the lake and on the lakewere geese and swans beyondcounting, tens of thousands of them, teeming.As theywatched, some invisible impulse ran through theflockatthefaredgeandtheyroseinonemovementandcircledthroughtheair,blockingouthalftheskyinwhitemovement,blackwingtips.Okay,McHenrythought.Thiswasworthit.Allthisbeautifullife,thisexcess,generosity.“Don’tsayit,”Adelesaid.“Don’tsaywhat?”“Thejoke,”shesaid.“Whateveritis.Abouthowtheymateforlife.”“I’mnotreallyajoke-typeperson,”McHenrysaid.Whichwastrue.

Andthenthenextmorning,backattheBangkokSunshine.Sundaymorning!Andhistruckparkedrightoutfrontforalltheworldtosee.Adifferentandmuchfriendliergirlupfront.Butheart-stoppingbeautiful.McHenrycouldbarelytalkto

her,shewassoperfect,soniceandlovelyandyoung.Sundaymorning,hethought:celebratealifesofullofamazingthingsasthis.Justlatelyitfeltliketheworldwasfullofgifts.ButTracywasn’tthere;heshouldhaveknownasmuch.Wouldhelikeoneoftheothergirls?Atestof

somekind,McHenrythought.Notwhathewassupposedtowant,orwhatsomebodyelsewouldlikehimtowant—hewasn’t trying to please anybody but himself. Sowhat did hewant himself?Nobodywaswatching.“Whynot?”hesaid.Andwentintoroomnumbertwoandstrippedandfoldedhisclothesneatlyonthe

shelfprovidedforthatandlayfacedownandnakedandaskedthequestionagain:whynot?Theremustbeareasonwhynot.Hestillcouldn’tsortanyofthisout.WhatwouldAdelehavethought?Butheknewasheaskedthequestionthatshewouldhavedislikedhimforit.Itwasjustarule.Butwhomadetherule?Agirlcameintotheroombarefoot,inthesameoutfitastheothers,butthisonehadanunhappylookto

her,evenanangrylook,asifshehadjustbeenwokenup,whichmaybeshehad.ShesaidhernamewasFlower andhe saidhisnamewasBill.Shewas, if anything, stronger andmore expert thanTracyhadbeen;hefoundhimselfspiralingdownintothatsamepuremomentoffeeling,ofbeinginhisbodyandnotthinkingandnotevenbeingpresentintheroom.Hedidn’teventhinkofhimself,ofhisnakedness.Hewasinthemomentofhertouchandnowhereelse.Untilsheturnedhimover,coveredhimwiththetowel.Thenhebegantowonderagain,whethertheruleswerethesame,whetherhehadtodosomethingthathedidn’tknowhowtodo.Thefeet.Theface.Thelegs.Andthenthewhisper:“Happyending?”“Sure.”“Twentyextra.”“Sure,”hesaid.Andthenhewasstanding,blinkinginthewarmsunlight,aloneinanacreofgravelparkinglot.While

hewas inside,springhadcome.Itwasactuallywarm.McHenry tookhis jacketoffand threwit in thebackseatoftheExpedition.Thesmellofoldpetroleumgreasefilledthecab,releasedbythenewheat.Hedidn’twant that,not justyet.He laybackon thehoodofhis truckandclosedhiseyesand felt thesunlight pouring down on his skin, another gift in a world of gifts. Somebody might come by, LydiaTennantorLaFranceoranyoftheChristianSingles.Somebodymightseehim.Itdidn’tmatter.Hislifewasabouttochange.

DIANECOOK

MovingOnFROMTinHouseTHEY LETME tend tomy husband’s burial and settle his affairs.Whichmeans I can stay inmy house,pretendheisawayonbusinesswhileIstandintheclosetandsmellhisclothes.Icancookdinnerfortwoand throwthe restaway,orovereat,dependingonmymood.Ormakea timecapsule fullofpictures Iwon’tbeallowedtokeep.Icouldburyitintheyardforanewfamilytodiscover.Butoncethatworkisdone,thePlacementTeamordersmetopacktwobagsofessentials,goodforany

climate. They take the keys to our house, our car. A crew will come in, price it all; a sale will beadvertised;alltheneighborswillcome.Iwon’tbethereforanyofthis,butI’veseenithappentoothers.Themoneywillgointomydowry,andthensomeday,hopefully,anothermanwillmarryme.Ihaveagoodshotatgettingchosen,sinceI’magooddecoratorandwehavesomeprettynicestuffto

selloffandsomydowrywilllikelybeenticing.Andthecarisprettynew,andinthelastyearIwastheonlyonewhocoulddriveitandIkeptitclean.It’sanicecarwithleatherseatsandlotsofextras.Itwasmyhusband’spromotiongifttohimself,thoughhedroveitforonlyafewmonthsbeforeillnessswepthimintohisbed.It’salsoabigfamilycar,whichwillappealtotheneighbors,whoallhavebigfamilies.Wehadn’tstartedourownyet.Wewerefrettingovermoney,beingpractical.I’mluckywedidn’t.Burdenedwomenaremoredifficult toplace, I’mtold.Theyseparatemothersfromchildren. I’veheard itcanbevery hard on everyone.The children are like phantom limbs that ache on amother’s body. Iwouldn’tknow,butI’mgoodatimagining.Theydrivemeawayfromourhouse,andIseealltheleavesthatfellwhileIwastoobusyburyingmy

husbandandworryingwhatwillbecomeofme.Theleaves,glossyandred,pileinairycirclesaroundthetreetrunkslikeChristmas-treeskirts.Iseetherakeproppedagainsttherainspout.TheleastIcouldhavedoneisraketheyardonelasttime.IhadtoldmyhusbandIwould.Iamtakentoawomen’sshelteronaroadthatleadsouttotheinterstate.Theydon’tletusgobeyondthecompound’sfence,becausethelandisraggedandwild.Thenightskiesareoverwhelmedwithstars,andanimalshowlfaroff.Sometimeshidingmenambushthewomenscurryingfromthebustothegate,andtheguards,womenthemselves,don’talwaysintervene.Sometimestheyevenhelp.Aswithallthings,thereisablackmarketforleft-behindwomen,mostoftenwidowed,though,rarely,irreconcilabledifferencescanlandoneinashelter.Amen’sshelterisacrosstheroad.Itissmaller,andmainlyforwidowerswhoarepoor orwho cannot look after themselves.My father ended up in one of these shelters in Florida.Awealthywomanwhohadputhercareerfirstchosehim.Oldernow,shewantedamate.Theysenthimtoher,somewhereinTexas.Ilosttrackofhim.Thenearestchildren’sshelterisinadifferentcounty.MyroomhasasealedwindowthatfacestheroadandwhenIturnoffmylightIcanseemenlikeblack

starsintheirbrightrooms.Iwatchthemmoveintheirsmallspaces.Iwonderwhatmynewhusbandwillbelike.Therearesomanyhandoutsandpackets.Wehavebeengivenschedulesandrulesandalsosuggestionsforimprovingour livesandlooks.It’s likeaspafacilityonlockdown.Weareencouragedto takecookingclasses, sewing classes, knitting classes, gardening classes, conceiving classes, child-rearing classes,body-bounce-back-from-pregnancy classes, feminine-assertiveness classes, jogging classes, nutritionclasses,homeeconomics.Therearebedroom-techniquepotlucksandmandatory“MovingOn”seminars.

In my first “Moving On for Widows” seminar we are given a manual of helpful exercises andvisualizations.Forone, I’m to remember seeingmyhusband for the first time—wemetat anewhireslunch—andthenimaginethemomenthappeningdifferently.So,forexample,ratherthansittingnexttohimandknockinghiswaterontohiswelcomepacket,Ishouldvisualizewalkingrightbyhimandsittingalone.Or, if I letmyself sit down and spill hiswater, instead of him laughing and our hands tangling in thenervous cleanup, I should picture him yelling at me for my clumsiness. I’m supposed to pretend ourweddingdaywaslonely,andthatratherthanloveandhappiness,Ifeltdoubt,dread.It’sallveryhard.But,theysay,it’shelpfulingettingplaced.WhatIfindfunnyisthatsincemyhusbanddied,ashewas

dying,really,Ihadn’tthoughtaboutthepossibilitythatthiswouldbehard.Ithoughtitwasjustthenextstep.MyCaseManagersaysthisisnormalandthatthefeelingofdetachmentcomesfromshock.Shesaysthat if Icanholdon to itandskipover thebewilderinggrief that follows, I’llbebetteroff.Thegrief-strickenspendmoretimehere.Years,insomecases.Practice,practice,practice,shealwayssays.We’reeachgivenaframedpictureofaman,somemodel,andItakeitbacktomycellandputitbymy

bedasinstructed.I’msupposedtoreplacemyhusband’sfaceinmymemorywiththisman’sfacewhilebeing careful not to get too attached; theman in the photowon’t bemynewhusband.Theman is toosmooth; his teeth are very straight and white, and there is a glistening in his hair from gel that hashardened.IcantellheprobablyusesabrandofsoapIwouldhatethesmellof.Helooksasifhedoesn’tneedtoshaveeveryday.Myhusbandhadabeard.But,Iremindmyself,thatdoesn’tmatternow.WhatIpreferisnolongerofconcern.Weareallowedoutsideforanhoureachday,intoafencedpenoffthenorthwing.Itisfullofplasticlawnchairsand thewomenwhohavebeenhereawhilepush togetchairs in thesun.Theyundressdown totheirunderwearandworkontheirtans.Otherwomenjoinanaerobicsclassinthefarnorthcorner.Thefencesaretoppedwithbarbedwire.Guardssitinboothsandobserve.SofarI’vejustwalkedtheinsideborder and looked through the chain. The land beyond is razed save for the occasional toppled rootystump.Weeds, thorny bushes grow everywhere. This is a newer facility. Decades from now, perhapsyoungtreeswillshadeit,which,Ithink,wouldmakeitcozier.Faroff,theforestisvisible;ashakylineofgreen from theswaying trees.Thoughcoyotesprowl thebarren tract, it is the forest that, tome, seemsmostmenacing.Itissounknown.OnmywalksIoftenneedtosteparoundahuddleofwomenfromanotherfloor(thefloorsmostlykeep

together,socially);theyformahumanshieldaroundawomanonherknees.Sheisdiggingintothegroundwithaservingspoonfromthecafeteria.Itisbent,almostfolded,butstillshescrapesatthepebblysoil.Ican’timaginetheguardsdon’tknowwhatisgoingon.Therearerunnerswhotrytoescapeatnight.Theythinktheywillfarebetterontheirown.Idon’tthinkIcoulddoit.I’mtoodomesticforthatkindofthing.Fourweeksin,andIhavegottentobefriendswiththewomenonmyfloor.Itturnsoutwe’reallbakers.Justahobby.Eachnightoneofuswhipsupsomenewcookieorcake froma recipe inoneof theoldwomen’smagazineslyingaroundthecompound,andwesampleit,drinktea,chat.Itislovelytobewithwomen.Inmanyways,thisisahumaneshelter.Wearewomenwithverylittletodoandnocertainfuture.Asidefromthedailyworkofbetteringourselves,wearemostlyleftalone.Ilikethewomenonmyfloor.Theyaredown-to-earth, calm,notparticularly jealous. I suspectweare lucky. I’veheard fights in thenightonotherfloors.Solitary,inthebasement,isalwaysfull.Asistheinfirmary.Awomanonfloorfivewhohadjustbeenchosenwasattackedwhilesheslept.Slashedacrossthecheekwitharazorblade.Thestory goes thatwhen the Placement Team contacted the husband-to-bewith the news, he rejected her.Thereshewas,allpackedandabouttobeginanewlife.Whenshereturnedfromtheinfirmarywithtidystitches tominimize thescarring,shehad tounpackandcrawl into thesamebedwhereherbloodstill

stainedthesheets.IfshehadbeenonourfloorIwouldhavechangedthesheetsforher.AndIknowtheotherswouldhavetoo.That’swhatImeanaboutfeelinglucky.Last week, our girl Marybeth was chosen and sent to a farm near Spokane. We stood in a circle

embracing,layingourheadsoneachother’sshoulders,andMarybethdidnotwanttoleave.Wemadeheracarepackage;inourbesthandwritingwe’dwrittenoutrecipesonindexcardsofthethingswe’dbakedtogethersoshecouldalwaysrememberhertimehereifshechoseto.Shecriedwhenwehandedittoher.“I’mnotready,”shewhimpered.“Istillmisshim.”Acoupleofusencouragedher.“Justdoyourbest.”When,eventually,theguardledherawayweheardhertryingtocatchherbreathuntiltheelevatordoorsclosed.Awindowhasblinkedtolifeacrosstheroad.Amanisawake,likeme.Hepadsaroundhissmallroominpajamas—hospitalblue,likeours.Iwanttobeseen,soIstandinmywindow.Heseesme,stepstohiswindow,andoffersaquietwave.Iwaveback.Weareopposingfloatsinaparade.IfwehadbeenpoorandIhaddied,myhusbandwouldbeovertherenow,waitingforsomeonetowant

him. How strange to worry about someone wanting you when we had been wanted by each other soconfidently.Mostpeople reach theageofexemptionbefore theirpartnerdies,and theyareallowed tosimplylivealone.Whowouldwantthem,anyway?Ideally,youmarrythemanyouloveandgettostaywith him forever, through everything you can think to put each other through, because you chose to gothroughittogether.But I hadnot prepared for something like this.Hadhe?Hadmyhusbandkept somepart of himself

separate so he could give it to someone else if he needed to?Was it possible I too hadmanaged towithholdsomethingofmyselfwithoutevenrealizingit?Ihopedso.Ilookaroundmysmallcinder-blockroom,paintedahalfheartedpink,thedesktoolargefortheunread

librarybookonit.Ihadapictureofushiddenundermymattress.Itwasoneofthosepicturescouplestakewhentheyarealoneinaspecialplace,atamomenttheywanttoremember.Wesmooshedourheadstogetherandmyhusbandheld thecameraoutandsnapped thepicture.Welookdistorted,ecstatic.Onenight,Ifellasleepwhilelookingatit;itfelltothefloor,wasfoundatwake-up,andwasconfiscated.Istillcan’tbelieveIwassocareless.Inbed, I imaginemyhusband lyingbesideme,warming the rubber-coatedmattress,beneath the thin

sheetsomanywomenhavesleptunderbeforeme.MyscalptinglesasIthinkofhimscratchingit.Werubfeet. Then I have to picture him dissolving into the air like in a science-fiction movie, vaporized toanotherplanet,grainy,muted,thengone.Thesheetholdshisshapeforamomentbeforedeflatingtothebed.Ipracticenotfeelingathing.A fewwomenonother floorshavebeenchosenandwill leave tomorrow. I can smell snow in theairpushingthroughthesmallcrackwherethewindowinsulationhaspeeledaway.Latefallisnowwinter.Whenitistoocold,wearen’tletoutsideforactivitiesinthepen.Iwouldgiveanythingtorunthroughafieldandnotstop.Ihaveneverbeentherunning-through-fieldstype.FromwhatIcantell,beingchosenisbittersweet.I imaginemanyofuswouldn’tmindlivingoutour

days at the shelter in the companyofwomen likeourselves.But thenagain, itwouldn’t alwaysbeus.Marybeth’sreplacementwascruelandtriedtostartfightsbetweenus.Shetoldmemymuffinsweredry.Shesqueezedoneinmyface;itcrumbledbetweenherfingers.ShecreptintosweetLaura’sroomandcuta chunk of her long shiny hair with safety scissors. Laura was forced into a bob that didn’t suit her.Luckily, this woman was very beautiful and was chosen after only four days. We’re waiting for herreplacement.Eventhoughthereisuncertaintyinbeingchosen,itseemsmoreuncertaintoremainamongthewomen,asentimentI’vealsoseenexpressedinthemanual.

Somethingveryspecialhashappened.Imetmywindowfriend.Hecameoverwiththeothermenfromthemen’sshelterforbingo.Thishappensoccasionally.Itkeepseveryonesociallyagile.Eventhoughwewaveacrosstheroad,whenhewalkedinIrecognizedhiminstantly—thedarknessof

hishairandthegenerallineofhisbrow.Thenightswewavehavebecomeimportanttome.It’snicetobeseenbyaman.Mywindow friend spottedme too, stopped in the doorway, andwaved. Iwavedback and thenwe

laughed.Atiny,forgottenthrillbubbledupinme.Hesatnexttome.CloseupIfoundhimhandsome.Heclownedaround,pushedthebingochipsoffmy

boardwheneverIwasn’tlooking.Hewasnervous.Hesaid,“I’mgoingtotellyoutenbadjokesinarow,”andhedid,countingonhisfingers,notpausing

formylaughter,whichmademelaughthroughthewholething.Aguardwatchedusdisapprovingly.Welookedtobehavingtoomuchfun.Iguessitgoeswithoutsayingthatrelationsbetweenshelterdwellersareprohibited.Imean,howcouldwesurvivetogetherintheworldifwehavebothendedupinaplacelikethis?At theendof theeveningawhistleblewandthemenbegantoshuffleout.Againmywindowfriend

stoodinfrontofmeandwavedandIdidthesame.Butthistimehetouchedhisopenhandtomineandwepressedthemtogetherandsmiled.Ifeltusquakelikesmallanimalsthathavebeendiscoveredsomewheretheyshouldn’tbeandhavenotimetorun,orplacetorunto.The next night, afterwewaved quietly, I undressed in thewindow, the lights bright behindme.He

placedhishandsagainsttheglassasiftogetcloserandwatched.Tonight,hislightisn’tonandsowedon’twave,butstill,Iundressinfrontofmylitwindow.Ican’t

knowifhe’swatchingfromthedarkness,orwhoelseiswatching,forthatmatter.Ilovedmyhusband.Imournhistenderness.Ihavetobelievethatsomeoneoutthereisfeelingakindoftendernessforme.I’lltakeitanywayIcan.I’vebeenmoved toanother floor.Someonefromthemen’sshelter reportedme,andmyCaseManagerthoughtitbestformetooccupyaroominthebackofthebuilding.NowIlookoutoverthepen.Fordays,Ifeignillnessandstayinbed.Ihearthegroupsofwomendoingtheiroutsideactivities.Itis

acyclicaldroneoflaughing,arguing,calistheniccounting,andloadedsilence.WhenIdogooutsidetothepen,thewomenfrommyoldfloorgivegeneroushugsandwetrytotalk,

liketheolddays,butit’sdifferent.Therearenewwomen.Acoupleoffriendshavebeenchosenandaregone.A newwoman replacedme; she lives inmy room and has a view across the road to themen’sshelterandmywindowfriend.Hernameisevenclosetomine.Shetoldmethatthewomensometimesslipandcallherbymyname.Shetoldmethistocomfortme,withasympatheticpatonmyarm.Butitdoesn’thelp.Isthereanydifferencebetweenusbeyondafewlettersinournames?Thewomenonmynewflooraremostlyconcernedwithescape.Theyarebullish.Theirdesirescares

me.Buttherearetwonicewomen.Theydon’ttrytoescape,ornotthatI’veheardabout.Ourwayoutofhereistogetchosen.Soweswaptipsfromthedifferentpamphletswe’veread.Wedon’tbake.Sometimesmyoldgirlssenddowncookies,buttheycomeacoupleofdaysaftertheir

bakingpartiesandso theyarecrumbly,stale;nothinglike thewarm,fresh treatsIwassofondof. I’vestartedthrowingthemaway,butIwon’tsayanything,becauseIlikeitthattheystillthinkofme.Thealarmsounds.Itsoundswhensomeoneruns.Floodlightssweepoverthefield,thenthroughmywindow.Ihearthefar-offyowlingofdogsasthey

smelltheirwaythroughthenight,trackingsomewoman.Curiously,Ifindmyselfrootingforher.PerhapsI’m half-asleep but, peering outmywindow, I think I can see her.When the lights pan thewasteland

between the pen and the forest, something like a shadow moves swiftly, with what seems like hairwhippingbehind,barelyabletokeepupwiththebodyitbelongsto.There’snowheretohidebeforetheforestline.Therunnerneedsagoodheadstart.Idoubtshegotit.

They never do.And yet they always try.What are they looking for?Out there, it’s dark and cold.Noguaranteeof foodormoneyorcomfortor love.Andeven ifyouhavesomeonewaitingforyou,still itseemssuchaslipperythingtodependon.SaymywindowfriendandIran.Wouldhelovemeoutsideofhere?CouldIeverbesure?Ibarelyknowhim.Ipicturemyselfrunning.Mynightgownbillowingbehindme,myhairlooseningfromabraidasIspeed

along.Finallyitcomesundoneandfree.Ihearthedogsbehindme.Iseetheforestdarknessinfrontofme.Fromacrossthefieldafigureracestowardme.ButI’mnotscared.It’shim.Myfriend.Weplannedit.We’rerunningsothatwhenwereachthewoodswecanbetogether.Ifeelhopefultoberunningacrossthisfield,andthenIsuddenlyknowwhytheydoit.Theyarerunningtowardwhattheybelieveisbestforthem,notwhatthemanualclaimsisbest.Itshouldbethesamethingbutitisn’t.IfindattheendofthisfantasyIamweepingandsoIwriteitdowninalettertomyfriend.Iwriteitas

aproposition,thoughI’mnotsureitisone.Ijustwanttoknowifhewouldagreetoit.It’sanotherwayofasking,ifweweren’tbothpoorwretches,wouldhechooseme?Idon’tknowwhy,butit’simportanttome.MaybeI’vechanged.Themanualsaysthatinordertomoveforwardwemustchange.Butthischangefeelsmorelikeacollapse.Andthatisnothowthemanualsaysitwillfeel.Iopenmywindowandthewindpinksmycheeks.Ilikeit.Thewindbringsthesmellfromthefieldand

evenfromthetrees.Itsmellsgoodoutthere,pastwhereIcansee.Thedogsaresilentnow.Therunnermighthavemadeit.Ishakemyheadatthenight.Iknowit’snottrue.Mywindowfriendisgone.At bingo I search for him. I want to explain my absence, tell him I was moved, while discreetly

slippingtheletterintohispocket.Ican’tfindhim.Anothermanfollowsmearoundtryingtograbmyhand;he whispers that he has secret riches no one knows about. Finally a guard from the men’s shelterintervenes,takesthemanbythearm.Iaskaboutmyfriendanditturnsouthewaschosen.Theguardsaysheleftafewdaysago.Iaskhowmanyexactly.“Justtwo,”hesaysalittlesheepishly.I’mdestroyed.Isay,“Twoisnotafew,”andreturntomyroom.ItispaintedabuzzingshadeofyellowandIhateit.ThedeskisevenbiggerandemptiernowthatI’vestoppedpretendingtoread.Thefloodlightsfromthepenshineinmywindowatallhours.ThenextdayIslogtolunch,butIcan’teat.Istareatmycrowdedtrayuntilthecafeteriaempties.My

CaseManagercallsmein.Hereyebrowsareraised,imploring.SheopensafileandinitistheletterIwrotetomywindowfriend.Ican’tevenmustersurprise.Ofcoursetheywouldfindit.“Iwasn’treallygoingtorun,”Isay.“Itwasjustafantasy.”“Iknow.”Shepushesthelettertome.I read it. My handwriting is looped and sleepy. The pages are worn. I wrote a lot, and reread it

obsessively tomake it right.Reading itnowmakesmeblush. In the letter, Iambegging.My tonenearhysterics.Ipromisethatwe’llfindahouse,unoccupiedinthewoods,abandonedyearsago.Thatwe’llforageforourfood,butthateventuallywe’llfindwork,eventhoughallthejobsarespokenfor.Iinsistwe’llbetheluckyones.We’llhaveafamily,ahousewithayard.He’llhaveanicecar,andI’llhavenicethings.We’llhavefriendsovertodinner.We’llhaveavacationeachyearevenifitisasimpleoneandwe’llneverputanythingoffifwereallywanttodoit.Andwe’llneverwaitforsomethingwewantnow,likechildren.We’llnever fightoversilly things. Iwon’tholdagrudgeandhe’ll saywhathe’s feelinginsteadofshruggingitaway.Iwon’tbeirresponsibleanymore.Iwon’tbuybeddingwecan’tafford.AndI’llbemorefun.I’llbegame.Iwon’tinsisthetellmewherewe’regoingwhenallhereallywantstodo

is surpriseme. I’ll never cookhim thingshedoesn’t likebecause I thinkhe should like them. Iwon’tforgettodosmallthingslikepickupthedrycleaningorraketheleavesinouryard.Ofcourse,I’mwritingtomyhusband.Itreadsasifwe’refightingandhe’sstormedout,isstayingonafriend’scouch.Hereismyloveletter,

myapology:pleasecomehome.Ilookup.“Besensible,”myCaseManagersays,notwithoutsomekindness.“Ican’tputyournameonanylist

untilyou’veshownyou’removingon.”“ButwhendoIgrieve?”“Now,”shesays,asthoughIhaveaskedwhatdayitis.Ithinkofthemanfromacrosstheroad,mywindowfriend.ButIcan’tevenrememberwhathelooks

like.Itrytopicturehiminhisroom,butallIseeismyhusband,waiting,inhisplaidpajamasandwoolyslippers.Heshakesaghostlylittlewave.Icantellfromhisshouldersheissadenoughforthebothofus.ForacoupleofweeksIallowmyselfalittlemoment.Iscrapeotherwomen’sleftoversontomyplate.Ieatthetreatsmyoldfloorstillsends,eventhoughIdon’tlikethem.Ibarterforsnackswithsomerougherwomenwhosomehowhaditinthemtosetupasecretsupplybusiness.Nowmypantsdon’tfit.MyCaseManagerfinallyintervenesandtellsmetocutitout.Shesayseventhoughweliveinaprogressivetimeit’sprobablynotagoodideatoletmyselfgo.Shegivesmesomehandoutsandanewexercisetodothatis,literally,exercise.“Getthatheartrateup,”shesays,pinchingthefleshabovemyhip.Iknowshe’s right.Wealldealwith thingsdifferently.Atnight, somewomencry.Otherwomenare

bullies.Othersbake.Someliveonelifewhiledreamingofanother.Andsomewomenrun.Eachnightanewalarmsounds,thedogs,thelights.InthemorningI’llseewholooksragged,asifshe

spentafutilefewhoursflyingacrossthebarrentracttotheforest,onlytoberecaptured.I’llalsolooktosee if anyone is missing. I still secretly hope she, whoever she was, made it, and I feel twinges ofcuriosityatthethoughtofthatlife.Butthey’rejusttwinges.Notmotivation.WhatIwant,Ican’thave.Myhusbandisgone.Somyfuturewillbesomethingmuchquieter.Itwon’tbesomedramaticfeelinginthewildunknown.Thereareotherwaystobehappy.Ireadthatinthemanual.I’mtryingthemout.MyCaseManagersaysthisishealthy.Eightmonthsintomystay,Iamchosen.MyCaseManagerisproudofme.“That’sarespectableamountoftime,”sheinsists.Iblushatthecompliment.“Theknittinghelped,”shenotes,takingquietcreditforsuggestingit.Inod.Howeverithappened,I’mjustgladtohaveahome.Mynewhusband’snameisCharlieandhelivesinTucsonandthefirstthingheboughtwiththedowry

wasanewflat-screenTV.Butthesecondthingheboughtwasawatchforme,withathinsilvercuffandasmalldiamondinplaceofthetwelve.MyPlacementTeamtakesmetoadinerontheoutskirtsoftown,whereCharliewaitsinfrontofaplate

ofpancakes.Hehasgirlishhandsbutotherwiseheisfine.TheTeamintroducesusand,aftersomepapersaresigned,leaves.Charliegreetsmewithalighthug.Heiswearingmyhusband’scologne.I’msureitisacoincidence.Iamhissecondwife.HisfirstwifeisinashelteronaroadthatleadstotheinterstateoutsideTucson.

Hetellsmenottoworry.Hedidn’tcausetheirbrokenmarriage.Shedid.Inod,andwishIhadapieceofpapersoIcantakenotes.HeasksmehowIfeelaboutkids,somethinghecertainlyhasalreadyreadinmyfile.IanswerthatI’ve

alwayswanted them. “We’dbeenplanning,” I say.There is an awkward silence. I havebrokena rule

already. Iapologize.He’sembarrassedbutsays it’s fine.Headds,“It’snatural, right?”andsmiles.HeseemsconcernedthatInotthinkbadlyofhim,andIappreciatethat.Iclearmythroatandsayagain,“I’dlikekids.”Helooksgladtohearit.Hecallsthewaitressoverandsays,“Getmynewwifeanythingshewants.”There’ssomethinginhiseagernessIthinkIcanfindcharming.I amnot ready for this.But I’ve heard that someday I’ll barely remember that I ever knewmy first

husband.I’llpicturehimstandingalongwaydownacrowdedbeach.Everyonewillbepleasedtobeonthebeach.I’llseesomethingabouthimthatwillcatchmyeyebutitwon’tbehiswave,orhissmile,ortheparticularcurlofhishair.Itwillbeplatonic,somethingIwouldn’tassociatewithhim.Itwillbethepatternonhisbathingshorts;bright,wild,redfloralor,maybe,plaid.I’ll thinksomethinglike“Whatanice color for bathing shorts. How bright they look against the beige sand.”And then the imagewilldisappearandI’llneverthinkofhimagain.I’mnotlookingforwardtothisday.ButIwon’tturnmybackonit.Asthemanualoftenstates,it’smyfuture.Andit’stheonlyoneIget.

JULIAELLIOTT

BrideFROMConjunctionsWILDAWHIPSHERSELFwithaclumpofblackberrybrambles.Shecanfeelcoldfromthestonefloorpulsingup into her cowl, chastising her animal body. She smiles. Eachmorning she thinks of a newpenance.Yesterday,sheslippedoffherwoolenstockingsandstoodoutsideinthefreezingair.Themorningbeforethat,sherollednakedindriedthistle.Subsistingonwaterysoupandstalebread,shehasalmostsubduedherbody.Eachmonthwhenthemoonswells,herwoman’sbleedingisadribbleofburgundysoscantshedoesnotneedarag.Womenarebynaturecarnal,theAbbotsaidlastnightafteradministeringthesacredbloodandflesh.A

woman’sbodyhasadoor,anopening that theDevilmayslip through,unlessshe fiercelybarricadeagainstsuchentry.Wilda’sbodyisabundleofpollutedflesh.Herbodyisastinkinggoat.Shelasheshershouldersand

back.Shescourgesherarms,herlegs,hershrunkenbreasts,andjuttingribcage.Shethrashesthesmallmoundofherbelly.Shegivesherfeetagoodworkingover,flagellatinghertoesandsoles.Shereachesbacktotorturethetwopoorsinewsofherbuttocks.Andthensherepeatstheprocess,doublingtheforce.Shechastisesthefilthymaggotofhercarnalityuntilshefeelsfirecracklingupherbackbone.Herheadexplodeswithlight.Hersoulrejoiceslikeabirdflittingfromadarkhut,outintosummerair.SisterElgaruth is always in the scriptoriumbeforeWilda, just afterPrimeService,makingher roundsamong the lecterns, checking the manuscripts for errors, her hawk nose hovering an inch above eachparchment.Wildasitsdownatherdeskjustasthesunrisesoverthedarkwood.Shesharpensherquill.Sheopensherinkpotandtakesadeepsniff—pomegranatejuiceandwinetemperedwithsulfur—arichred ink that reminds her ofChrist’s blood, the same stuff that stains her fingertips.This is always thehappiesttimeofday—inkperfumeinhernostrils,windowsblazingwithlight,herbodyweightlessfromthemorning’sscourge.Butthentheothernunscomebumblingin,fillingthehallwithgruntsandcoughs,fermentedbreath,smellsofwinterbodiesbundledindirtywool.WildasighsandturnsbacktoBeastesofGod’sWorlde,themanuscriptshehasbeencopyingforayear,overandover,encounteringthecreaturesofGod’sMenagerie indifferentmoodsandseasons, finding themboringonsomedaysand thrillingonothers.Todaysheishalfwaythroughtheentryonbees, thesmallestofGod’sbirds,createdonthefifthday.

She imagines thecreaturesspewingfromthevoid, theairhazyandbuzzing. In these fallen times,beeshatchfromthebodiesofoxenandtherottedfleshofdeadcows.Theybeginasworms,squirminginputridmeat,and“transformintobees.”Wildawonderswhythemanuscriptprovidesnosatisfactoryinformationonthenatureofthistransformation,whilegoingonforparagraphsaboutthelessonswemaylearnfromcreaturesthathatchfromcorpsestobecomeetherealflyingnectareatersandindustriousbuildersofhives.Howdo theyget theirwings?Dotheysleep in theirhivesallwinteror freeze todeath?Dofresh

swarmshatchfromoxflesheachspring?Wildaisabouttoscrawlthesequestionsinthemarginswhenshefeelsatugonhersleeve.Sheturns,

regardstheblunt,sallowfaceofSisterElgaruth,whichnipsallspeculationinthebud.“Sister,”croaksElgaruth,“youstrayfromGod’stask.”Wildaturnsbacktohercopying,shapingletterswithhercrimpedrighthand.

At lunch in the dining hall, theAbbess sits in her bejeweled chair, rubies representingChrist’s bloodgleaminginthedarkmahogany.ThoughtheAbbessisstringyandyellowasadriedparsnip,everybodyknows shehas a sweet tooth, that shedotes onwhite flour, pheasants roasted in honey,wine from theCanary Islands. Her Holiness wears ermine collars and anoints her withered neck with myrrh. Twoprioresses,SisterEthelburhandSisterWilla,hunchoneachsideofher,slurpingupcabbagesoupwithpiousfrowns.Theycastcoldglancesatthetableofnewgirls.ThenewgirlshavenoLatin.TheybarktheEnglishlanguage,lacingfamiliarwordswiththedarkness

oftheirmothertongue.Oneofthem,Aoife,worksinthekitchenwithWildaonSaturdaysandSundays.Aoifeworkshard,choppingahundredonions,tearsstreamingdownhercheeks.ShesleepsinacellsixdoorsdownfromWilda’s.Sometimes,whenWildaroamsthenighthalltocalmhersoulaftermatins,shesees Aoife blustering through, red hair streaming. AndWilda feels the tug of curiosity. She wants tofollowthegirlintoherroom,hearherspeakthelanguageofwolvesandfoxes.Now, asWilda’s tablemates spout platitudes about the heavy snows God keeps dumping upon the

convent inMarch, the newgirls erupt into rich laughter.Theybray and howl, snigger and snort.Darkvaporshoveroverthem.Aturbulence.Ahullabaloo.TheAbbessslamshergobletdownonthetable.Andthewildgirlsstifletheirmirth.ButWildacanseethatAoife’sstrangeambereyesarestilllaughing,eventhoughhermouthispinchedintoafrown.Atvespers,thegoutyAbbotisdrunkagain.Hisenormousheadgleamslikeabroiledham.Hesaysthattheworld, drenched in sin, is freezing into a solid block of ice.He says thatwomen are ripe for theDevil’s attentions. He says their tainted flesh lures the Devil like a spicy, rancid bait. The Abbotdescribes theEvilOnescrambling throughawoman’swindowin thedarknessofnight.Knucklesuponpulpit,hemimicsthesoundofSatan’sdung-cakedhoovesclompingovercobblestones.Heasksthenunstopicture thenakedbeast: faceofahandsomemanof thirty,swarthyskinned, ravenhaired,goathornspokingfromhisbrow,themuscularchestofalustylayman,butbelowthewaisthe’sallgoat.IthasbeensnowingsinceNovemberandthenunsarepale,anemic,scrawny.Theyareafflictedwith

scurvy,nightblindness,nervousspasms,andmelancholy.Unlikethemonksacrossthemeadow,theydon’ttendavineyardattheirconvent.AndwhentheAbbotdescribesthepowerfulthighsofSatan,thestinkingflurryofhairandgoatflesh,ayoungnunscreams.Asmallmousythingwhoneversaysaword.Sheopenshermouthandyowlslikeacat.Andthensheblinks.Shestands.Shescurriesfromthechapel.After the Abbot’s sermon,Wilda tosses on her pallet, unable to banish the image from hermind: thevilenessoftwopollutedanimalbodiestwistingtogetherinalatherofpoisonoussweat.Shejumpsoutofbed and snatches her clump of blackberry brambles. She gives her ruttish beast of a body a goodthrashing, chastising every square inch of stinkingmeat from chin to toes. Shewhips herself until shefloats.God’sloveisanoceansparklinginthesun,andWilda’ssoulisadroplet,amoleculeofmoistureliftedintotheair.Whensheopenshereyes,shedoesnotseeherhumblestonecellwithitsstrawpalletand hemp quilt; she sees heavenly skies in pink tumult, angels slithering through clouds. She sees theVirginheldaloftbyathrongofnakedcherubs,dovesnestinginhergoldenhair.Inhermelodiousvoice,theVirginspeaksofJesusChristherSon,histearsofrubyblood.TheVirgin

sayshersonwillreturntoEarthinMaytowalkamongflowersandbees.When the bell rings formatins,Wilda is still up, pacing, her braids unraveling. Somehow, she tidiesherself. Somehow, she transports her body to the chapel,where three dozen sleepy-eyed virgins havegatheredattwointhefreezingmorningtorevelinJesus’love.

At breakfast, Wilda drinks her beer but does not touch her bread. Now she is floating through thescriptorium.Shehassleptamerethirtyminutesthenightbefore.Shehasarunnycatarrhfromstandinginthefreezingwindwithherhooddown,andsheshivers.Butherheartburns,aflameinthehallowednookofherchest.YouareallChrist’sbrides, said theAbbot thismorning.Donotbreak the seal that sealsyouboth

together.“IamthebrideofChrist,”Wildawhispersasshesitsdownatherlectern.Sheopensherink,sniffsthe

blood-redbrew.Shehasaburningneedtodescribethevoiceof theVirgin, thefrenzyofbeatingangelwingsastheheavensopenedtolet theSacredMotherdescend.Shewantstocapturethelooksontheirfaces,wrenched and fierce.But there’s SisterElgaruth,wheezing behind her.Wilda turns, regards thesooty kernel of flesh that adorns Sister Elgaruth’s left nostril. Elgaruth is one of God’s creatures,magnificent,breathing,etchedoffleshandbone.“Sister,”saystheoldwoman,“mindthemissingwordinyourlastparagraph.”Elgaruthpointswithhercrookedfinger,deformedfromdecadesofcopying,toocrimpedtocopytext.“Forgiveme.Iwillbemoremindful.”SisterElgaruth shufflesoff.Wilda eyes the shelveswhere theunboundvellum is stashed,noting the

lockeddrawerthatstoresthechoicestsheets,strippedfromthebacksofstillbornlambs.Shehasnevertouchedthesilkystuff,whichisreservedforthethreeancientvirginswhohavebeenpenningapsalterforanarchbishop.Now,whenSisterElgaruthdepartstothelavatory,Wildatiptoesovertotheoldwoman’slectern.She

opensthefirstdrawer,notesapotofrosemarybalm,thetwigElgaruthusestopickdarkwaxfromherears.Theseconddrawercontainsapsalter,prayerbeads,abundleofdriedlavender.Inthethirddrawer,beneathacrustyhandkerchief,isacarvedwoodenbox,fourkeyswithinit,loopedonahempring.Wildasnatchesthekeys,hurriestothevellumdrawer,triestwokeysbeforeunlockingthemostsacredsheets.BythetimeSisterElgaruthreturns,Wildaisbackatherdesk,threestolensheetsstuffedinhercowlpocket.Herheart,awildbird,beatswithinherchest.SheturnsbacktoBeastesofGod’sWorlde.Thegoatsbloodeissohottewithlusteitwilledissolvethehardestdiamonde.

Inthekitchen,Aoifechopsthelastcarrotsfromtherootcellar,brownshriveledwitches’fingers.Aoifeispale, freckled, quick with her knife. She sings a strange song and smiles. She turns toWilda. In theAbbot’s pompousvoice, she croaks a pious tidbit about thedarkness ofwoman’s flesh—amiraculousimitation.ForasecondtheAbbotisrightthereinthekitchen,ankle-deepinonionskins,standinginthesteamofboilingcabbage.Wildafeelsaneruptionofjoyinhergut.Sheletsoutabrayoflaughter.SisterLufe turns from her pot of beans to give them both the stink eye.Wilda smirks at Aoife, takes up acabbage,andpeelsoffrottedleaves,layerafterslimylayer,untilsheuncoversthefresh,greenheartofthevegetable.Wildakneelsonbruisedknees.Shehasnodesk,onlyacrude,shorttableofgnarledelm.Tuckedbeneathitaresheetsoflambvellum,herquills,apotofstolenink.Shefaceseast.Herwindowisasmallsquareofhewnstone.Outside,snowhasstartedtofallagain,andWilda,whohasnofire,rejoicesinthebone-splittingcold.She’smumbling.Shiveraftershiverracksherbody.Andsoonshefeelsnothing.Hercandleflamesputters.Shesmellsfreshlilies.TheVirginstepsfromtheempyreanintotheworldoffleshandmud.TheglowfromherbodyburnsWilda’seyes.ThewordsfromhermoutharelikemusicalthunderinWilda’sears.“MySonwillreturntochooseabride,”saystheVirgin,“apearlwithoutspot.”

AndthentheVirginisliftedbyangelthrong,backintotherealmofpurefire.Wildasitsstunnedasthesnowthickensoutside.Sheprays.Shewhipsherself.Andthenshetakesup

herplume.ShetriestodescribethebeautyoftheVirgin.Atfirst,herwordsgetstuck,stunnedasfliesinaspillofhoney.Butthenshebeginswithasimplesentence,intiny,meticulousscript.WhennethevirgindescendedIsmeldeapplesandoceanewinde.

AtPrimeService theAbbesskeepscoughing—fierceconvulsionsthatshakeherwholebody.Shefleesthechapelwithher twoprioressflunkies,eyesstreaming.TheAbbotpauses,andthenhereturnstohisthemeofHellasasolidblockofice,theDevilfrozenatitscore.Satanisasix-headedbeastwiththirty-sixsetsofbatwingsonhisback.TheEvilOnemustperpetuallyflapthesewingstokeeptheninthcircleofHellfreezingcold.Wildafrowns,tryingtograsptheparadoxofHellasice,wonderinghowthissameDevil,frozenatthe

center of Hell, can also slip through her window at night, burning with lust, every pore on his bodysteaming.Butit’smorning,andtheAbbotissober.Whenhereturnsforvespers,hisimaginationinflamedwithwine,hewillspeakofcarnalcommercebetweenwomenandSatan.Butthismorninghisthemeisice.TodayisthefirstdayofApril,andacrustofsnowcoversthedeadgrass.Thechickensaren’tlaying.Thecowsgivescantmilk.Themeatcellarboastsnothingbuthardsausage,oxtails,andsaltedpigs’feet.Thebeetsareblighted,thecabbagessoftwithrot.ButWildasmiles, forsheknows thatChristwill return thisblessedmonth,descendingfromHeaven

withagreatwhooshofbalmyair.Shehasdescribed theglory inher secretbook: trees floweringandfruiting simultaneously, lambs frolickingonbedsof freshmint, thegrounddeckedwith lilies asChristwalksacrossthegreeningEarthtofetchhisvirginbride.OnSunday,inthekitchen,Aoifeputstwobitsofturnipintohermouth,mimickingtheAbbess’scrookedteeth.Crossingher eyes,Aoifewalkswith theAbbess’s arrogant shuffle,headheldhighand sneering.Wildadoublesover,clutcheshergut.Shestaggersandsputtersas laughter rocks throughher.Hereyesleak. Shewheezes and brays. At last, themirth subsides.Wilda leans against the cutting table, dizzy,relishing thewarmth from the fire.A stew, darkwith the last of the driedmushrooms, bubbles in thecauldron.Aoife, still sniggering,placesherhandonWilda’sarm.Wilda feelsadeliciousheatburningthrough her sleeve. Aoife’s smile sparkles with mischief, and the young nun smells of sweat andcinnamon.Wilda’sbodyfloatsasshelooksintoAoife’shoney-coloredeyes,pupilsshrinking,irisesetchedwith

green.Aoifemurmurssomethinginhermothertongue.ButthenshespeaksEnglish.“Manisarational,moralanimal,capableoflaughter.”Aoiferemovesherhandandturnsbacktoherbucketofturnips.

TheAbbessisdeadbyTuesday.Herbody,dressedinascarletcowl,restsonabierinthechapel.TheAbbot, fearingplague,sendsasmall,nervousprior toconduct theservice.Thechapelechoeswith thecoughs of sickly nuns.The prior covers hismouthwith a ruby rag.He hurries through the absolution,flingingholywaterwithabriskflickofhisfingers,anddeparts.Threefarmershaulthebodyaway.Thatnight,ahailstormbattersthestoneconvent,sendingdownstonesthesizeofeggs,keepingthenunsawakewithconstantpatter.Sisterswhisperthattheworldhasfallenill,thatGodwillpurgethesinwithice. No one arrives from themonastery to conduct themorning service, and nuns pray silently in thecandlelitchapel.

ContemplatingthebodyofChrist,Wildakneelsbeforeherlittlebook,waitingforwordstocome.Sheseeshim,tornfromthecross,limpintheVirgin’sarms.Heispale,skinnyasanadolescentboy.Hissidewound,partedlikeacoymouth,revealsglisteningpomegranateflesh.Otherthantheflowingtressesandsilkybeard,Christishairless,withsmoothskinandnipplesthecolorofplums.Hehasawoman’slips,awoman’ssoft,yearningeyes.Wildaimagineshimwakingupinhistomb,cadaverousfleshglowinglikeafireflyinthecrypticdarkness.Hisgroiniscoveredwithloosegauze.Hishairhangshalfwaydownhisback,shininglikeacoppercapewhenheemergesintothesunlight.The world is frozen in sinne,Wilda writes, frozen until the Lammbbe descendes to walk among

floweresandbees.Hewillestrewehismarriagebedwithlilies.Hallelujah!Fifteennunshavebeentakenbytheplague,theirbodiescartedoffbyfarmers.Notevenapriorwillsetfootintheconvent,butthenunsshufflethroughtheirroutine,sitcoughingandprayinginthesilentchapel,theirheartschokedwithblackbile.Theypineforspring.Buttheheavenskeepdumpinggrainaftergrainofnastyfrostontothestonefortress.Inmid-April,thecloudsthicken,andafreakblizzarddescendslikeagreatbeastfromthesky,vanquishingtheworldwithsnow.PrioressEthelburhordersthenunstostayintheirroomspraying,toleaveonlyforthelavatory.Kitchen

workerswillstillpreparefoodbutthenunswillnolongergatherintherefectoryforfellowship.Victualswillbetakenfromdoortodoortostaveoffthecontagion.InthekitchenAoifeisbleary-eyed,andWildaworriesthat theplaguehasstruckher.Butthenthepoorgirlisweepingoverherpotofdriedpeas.“Whatisit,Sister?”Wildamovestowardher.“Nothing,”saysAoife,“justthesadnessofwinteranddeath.”ButthenAoifepullsuphercowlsleeve,showsWildaherthinarm—paleandfinelyshaped,mottled

withpinkblisters.Wildajumpsback,fearingcontagion.“Onlyburns,”Aoifewhispers,“fromPrioressEthelburh’shellishcandle.”WildaallowsherknucklestostrayacrossAoife’ssoftcheek.“Iwasoutwalkinginthegarden,”saysAoife,“watchingthemoonshineonthesnow,andshe...”SisterLufebustlesinwitharankwheelofsheep’scheese,andthetwogirlsjumpapart.Aoifedumps

meltedsnowintoherpotofdriedpeas(thewellisfrozen).Wildahacksatablackcuredbeeftongue(thelastof it).Outside, thesunglaresdownon theendlesswhiteblightof snow.The treesare rimedwithfrost,thewoodpileobscured,thegardenpathsobliterated.Wildakneelsoncoldstone,stomachgrumbling.Forsuppershehadthreespoonsofwaterycabbagesoupand a mug of barley beer. The crude brew still sings in her bloodstream as she takes up pen andparchment.The Lammbbe will come again, she writes, murmuring the word Lammbbe, reveling in its deep,

buzzinghum.She closes her eyes, pictures Jesus hot and carnified,walking through snow.Frostmeltsuponcontactwithhisburningflesh.Walkingaccrossethebarrenearthe,shewrites,theLammbbewilleleeveahottetraileoflillies.Whenhestepsintotheconventorchard,thecherrytreesburstintobloom.Thirty-sixevirginesstandinwhitearraye,pearleswithoutespotte.Thenunsstandinorderofageuponthelawn,rangingfromthirteen-year-oldSisterIlsatosixty-eight-year-oldElgaruth.Jesuspausesbeforetwenty-three-year-oldWilda.Hesmileswithinfinitewisdom.Hetoucheshercheekwithhishand,peersintohereyestolookuponhernakedsoul.Wildafeelstheheatfromhisspirit.Atfirstshecan’tlookathisface.Butthenshelooksupfromthegrassandseeshim:eyeslikemoltengold,lipspartedtoshowahintofpearlyteeth,atongueaspinkasapeony.

“Mybride,”hesays.Andcherubimscreamwithejoye,squirmingenakedinthefrotheofheavene.The shrieks grow louder—so loud thatWilda looks up from her book. She’s back in the convent,

hunkeredonthecoldfloor.Shegetsup,walksdownthehallway,turnsleftbythelavatory.Thescreamingiscomingfromthesadroomwherenunsarepunished,butWildahasneverheardaruckusinthemiddleofthenight.Shepeeksin,seesAoifeseated,skirtspulledup,hairwild,eyeshugeandstreaming.PrioressEthelburh twists theyoungnun’s armsbehindher back.PrioressWilla burnsAoife’s creamy left thighwith red-hot pincers. This time, Aoife does not scream. She bites her lip. She looks up, seesWildastandinginthedoorway.Theireyesmeet.Asecretcurrentflowsbetweenthem.EthelburhturnstowardWilda,hermouthwrenchedwithwrath,butthenaviolentcoughrocksthroughher.Sheshakes,sputters,dropstothefloor.AndAoifeleapsfromthechairlikeawildrabbit.Inaflashsheishalfwaydownthehall.“Surelymockersarewithme,”saysPrioressWilla,castingherclammyfisheyeuponWilda,“andmy

eyegazesontheirprovocation.”Thenextmorning,Ethelburh isdead,herbodydraggedbeyondthecourtyardbyhulkingSisterGitha,apoorhalf-wit fearlessof contagion.Twelvebodies lie frozennear the edgeof thewood, tobeburiedwhenthegroundthaws.Aoife is singing in her mother tongue, the words incomprehensible to Wilda, pure and abstract asbirdsong, floating amid the steamof thekitchen.PooroldLufe is dead.Hedda andLarkhavepassed.OnlyHazel,thegirlwhocarriesbowlsfromdoortodoor,loitersinthelarder,boldernowthatLufeisgone,inspectingthedwindlingbagsofflour.“PrioressWillahastakentoherbed,”whispersAoife.“Godblesshersoul,”saysWilda,crossingherself.Aoife chops the last of theonions.Wildapicksworms from the flour.And the soup smells strange:

boiledfleshofastringyoldhen.“Sister,”saysAoife,hermouthdippingclosetoWilda’sear,“IhaveheardthattheAbbesskeptfoodin

herchamber.Pickledthingsandsweetmeats.Ashametoletitgotowaste,withoursistershalfstarvedandweak.”Snowfallsoutsidethekitchendoor,whichisproppedopenwithalogtoletthesmokedriftout.The

light in the courtyard is a strange dusky pink, even though it is afternoon. Wilda thinks of Jesus,multiplyingfishesandloaves.Sheseesthebreadmaterializing,hotandswollenwithyeast.Shepicturesthefish—teeming,shimmering,andsaltyinwoodenpails.“Sister,”saysWilda,“youspeakthetruth.”

TheAbbess lived in the turretover the library,and the twonuns tiptoeupwindingstairs.Thedoor islocked.Aoifesmirksandfishesakeyfromherpocket.Aoifeopensthedoorandstepsintotheroomfirst.Wildastumblesafterher,bumpsintoAoife’ssoftness,standsbreathinginthedarkness,smellingmoldandrot and stale perfume—myrrh, incense, vanilla. Aoife pushes dusty drapes aside, discoveringwindowpanes in a diamondpattern, alternating ruby and clear.Thenunsmarvel at the furnishings: thespindlysetteeupholsteredinbrocade,theebonywardrobewithpheasantscarvedintoitsdoors,severalgildedtrunks,andthegrandestbedtheyhaveeverseen:bigasabarge,thecoverletfestoonedincrimsonruffles,thecanopydrapedinwinevelvet.WildawondershowthecrookedlittleAbbessclimbedintothisenormityeachnight,andthenshespotsaladderofpolishedwoodleaningagainstthebed.Aoifeopensatrunk,pullsoutforbiddenthings:alute,afur-linedcape,acrystalvialofperfume,anda

bottleofbelladonna.Theyfindaclockworkmouse thatcreepswhenyouwind itup(amechanismthat

Aoife,oddly,seemstounderstand).Thegirlsgiggleasthemousemovesacrossthefloor.Aoifestrokestheerminecapeasthoughitisasleepingbeast.Wildaleansagainstthesettee,butdoesnotallowherselftosit.Thesecondtrunkischock-fullofdaintyfood:smallclayjarsofpickledthings,driedfruitinlinensacks,hardsausagesincheesecloth,venisonjerky,nuts,honey,wine.Aoifeopensapotofpickledherring,sniffs,eatsamouthful,chews,andthenoffersthefishtoWilda.

They taste fresh, briny, tinged with lemon. Something awakens in Wilda, a tiny sea monster in herstomach,soweakandshriveledthatshehardlyknewitexisted.Shefeelsitstretchingstrangetentacles,opening its fangedmouth tounleash awildgroan.Wilda is starving.Shegnawsat a twisted strandofvenison,tastingforestsinthesaltymeat,thedeershotbyanobleman’sarrow,stripsroastedoveropenflame.WhenAoifeopensapotofstrawberrypreserves,shemoansassweetnessfillstheroom—akindofsorcery,theessenceofasun-warmedberryfieldtrappedinatinycrock.Aoifeeatswithherfingers,tearsinthecreasesofhereyes.AndthensheoffersthejartoWilda.Wildapauses,feelsthemonsterslitheringinhergut,dipsafinger,andtastestherich,seedyjelly.“Hallelujah!”shewhispers,smackingherlips.Sheeatsmorestrawberries.OffersthepottoAoife.But

Aoife has discovered a stash of sugared almonds.Wilda tries them: butter roastedwith cinnamon andcloves,ahintofsalt,someotherspice,unfamiliar,bewitching.Thenunssitdownonthesoftsetteeandspreadtheirfeastonacarvedtrunk.Theyeatsmokedfish,driedapricots,pickledcarrots,andredcurrantjam.Suddenlyverythirsty,theyhavenochoicebuttouncorkabottleofwine,passingitbetweenthem.Aftershavingofftealmoldwithasmallgildedknife,theyconsumeachunkofhardcheese.Andthentheydiscover,wrappedinlilacgauze,adozenpinkmarzipanrabbits.ThemonsterinWilda’sstomachletsoutabellow.Shecanpictureit,lollinginahotstewoffood,the

scaleson its swollenbellyglistening.Shepopsacandy intohermouth,closeshereyes, tastesmanna,angel food,milkofparadise.Theyoungnunsdrinkmorewine.AndnowAoife is uponher feet.SheopenstheAbbess’swardrobe,riflesthroughgownsandcloaks.Shepullsoutawinterfrock,thickvelvet,theluminouscolorofmoss,sablefuraroundtheneckandcuffs.WildalooksawayasAoifeundresses.“HowdoIlook?”Aoifeasks,stillbuttoningupthebodice,contortinglikeanacrobatasthoughshehas

pulledonfinefrocksahundredtimesbefore.Wildatriestospeak,butthewordswillnotcome.Herthroatfeelsdry.Shetakesanotherswigofwine.ThedressbringsoutthesecretlightsinAoife’seyes,theswan-likecurveofherneck.Wildafeelsugly,small,thoughshehasnotseenherreflectioninagood,clearmirrorinsevenyears,

notsinceherparentsandbrotherdiedandherauntsentherofftotheconvent.Aoifechoosesa furcloak from thewardrobe, slips itoverWilda’s shoulders.Wilda feelscold,but

thenafeelingofdeliciouswarmthovertakesher,andherspinerelaxes.Aoifepicksupthelute,strumsastrangetune,singsasonginhermothertonguethatmakesWildafeellikeshe’sdreamflying,herstomachbucklingasshesoarstoofastintowhirlingstars,theairthinandstrangeandbarelybreathable.Imitating the Abbess, Aoife hobbles over to the bed, climbs up the ladder, peeks over the edge at

Wilda,whocan’tstoplaughing.“It’saboat,”Aoifesays,crawlingaroundlikeachild.Wildaremembersherbrother,gallopingaround

onhisstickhorse.Memorieslikethesestoppedhauntinghertwoyearsago,partoftheearthlyexistenceshe has kept at bay.Now she remembers the two of them rolling in the garden, flowers in their fists,singing bawdy songs they barely understood, laughing so hard she thought her ribs would crack. Sheremembersthewayherparentswouldscoldthemwithstanchedsmiles,tryingnottolaughthemselves.Wilda climbs up the ladder. She sits besideAoife on the high bed. The stiff fabric of the coverlet

smellsofmustandmyrrh.“Look!” says Aoife, opening a cabinet built into the bed’s headboard. Inside is a crystal decanter

encrustedwitharubycross,aburgundyliquidinsideit.Aoifesniffs,takesasip.“Wine,”shesaysdreamily,“thoughitmightbesomekindofliqueur.”

Aoifeoffersthebottle.Wildadrinks,tastingblackberriesandbrineandblood,shethinks,thoughshehasnever tastedblood, for theSacramentdoesnot transubstantiateuntil it passes into thekettleof thestomach,whereitisboiledbytheliver’sheat,thesamewayalchemiststurnbasemetalsintogold.Somekindofmatter floats in the liquid.Wildafeelsgritbetweenher teeth.Thegritdissolvesand theworldglows,afreshsurgeofpinklightshiningthroughredwindowpanes.Aoife’shandscurrieslikeawhitemouseoverthecoverlettostrokeWilda’sleftwrist.Theirfingers

intertwine.Wildamarvelsatthedeliciousnessofthewarmthstreamingbetweenthem.Thetwosisterssitholdinghands,leaningagainstthickdownpillows,sippingthestrangeconcoctionat

the very top of a stone fortress, snow falling in the eternal twilight outside—upon themonastery andmeadows and forests, upon frozen ponds and farms and villages. They discuss beasts in winter, themysteriesofhibernation,theburrowsandholeswherefurryanimalsandscalythingssleep.“Doyouthinktheirbloodfreezes?”whispersAoife,herbreathonWilda’scheek.“Doyouthinkthey

dream?”Wildahas thestrange feeling thateveryone in theworld isdead.ThatsheandAoifearecompletely

aloneinanenchantedcastle.Thattheyarejustonthevergeofsomemiraculoustransformation.Wildawakes to the clanging ofmonastery bells. She clutches her throbbing head. She tries to sit up,thinkingshe’sonhercot.But thenshesmellsmustyperfumes,odorsofpickledfishandhoney,andhercheeksburnasthepreviousnight’sfeastcomesbacktoherinpatches.Howhadithappenedsofast?Herswollenbellythrobswithqueasiness,theseamonsterslitheringinamashofwineandfood.She

hasnochoicebut to leanover thebedsideandheavea foulgruelonto thefloor.Brightsunlightshinesthrough thewindows.How long has she been asleep?She turns toAoife, still dozing beside her.NotAoife—whereisAoife?—buttheAbbess’sfurcloak,crumpled,patchedwithbaldspots,sprawlinglikeamangybear.Sheremembersatalefromherchildhood,aboutafairwomanwhoturnedintoabear.Theshe-bearscratchedouttheeyesoflovesickhuntersanddevouredthemwhole.Thebear,likeAoife,hadeyesthecolorofhoney.Shesangwiththevoiceofanightingale,luringhuntersintodeepwoods.Wildaclimbsdownfromthebed,hurriesbacktohercell,andlatchesherdoor.Shepacesaroundthe

crampedspace,feelingtheranknessofthefleshuponherbones,thepufferyofherbelly,theseamonsterroilingwithin.Herbrowandcheeksarehot.ShewantstocheckonAoife,seehowshefeels,laughaboutthepreviousnight’sfeast—awhim,atrifle,nothing—butherskinburnswithshame.ShepicturesAoifesinginginhergreendress.Sheimaginesfursproutingfromherfreckledskin,yellowclawspoppingfromherfingertips.Wildavowstostayinherroomwithouteating,withoutsleeping,whippingherselfuntilthehideoussea

monsterceasestosquirminherbelly,untilshehaspurgedherfleshofexcessfluidandheatandisagainabird-bonedvesselofdivine love—arid, clean,glowingwith theWord.Shehasaclaybottleofwater,almostfull,theonlythingsheneeds.Wildakneelson the floor,naked,whippingherself for the third time,boredwith theeffect,not feelingmuchinthewayofspinal tingling,hermindasdullasascummypond.Shesighs.Triesnot to thinkofAoife,thelightnessofherlaughter.ShecontemplatesChristinhisagony—haulingthecross,grimacingasironnailsarehammeredintohisfeetandhands,staringstoicallyatthesunonanendlessafternoon,thornsprickinghisroastedbrow.Buttheimagesfeelrotelikearosaryprayer.Soshehangsherwhiponanailandliesdownonherbed.Shewatchesherwindow,waitingforthedaytogodark,thelightoutsidemilkyandtedious.Shehasn’teatenfortwodays,butherbellyfeelspuffeduplikealustytoad.ContemplatingthebeautyofChrist’sribcage,theexquisiteconcavityofhisstarvedandhairlessstomach,sheshivers.Whenshehears thegiggleofyoungnunsrunningdownthehallwayoutsideherdoor,herheartbeats

faster.Andthere’sAoifeagain,knockingsoftlywithherknuckles.

“SisterWilda,”saysAoife,“won’tyoutakesomefood?”Wildasaysnothing.“SisterWilda,”saysAoife,“areyouwell?”“Iam,”saysWilda,hervoiceanuglycroak,herthroatfullofyellowbile.HerheartsinksasAoifeslipsaway.

WhenWildawakesup,somekindofflyingcreatureisflappingaroundherroom.Acandleflickersonherwritingtable,herbookstillopenthere.Shespotsaflashofwinginacorner.Adove-sizedangelhoversbesideherdoorlikeatrappedbird

wantingout.An emissary,Wilda thinks, come to tell her thatChrist is near.Wilda unlatches the door,peeksoutintothedarkhallway,andletsthecreatureout.Theangelfloats,wingslashing,andmotionsforhertofollow.Theangeldartsdownthehall,astreakoffranticlight.Wildalopesafterit,feelingdizzy,chilled.Theypassthelavatory,theemptyinfirmary.Theangelfliesoutintothecourtyardandflitstowardthewarminghouse,wheresmokepuffsfrombothchimneys.Crunchingthroughsnow,Wildafollowstheangelintotheblazingroom.Theangeldisappearswithadiamondflashoflight.Firesrageinbothhearths.Andthere,baskingonamattressheapedwithfinepillows,isAoife.Dressed

inthegreengown,drinkingsomethingfromasilvercommuniongoblet,Aoifesmiles.Hazellollsbesideherinsapphirevelvet,munchingonmarzipan,aninsolentlookonherface.“Sister.”Aoifesitsup,eyesglowinglikesunlithoney.“Comewarmyourbones.”Overcomewithafitofcoughing,Wildacan’tspeak.Ittakesallofherstrengthtoturnawayfromthe

deliciouswarmth,thesmellsofalmondandvanilla,frombeautifulAoifewithherwine-stainedlipsandcopperhair.Hacking,Wilda flees, runs through the frozencourtyard, throughemptystonepassagewayswhereiciclesdanglefromtheeaves,backtohercell,whereshecollapses,shivering,ontohercot.WhenWildawakes up, her room is packedwith angels, swarms of them, glowing and glowering andthumping against walls. An infestation of angels, they brush against her skin, sometimes burning,sometimesfreezing.Shehurriestoherdesk,kneels,andtakesupherplume.Ahosteofangellsflashinglikewaspesonasummerafternoone.Myflesheburned,butIfeltecolde.Oneofthecreatureswhizzesnearherandmakesafuriousface—eyesbugged,scarletcheekspuffed.

Anotherperchesonhernakedshoulder,diggingclawsintoherskin.Wildashudders,shakesthecreatureoff.Ahigh-pitchedhumming,interspersedwithsharpsqueaks,fillstheroomasthethrongmovestowardthedoor.Sheopensthedoor,followsthecloudofcelestialbeingsdownthehallway,pasttheinfirmary,outintothekitchencourtyard.Windhowls.GranulesoficestrikeherbareskinasWildafollowstheangelstowardtheorchard.Her

heartpounds, forsurely themomenthascome:Thefruitgroveglowswithangelic light.Wildacanseeskeletal trees sparkling with ice, a million flakes of wind-whipped snow, the darkness of the forestbeyond.And there, just at theedgeof thewoods, the shapeofamanonhorseback.Theangels sweepdownthehill towardthewoodsandwait,buzzingwithfrustrationasWildatrudgesbarefootedthroughknee-deepsnow.Butherfeetarenotcold.Herentirebodyburnswithmiraculouswarmth.Andnowshecanseethemanmoreclearly,dressedinagreenvelvetridingsuit,afewstrandsofcopperhairspillingfrom his tall hat. His mouth puckers with a pretty smile. His eyes are enormous, radiant, yellow asapricots.

LOUISEERDRICH

TheBigCatFROMTheNewYorkerTHEWOMEN inmywife’sfamilyallsnored,andwhenwevisitedfortheholidayseverywinterIgotnosleep.Elida’sthreesistersandtheirbombproofhusbandslovedtogatheratherparents’houseinGoldenValley,aninner-ringsuburbofMinneapolis.Thehousewaslessthantwentyyearsold,buttheslytricksofthecontractorwereevidentineverysaggingsill,skewedjamb,crackedplasterwall,tiltedhandrail,and,mostsignificantly,inthegenerallackofinsulationthatcausedtheouterwallstoiceupandtheinsidetoresound.Everynightthesoundsweredifferent.Helplesslycognizant,Iformedmentalscenarioswhiledriftingin

andoutofsleep.Onememorablenight,Itossedandturnedinametalworkingshop.Fromthefarendofthesecond-floorhallwaycamethepowerfulripofmymother-in-law’srough-cutsaw.Frombelow,onthelivingroom’sfoldoutcouches,theintermittentthrumofwelders’torches—awildhissingasthesisters’nosessparkedandsolderedinvisibleobjects.Besideme,Elida’sfinishingtouch:thehigh-pitchedburrofapolisherperfectingametalsurface.Elidawasslight,andshedressedinprecise,quietcolors.Shesatwithherhands folded,woreclearnailpolishandalmostundetectablemakeup.Youwouldneverhaveimaginedthatsuchastarklittlepersoncouldproducesuchsounds.Ambien,earplugs,twopillowsovermyhead—nothingcouldshutthenoiseout.Ilayawakestewing,

even thoughIknewIshouldfeelsorryfor them.Thesistersand theirmotherhadvisitedsleepclinics,enduredsurgery,blowntheirCPAPsofftheirfaces,triedeverynosestripandhomeopathicremedythatexisted. It wasn’t that they liked to snore but that they were incurable. I think they took comfort insolidarity,though.Elidaadmittedthatshelovedsleepinginthatnoisyhouse,andsometimestheysnoredinunison—whichwasterrifying.One subzero vacationmorning,my daughter,Valery, ran her finger across the ice-furred downstairs

living-roomwallandasked,“Whatisthis,Daddy?”“Snores,”Isaid,bluewithtiredness.“Allthesnoresfromlastnighthavestucktothewalls.”Later,afterhermotherandIhaddivorced,Valerywistfullyrecalledthatmomentasthefirsttimeshe’d

realized how alivewith sound the nightwas—and that all the noise emanated from thewomen in thefamily.Laterstill,sheaskedhermotheratwhatageshe’dbeguntosnore,andaskedmeifthatwasthereasonwe’dsplitup.Valerywasworriedforherownfuture.Iassuredherthatsnoringhadhadnothingtodowith thedivorce,whichwasamicablebutalsounavoidablypainful. I laughedandhuggedValery. Ieven toldher that I hadadoredhermother’s snores. I hadnever adored them,but I hadadoredElida,almosttothepointofmadness,fromthefirsttimewemet.WefoundeachotherinHollywood,asMinnesotanexpatriatesalwaysdo,commonsensedrivingthem

together—thoughtoleavetheLandofTenThousandLakesforathirstycitybuiltonadesertmayspeakofsomeinteriorflaw.ForElida,itwasthecompulsivelureoffilmediting.Inmycase,theshameofacting.AlthoughIauditionedendlesslyandalwayshadwork,mypartsgenerallylastedbetweensixandtwelveseconds.Irarelyhadaline.ButIhadElida,herintensegreenstare,herNordicpallor,evenafteryearsofsunlight,herslender,glidingwalk,andthedarkswerveofherseverehaircut.Shewasmine.WhenValeryturnedtwelve,Iwascastinasupportingroleinamoviethatgotalotofattention.Itcouldhavebeenmyfabledbreak.ButElidasuddenlypanickedoverhowunhappyValerywas inhighschoolanddecidedthattheschoolsinMinneapolisweremorenurturing.Wemovedback.Ihadtoacceptthefactthatmy filmcareerwasover. I’dworked steadily and spokena lineor two,givenmanyameaningful

glance, tripped villains, sucker-punched heroes, spilled coffee on or danced around movie stars inrevolvingdoors. I had appeared indozensof films,TVepisodes, commercials.ButElidahadn’t beendoingwell,andbothofusgotbetter,morereliablejobsbackhome.Elidalovedtheminuscule:thehundredsoftinydecisionsthattogetherproduceagreatflowofscenes.

Sheapplied this loveofdetail tohernewvocation,planningcorporateevents. I also loved the small,whenitconsistedoflearningtosaylinesadozendifferentways,withdifferenttonalqualities,inflections,andgestures.Inmynewjob,asafund-raiserforavibrantlocaltheatercompany,IperfectedthegesturesandtonesthatIhopedwouldcoaxdonationstomyorganization.Formybirthdaythatyear,perhapstoconsolemeforthelifeI’dgivenup,Elidasomehowmanagedto

clipandsplicetogetherahalf-hourmovieofmybitparts,whichshesettoeerilyrepetitivemusic.Shortlyaftershegavemethatgift,whichshetitled“ManofaThousandGlimpses,”weparted.Imovedoutofourdowntowncondominium,nearnurturingDeLaSalleHighSchool.ForthefirstcoupleofmonthsafterleavingElida,Iboltedoutofworkatexactly4p.m.Idrovetomytinyapartment impatiently, hungrily, addictednot to anew relationshipbut to sleep itself.Deep restwas adrug.Waking fromrelaxedoblivion, Ivibratedwithanalmost tear-inducingpleasure.Whyshootup, Iwondered,whenjustbydeprivingthebodyofuninterruptedsleepfortwentyyearsyoucanhaveecstasywithnosideeffects?Except,itmightbesaid,forLaurene.It took no time at all before I was sleeping the entire night beside a womanwhom I feared I had

marriedtooquicklybecauseshesleptlikeadrunkkitten.Fromthebeginning,IhadtoconsciouslykeepmyselffromreferringtoLaureneincasualconversation

as“mycurrentwife.”Thoughitwastakenasajoke,Iknewbetter:itwasaslip.LaureneSchottswasthedaughteroftheownerofanimmenselysuccessfulMidwesternsporting-goodschainwithoutletsintheex-estoftheexurbsthroughoutthetristatearea.Shewasalsoaloverofthetheaterarts.Attheannualgaladinner for my theater company, which Elida organized pro bono the year we parted, Laurene spokebetweenthesaladandtheentrée.Herflatteringwordsofthankstooursupporters,whichscreenedapleaforstillgreaterlargesse,impressedmewiththeirgenuine,awkwardgrace.Laurene reveled in that sort of gala,where people bid on donated items—the use of time-shares in

warmcountries,furcoats,skipackages,signedbooks,hand-paintedscarves.Scarvesdrapedourchairs,andwetooksuperbvacations.Laurenewasblond,social,generous,and loved tobarbecue.Elidawasdark,wayward,introverted,frugal,andusuallyavegetarian.LaurenecoulddrinkawholebottleofcoldPinotGrisbetween5and6p.m.Elidamightsiponemurderous,snore-inducingglassofCôtesduRhônebetweenelevenandmidnight.Afterthedivorce,ElidaandImetonceamonthtodiscussValery.Wehadagreedtodothisearlyon,

even when it hurt to see each other. Every time, after we had wincingly established where Valery’scollege tuitionwouldcome from,orwhether sheneededanew therapist, afterElidahadconfided thelatest news ofValery’s boyfriend,whowe both hopedwould turn out to be simply “experience,”wewouldconcludethehourwithacheerfulgoodbye,perhapssaying“Thatwasn’tsobad!”oreven“Goodtoseeyou!”Welaughedinrelief.Wehugged,pattedeachotherontheback,sometimesdrankacupofteabeforethedrivehome.Weneverkissed,notevenonthecheek.Ourdivorcehadbeenagreeableandfinal.Ourpostdivorcemeetingswerelingering,tedious,andself-congratulatory.Once Laurene and I were married, however, the meetings with Elida became more difficult. The

boyfriendhadturnedintoaproblem—wesuspectedanaddiction.Wealsobegan,withoutanywarning,tofight.Itwouldstartwithsomeobscurethingandprogresstoevenmoreobscurethings.Bytheendofourmeetings,ElidaandIwerewornout.Then,afteroneparticularlydifficultsession,stillupsetasweweresayinggoodbye,Elida,insteadofhuggingme,stuckoutherhand.Itookherhandandheldontoituntilshe

metmyeyes.Herglarepulledme toher, and I shockedusbothbykissingher studious,pale lips.Wejumpedapart,asthoughscorched,andturnedaway.Wedidn’tspeakofit.Ournextmeetingwassetupbye-mail,andIfoundmyselfwalkingeagerlytowardNick’s,arestaurantoffLoring Park,whichwas quiet and decorous by day,with leather booths and gauzy curtains that let inglowingwhiteraftsofwinterlight.Elidawassittingatthethirdboothin,andraisedahandasIentered,thenputatissuetohereyes.She

hadbeencrying,arareevent.Itusuallymeant,frighteningly,thatshe’dhadsomebreakthroughrealizationaboutmethatshe’drepressedforyears.Warily,Iaskedherwhatwaswrong.ShetoldmethatValeryhadstartedsnoring.Herboyfriendhadlefther,thankgoodness,butnowValerywasrefusingtobelievethathermother’ssnoringhadn’tprecipitatedourdivorce.“Ofcourseitdidn’t!”“Maybenot.Wehadotherissues.”“Whodoesn’t?Twentygoodyears.Onebadyear.Athousandlittleissuescamehometoroost.”“Ithought,youknow,becauseofthosegoodyearswemightstillgetbacktogether,”Elidasaid.“Until

Laurene.Shedoesn’tsnore,right?”Iadmittedasmuch.“Ah.”Elidaturnedtolookoutthewindow,andherdarkglintinghairswungsorrowfullyalongsideher

cheek.“Thefirsttimewespentthenighttogether.”“St.GeorgeStreet.”“IwarnedyouIsnored.I’dalreadybeentothespecialistsandhadsurgery,whichonlymadeitworse.

It’salmostarelieftosleepalonenow.AtleastI’mnotblastingamanoutofbed.”“Ineverminded.”IthoughtofthecouchinLosFelizthathadwreckedmyback.Thewalk-inclosetwithafloorpalletin

ourMinneapoliscondominium.I’dadjournedtotheselonelysleepingvenuesonmostnights.Ididmind,butherfixedgazeshookmyheart.“Lastmonthyoukissedme.”“Idid.”Wegrewperplexed,ate insilence,eachsecretlyexaminingtheother’sfacefromtimeto time.Iwas

veryconsciousofthedramaofthesituation.Anyformeractorwouldhavebeen.Elidasussedthatout.“You’retryingonexpressions,”shesaid,laughing.Itwastrue.Variousexpressionscrossedmyface,butnonefeltright.Theelementswouldn’tmeld.My

eyeswouldexpressaffectionwhilemymouthwastense.Surprisewouldliftaneyebrowwhilemyupperlipworkedcynically.Embarrassmentsmoteme.Atleastthatwasreal.Iputmyfaceinmyhandsandtriedtobreathe,butmyhandscoveringmymouthmademehyperventilate.WhenIlookedup,Elidawassigningthecredit-cardslip.Shefoldedhernapkin.“Don’tgetup,”shesaid.“Fromnowon,let’sdoaphonecall.Ore-mail.”“Ireallyhatee-mail,”Isaid,“forpersonalstuff.Pleasesitdown.Wecansolvethis.”Shesatdown.Irrationallyelated,Iorderedabottleofwine.“Thisisabadidea,”Elidasaid.“Why?Wecantalk.Howaretheripsawandthewelders?”Elidaknewmynicknamesforhermother

andsisters.“Ha!”Sheclinkedmyglass.“WhatwasIagain?”“Thepolisher!”“Idon’treallymindthat,”shesaid.“It’sinmylineofwork,really.Imissyou.Maybeweshouldhave

anaffairwhereweseeeachotheronlybydayandneversleeptogether,youknow,atnight.”

Shewasspeakingwhimsically,butweproceededtodoexactlythat.Wewereextremelyhappyfortenmonths.Tobesure, I feltbadabout lying toLaurene,butshenoticednothing.Shemadefewdemands,seemed happy enough with my company, and continued to barbecue, even in December. Meanwhile,Valery had left for college, and Elida and I were meeting in our old condominium, overlooking thepoisonedbrownwatersoftheMississippi.Thenoneafternoonweweredressed,sipping tea, lookingoutat theriver,whenValerydroppedher

suitcaseinsidethedoor.Shewasastonishedtoseeussittingthere.Shegapedsilentlyforamoment,thenclumpeddownthehallinherbigsnowboots.Elidagavemeanoddlyinsolent look.Youcanlivewithaperson,haveanaffairwithaperson,and

still suddenly see anunfamiliar flash, like thebellyof a fish in the shallows, there andgone.Shehadknownexactlywhenourdaughterwouldarrivehome.Valery screamedwhen she saw theuntuckedcoversonourbed, the scatteredpillows.Sheclumped

backintothelivingroom.“Howlonghasthisbeengoingon?”Wetoldher.Shebegantosob.“Allthistime?Howselfish!Mean!Icouldhavehadyoubothtogether.Instead,I’vebeentryingtoget

usedtoyouapart.Iwasfacingthefactsandthen...”Shepressedhermittenedhandstohertemplesasiftokeepherheadfromflyingapart.Weallstarted

cryingand,forawhile,feltmiserable.ThenElidasnorted,andweburstintohystericallaughter.ItwasdecidedthatIwouldcomecleanandleaveLaureneSchotts.ElidaandIwouldremarry.Althoughitwas strange, the idea gaveme an enormous sense of rightness. Things were falling into balance.Myelation continued all the way back to Laurene’s andmy house on Interlachen Boulevard, in Hopkins,facingthegolfcourse.Abeautifulstonehouse,withcreamypaintedwalls,awetbarinthebasement,andavastscreeningroomformovie-viewingparties.Sittinginmycarandlookinguptheflagstonewalk,Ithoughtofthepalletonthefloorofthecondominium’swalk-incloset.Iwouldregretleavingthislavish,comfortablehouse,boughtwithLaureneSchotts’smoney.Iwouldregret leavingLaurenetoo, thesilentcomfortofherpresenceeverynight.Laurene pitched a majolica vase, then a framed photograph of us in Peru. She threw a few other

breakableobjectsatthewalland,atlast,heftedacrystalunicornshe’dhadsincetheageoften.“You’llregretthrowingthat,”Isaid.“Pleasedon’t.I’msosorry!”“Dadwasright!”Tearsrolleddownherfaceontohercollar,wettingherthroat.Iwasstricken.Icouldn’tstopapologizing.NeverbeforehadIseenhertrulyupsetorsad.“Dadwasright,”shesaidagain.“Hesaidyouwereafterthemoney.Hedidn’ttrustyou—aformerbit-

partactor.Hebeggedmetomakeyousignapre-nup,butIsaid,‘No,you’resowrong!He’stheone!’”Because I had littlemoney, andbecausemoneyhadn’t figured intomy firstmarriage, except for the

problemofnothavingit,Iwasuntilthatmomentunawarethatthishadevenbeendiscussed.Iputitoutofmymindanddidn’t thinkabout ituntilamonth later. IhadmovedoutofLaurene’shouse intoastudioapartment.IcontinuedtoseeElidaonlyduringtheday.Iwasn’tquitereadyforthewalk-incloset.“Areyoucrazy?”Elida said,puttingdownher teacuponeafternoon,after I’d toldher theproposed

terms ofmy divorce. “That family isworthmore than a hundredmillion!You could get a settlement.They’dneverevenmissit.”Iwavedheroff,buteverytimeIthoughtabouthowhandy,howfantasticitwouldbetohavemoney,I

wavered.Withmy nonprofit salary, I could barely afford to soundproof Valery’s old bedroom. I toldmyselfthatI’dkeepmyprideandsleepontheclosetfloor.I’dwalkawaywithoutacent.ButIdidn’t,ofcourse.

Webought thecondominiumnextdoorand removed twowalls.Thisgaveusaneasypath intoa largeroom,whereIsetupahugescreen.Beforeit,wearrangedseveralcouchesofimmensesizeandcomfort.Isleptthereingratefulquiet.Ididn’ttakeLaureneforthatmuch,comparativelyspeaking,andtheSchottsfamilywasrelieved.Still,theyhatedmeenoughtothreatenforawhiletogetmefired.Onenight,Elidasurprisedmebyplayingthemontageofclipsshe’dmadeformybirthdayyearsearlier.

Itwasworse, somehow, seeing it on that giant screen boughtwithLaurene’smoney. There Iwas,mytrivialworkscapturedfortheages.Ihadn’tnoticed,whenIfirstviewedthemovie,thatElidahadmadeofthosefleetingcameosandsetpiecesasortofnarrative.“Manof aThousandGlimpses” startedoutwith crowd scenes,mehere,me there, thenice-looking,

unobtrusive bystander reading a newspaper, glancing up at the sound of a gunshot, theman crossing astreet, exiting a bakery, jumping into his car, uncoiling a hose to water his lawn. Next, a better manappeared,somewhatolder,moreheroic: I ran towarda riverwithachild inmyarms; Iwasasoldierdragging his buddy to safety; I lowered a dog in a basket from a burning building, addressed peoplethroughabullhorn, rushed intowaves, anddived towarddespairingarms.After that, Ibecameagoodfather,inflatedbicycletires,openedrefrigeratordoors,laybacksmilinginmylate-night-shopper’seasychair,hadmywaistmeasured,droveseveralcarloadsofscreamingkidstosportsmatches.SmallwonderIthengotapoundingheadache,clutchedmyjaw,myleg,myheart,wincinginagony.Nexttherecameaturningpoint,whichhadbeenmuchapplaudedatthefirstviewing:Ismokedacigaretteinacheapmotel,abeautifulwomansilhouetted in theshowerbehindme.Afterward, ruined, Ipouredmyselfdrinkafterdrink,ordereda thirdmartini, felloffabarstool,crawledundera tableand lickedawoman’sankle. Isank even lower—stuck a gun in a teller’s face, took cash from the drawer of a fast-food register. Ipalmed an apple froma pile, stole amoped, a diamondbracelet, a newspaper.These crimeskeptmetossinginbed.Istaredatceilings,myeyesluminous,hollowwithglare,hauntedbyghosts,bywomen,byhallucinations.Sleepless,Igotclumsy.Iwashitbyacar,crushedbyafallinggirder,devouredbyalivevolcano, axed,mauled, infectedwith bubonic plague. Iwas identified several times, in liverish-greenmorguelight,bystricken,dignifiedwomen.ItwasshockingthewayIjustkeptondying,physically,thenmentally.Awreckofaman,Ileapedfromabridge,awindow.Iparkedontraintracksanddrankdeeplyfromaflask.Ismiledattheswiftlyapproachinglightsandlaughedsoundlessly.TheEnd.Elidaleft.Iplayedthemovieoverandover.Howdarkwasmynarrative!WhyhadElidakilledmeoff,

insteadoflettingmerescuedogsattheend?Thisdownwardtrajectorygavemeamoralchill.IdecidedthatIhadnotonlywastedmylifebuthadactedignoblyintakingmoneyfromLaurene.AlthoughElidaandIhadmadeValeryhappy,andI’dthoughtIwascontentedwithElida,Iknewnow,asI’dknownbefore,thenatureofhertruefeelingsforme.I destroyed themovie. It would be years before anyone noticed thatmy long-ago birthday gift had

disappearedandIwasonceagaindispersedintotheconfettiofBmovies,failedTVsitcoms,andclumsycommercials.Noonewouldeverhavethecruelpatiencetoassemblemylifeglimpsebyglimpseagain.When theholidayscamearound, I insisted thatwe stayat thehouse inGoldenValley.Whynot? Ihadalreadycountedamillionholesinamillionceilingtiles.The first night at Elida’s parents’ house, we all had a mirthful, loving dinner, then did the dishes

together.Elida’srelativeshadeasilyabsorbedmebackintothefamily,wheremyrole,thoughperipheral,wasalsovital,becauseIwasValery’sfather.AfterweturnedinandElidafellasleepbesideme,Ilayonmybackwaiting.Itusuallytookheranhour

orsotoreallygetgoing,buthersistersandhermotherhadalreadybegun.Valeryandagirlcousinhadsneakedabottleofwineintotheirsleepingbagsandwerenowdriftingoffnextdoor.

Therealsnoringhitwithabruptferocity.Theorderly,mechanicalregularityofthemetalworkingshophadbeenabandoned.Nowitwasmorelikeapackofwolvessnarlingoverakill.Iclosedmyeyes.OnmymentalscreenIsawlionsdrivingthewolves—orhyenas,maybe—intotheveld.Onahilloverlookingthebloodyfeast,ababoonwhooped.Formanyhours,Ielaboratedonthevividimagesthataccompaniedthesoundtrack:alionessworryingthelegoffacarcass,twoothersfendingoffamale,rakinghisribswithteethandclaws,whiletheircubsmock-foughtnearby.Atlast,Idroppedoff.Inthedeepestpartofthenight,Iwoke.AlthoughElida’ssnarlshadcalmedtotheloud,gurglingpurrof

a big cat digesting preymeat, I came to in a sick sweat, shaking. Perhapsmy imagined scenario hadtriggeredsometerrorfrommyevolutionarypast.IhaddreamedthatIwasthehuntedanimal,throwntoearth, being eaten alive. The tearing ofmy flesh, the snap of jawswrestling atmy bones, the blissfullapping as my throat opened—all this seemed absolutely real to me. It took some time for me tounderstand that Elida’s body had not been satiated on mine, that she wasn’t purring because she’dswallowedmyheart.

BENFOWLKES

You’llApologizeIfYouHaveToFROMCrazyhorseWALLACEWENT ALL theway to Florida to fight aBrazilianmiddleweight he’d never heard of for tenthousanddollars.That’swhatithadcometo.TheBrazilian’snamewasThiagosomething,buteveryonecalledhimCavalo.FromwhatWallacehad

gathered,ithadsomethingtodowithamovieoraTVshowthatonlyBrazilianpeopleknewabout.Noone cared enough to explain it any more than that and anyway Wallace wasn’t overly interested.Everything he needed to know about the guy’s game he could tell just from looking at him. He hadshouldersthatlookedweldedon,aneckthatexistedmostlyintheory.Thekindofguywho’dbehellonwheelsinastreetfight.“Ifyoutakehimdown,flattenhimout,andfeedhimsomeelbows,”CoachVeesaid,“myguessishe’ll

startthinkingofalltheotherplaceshe’dratherbe.”Wallacesaidhegotthemessage.“Good,”CoachVeesaid.“BecauseIdon’tfeellikerepeatingitallnight.”RightoffCavaloclippedthetopofWallace’sheadwithaglancinglefthook.Itfeltlikesomeonehad

thrownaphonebookathisheadand justmissed.Afollow-uprightsetoff flashbulbsbehindhiseyes.Enoughofthis,Wallacedecided.ThelastthingherememberedwasbackingCavaloupagainstthecageandseeingtheBraziliansethis

feet.There,Wallacethought.Hedroppedforthedouble-leg.ThenextinstanthewaslookingintoCoachVee’sface.Itseemedtohoverallaloneinafieldoflight.HewassayingsomethingtoWallace,butthesoundsdidn’tquitematchupwiththemovementofhislips.“Isaidjuststaydown,relaxforasecond,”CoachVeesaid.Wallaceaskedhimwhathemeantbystaydown.Theywerebothstandingup.CoachVeewincedathim.“Oh,”Wallacesaid,liftinghisheaduptolookaround.“Fuckme.”Oneearfeltlikeitwaspluggedupwithwax.Theotherrangwithahighmetallicwhine.Somewhere

offwherehecouldn’tsee,Cavaloandhiscoachesweresinging inPortuguese. It tookhimasecond tounderstandthatthefieldoflightaroundCoachVee’sfacewascomingfromtheceiling.“Head kick,” CoachVee told him later, back at the hotel. “Caught you right as youwere changing

levels.”Therewere twonarrowbeds in thehotel room.WallacesatononeandCoachVeesaton theother.

TheywerebothdrinkingMillerHighLifetallboys.AmoviewithDenzelWashingtonwasontheTV.“Caughtyouflushtoo.”Wallacethankedhimforclarifyingthatpart.The left sideof his head felt like it hadbeendugoutwith a spoon.Hepressed thebeer can tohis

templebutitwasnowherenearcoldenoughtodoanything.OntheTVDenzelwasyellingatsomeguysinasubmarine.“Timeditreallywell,isthething,”CoachVeesaid.“Rightasyouwerecomingin.Bang.”“Whatareyou,hispublicistnow?”Wallacesaid.Hetookabiggulpofhisbeer.Ittastedofaluminum.

Itwasshit.“Hey,”CoachVeesaid.“Youaskedhowithappened.”Hadhe?Wallacedidn’tremember.Hetriedtotracetheconversationbacktoitsbeginningbutcouldn’t.

Thenhetriedtorememberwherethey’dgottenthebeersandhecouldn’tdothateither.Itwasliketrying

toreelyourselfinonaropeonlytogethalfwaythereandrealizeit’dbeencut.Heknewthishappenedtosomeguysafteraknockout,butithadneverhappenedtohim.He’dneverbeenknockedallthewayoutbefore.Notlikethat.Notout-out.Nowthathehad,hecouldn’trecommendtheexperience.TheyflewbacktoSanDiegothenextday.Fivehoursvacuum-packedintocoachseats.Wallacepretendedtosleepsohedidn’thavetowatchthestewardesseswillingthemselvesnottostareatthegiantbruiseonthe sideofhishead.Coach’swifepicked themupat the airport andgaveWallacea ridedown tohisplaceinImperialBeach.SheaskedoncehowFloridawasandwhennoonesaidanythingneitherdidshe.Theydrovemostofthewaylikethat.Wallacespentthenextthreedaysaloneinhiscondo,sittinginthedarkandfeelingsorryforhimself.

Helethiscellphoneringuntilitdiedandthenmadeapointofnotpluggingitin.HewatchedwhateverwasonTV.Hemadeacoupleofattemptsatgettingdrunk,butitwouldn’ttake.Heicedhisheaduntiltheswellingstartedgoingdown,leavingbehindadarkeningtriangleoftissuealonghistemple.Itlookedlikehe’dhadanaccidentwhileironing.After three days he’d had enough.He had to do something, get outside, take awalk. Look, he told

himselfwhilestandingattheslidingglassdoortohisdeck.It’sabeautifulfuckingday.Heputonhis shoesand rolleda joint tokeephimcompany.Hedidn’twant to risk iton thebeach,

wheretheremightbepeople,soinsteadheheadedoffintotheestuarythatstartedinbackofthecondosandranallthewaydowntoMexicolikeonelonggreenfingerpointingthewayout.Therewasadirtpaththatdead-endedinaboutadozenplaces,dependingonthewaterlevel,beforeeventuallysnakingitswayto the big houseswith ocean views on the other side. People didn’t go back in the estuary often.Thepeople in the condos looked out on it every day and the people in the big houses on the other sideprobablyneverdid.Theyhadn’tpaidallthatmoneytobeclosetoasaltwaterswamp.Theypaidtolookoutatthebeach.ThatwasfinewithWallace.Helithisjointashewalked.He’d seen a heron back there once.That had been something. Itwas backwhen he first bought the

condo,hisfirstyearintheBigShow,thesameyearhisdaughterwasborn.HefoughtthreetimesinVegasthat year. He made a half-million dollars just in purses and bonuses alone. It seemed like only thebeginningofthewonderfulthingsthatweregoingtohappenforhim.Thenonedayhegoeswalkingintheestuaryandroundsacornerrightintothisenormousbird.Hestoppedcold,nomorethantenfeetaway.Theheronjuststoodthereonlong,ridiculouslegs,thenlifteditswings,bigascardoors,andtookoff.WallacecouldhearitchoppingattheairasitdisappearedtowardMexico.Hethoughtabouttheheronashesmokedandwalkedandletthesunfallonthebruisedpartofhisface.

Itfeltallright.Thejointdidn’thurteither.Hetookalongpullonitandwhenhelookeduphesawamaninabiggreenjacket,tooheavyfortheweather,comingupthepathtowardhim.Wallaceletthehandwiththe joint fallcasually tohissideand tried to tilthisheadso thathisbruisewouldn’tbesonoticeable.Whenthemangotclose,Wallacenoddedandmovedtopassononeside.Themansteppedinfrontofhimandstopped.“Soyou’retheonewho’sbeensmokingweedbackhere,”themaninthegreenjacketsaid.Hesaidit

withasmileonhisface,butitdidn’tlooktoWallacelikeasmilethatwasmeanttoconveyanyformofhappiness.Wallacestillhadthejointinhishand.Helookedatitstupidly,likeitmightsomehowvanish,thenhe

lookedbackattheman.Themanhadthick,darkhairandthecoolkindofglasses,thekindpeoplewhodidn’tneedglassesmightwear.HestaredatWallacelikehereallyexpectedananswer.Wallaceagreedthathewas,infact,smokingweedbackhere.“ButIwouldn’tsayI’vebeendoingit,”hesaid.“No?”themansaid.“Whatwouldyousay,then?”“I’dsayI’vesmokedbackhereonceortwice,”Wallacesaid.

“Onceortwice?”themansaid.“That’saninterestinganswer,isn’tit?”Wallacesaidnothing.“Areyousayingthisisthesecondtime,righthere?”themansaid.“Orareyousayingthisistheonce?

Becauseitseemslikeyou’drememberifitwasyourfirsttime.”Wallacedidn’t care forhis tone.Themancouldn’thavebeenmucholder thanhewas.Mid-thirties,

maybe.Definitelynotpast forty.Hewasn’tacop.Heseemedtoohip,or toosomething.Therewasnoquestion of whether Wallace could take him, but the last thing he needed was to get into somethingphysical.Thisdidn’tseemlikethekindofdudeyougotintoascrapwith.Thisseemedlikethekindofdudeyouassaulted.Wallacelickedhisfingertipsandpinchedthejointoutbeforeslippingitinthebackpocketofhisjeans.“There,”hesaidtotheman.“Wegood?”Themanlookedathim.“Iliverightoverthere,”themansaid,pointingatabigyellowhouseontheothersideoftheestuary.

“SoIsmellitwhensomeonesmokesweedbackhere.Mykidssmellit.There’snowaynot tosmellit.YougetwhatI’msaying?”“You’resayingthatyousmellit,”Wallacesaid.“Canyounotunderstandhowthiswouldbeaproblem?”themansaid.Wallacesaidheunderstoodthatthemanlivedintheyellowhouseoverthereandthathiskidssmelled

itwhenpeoplesmokedweed.Hesaidheunderstoodallthisperfectly.“Wheredoyoulive?”themansaid.“Thoseapartments?”“They’recondos,”Wallacesaid.“HowaboutifIcameoverthereandblazedupinfrontofyourkids?Howwouldyoulikethat?”Wallacechuckledtohimself.Itwastheonlywaytokeepfromslappingtheman’scoolglassesoffhis

face.He’dbeenhavingsuchanicedaytoo.Hisfirstinawhile.Hishighwasslippingawayandhecouldhearhisownpulseinhisears.Now,now,now,wenthisheartbeat.It’dtakehimhourstocalmbackdown.It’dfuckuphiswholeafternoon.Hecouldseeit,rollingoutinfrontofhimlikeanoldrug.“Let’sagreethatyoumadeyourpointandIlearnedmylesson,”Wallacesaid.“Andthenlet’sgetthe

helloutofeachother’swaybeforeoneofusdoessomethingwe’llbothregret.”Themanstoodthere.HelookedatWallaceandthennoddedasifaquestionhadjustbeenanswered.“Sothisiswhatyoudo,huh?”themansaid,stillnodding.“Aweekdaymorning,andthisiswhatyou

do.Justwalkaroundsmokingweedinpublic.Itmustbenice.”“It’sbetterthannice,”Wallacesaid.“Oh,Ibetitis,”themansaidagain.Wallacelikedhistoneevenlessnow.“Whathappenedtoyourface?”themansaid.“Work,”Wallacesaid.“Sure,” theman said, and laughedamean,bitter laugh. “I’llbet that’swhyyou’reouthere smoking

weedinthemiddleoftheday.Becauseyou’resobusywithwork,right?”Thatdidit.Wallaceclappedhishandontheman’sshoulder,grabbingahandfulofhisgreenjacket.The

mandidn’tmove except to turn his head and look atWallace’s hand, his eyes goingwide like a giantinsecthadjustlandedonhim.Wallacegrabbedtheman’soppositesleevewithhisotherhand.“Here’swhat’shappeningnow,”Wallacesaid.Heusedasimplefootsweeptosit themandownjustoff to thesideof the trail. Itwas likehewas

watching himself do it. Theman landed hard and sunk down to his elbows inmud.His facewas allconfusionandpanic,justperfect.Wallacecouldtellthatithadn’tevenoccurredtohimthatthishadbeenapossibleoutcome.

“OhwhattheChrist,”themansaid.Siltymudwashedupoverhislap.Hetriedtositupandonlysankfurther.“Christ!”hesaidagain.Yeah,Wallacethought,that’sgoingtobetrouble.Butthereitwas.Heturnedonhisheelsandstarted

backthewayhe’dcome.Behindhimhecouldhearthesuckingsoundofthemanpullinghimselfoutofthemud.Themansworeinstupid,broken-offthreatsathisback.Wallacedecidedhewasgoingtoletthemansaywhateverhewantedtosay.Thatwasachoicehewasmaking.Wallacetookthejointoutofhispocketashewalkedoutandlititupagain.Hesloweddownsothe

mancouldseeashetiltedhisheadbackandexhaledthesmokeinoneluxuriousstream.HewasfourdaysoutfromaknockoutlossandI-don’t-give-a-fuckhadsettledin.Hespentthenexthourstandingaroundinhiscondo,tryingtofigureoutwhattodonext.Hepluggedinhisphoneanditlitupwithallthestuffhe’dbeenavoiding.AvoicemailfromCoachVee,askingWallacetolethimknowhehadn’tdiedinhissleep.Avoicemailfromhisex-girlfriendKim,tellinghimhe’dmissedhisdaytopickuphisdaughter.Acoupletextsfromsomereporterwhowantedtotalkaboutthefight.Heputthephoneinhispocketanddecidednottothinkaboutitanymore.Hewentandlookedouttheslidingglassdoortoseeiftherewasanycommotionintheestuary.Hesaw

thesamedullgreenmasshelookedateveryday.Ifthisguyisthetypetoletsomethinglikethisgo,hetoldhimself,you’ll spend thenextcoupledays stressing fornothing. Ifhe’s someother type,he’sprobablyalreadyonthephonetothecops,hislawyer,whoever.NotlikeitwouldbehardtofindWallace.Showuptothecondoswherehe’didioticallyadmittedto

livingandaskaroundfortheguywiththecauliflowerearandthegiantbruiseonthesideofhishead.It’dtakethemalloffiveminutestozeroinonhim,andthenwhat?Wasthatassault?Probably.Everythingwasthesedays.Maybeitwasn’tthekindofthingyouwenttojailfor,butitwouldbeexpensiveanddumbandanutterpainintheass.Plusyoudidit toyourselffornogoodreason.Andjustwaituntiloneofthoseblogsgetsaholdofit.Profightergetsknockedoutcoldinthecage,thencomeshomeandbulliessomelocalyuppie.Whatacareermove.HegotsickofhangingaroundandwaitingsohewentuptoCoronadotoseehisdaughter.Thedrive

tooktenminutesandendedinadifferentworld.Coronadowassomewherepeoplelivedonpurpose.Oldpeoplewalkedthesidewalksliketheywerekeepinganeyeonthings.Eventhedogshadnicehaircuts.Kim lived with their daughter, Molly, in a big house paid for by Kim’s husband, a lawyer in a

downtownfirm.HewastoooldforKimbuthewaslovingandfairandkindtoWallace’sdaughterinawaythatmadeWallacefeellikeeverydecisionhe’devermadewithhisownlifehadbeenwrong.TheyhadthePacificOceanand150feetofsandforafrontlawn.Theycouldn’tcomplain.Kimwasonthepatiowhenhepulledup.Shehadthedetachednozzleforagardenhoseinonehandand

anunopenedjuiceboxintheother.HereyesfollowedMollyasshestalkedthroughthehedges,aplasticTupperware container outstretched in her hands. It was not quite noon and the marine layer had justfinishedburningoff.Wallacehadtosquintthroughthebrightnesstoreadtheirexpressions.“Whathappenedtoyourface?”Kimaskedhim.HesmiledatherandthenkneeleddowntoMolly’slevel.SheheldtheTupperwareinfrontofhereyes

asifsheweretryingtohidebehindit.“Hello,Mol,”hesaid.ShelookedathimthroughtheTupperware.Shedidn’tsayanything.“We’rehuntingforlizards,”Kimexplained.“Wecouldkillanentiremorningthisway.Wehave,more

thanonce.”“Isee,”Wallacesaid.“CanIplay?”Mollystaredstraightthroughhimanddidn’tanswer.Thiswasoneofhernewthings,nottalkingtohim.

Hefeltlikeitwasprobablymeanttogethimtodoallthetalking,ormaybetopunishhim.Helookedat

herbigeyesandfeltexposed.TheystoodtherethatwayuntilKimtouchedMollylightlyonthetopofthehead.Mollytookitasasignalthatshewasfreetoresumethelizardhunt.Wallacewatchedhergoandallhefeltwasrelief.“WewaitedforyoualldayonSunday,”Kimsaid.“Aboutthat,”Wallacesaid.“I’mguessingthere’sastoryherethatalsoexplainsthestateofyourface,”shesaid.WallacetoldherhehadafightinFlorida.Heleftitatthat.Kimhadbeenaroundenoughfighterstoknowthat ifhe’dwon,he’dhavementioneditalready.That

wasaruleyoucouldcounton.SomeguywentouttoVegasforafightandifhewonhe’dbebackinthegymonMonday,noteventraining,justgivingeveryoneachancetoaskhimaboutit,hearthestoryofhistriumph.Ifhelost,youwouldn’tseehimforaweek.Whenyoudidseehim,hewouldn’tmentionthefight.Ifyouaskedhimhowitwent,he’dsayitwentshittyandleaveitatthat.“We’vegottofiguresomethingouthere,”Kimsaid.“Youcan’tjuststandheruplikethatandthenshow

upwhenyoufeellikeit.”“Iknow,”Wallacesaid.“Youthinkshedoesn’treallynoticebutshedoes,”Kimsaid.“Iknow,”Wallacesaidagain.“Thisage,youneverknowwhatwillendupstickingwiththemfortherestoftheirlives,”Kimsaid.“I

mean,comeon,lookatmeandmydad.”Byallmeans,Wallacetoldher.Let’sgoaheadandmakethisaboutthatnow.Kim lookedathim like shewas trying todecidewhether itwasworth summoning theenergy toget

angry. Over by the hedges Molly clamped the Tupperware down over some invisible prisoner, thenlookedbacktoseeifshewasbeingwatched.Imadethispossibleforyou,Wallacethought.It’sbecauseofmethatyoucanmarryarichlawyerand

stayhomealldayinabighouse.Youlivedwithafighteronceandhadhisbabyandfollowedhimintoallsortsofbaddecisions,sonownoonecansayyouwerealwaysboringanddomestic.Butthatwasashittywayofmakinghimselffeelbetter.Becauseevenifyou’reright,hetoldhimself,so

what?“Youcouldtakeherforalittlewhiletoday,”Kimsaid.“Makeupfortheweekendyoumissed,maybe

evenletherstaythenightatyourplace.Shelikesthat.”Wallacepicturedhis condo, pictured flingingopen thedoor forMolly, her crinklingher nose at the

cloisteredstinkofthreedays’worthofgrownmanwallowing.Orbetteryet,whatifthecopscameby?Anice man in a crisp blue uniform knocking on his door to talk about the morningWallace had spentsmokingweed in public and throwingpeople in themud.That’dmake a great story forMol to tell intherapysomeday.Thekindofstorythatstarts,“ThelasttimeIsawmydad...”“Whydon’tyoujustsayyoudon’twanttodoit?”Kimsaidwhenshesawhisface.“AtleastthenIcan

pretendtorespectyourhonesty.”“It’snotthebesttime,”hesaid.“Itneveris,”Kimsaid.“Fuckit,”Wallacesaid.Hetoldheraboutthethingintheestuary.Hetolditjusthowithappened,exaggeratinghisownpatience

andtheotherman’sobnoxiousnessonlyslightly.Whenhegottothepartaboutfoot-sweepingthemanintothemud,Kim lookedaway fromhimand shookherhead twice in a tight,meanpivot.Wallace said itwasn’tthatbigadeal.It’snotlikehehithim.It’snotlikethemanwasactuallyphysicallyhurt.“Right,”Kimsaid.“It’ssounimportantyou’reafraidyou’regoingtogetarrestedwhenyougohome.”Itdidn’tsoundtoWallacelikeaquestion,sohedidn’tanswer.

“And youwere stoned too?Walking aroundwith a joint like some teenager?Then you drove here,presumablystillstoned?Andtoseeyourdaughter?Imean,whatthehell.”“Ididn’thaveachancetogetstoned,”Wallacesaid.“ItmighthavebeenalotbetterforthatguyifI

did.”“That’swhyyoudroveuphere rather than just calling, isn’t it?”Kim said. “Becauseyou thinkyou

mightbeintroubleandyou’drathernotbethereforit.”Therewasn’tanythinggoodhecouldsay.“God,doyouknowhowboringthiskindofthingisnow?”shesaid.“Doyouknowhowstupid?”Wallacesaidhedid.Hewassurprisedathowmuchhemeantit.Mollycamerunningaroundthecorner,holdingtheTupperwareoverherheadandkeepingitverystill

assheran.Whenshegottowheretheywerestanding,sheextendedituptoshowthem.Itwasfilledwithtinypebbles,andinthecenterwasasnailwithapartiallycrushedshellthatoozedairbubbles.Molly’sgrinbeamedoutat them.WhenshesawWallacelookingathershestoppedgrinning,thenmotionedforhermothertoleandownsoshecouldwhispertoher.Kimdidit.Mollywatchedhimasshespokeintohermother’sear.“Yeah,no,”Kimansweredher.“That’snotgoingtohappen.”Mollymadea face likeshemightcry, then turnedand racedoffwith theTupperwareoverherhead

again.Somethingfeltlikeitwasdrainingoutofhimashewatchedher.“Shewantsthesnailtosleepinherbedwithher,”Kimsaidonceshe’dgone.“Shedoesn’twantmeto

tellyouaboutit.”“Andyethereweare,”Wallacesaid.ItwasquietthenandWallacecouldhearthesoundoftheoceandriftingacrossthestreetatthem.The

waterevensoundedcleaneruphere.Hecouldn’tunderstandit.Kimaskedhimwhathewasgoingtodonow.Wallacesaidhe’dprobablytaketherestoftheweekoff,thengetbackinthegymonMondayandstartthinkingaboutthenextone.“Thatwasn’tatallwhatImeant,”Kimsaid.“ButIguessyouansweredmyquestionanyway.”That’s howyouknow these visits are over,Wallace told himself.Whenyou’veboth reminded each

otherwhyyoudon’tdothismoreoften.Hewastwoblocksfromhomewhenhespottedthecopcaroutfront.Fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck,hethought.Therewas justoneof them,pulledup to thecurbwithnobodyin it,nearashecould tell.Hedrove

rightonpastandtriedtolooklikehewasn’tlooking.Therewasnosignofanyactualcop.Nosignofacommotioninthecourtyard.Justthecar.Haven’t there been cop cars parked out front every now and then? he asked himself. Wasn’t that

somethingthathappenedsometimes?Maybeithadnothingatalltodowithhim.Hekeptdriving.Theafternoonwasheatingup.Aheadofhimthefreewayshimmered.Hedrovepastit,

onintoChulaVista.Hedidn’tevenknowhewasdrivingtothegymuntilhepulledintotheparkinglot.CoachVeewasleaningupagainstthebackwallofthegym,watchingtwolazyheavyweightspretendto

spar.Wallacewentoverandleanednexttohimwithoutaword.Theheavyweightsmovedliketwomenmiminga fight in theshallowendofapool.Theactofkeeping theirhandsupseemed toexhaust themboth.“Somebodypleasehitsomeone,”CoachVeesaidtotheheavyweights.“Prettyfuckingplease.”Oneoftheheavyweightspumpedafewjabs,thensteppedbackandtookadeepbreath.“Youtwoareliterallykillingme,”CoachVeesaid.“It’sagoddamntravestywhatyou’redoingtome

rightnow.”Theheavyweightsbothhookedatthesametime.Neitherofthemhitanything.

CoachlookedatWallaceandshookhishead.“Formysins,”hesaid.The round timer dinged. Coach Vee threw his head back and thanked Christ in heaven. Wallace

followed him over the wrestling mats and into his cramped little office without being asked. Theheavyweightsbothleanedoveratthewaistwiththeirglovedhandsontheirknees.“Soyou’re alive,”CoachVee said, andploppeddown inhis cheap leatheroffice chair.Hehadhis

laptopopenonhisdesk.ThewordCommitmentbouncedaroundtheemptyblackscreen,runningintotheedgesandthenspinningbackouttowardthecenter.CoachVee’sofficealwaysmadeWallacefeelalittleclaustrophobic.Allfourwallswereplasteredwithfightphotosandmagazinecovers.Thefacespressedinonyou.Yougotmorethantwopeopleinthereatonceandeverybodyhadtoflattenagainstthewalljusttoletsomeoneout.“Iwasthisclosetosendingoutthesearchparty,”Coachsaid.Wallacetoldhimhe’dlistenedtohisvoicemailsbutdidn’tfeelliketheydemandedimmediateaction.“EventheonewhereIsaid‘Callmeback’likethreeorfourtimesattheend?”CoachVeesaid.Wallacegrinned.HecouldbesixtyyearsoldandCoachVeewouldstillhavetheabilitytomakehim

feellikehewasDennistheMenace,runningaroundwithaslingshotinhisbackpocket.“I’mjustsaying,”Coachsaid.“Guysuffersaconcussionandthenfallsoffthemap,leasthecoulddois

callhiscoachandlethimknowhe’snotfacedowninthebathtubwaitingfortheneighborstonoticethestink.”“Well.Atleastyou’renotbeingoverlydramaticoranything,”Wallacesaid.“Sure,”CoachVeesaid.“Nobigdeal.Justaknockout,right?Ithappens.”Wallaceknewwhatwascomingnext.“Ofcourse,”CoachVeesaid,andleanedbackinhischair, lettinghiseyesdriftup thewallpast the

framedphotos ofCoachwithpast champs,Coach in his ownglorydays, all thewayup to theoneofWallacegettingthesweatknockedoffhisheadbyastraightrightfromVladimirZinoviev.“Itdidn’tusedto,”Coachsaid.Thephotowasclosetoadecadeoldbynow,tornoutofamagazineandshovedintoaWal-Martframe.

Zinovievwasahard-assex-Sovietspecial-forcesguywhobrokeWallace’sorbitalinthefirstminuteofthe first roundout inAtlanticCity.Within seconds the swellingnixedhisvision in thateye.Hisdepthperceptionwasshitafterthat.Bythestartofthesecondroundhefeltlikehehadawaterballoongrowingoutofhisface.CoachVeehadtoldhimtomakeitagroundfight,takeitwherehecouldfeelratherthansee,andhedid.HechokedZinovievoutwitharearnakedinthethird,thenspentthenextweekinNewJerseybecausetheywouldn’tlethimgetonanairplanewithhiseyelikethat.Allhehadtodonowwasthinkaboutthatpunchandaglowingwarmthwouldspreadoutacrosshis

face,beginningrighton thatveryspot. Itwas likehisbodyhad itsownmemoryof these things thathecouldn’tquiteaccess.AfterthatfightCoachVeetoldareporterthatitwouldn’thavematteredifZinovievhadhitWallacewithashovel,hewastoostubborntogetknockedout.WallaceunderstoodrightawaythatitwasthehighestcomplimentCoachVeewascapableofgiving.ItwasstilltheonlypictureonCoach’slittleWallofFamewherehisfighterwasn’tdemolishingtheotherguyorgrinningafteravictory.TheonlyphotowhereCoach’sguyseemstobetheonegettinghisasshandedtohim.“Ishouldhavecalledyouback,”Wallacesaid.“You’rerightaboutthat.”“IknowIam,”CoachVeesaid.“Butyouweretoobusyfeelingsorryforyourself.Likeyou’rethefirst

fighterwhoevergotknockedoutinafighthenevershouldhavetaken.”Wallace laughed to himself.Howmany timeshadheheardCoach tellingguys to stepup and fight?

Howmanytimeshadheheardthatspielabouthowyoudidn’tmakeanymoneysittingonyourcouch?Butthatwasbeforeafight.Itwasn’tuntilafterthatthingsbecamesoverycrystalcleartoeveryoneelse.“Bestraightwithme,howmanymoreofthesearewegoingtodo?”Coachaskedhim.Wallaceshookhishead.

“Betyou’vewonderedthesamethingthough,right?”Coachsaid.“Iknowyouhave.Tellmesomething:whenyouwalkedintothegymtoday,how’ditsmell?”“Likedreamsandsunshine,”Wallacesaid.“Asalways.”“Itsmelledawful,didn’tit?”CoachVeesaid.“Itmadeyousick,right?Likeyouwantedtorunoutof

hereandgetashower?”Wallacedidn’t sayanything.The truth is, that’sexactlyhow it felt, like the stenchofold,mildewed

leatherwasstickingtohisskin.Thatsmellofstalesweat,otherpeople’sfeet.Thatsamefightgymsmell,butworse.Coachleanedforwardandstretchedhislongarmsoutonthedeskbetweenthem.Hesmiledthatsad,conspiratorialsmileofhis.“Whenthesmellofthegymmakesyousick,”Coachsaidveryslowly,emphasizingeachsyllable,“it’s

timetoquit.IthinkMarcianosaidthat.Idon’tknow,maybenotMarciano.Butwhoeversaiditwasright.Whenyoustarttohatethatsmell,it’stime.Andwhenit’stime,brother.”Coachhelduphishandsandletthemdrop.Wallaceopenedhismouthtosaysomething,thendidn’t.Starttalkingnow,hethought,andyoumightnotbeabletostop.Allheneededwasalittlewhiletocollecthimself.HeneededadayortwowithnoCoachVee,noKim

andnoMolly,noassholeneighbor.Heneededasecondtobreathe.Heneededsometimetofiguresomethingsout,andheknewhewasn’tgoingtogetit.CoachVeeleanedbackinhischairagainandlookedupatthephotoofWallaceandZinoviev.“Wonderwhateverhappenedtothatguy,”CoachVeesaid.InthephotoZinovievworeablankexpressionandaflat-topthatwassevereandwelloutoffashion

eventhen.ThehaloofsweataroundWallace’sheadglimmeredinthearenalights.Therewasthatwarmglowonhischeekagain.“I heard he’s a small-time gangster in Brooklyn now,”Wallace said, his voice thick and all in his

throat.“Seriously?”CoachVeesaid.“That’swhatIheard,”Wallacesaid.HesaidtherumorwasthatZinovievhadgonebacktoworkas

hiredmuscle for thesameguysheused toserveunder in theSovietarmy.Ormaybehe’dnever reallystoppedworkingforthem,evenwhenhewasfighting.Anyway,thatwashislifenow,orsopeoplesaid.“Isn’t that something,” Coach Vee said. “Guy changes continents and still ends up with the same

friends.”On his way outWallace passed the two heavyweights sitting on the floor with their backs leaning

against the wall, slowly unspooling their hand wraps as the sweat puddled up around them.WallacenoddedatthemandoneofthemaskedhowhisfightinFloridawent.“Shitty,”Wallacesaid.

They’dgivenhimawatchonce,theBigShowhad.Hehadn’tthoughtaboutitinyears,butnow,drivingaroundbyhimself,herememberedit.Itwasaniceonetoo.Cartier,withdiamondsinmoreplacesthanWallacehadthoughtpossible.He’d

neveraskedforit.Nooneexplainedwhatitwasfor.Thiswasbackwhenhewas first fighting in theBigShow,afterhe’dwon three straightandpeople

werestartingtotalkaboutatitleshot.Then,outofnowhere,theyhadthiswatchdeliveredtohim.Like,here. Itwasn’thisbirthday,wasn’tChristmas.His last fighthadbeen twomonthsearlier.Thebox thethingcameinseemednicerthananyluggageWallacehadeverowned.Hewasscaredtotakeitout.Hedidn’tevenwearwatches.Heaskedhismanagertofindoutwhohecouldthankforit,andmaybeseeifhecouldsniffoutareason

forit.Hismanagercalledbacklaterthatdaytosayitwasalltakencareof.Itdidn’tseemright,butfine.

Hismanagertoldhimhe’dhavetogetusedtostufflikethis,thatwhenyou’reawinnerpeoplegiveyouthings.Theywantto.Youdon’towethemanythingforit.Wallacebelievedthisatthetime.That’showdumbhe’dbeen.Probablyaboutayearlaterhesawwherealightweightwho’djustbeencutfromtheBigShowwas

tryingtoselltheexactsamewatchoneBay.Hetoldthestoryabouthowthepromotershadgivenittohimforbeingtheirtoplightweightprospect,howitwasoneofakind,custom-madeespeciallyforhim.Thebiddinggotup there, then itgot ridiculous. In theend thebidswereallbullshit, justmean, smartkidsfuckingwithhimontheInternet.Henevergotadimeforit.Wallacestillhadhis,stillintheboxinthebackofhissockdrawer.Hecouldn’tsaywhy.Hehadthe

vague feeling thathemightneed it someday.Maybehe justwanted toknowitwas there, thiswatch,apieceofsecretevidence.Itprovedthathe’ddonesomething,atleast.Hehadn’tmadeitallup.Thebigyellowhousehadahugewoodendoorandafrontyardmadeofvolcanicrocks.Wallacestoodonthesidewalklookingatit,tryingtoimaginewhatkindofworldexistedinside.He’djusthadenough,waswhat it was. There was no breeze coming off the ocean and the heat had flattened the afternoon out,leavingitlimpandheavy.Whateverwasgoingtohappen,Wallacewantedtogetitoverwith.You’llapologizeifyouhaveto,hetoldhimself.Thenhesaiditoutloud,justsohe’dbelieveit.Wallacewentupand rang thedoorbell.Behind ita littledogbarked,clipping itsnailsacrossa tile

floorasitgotcloser.Awomantoldittohushanditdid.Wallacerealizedhehadn’tevenconsideredwhathewasgoingtosayifsomeoneotherthanthemaninthegreenjacketanswered.Hereallyshouldhavethoughtaboutthat.Anoldwomaninafloralprintrobepulledthedooropenjustenoughtoseehim.Sheheldthelittledog

backwithherfoot.Shehadthin,bleachedhairandtherough,thickskinofapersonwho’dbeenwillfullyabusedby the sun fordecades.Hereyeswerehiddensomewheredeep insideher facewhereWallacecouldn’tquitesee.Shestoodthereasifwaitingforasalespitchofsomekind.Wallacerealizedhedidn’tknowtheman’sname,didn’tknowhowtoaskforhim.“Isthereamanwholiveshere?”heasked.“What’shappened?”thewomansnapped.Wallacedidn’tknowhowtoanswerthat.“What’shedone?”thewomansaid.Wallacetoldherthatitwasn’texactlylikethat.Heneededtotalktohim,hesaid.“Wehadamisunderstandingearlier,”Wallacesaid.“Itwasmyfault.Iwantedtoapologize.”Theoldwomanlookeddownatherdog,asifcheckingtomakesurehe’dheardthesamethingshehad.“Isthisatrick?”shesaid.Wallacetoldherno,itwasn’tatrick.Shelookedathimforwhatfeltlikealongtime,thenshelooked

downatthelittledog.“We’regoingtotrustthismanandlethimintotalktous,”shesaidtothedog.“We’regoingtotrusthim

andhopeheisworthyofthat.”Please,Wallacethought.Don’tyoubecrazy.I’mnotsureIcanhandleitrightnow.Thewoman ledhim into the living room.Ashe followedheracross the tile floorshe realizedhow

smallshewas.Herfloralrobetrailedonthefloorbehindher.ShestoppedinthelivingroomandturnedtoWallacelikeshe’dforgottenwhatthey’dcomeintherefor.Shesuggestedthattheysitoutonthebackpatioandtalk.Itwasniceoutthere,sheexplained.Therewasshade,andwhenthewindshiftedtherightwaytheycouldsmelltheocean.“It’sdelightful,”shesaidandclosedhereyes.“Justdelightful.”That’swhenWallacerealizedshewasdrunk.Hefigureditwasbetterthancrazy,butonlybyalittle.

Thewomantoldhimshewashavingsomepineapplejuiceandaskedhimifhe’dlikeaglass.

“Idon’twanttotroubleyou,”Wallacesaid.“It’snotrouble,”shesaid.“Ilikevodkainmine.Howdoyoutakeyours?”Wallacesaidthatwouldbefine.Hewatchedherpullagiantbottleoutofthefreezerandthenpourthe

thick,syrupyvodkaintotheirglasses.Wallacecouldsmelltheboozebeforeheevenbroughtitclosetohismouth.Hefollowedhertoaglasstableonthebackpatio.Theshadefromtheawningenvelopedthem.“I’lltellyourightnow,it’snotoftenthatpeoplecomeheretotalkaboutmyhusbandandthinkthatthey

shouldbetheonesapologizing,”thewomansaidwhentheysatdown.Wallacefelthimselfflinchatthewordhusband.Shehadtobeatleastthirtyyearsolderthantheman

he’dgottenintoitwith.Hewonderedwhetherhe’dgottenthewrongplace,whetherhewasn’tcaughtupinthemiddleofsomebigmisunderstanding.“Iknow,”thewomansaid.“YouthinkIdon’trecognizethatlook?”“Ididn’tmeananything,”Wallacesaid.“Icanspotthatlookfromacrossthestreet,”thewomansaid.“ButIdon’tcare.Iknowit’sstrangeto

mostpeople.Butmostpeopleare strange tome.Hewasa friendofmyson’swhen theywere inhighschool.Didhetellyouthat?”Wallaceexplainedthattheyhadn’thadmuchofaconversation.“Theyweren’tbestfriends,”thewomansaid.“Almostacquaintances,really.Thoughitdoesn’treally

matteranymore,doesit?”Wallaceagreedthatitdidn’t.Thewomanlookedathimoverthetopofherpineappledrink.Wallace

toldher about the estuary.Thewoman listenedpatiently andgulpedherdrinkashe toldher about thejoint,therun-inwithherhusband,thefootsweepintothemarsh,allofit.Whenheheardhowitsoundedhefelttheneedtotellhermore,ifonlytoexplainhimselfalittle,tomakeitallmakesense.Ifpeoplejustknewwhatyouweredraggingaroundwithyou,hethought,theymightcutyousomeslack.Butwhohadtimeforthat?Whocouldbetroubled?“Hereallytoldyouhehadchildrenoverhere?”thewomansaidwhenWallacewasdone.“You’resure

aboutthat?”Wallacenoddedintohisglass.Thewomanpinchedherbottomlip.“That’snew,”shesaid.“That’stroubling.”Wallacesippedhisdrinkandfelttheacidfromthepineappleandliquorburningtogetherinhisthroat.“Thethingaboutmyhusband,”thewomanwassaying,“isthatidlenessgetsthebetterofhim.He’snot

abadman,buthedoesn’thavemuchtodo.Sometimesthatleadstotrouble.”“Hedoesn’twork?”Wallacesaid,andthenwishedhehadn’t.“Ohno,”shesaid.“Notforyears.Ihavemoney,yousee,andanywayhe’snotcutoutformostjobs.

He’sverysensitive.He’snotabadman.Butheisvery,verysensitive.Doesthatmakesensetoyou?”Wallacesaiditdid,andthewomansmiledinanappreciativesortofway.“Andyou,”shesaid.“Doyouwork?”Wallacesaidthathedid,sortof.“I’mafighter,”heoffered.“Asinprofessionally?”thewomansaid.Wallacenoddedandtriedtoputhisfaceasdeepintohisdrinkasitwouldgo.Itsmelledsweetand

stickyandboozy,avaguescentofsuntanoil.“That’swhathappenedtoyourface, then,”thewomansaid,almost toherself.Sheaskedhimwhatit

waslike,thatlineofwork.Wallacehadtothinkaboutitforasecond.“It’sawful,”hesaid,andthenstopped.Thatwasn’twhathemeant.Whathemeantwasthatitwasthebestthinghe’deverdonewithhislife,

theonlythinghecoulddowell,andwhatwasawfulwashowitmadeeverythingelseseemboringand

fake.Buttherewasn’tanywaytoexplainthat,sohedidn’ttry.Insteadhetoldhernottolistentohim,thathewasjustcomingoffabadfight.“Ohdear,”shesaid.“Andwhat’sthatlike?”Hetoldheritwaslikebreakingup.“Youtellyourself,neveragain.Butthen,whatelseisthere?”“Iunderstandcompletely,”thewomansaid.Wallacedecidedtobelieveher.Thatwasachoicehewas

making.Whenherfacechanged,hefollowedhergazebacktowardthehouseandsawthemanstandingonthe

othersideofthescreendoor,peeringoutatthem.Howlonghadhebeenthere?Hehadthegreenjacketslungoveronearm.Wallacecouldseewherethedriedmudwascakedon,justbeginningtoflakeoffattheedges.Hecouldseehowhemustlooktotheman,drinkingpineappleandvodkaswithhiswifeintheafternoon,tellingeachotherabouttheirlives.Theman opened the screen door slowly, two fingers pushing it down the track. The wind shifted.

Wallacesmelledtheocean.Thewomanwasright.Itwasdelightful.

ARNABONTEMPSHEMENWAY

TheFugueFROMAlaskaQuarterlyReviewWILDTURKEYWAKESup.It’sthelastdayofJune,andanearlysummerthunderheadhasmarchedacrosstheperipheralKansasplain(thelightsoftowngivingouttothesolidpitchoffarmland)whileWildTurkeyslept.Heknew itwascoming, the lightningspidering forthbehindand thenabovehim lastnightashewalked,theairpromisingtherainthatisnow,asWildTurkeyblinksinthethinbluemorning,makingtheruralhighwayoverpassabovehisheaddrone,atonelessroomofsoundbelow.Wild Turkey lifts himself out from the body-shaped concrete depression that nestles just under the

eavesofthelittleoverpass—thatwordtoobigforthelittlenexus;reallyit’sjustonelonelycountyroadoverlapping another. He knew to sleep here last night because of the rain and because he saw theoverpasswasoldenoughtohave thisbody-shapedconcavity,a“tornadobed” theyused tocall it,andnowhereachesupintothedarkofthegirder’sangleandfeelsarounduntilhefindstheancientsurvivalboxforthoseerstwhileendangeredmotorists:aflashlightthatdoesn’twork,arustedweatherradio,and—yes—a bottle ofwater, thickwith dust, butWild Turkey is thirsty and doesn’t care.He stands andstretchesontheslopedconcretebank,againstthetheateroftherain.Hewasrightaboutthelongnight-walkoutalongthecountryroadbeinggoodforcomingdown,thedarknessbeinggoodfordiscouragingoneofhisfits,butwrongaboutbeingabletomakeittotheschoolbeforemorning.Hemakesittotheschoolnow,intherain,soppingwet.Theschoolis,asiteverwas,moreorlessin

themiddleofacornfield,andthe thick leavesandstalkscoughin therainasWildTurkeycomesonceagainupontheoldbuildings.Heroundsthetinycampusinthestormasifheisstillinjuniorhigh,stilltraipsingfromclasstoclassinthecloyingpoloandkhakiuniform.Now,asthen,hedoesnotfailtothinkofthestrangenessoftimewhenheseesthebuildings—themselvessomehoweternalfeeling,alwaysbutonlyhalfinruin.Eveninuse(backthen,asanadhocprivateEpiscopalianschool,andnow,apparentlyrepurposedasachild-carecenter)themolderingwhiteportablesanddarklyagingmainbrickbuildingsitinsitu,oblivious.Standingon theconcretepathalong theportablesand trying to look into thedarkenedwindowofan

abandonedroom,WildTurkeyhasoneofhislittlegyresintime—abriefone,onlysendinghismindbacktothosemomentswhenhejustanhouragowokeunderthelittlebridge—andherealizeshewokethinkingof Mrs. Budnitz, his second-grade teacher, specifically of the rank, slightly fetid scent that wouldoccasionallywaftsubtlyfromsomewhereinsideherginghamdressonatendrilofairinthelastweeksofschoolbeforesummer.Thoughthescentorsmellitselfwasn’tsubtleatallbutsharp,rich,pungent,evenvaguelysweet, like thesmellofhumanshitanywhereoutsideabathroom.Norwasit reallyasmellsomuch as an emanation, or at least that’s how it’d seemed toWild Turkey, sitting on the carpet in themiddleoftheroom,transfixedbythissensateexperiencedeliveredtohimonthewaveringboughofthewindowfan’sbreeze.Theydidnothaveairconditioninginstalledintheirclassroomyetandtheheatandconsequentsweat,

secretedbeneathMrs.Budnitz’splain,sturdydressesandfoldsoffatandthigh,probablyamplifiedthesmell.ItwasonlynoticeableeveryninthortenthbreathandsonotreallysomethingWildTurkeyeverfelthecouldreallyspeakorcomplainabout.Butitwasdistinctlysexual,orcarnalinitsfleshy,mildlyluridbodilyness—in its intimate note of vaginalmusk, though of course this particular understandingwouldcomeonlylater,theexperienceatthetimebeingimportantlyamomentaryone.Thescentrefusedtolinger,and so existed forWildTurkeymostly in thewince of shame at his own interest, in the samewayhesometimes at that age lingered for just a few seconds too long in the school’s bathroomover the shit-

stainedtoiletpaperinhishandbeforeflushingit,feelingarushofsomethinghedidn’tunderstand.Itwasoddlycomforting,intheend.Andwhy this smell now, or rather, then, uponwaking—why does it chase him?Maybe this school

harkenshismindbacktothatotherclassroom,WildTurkeythinks.Thoughreallyit’sthefeelingofitashedrifted on the carpet in Mrs. Budnitz’s classroom during “naptime,” the confluence of those twosensations—drifting helplessly into a tired, sweaty sleep; drifting helplessly into that intriguing,somewhatdisgustingscent. Itwasakindofsurrender,avoidingof themind;a reversion tosomepre-infantilestateofabandon.He’sbeenfindingthedeclensionsofthatexperienceinhislifeeversince,oftenashefallsasleep,orwhichhewakesinto:thestagnantairofsoiledwomen’sbedlinenandspiltchamberpot in thesmallhouse inRamadi; theattenuatedscentof thebarebedafterheandMerryDarwanihadanalsexforthefirsttime;theclosenessoftherain-soured,copperymetalofthesmallbridge’sgirding.WildTurkeyisused tohis lifeproceedingthisway: thisor thatdetailofhisdaysteppingdownoutofsome firstworld of previous, essential experience.These sensate allusions are always onlywhiffs orpaleimitationsoftheoriginal,inthesamewaythattherainy,pallidlightnowbreakingfromthecloudsasthemorning regains its heat is cousin to the small fist of bright fire over the limbs of the girl in thecourtyardinRamadi,ortherhythmicflashofthetacticalgrenade’sphosphorousstrobe,andallthreearemereshavingsofthepurewhitelightningofoneofWildTurkey’sfits.Heturnsawayfromthewindow.Thereisnothingtoseehere.Itwasstupidtocome.Hebeginsthelong

walkback.WildTurkeywakesup.He’seightyearsold,onhisbackinthemiddleofthewheatfieldthathassprungupbychanceinthesprawlingparkbehindhisparents’subdivision.Hedoesnotknowwhyhe’sonhisback,doesnot rememberhowhegot there.Strangely,however,hedoes rememberwhathappened justbeforehewokeup,whichisthathehadhisfirstfit(thoughhedoesn’tknowtocallitthatyet,knowsonlytheimagelingeringspectacularlyinhisretinas,inthetheaterofhismind).He’dbeenrunningthroughthefield,feelingtheitchystalksresisthisstompingfeet,andthenhe’dbeenstandinginthefield,caughtupbysomethingintheair,byasmallflashinthesky,andthenhewaslookingandlookingandseeingonlythebeautyofthehighafternoonsunontheblurrytipsofthewheatasitroseandfellontheinvisiblecurrentsofwind.Likeonaseafloor,hethought,justbeforethebrighteninginthesky,beforeitturnedinaflashintoanoverwhelmingfieldofwhitelightning,somuchandsoclosethatheremembersnothingelse.Later,hewillnottellthemarinerecruitersordoctorsaboutthefitsbutwillhaveoneanywayonthe

firstnightofinitiation,beforeheevengetstobootcampproper.Hewillbeamongtheguysatthelongtablesinthegymofthelocalarmorybuilding:therecruitsbeingkeptawakeallnight,forcedtokeeptheirhandsflatoutinfrontofthem,hoveringfourinchesabovethetabletop.Theyarenotallowedtomove,ortomovetheirhands,ortolettheirhandstouchthetabletop.Then,thelightning.“Whydidyouletmestay?”hewillasklater,towardtheendofactualbootcamp,andtheinstructors

willexplain(allowingtheirvoicestodilatealittlewithrespect)howhe’dlooked,sittingthereseizing,hishandstheonlypartofhimheldperfectlystill,fourinchesabovethetable.ThoughWildTurkeywillsuspectthetruthfulnessofthis,seeingashowhewokeupinthewetnessoftheditchoutsidethearmorybuilding,hiswhiteT-shirtstainedwithbloodfromthetipsofthechain-linkfencehehopped(heguesses)to escape, the faces of the instructors pale moons in their huddle above him. Eventually he will getmedicine for his fits, but the medicine will make him spacy, drowsy—the medicine itself in effectsimulating the aftereffects of the fits—and soWildTurkeywill be unable to parse hiswaking. Itwillneverbecleartohimwhetherheiswakingfromalacunalfit,themedicine,oramemory,asifallthreeareessentiallythesamething.

WildTurkeywakesup,butJeanniehasalreadyleftthebed.WildTurkeycanseeher,ifhehangsoffthesideof themattress, down thenarrowhallway: thebathroomdoor ajar, thebathroom light golden andwarminthecool,cesiousfallmorning.They’reathisplace, theduplexrightontopofthetraintracks,acrossthestreetfromthecollege.Jeannieisdoingherhair,naked,stilloverheatedfromtheshower.Shestands in frontof themirrorquietly,getting ready forclassorwork,hecan’t rememberwhichshehastoday.He’sbeenhomefromhisdeploymentfortwoweeksnowandhestillcan’tgetaholdoftime.Intheafternoonshegetsintheshower,wastesnominutes,getsouttofindit’stwohourslater.LastnightWildTurkeytookJeannieouttotheoldschoolbuildings,overgrownastheyare,stilledin

the interregnum between their days as the school he and Jeannie went to together and its currentincarnationassomedaycare’srepurposedspace.Thiswassomething theydid inhighschool too,backwhen Jeannie still had her greenMustang convertible; lateOctober nights they’d drive out therewithsleepingbagsandput thetopdownandparkin themiddleof theerstwhilebaseballfield,alreadyhalfreclaimed by brush, and look at the stars. The buildingswere abandoned even back then, or betweenabandonments;WildTurkeyandJeanniehavingdecampedforthepublichighschool,theoriginalprivateschool having finally amassed enough non-scholarship families to fund a new building (itself arepurposedoldcountryclub)insidecitylimits.Laterstill lastnight,whenthey’dgottentoocoldandcomebacktohisduplex,WildTurkeyhadlain

nakedwith Jeannieonhismattress,whichwason the floor, andcurledhisbodyaroundher in-turningfetalpositionandcalledout,“Jeannieinabottle!”whichwasoneoftheiroldjokes,andshe’dlaughed,soundinghalf-annoyedatherowneasynostalgic amusement,but thenWildTurkeyhad repeated it andrepeatedit,“Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!”overandover,withjustenoughslightvocalmodulationandwaveringemphasisastokeepitfromseeminglikeaglitch,repeatingand repeating,whichhedidhelplessly,“Jeannie inabottle! Jeannie inabottle! Jeannie inabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle!Jeannieinabottle! Jeannie in a bottle! Jeannie in a bottle! Jeannie in a bottle!” on andon until the soundbecameextenuated,thenlostalltone,thenresolvedbrieflyintosongbeforecrumblingintoover-articulation,eachalienphonemedistinctandmeaningless.Eventuallyhe’dstopped.Jeannielaythereveryquiet,verystill,stiffened as she hadbeen from somewhere around the twentieth or twenty-fifth repetition.Then, in thesilenceafterWildTurkey’svoicehadceased,whenitwasclearhehadreallystopped,whenhefinallyreleasedher, sheverycarefullyunfoldedherselfup from thebedandwalked silently to thebathroom.ThoughWildTurkeyknowsatsomepointshemust’vereturnedtobed(didshe?ordidshesleeponthecouch?), her presence now in the bathroom seems contiguous to her presence there last night, whichmakesithardforWildTurkeytotellhowmuchtimehaspassed,ifanyhaspassedatall.Shefinishesdoingherhairandmakeupandgetsdressedinsilence.ShedoesnotavoidlookingatWild

Turkey;sheholdshiseyesasshepullsonherjeansonelegatatimebeforeturningandlettingherselfout,herexpressionlevel,emptyofanger,emptyofassessment.Whenshegetsback,ifshecomesbacktotheduplexinsteadofherownapartment,WildTurkeywillbethereorhewon’t,she’salreadyusedtothat.WildTurkeywakesup,thevoicesoftheothermenintheunitinsistent.They’reallinthediningareaofthe forwardoperatingbase, talking to thedoctors from thecasualtyattachment,which is something theotherguysontheteamgetakickoutof,WildTurkey’sneverknownwhy.It’sPizzaHutnight,whichiswhytheteamisallouthereinthebase’smainarea,theonlyrealchancefortheteamandthedoctorsboth

toseeeachother,beforetheformer,theirdayjustbeginningnowthatit’snightfall,slouchbackintotherestricted-accessstagingareaandreadythemselvesfortheirnextoperation.Someone is telling the story of how Wild Turkey got his name. Wild Turkey can’t see who it is

speaking,butitdoesn’treallymatterasthestoryisnowcollective,accessedbyanyoneontheteam,eachsmallcontortionofdetailsponsoredbythemen’sownwillingness.It was back in Carolina, before the team was strictly assembled, when they were all still loosely

gatheredatthebase,waitingtoberepurposed.ItwasthedaybeforeThanksgivingandthecommanderincharge of the base had a vaguely sadistic obsessionwith getting themen prepared for the Suck, highconcernoverthelackofregulatorydisciplineetcetera,andsohadorderedforthemennoThanksgivingmeal, and had replaced that order with several shipments of turkey andmashed potato and cranberrysauceMREs,whichwere dried out, reconstituted, et cetera et cetera, and soWild Turkey (though hewasn’t called that yet) had gone prowling during one of the exercises in the golden leaves of the fallwoods,andgottenGod’sGracetogowithhim.God’sGracewasBobGrace,agentle-faced,soft-spokenmanfromTennessee,eventuallyincludedon

theteammostlyforhisperfectmarksmanship.Hewasreligious,thoughverypassiveaboutit,andendedupbeingGod’sGracebecauseheoftensaid“God’sgrace,”inakindofsummarizingway,whenhesawsomethingthatmadehimfeellikespeaking.Later,WildTurkeywouldseeGod’sGracegetshotthroughthe neckwhile their vehiclewas stalled in traffic at an intersection inTikrit. This day, though,God’sGracestoodcalmlyatthetreelineasWildTurkeycrawledforwardslowlyovertheruralhighway,whichtheyweren’tsupposedtocross.“SoWildTurkey’sout there,doing thisdumbasscrab-crawl across thehighwaybecause juston the

othersidewhathasheseenbutthreefatoldbirds,turkeys,wildturkeys,rootingaroundthereintheditchon theothersideof the roadand this isanodischargedrillandWildTurkey’sgot longunderwearonbeneathhisgearandhasn’tbroughthisknife,sohe’sgoing toGodknowswhat—wring theirnecks,orwhatever,butonlyifhecangetcloseenoughtograboneofthem.Anyway,goodoldWildTurkeyhearsasound andmust be real hungryormaybe just a pussybecause he spooks and takes off sprinting at thebirds,whoofcourse justcompletely lose their fuckingshit.We’rewatching thisallon thehelmetcambackatthecommscamp,laughingourfuckingassesoff.”“Sowhathappens?”oneofdoctors,abaldlittlemanwithglasses,asks.“Theyfuckingscatter,iswhathappens,becauseWildTurkey’safuckingidiot.Youcan’tchasedowna

turkey.Andsowe’reallonthelineinhisearpiece,givinghimallthisshitaboutitandwhathappensjustatthatexactmomentbutasemicomestearingaroundthecornerofthisbumfucknowherelittleroadandalmostkillsWildTurkey,whodivesoutoftheway,onlytofind,whenhegetsup,thatthefuckingsemihastakenthreeofthebirds’headscleanoff.”There’d been blood all over the highway.Wild Turkey had lain there in the ditch, shaking. In the

concussivesilenceafterthesemi’sblastingpassage,WildTurkeyheardGod’sGraceshiftintheleavesbehindhim.He’dretrievedtheheadlessbirds,washoldingthemouttoWildTurkeywithonehand.“God’sgrace,”God’sGracehadsaid.Mostly theycallWildTurkey“WildTurkey,” thefullname.Sometimesoneor twoof theblackguys

callhimJiveAssTurkey,withanunknownlevelofaggressiveirony.Once,afterthecourtyardinRamadi,WildTurkey heard one of the newer guys ask someone in the bunks about him, heardwhoever itwasreadjusthisheadonthestiffcotbeforeanswering,“That’sWild,man,that’sjustWild,”inthatambiguouswaythatseemedtomeanboththeadjectiveandthepropernoun.EversinceBobGracegotkilled,whentheymentionBobatalltheyjustsmileandcallhimGracie,likehewasoneoftheirloversfrombackintheworldwhoaccidentallyfoundhimselftherewiththeminthedesert.Wild Turkey has always been mesmerized by their language, the team’s utilitarian military patois

alwaysmorphingwhattheysaidjustenoughtoapproximatesomeslightlymoresurrealworld,alanguage

somehowbettersuitedtotheworldtheyareactuallyconfrontedwith.Oftentimestheunthinkingwordorslightlingualshiftendsupbeingeerilyorconfusinglyapt,inthewaythatWildTurkey’sfriendtheTOWmissilegunnerwhomtheycallTowHeadreallydoesresemblea“towheadedboy”(thephrasesurfacinginWildTurkey’smindfromsomeoldnovelreadinahighschoolEnglishclass),orinthewaythatWildTurkeywill endupbuying fifthsofWildTurkey to take theedgeoffhishighsbackathome.TheShit,meaningthedesert,thewar,Iraq,becomesTheSuckbecomesTheFuckbecomesTheFugbecomesTheFugue,finallymeaningjusteverything.WildTurkeywakes up.He’s sitting in the rear corner of his brother’s large backyard patio, the snowhavingfallensogentlyandquietlywhilehesleptthatheisnowcoveredwithitssoft,undisturbedangles.WildTurkeywakesto thesoundofhisbrothercarefullyclosingthepatiodoorbehindhimsoasnot towakeWildTurkey’s sister-in-law;wakes to theclickof themotion-sensor light,whichhisbrotherhasforgottentoturnoff,trippingon.Hisbrotherapproachesthewrought-ironpatiotablethatWildTurkeysitsat,andsetsdownthefamiliarfoil-wrappedplate.Itisverylate,andverycold,butthesnowhasquietedeverything.WildTurkey’sbrotherisanassociateministerorjuniorminister,WildTurkeycan’tremembertheexact

title,atoneofthelocalchurches.Fewpeopleinthetownknowthey’rebrothers.Theygrewuptogetheronlyuntiltheageofthirteen,whentheirmotherdiedandtheywenttothegrouphomeandWildTurkeycouldn’tbeartogoalongtothebettergrouphome,theonethatrequiredadoptionbythechurchorsomefamily in thechurch.There’dbeensomethingsodisgusting toWildTurkeyabout the idea that they(thepotentially adoptedboys) should see their adoptionand transport as “God’sgrace,”which iswhat themanwhocametotalktothetwobrotherssaidtheyshouldthinkofitas.Hejustcouldn’tbringhimselftodo it and so his brother got out of the state home and he didn’t. They got along, though, after that,understoodeachother in somebasicway; thebrutalityof that stategrouphome(at least for those twomonthswhen they’dbeen freshmeat)akindofdarknightof the soul forbothof them, forcingeach tomakethisownmannerofunfeelingcalculationastodownwhichroadsalvation,etcetera,heguesses.NowWildTurkey’sbrothersitsdownheavilyinthesnowychairacrossfromWildTurkey.Hesighs,

reststhesideofhisfaceinhishand.He’stired,equanimouslyperplexedbyWildTurkey,byhiscontinuedpresenceheretheseoccasionalnights.The first timeWildTurkey came to his brother’s house itwas for the same reason as this time: he

neededtoeat.ThisisonethingWildTurkeyknowshisbrother’swifehatesabouthim:sheseeshimasneedlesslyhomeless,andaswhatshecallsinherunselfconsciouslycutelittlewaya“drughead.”Bothoftheseassessmentsaremoreorlessfair,insofarasWildTurkeydoestechnicallyhaveahomebackattheduplex(hewasofficiallyevictedwhenhestoppedpayingrent,butthenthebuildingwasforecloseduponandWildTurkeyhasjustkeptlivingthere,thecolorofthenoticesonhisfrontdoorchangingeveryfewweeksbutnobody reallybotheringhimabout it) andyethe sleepsunderbridges sometimes,oron thestreet, or in the fields, or spends all night walking around, high or low on the pills he ingests.Paradoxically, Wild Turkey’s sister-in-law doesn’t count the duplex as a home, mostly, Wild Turkeyguesses,due to thefact that threeof thewallsnowhavehugegapingholes,coveredonlybyminimallyeffectiveplastictarp,fromwhichthelandlordremovedthewindowstosellbeforethebankcouldtakethem.Though,inhisowndefense,it’salsotruethatWildTurkeydoesn’thaveanymoney:hegavealmostallofittoJeannie,minussomehegavetoMerryDarwaniforherbrokenjawandsomehegavetoTowHeadforhisnewgun.WildTurkeydoesn’twantthemoney.HebroughtbackfromIraqenoughpills tostayinDexedrineforaslongashewants,andsodoesn’treallyneedanymoney.SometimesheeatswithJeannie.Sometimesheeatsattheshelter.Sometimeshedoesn’teat.Wild Turkey’s brother watches him unwrap the plate of leftovers and begin to eat. Neither says

anything.

The first time he came to his brother’s to eat,WildTurkey stood in the dining room afterward andlistened to his brother help his wife with the dishes in the kitchen. The house was quiet and oddlypeaceful in thenighttime lull.WildTurkeyknewhisbrotherandsister-in-lawwantedchildrenbuthadnone.Hisbrother’swifehadbeensilentall throughdinner.WildTurkey’sbrotherhad talkedabouthisministry.Standingtherethatfirsttime,WildTurkeyheardhisbrotherinthekitchenapologize,hiswifesigh.“It’slikewithadog,”shesaid.“Ifyoufeedhim,he’lljustkeepcomingback.”The look on his brother’s face, whenWild Turkey had then risen and peered into the dim kitchen

throughthehalf-opendoor,wasexquisitelypained:torn,itseemedtoWildTurkey,betweenhisloveforthiswomanandhisrealfeelingofcharity,ofgrace.Hisface,uponhisreturntothediningroom(hadWildTurkeystayedaroundtoseeit,he’ssure),fullofresignationatthisdiscrepancybetweenthepracticalandtheoreticaltheologiesoflove,orcharity,orwhatever.Nowhisbrotherisverystill,watchinghimeat.Hedoesthiseachtime.WildTurkeydoesn’tknowif

theironyofthearrangement—ofhimnowbeingactuallyfedlikeastraydog:secretly,guiltily,onthebackporch,with the impliedhope thathewillkeepcomingback—is lostonhisbrother’swife,who tacitlyallowsit.Hedoesn’tblameher.WildTurkeyknowsshewasfriendswithamaninaBiblestudygroupinheroldhometownwho’dgoneonanoutreachmissionearlyoninthesupposedlysaferKurdishnorthandbeen kidnapped and was now missing, presumably beheaded. He knows she has, at some level ofconsciousness, transferred her anger and grief onto Wild Turkey himself, whom she is convincedcommittedhisownatrocities,inIraq.“I am the least of you,”WildTurkey’s brother saysnow, in a kindof boredwonderment, andWild

Turkeyisn’tsure ifhe’squotingscriptureorparaphrasingscriptureor ifhehashit, inhisunintentionalsummaryofseveralofJesus’sentiments,anambiguousmiddle-groundinwhichhecanjustsaysomethingandmean it,orwantverymuch tomean it.Neitherspeaks.Themotion-sensor light tripsbackoff,andtheyarethrownagainintodarkness.WildTurkeywakesupinthedesert.He’sinaslightbody-shapeddepressionatthebaseofamudwall,overtheedgeofwhichsitsthefakevillage.Thisisatrainingexercise,thelastpreparationforthegrabteambeforetheygoovertotheShit.TheyareinArizona.WildTurkeyliesstill,listeningtothegrumblingoftheotherguysontheteam,andwatchesthemudruins(fake?real?)seepwiththegraysandblueofthethinwintersunset.Sometimebeforezerodark,WildTurkeystandspaused inhisposition in the team’s tacticalcolumn,

linedupagainst theexteriorwallofoneof thevillagehouses. Insidehecanhear themutednoiseofaradio.Inaminute,atthefirstman’ssignal(twoconsecutivetonelessblipsofstaticontheradioearpiece)themenwillgointotheirsuiteofmotion,sopracticedandefficientandmany-partedastoseemalmostballetic. Wild Turkey, who is the DIA officer attached to the team (which really just means he isresponsiblefortheconfirmedidentificationofteamextractiontargets),breathesinthequiet,inthedark.Hecloseshiseyesandthinksthroughwhatisabouttohappen,thestepssofamiliar,mechanical,thoughlessinthewayofmachinesthanofsoul-hollowingboredom.Thisiswhythesemenwerechosenforthegrab team,Wild Turkey has often reflected in these moments: because they will do this with perfectdisinterest,notkeyedup,noteveneagerinthewayoftheadrenalizedarmykids.ButwhatWildTurkeythinksofnowintheeternalmomentsbeforethetwinblipsthrowthenightinto

action is where he is standing, is the fake village, meant to be a simulation but really more of asimulacrum,apsychologicalagentatplay in themen’s imaginations. It’sallaneffort, really,atmakingtheir imagination of what they will soon face in Iraq “more real,” if such a thingmakes sense,WildTurkeythinks.Asifanythingcouldbemoreorlessrealthananythingelse,asifallrealityisn’tcontainedineveryinstanceofit,thisdesertbeingveryaproposofallthisinthatitreallyisindistinguishablefrom

theIraqidesert(thoughWildTurkeywillonlyconfirmthislater)andsocontainsthatotherreality,oriscontiguoustothatotherreality.Therealdesertandthevillageandthespecifichousethatthisoneismeanttorepresentisactuallyjustadouble,arepetition.He’shadalotoftimetothinkaboutit.WildTurkeyhasoftenbeenovercomeby this senseduring theiroperations in the fakevillage—this

feelingthattherealIraqivillage/desert/targethouseisactuallyverycloseby,maybeoverthenextridge,andthatitisorwillbetheexacttwinofthisvillage.ThefeelinghasspreaduntilWildTurkeyhearstwosoundsineveryonefakemortarexplosionorrealexplosionofblankassaultriflerounds:theexercise’ssoundand,somewherebehindit,therealone.Inaway,thisshouldservethemilitary’spurposeinmakingthefakevillageseemmore“real”buthasinsteadonlyemphasizedthesurrealismoftheentireexercise.Hewonderswhentheyareactuallythere,ifitwillseemfinallyreal.Thisiswhathethinksabout,inallthetimetheyhavetohurryupandwait,andthink.Thisisallmadeworsebythetasksthey’vebeenassignedsofarintheirtimeinthefakevillageherein

thedesertinArizona.It’safullexercise,meaningascloseanacting-outofrealoperatingprocedureastheycanpossiblyundertakewithoutactuallybeingintheShit.Theunitwasdroppedoffkilometersfromthevillage.Theyapproachedbynight.Foraweekthey’vebeencalmlydoingreconnaissanceonthefakevillage,onitsrealinhabitants.WildTurkeyhaswatchedthroughspecialopticsfatmiddle-agedmentaketheirtea,slurpingitfromsaucers,hasloggedthearrivalanddeparturefromthewatersource(anearbywell) of women in flowing fabrics that are given form by the wind. He’s listened on his headset toconversations within the crumbling walls of the low houses, his half-learned Arabic lagging behind,keyingintofamilynames,locations,etcetera.It’sallveryauthentic.It’sthesepeoplethatgettohim,asWildTurkeynowshiftsuncomfortablyagainstthewall,waitingfor

thesignal.Thecrushingironyoftheirphysicalexistencehere:theyarerealIraqivillagerspaidtoplayIraqivillagersinAmerica;immigrantsfromIraqgivenasylumandmoneytocometothisotherdesertandthisothervillageandplaythemselves.Theyaregivenwholecomplicatedpsychologicalprofilestoenact,Wild Turkey knows; they each have a role and a set of actions or conversations to complete atpredetermined points. They each will behave differently when threatened. They are paid for theperformanceofreality,fortheperformanceoftheiridentitiesratherthanfortheiridentitiesthemselves.Itisallverythorough.Twonightsago,WildTurkeywatchedtwooftheyoungersubjects,maskedbyredkaffiyehs,dragone

of the “local politicians” out into the square and videotape themselves staging an execution.The grabteamreceivedthisvideoontheirdigitalcommslinkthenextmorning,thoughitwasn’tthesamevideoastheonetakenbelow,inthefakevillage,WildTurkeycouldtell.Hedoesn’tknowifhewassupposedtonoticethisornot,andhasdecidednowitwasarealvideoofarealexecution,somethingscroungedfromadarkcorneroftheInternet.Thewhole thinghasworkedby approximation,whichWildTurkeywill especially think later, after

Ramadi.Later, actual reality (WildTurkey crouched in the tactical columnoutside the actual house inactualRamadi)willseemalsolikeanapproximationofexperiencesomehow,thedistancebetweenwhathappens(asWildTurkeyhearsthetwoblipsandrisesintoaction,thenlater,asthetacticalphosphorousstrobe breaks the night and the vision of the house’s interior into its discrete pulses of scene) and the“real”experience(eventhen,somethingslightlyElseorOther,as if there isyetanotherhouse, therealtarget,justoverthenextriseinRamadi)makinghisownfeelingsseemlikeanexercisetoo.Now, however, on this night, with this crowning exercise, something real will occur,Wild Turkey

thinks.Someonereallywillgetidentified,thengrabbed,thenextracted.WildTurkeyhasspenttheentireweekidentifyingthetarget,goingoverthetacticalplan.Hewondersifwhentheteamdoespenetratethebuilding,when they’ve cleared the rooms and assembled themembers of the family (awife, a youngteenagedaughter,amiddle-agedman,andthe“cousin”theyarehousing,whoisreallythecourierforalocal“militantfaction”),ifthey’llshowrealfear,if,takenbysurprisebythetimingifnotthenatureofthe

event,theywillreverttotheirnaturalhumanreaction,toterror.ThoughitoccurstoWildTurkeynow(asthe tactical column remains paused) that the familymembersmust’ve had their dreams exploded intoviolentlightandsoundmanytimesbeforeasunitafterunitwastrainedhere,andWildTurkeywondersifitmustbefrustratingtothem(especiallytheteenagegirl)thattheystillfeelscaredwhenithappens,thatit’sstillactuallyterrifying,whentheyshouldsortofknowit’scoming.AnditwilloccurtoWildTurkeylater, when he remembers this night’s exercise, that this thought was probably the seed of that latermomentaryfeeling,whenhewillbestandingintherearbedroominRamadi,lookingdownatthepartiallycollapsedheadoftheteenagegirl:thatflushofstupidangeratherfornotsomehowknowingwhatwouldhappen.Inhisear,WildTurkeyhearsthetwoblastsofstatic.

WildTurkeywakesup.TowHeadisdriving,drumminghisfingersonthewheel,staringstraightaheadand humming something that is not the song playing tinnily on the radio as the ancient pickup jouncesaroundonthecountryroad.ItisJanuaryandsocoldtheairisalmostcompletelythinnedout,knife-edgedinWildTurkey’snostrilsandmouth.TowHeadpickedhimupfromthecrumblingduplexveryearlythismorning,beforefirstlight,andWildTurkeyiscomingdown,thebrutalsobrietyoftheairhelpingout.Tow Head is excited to go shooting at the unofficial range they are now bouncing and fishtailing

toward.He’sexcitedabouthisnewgun,thereissued,remadeWorldWarIIriflethat,initscombinationofantique design andmodernmechanics, is a sort of simulation of itself, giving TowHead both of theexperiencesheseemstowant:thestruggleofamarksmaninNormandyin1944andthesmoothrifleryofalltheadvancesmadesince.TowHeadisWildTurkey’sfriend,andheisn’tdoingtoowell,WildTurkeythinks,thoughhe’snever

reallybeendoingtoowell.Hehasabig,robustheadandbrow,butverysmallshouldersandawiltingtorsothatmakeshiswholeappearancevaguelydowncastanddisconcertingtoWildTurkey,likehisbodyhas failed thepromiseofhismartial features.ThisgivesTowHeadapuzzled, frustratedmien.He’sagoodguy,really,alwayssaysjustwhathemeans,whichiswhyWildTurkeyhasagreedtogoshootinginthefreezingcoldeventhoughit’sthelastthinghereallywantstodo.Besidehim,TowHeadbopsand twitches inhis seat.He’s like thishere in theStates,WildTurkey

knows,alwaysalittlenervous,neverquiteholdingstillormaintainingvisualfocusonanyonething.Hetalksveryfast(he’stalkingnow,WildTurkeyrealizes)andpausesonlyoccasionallytoacknowledgetheconversant,thoughnotinawaythatrequiresanyresponse.Healwayshasalotofconversationalenergy,andjumpsfromonesubjecttoanotheraccordingtohisinscrutablyassociativethought.InIraqhewasn’tlikethis,atleastnotwhileWildTurkeyknewhimthere.Whentheyfirstmet,andTowHeadrealizedtheywerebothfromKansas,fromevenadjacenttinytowns,helookedashappyasasmallboy.It’sthislookthatWildTurkeyhaskeptinmind,whenhewasgivingawayallhismilitarypayandsetasidetheamountforthisrifle,whichTowHead,intheirpreviousconversations,alwayscircledbacktothesubjectof.WildTurkeyhadn’theardfromTowHeadforsometimewhenhesawtheflyerat thelibraryforthe

WoundedHeroArtsShareevent.Thiswas twoweeksago.The readingwasheld inoneof thepubliclibrary’sanonymousmeetingrooms,plasticchairssetupinsolemnrowsfacingapodium.TowHeadwasthefeaturedreader.WildTurkeywentbyhimselfandsatfartooneside,wheretherewasachanceTowHeadmightnotseehim,besideacoveredpiano.WildTurkeydidn’tknowthatTowHeadlikedtowrite,andspentthetimewhileseveralmiddle-aged

womenwentthroughtheintroductionswonderingifthiswasactuallysupposedtobesomekindofeffortattherapy,orifthiswasapreexistinginterestofTowHead’s,or,ifitwasn’t,ifTowHeadcouldpossiblyparsehisownanswertothatquestionnow.FinallyTowHeadgotupandtookthepodiumandbegantoreadinadeep,affectlessvoice.

Itwasastory,sortof, thoughreally itwas justa longdescriptionofamanmakingawoodenguitaramplifierfromscratchinhisgarage,whicheventuallydisintegratedintoasortoflistofinstructions,butinthethirdperson.AsTowHead’svoicesettledfurtherintoitslowtimbreandtheinstructionsbecamerepetitive, the sum effect became markedly sinister, almost sexual in its fixated self-surety, until thedescriptionofthemaincharacter’scoatingandrecoatingandrecoatingagainoflacquerontheamplifier’swoodenexteriorseemeddistinctlyviolent.Beforehebegan,TowHeadhadmentionedthatthestorywasaboutaveteranhomefromIraq.OrmaybeWildTurkeyonlythoughthe’dsaidthiswhenreallyhehadn’t.Thiswasmoreorlessatruestory,WildTurkeyknew;TowHeadhadtoldhimaboutfabricatingfrom

scratchawoodenelectricguitaramplifierinhisgarageinKansas,orattemptingtofabricateone—nowinthelibrary,asintheoriginalrecitation,TowHeadreachedthepointwherehefucksuptheinteriorwiring—thoughTowHeadhadbegun the reading (thisWildTurkeydoes remember)by stating the storywasfiction. In his uncomfortable plastic chair Wild Turkey wondered at this strange disavowal of theexperience,wonderedifitreallywasfictionorifhe’djustsaiditwas,orif,ultimately,TowHeadevenknewanymore.Thisexperienceof thewoodenamplifierhadpresumablyhappenedat least threetimes,WildTurkey realized: once in actuality, once inTowHead’s recitation of the story toWildTurkey inBaghdad,andonce in there-creationof this,his fictionwriting—likeamatryoshkadollofexperience,understandablyinvoluted,confused.Infact,sittinginthatlittlemeetingroominthepubliclibrary,WildTurkeywashavingaverysimilar

experienceofconfusionduetotheparticulararrangementofchairs.Thesesamechairs,inthisverysameformation,wereusedinthefake/realbasenearthefakevillageinArizona,inthefake(real?)chapelareaforthefake/simulatedfuneralservicethattheywereallrequiredtoattendduringtheexercise.Presumablythiswasheldinordertopreparethemenforattendingthesamethinginreality,intheShit.They’dbeenvery thorough, Wild Turkey remembered, with a chaplain and soldiers speaking and eulogies thatmanagedtoworkinvaguereferencestothedetailsofthecasualty.ButWildTurkeyhadlaterfound,afterGooglingthenameonthefakefuneralprogram,thattheservice

wasinfactheldforarealsoldier,forarealpersonwho’dbeenkilledinIraq(IED),whichmadethefakefuneralnotsomuchasimulationofamemorialservice(astheofficersinsisted)butareenactmentofit,adoubling,technicallyarecurrence.Itwasuncleariftherankingorganizers(letalonethechaplainandthevolunteereulogizers)ofthefake/realbasenearthefakevillageevenknewthatitwasarealpersontheywerememorializing:thefactthatthebiographicalinformationonthefakefuneralprogramdidn’tmatchwhatWildTurkeycouldfindabouttherealsoldierkilledinactionsuggestedthattheydidn’tknow.Thisalsobroughtupthepossibilityofsheercoincidence,of thechance that themasterdesignersof thefakeIraq experience had chosen by accident the name of a victim of the real Iraq experience in order tosimulatethelossofarealperson.Thewholethingwasverysimilar,WildTurkeyfelt,totherealvideooftheexecutionthey’dreceivedontheircommslinkthatwassupposedlyofthefakeexecutionhe’dwatchedthroughthenightopticsthenightbefore.InthelibraryTowHeadfinishedup,gettingtothepointthatfunctionedastheendofthestory,where

themaincharacterfinallycompletesthewoodenelectricguitaramplifieronlytorealizethathedoesnot,infact,ownanelectricguitar,orevenknowhowtoplay.Intheapplauseafterward,TowHeadhadcaughtsightofWildTurkeyandwaved,compellingWildTurkeytostayforthereceptionafterward,whereTowHeadhatchedtheshooting-rangeplan.Nowthey’reparkedattheedgeofthewidefieldthatservesastherange,andWildTurkeyisleaning

againstthesideofthetruck,watchingTowHeadcarefullyreloadtherifle,bobbinghisheadtothepulsingtechnomusiccomingfromthehugeboomboxhe’ssetupbyhisfeetonthelittleshootingplatform.Thisisreallyaskeetrange,andTowHeadhasinsistedthatWildTurkeyslingtheclaypigeonsoutintothewhiteplaneofthesnowed-overfieldandwashed-outwintersky.Theyhaveonlyoneofthecheapplastichand-throwers,soforanhournowWildTurkeyhasmadethestrangeside-armedmotion,skippingthebright

orangeclaydisksoutontothecurrentsofair.TowHeadisanexcellentshot.He’shiteachone,thediskswobblingorsplittingcleanlyinhalf,theirflightturnedtomeregravity.Heseemstobeenjoyinghimself.The landscapedoes in fact resembleNormandy inwinter,which is fitting for the rifle, though since

WildTurkeyhasnever actually seenNormandy inwinterhe supposes it really just resembleswhathethinksitwouldlooklike.HewantsittolooklikeNormandyinthesnowforTowHead,though,evenifitdid,TowHeadwouldn’tknowit.TowHeadisreadyagainandWildTurkeyflicksawayhiscigaretteandstepsforward.“Ready,”Tow

Headsays,then,“Pull!”andWildTurkeywhipshisarm,sendingtheclaydiskhighintotheair.TowHeadfires,missing,butatthesoundoftherifle’sreportaraftofgeeseriseintotheairfromsomehiddentuftsinthefield,theirwingedshapesverydarkagainsttheair.WildTurkeyrealizesTowHeadisscreamingbefore he realizes that Tow Head is firing, though the two actions are concurrent. But Tow Head isscreamingandTowHeadisfiring,andfiring,andfiring,untilWildTurkeyhearsthesmallmetallicclinkoftheammunitioncartridgegoingemptyandtherearenomorebirdsintheair.ThenTowHeadisrunningoutintothefield,slipping,fallingdown,gettingup,stillrunning,stillyelling,thoughnowlaughingtoo,thetechnomusicthrobbingveryloudlyandfinallyTowHeadreachestheareaofbloodiedsnowwherehehasexpertlydroppedwhatmustbeatleasttenbirdsandWildTurkeycanseehimliftingtherifle,holdingitateitherendabovehisheadlikehe’swadingariver,andTowHeadisdancingandlaughingwildly,thesoundrisingandrisinginjoy,andWildTurkey,watching,loveshim,loveshim,loveshim.ThisissixmonthsbeforeTowHead,whohasthisdayrefrainedfromhisusualrunningobsessionwith

thepossibility thathesufferedanundiagnosedTBIatsomeforgottenpointduringhisdeployment,willuse the replica rifle to shoot himself through his cheekbone, perhaps purposefully making his theoryimpossibletoeverdisproveorconfirm.WildTurkeyjarsawake.He’sinhisposition,lastinthetacticalcolumn,crouchedagainstalowmudwallina residentialcompound inRamadi.The target,WildTurkeyknows(thedrone’sheat imagingburnedintotheinsideofhiseyelids),issleepinginthesmallhousejustahead.Theteampadsforwardquietlyinitsline.Theypause,waitingfortheradiosignal.Insidethehouse,WildTurkeymentallyrecites,therewillbetwocivilians(amiddle-agedmaleanda

female, presumably hiswife) and the target,whom they’ve previously claimed is a cousin butwho isactuallya low-levelmessengerbetweenmilitias.Allareasleep.Theoperational informationhasbeenconfirmed,accordingtotheradioclearanceanhourearlier,presumablybymoredroneimaging.Inhisear,WildTurkeyhearsthetwoblastsofstatic.Thereisthesoundofthesteelrambatteringthedooropen,theloudflashofthetacticalstungrenade,

theshadowyflowofthebodiesinfrontofWildTurkeyfunnelingintothehouse,theshoutedcommandsfor theoccupants to lieflatontheground.Fromallcornersof thehouse,fromitsfourseparaterooms,WildTurkeyhearsthevoicesoftheteamconfirmingthattheroomsareclear.“Onefemaleinnorthwestbedroom,”WildTurkeyhearssomeonetellhimeitherovertheradioorthenightair.“Holding.”There are several things that are wrong, Wild Turkey thinks, as he stares at the lone male lying

facedowninfrontofhimonthecarpetsofthemainroom.Oneisthatthismaleisclearlynoteitherofthemales(notthetarget,andnotthemiddle-agedman)fromtheassignmentprofile.WildTurkeywillhavetogothroughthestandardprocedurestoconfirmthis,buthecansee,eveninthedark,thatthemaninfrontofhimisvery,veryold.TheextractionclockinWildTurkey’sheadisticking,ticking.Therestoftheteamstands,idlytensed,adjustingtheirequipment.WildTurkeytellsthemheneedstogoseeaboutthefemale.Inthebackbedroom,SpecialistFreidelisstandinginsidethedoorway,watchingateenagegirl,whois

naked,cowerinthefarcorner.“Whatthefuck?”WildTurkeysays.

Freidelshrugs.Thegirlinhercrouchseemsalmostferal,eyesflashing.WildTurkey,inhisreal-timecatalogoftheoperation,strugglestoageher,distractedbythecombinationofherchild’sface,herdirtythighs,andhalf-hiddenadolescentbreasts.“Did twomen leave this house tonight?”Wild Turkey asks in half-heartedArabic. “Where is your

mother?Whereisyourfather?Wasthereahouseguesttonight?Didheleave?”Thegirldoesn’tanswer,butwincessharplyatWildTurkey’svoice,showingherteeth.“Bring her into themain room,”Wild Turkey says, frustrated. Freidel steps forward and grabs the

nakedgirlbytheupperarm.Hebeginstodragherbutthenshestandsup,stillresisting.“I think theygaveus thewrong fuckinghouse,”WildTurkey says (towhom?), andFreidel turns,or

startstoturn,startstosaytoWildTurkey,“What?”whenthenakedgirlrearsback,sendingonehandwithitsnailsarcingover,diggingintoFreidel’sneck.“Goddamn it,”Freidel says,or starts to say,ashe turnsandbringshisweapon’s thick stockupand

aroundpossiblymoreswiftlythanhemeansto,andthereisasinglesound,somethinglikeacrack,andthenakedgirl ison the flooratbothFreidel’sandWildTurkey’s feet.Herhead isunmade: theupper leftquadrantofherskullcollapsed,bloodverydarkonthefloor,a jagged-edgedconcavitywithafleckofwhitebonejustvisibleinWildTurkey’sflashlighthereandthere,thewoundtanglingwithherhair.“Fuck!”Friedelsays.“Fuck,”WildTurkeysays.WildTurkeyhelpsdragthegirl’sbodyoutintothedirt-flooredcourtyard,thinkingmaybehecanradio

foramedicaladditiontotheextraction,oncehegetsclearjustwhatthefuckisgoingon,butWildTurkeycansee—thegirl’scompletelimpness,eyeslollingwiththedraggingmotionbetweenwhitesandwide,black,fixedpupils;thelackofanyrisingorfallingofthesmallbreasts,nowbaredwheresheliesonherbackinthepitchofthenightandthedirt—thatsheisgone.“Whatdowedowith this?”Freidelsays,voice tautwithdesperation,andWildTurkeycanfeel the

staresoftherestoftheteam,gatherednearthedoorwayouttothecourtyard.WildTurkeyisnotafraid.Hecanwritethereportexactlyasitreallyhappened,heknows,anditwill

more than likely simply be forgotten, lost, after a brief bureaucratic murmur, to the labyrinth ofoperationalAfterActionReports.They’dbemoreinterestedinhowtheteamwasgiventhewronghouse,thewronginfofromthedrone,moreinterestedinthefailuretoextractthemessengermanthananythingelse.Even if the report caught the eyeof someofficerworried about exposure, all thatwouldhappenwouldprobablybethatWildTurkeywouldberotatedbackhome,thoughhedidn’twanttogobackhome.WildTurkeyknowsallthis,lookingdownatthenakedgirlwiththeruinedhead,knowsthathecanreportitornotreportit,buthecan’tleavethebodyasitis.Nottobefound,andphotographed.Nottobeseen.Thisiswhenhesaysit,whenheraiseshiseyestoFreidel’sandtheothers.“Burnit,”hesays.“Burnit,”hesays.“Burnit,”hesays.He helps them prepare the body.He gets the jug of kerosene from the house’s tiny kitchen.He has

Freidelgetthebedsheetsfromtheroomtheyfoundherin.Thesheetsarestainedwiththebloodthathasspreadonthefloor.Freideldeposits themnext to thebody,whichWildTurkeyispouringthekeroseneover.WildTurkeystraightensup.He’sholdingthetacticalphosphorousstrobegrenadeinhishand.AnddoesWildTurkeysmell,cutbythefumesofthekerosene,thatrank,fetidwaftfromthegirl’sbed

sheets?Doeshefeelhimselffallingforjustasecondintothatcomplexoffaintlyvaginal,excretorymusk—doesitseemfamiliartohim?Andthegirl’snakedbody,shiningwiththewetnessofthekerosenethereon the ground before him—what is it that strikes him as so oddly sexual about it? Is it what he sawFreideldoingasWildTurkeyenteredtheroom?DidheseeFriedelwrestlingwiththegirl—inwhat,anefforttorestrainher?Didhehearhimlaughing?

WildTurkeyhas the teamclear thecourtyardandprepare foregress to theextractionpoint.Hewillexperiencethisnighttwice,havetwosimultaneousnights:theonethatnowoccursandtheonethatoccursonpaper.Hewillbehonest inhis report,but inhishonestyhewillbenomoreable toseparatewhatactuallyhappened,forthemostpart,fromthefalseimplantationofmemory,ofnarrativememory,whichwas coeval with the experience itself. And so the truth of the night will forever feel toWild Turkeysomewhereinbetweenthefragmentationofexperienceandwhatheremembers:hewillhavebothseenandnot seenwhathesaw,whathesmelled.Allof thiswithone loneexception: themomentwhen thephosphorousstrobe,nestledunderneaththenakedgirl’sbackandburiedbeneaththeshroudofthesoiledbedclothes,ignites,andshattersthenightintopulsesofpurewhitelight,andtheabsenceofit.And already, asWild Turkeywatches (though the strobe cannot bewatched, though “watching” the

strobewouldrenderhimtemporarilyblind,asisthetacticalstrobe’sfunction),theteam,andWildTurkeyalongwithit,isleaving,clearingthebuildingsintheneighboringcompoundjustincase,onlytodiscoverempty room after empty room of desks, of broken chalkboards (the mistaken compound a school,apparently).AlreadytheyareclearofRamadi’soutskirtsandjoggingintothefieldwherethehelicopterwillbrieflylandandcollectthem;alreadytheyarebackattheoperationsbase,goingtosleep;alreadyWildTurkeyiswakinginmid-fuckwithJeannie;wakingin theinvigoratedairofMerry’sroomafterapunch;alreadyheiswakingtothetown’slightsbuzzingwiththeedgeofhispills.HewakesoutsidethecourthousewithJeannieeventhoughhisheart’snotreallyinit;hewakesonhissecondtourinIraq,onapileofrubbleinFallujah,theroarofheavymetalbeingpumpedattheinsurgentsatonelessroomofsoundall around him, as he closes his eyes again and falls back into the city air’s approximation of Mrs.Budnitz’srankness;hewakesontheadolescentnightheloseshisvirginitytoasweet-facedgirlnamedHelen,who,outoffearofithurtingtoomuch,getshimoffmanuallyandonlythen,asWildTurkeydriftson the edge of sleep,mounts him unexpectedly; hewakes in the overgrown baseball field outside thecountry school, remembering the springafternoonhewoke in theoutfieldyearsago in themiddleof agame, the airheavyandperfectwith the rumorof rain; in thedesert, in the lightning, inhis crumblingduplex,inthefield,inthemanyroomsofnight,WildTurkeywakesup,hewakesup,hewakesup.

DENISJOHNSON

TheLargesseoftheSeaMaidenFROMTheNewYorkerSilencesAFTERDINNER,NOBODYwenthomerightaway.Ithinkwe’denjoyedthemealsomuchwehopedElainewould serveus thewhole thingall over again.Thesewerepeoplewe’vegotten toknowa little fromElaine’svolunteerwork—nobodyfrommywork,nobodyfromtheadagency.Wesataroundinthelivingroomdescribingtheloudestsoundswe’deverheard.Onesaiditwashiswife’svoicewhenshetoldhimshedidn’tlovehimanymoreandwantedadivorce.Anotherrecalledthepoundingofhisheartwhenhesufferedacoronary.TiaJoneshadbecomeagrandmotherattheageofthirty-sevenandhopedneveragainto hear anything so loud as her granddaughter crying in her sixteen-year-old daughter’s arms. Herhusband,Ralph,saidithurthisearswheneverhisbrotheropenedhismouthinpublic,becausehisbrotherhadTourette’ssyndromeanderuptedwithremarkslike“Imasturbate!Yourpenissmellsgood!”infrontofperfectstrangersonabusorduringamovie,oreveninchurch.YoungChrisCasereversedthedirectionandintroducedthetopicofsilences.Hesaidthemostsilent

thinghe’deverheardwasthelandminetakingoffhisrightlegoutsideKabul,Afghanistan.Asforothersilences,nobodycontributed.Infact,therecameasilencenow.Someofushadn’trealized

thatChrishadlostaleg.Helimped,butonlyslightly.Ihadn’tevenknownhe’dfoughtinAfghanistan.“Alandmine?”Isaid.“Yes,sir.Alandmine.”“Canweseeit?”Deirdresaid.“No,ma’am,”Chrissaid.“Idon’tcarrylandminesaroundonmyperson.”“No!Imeanyourleg.”“Itwasblownoff.”“Imeanthepartthat’sstillthere!”“I’llshowyou,”hesaid,“ifyoukissit.”Shocked laughter.We started talking about themost ridiculous thingswe’d ever kissed. Nothing of

interest.We’dallkissedonlypeople,andonlyintheusualplaces.“Allright,then,”ChristoldDeirdre.“Here’syourchancefortheconversation’smostuniqueentry.”“No,Idon’twanttokissyourleg!”Althoughnoneofusshowedit,IthinkweallfeltalittleirritatedwithDeirdre.Weallwantedtosee.MortonSandswastheretoo,thatnight,andforthemostparthe’dmanagedtokeepquiet.Nowhesaid,

“JesusChrist,Deirdre.”“Oh,well.OK,”shesaid.Chris pulled up his right pant leg, bunching the cuff about halfway up his thigh, and detached his

prosthesis, a device of chromium bars and plastic belts strapped to his knee, which was intact andswiveledupwardhorribly topresent thepuckeredendofhis leg.Deirdregotdownonherbarekneesbeforehim,andhehitchedforwardinhisseat—thecouch;RalphJoneswassittingbesidehim—tomovethe scarred stump within two inches of Deirdre’s face. Now she started to cry. Now we were allembarrassed,alittleashamed.Fornearlyaminute,wewaited.ThenRalphJonessaid,“Chris, I rememberwhenIsawyoufight twoguysatonceoutside theAces

Tavern.Nokidding,”Jonestoldtherestofus.“Hewentoutsidewiththesetwoguysandbeatthecrapout

ofbothofthem.”“IguessIcould’vegiventhemabreak,”Chrissaid.“Theywerebothprettydrunk.”“Chris,yousurekickedsomeassthatnight.”InthepocketofmyshirtIhadawonderfulCubancigar.Iwantedtostepoutsidewithit.Thedinnerhad

beenoneofourbest,andIwantedtotopofftheexperiencewithasatisfyingsmoke.Butyouwanttoseehow this sort of thing turns out. How often will you witness a woman kissing an amputation? Jones,however,hadruinedeverythingbytalking.He’dbrokenthespell.Chrisworkedtheprosthesisbackintoplace and tightened the straps and rearranged his pant leg.Deirdre stood up andwiped her eyes andsmoothed her skirt and took her seat, and that was that. The outcome of all this was that Chris andDeirdre,aboutsixmonthslater,downatthecourthouse,inthepresenceofverynearlythesamegroupoffriends,weremarriedbyamagistrate.Yes,they’rehusbandandwife.YouandIknowwhatgoeson.AccomplicesAnother silence comes tomind.Acoupleof years ago,Elaine and I haddinner at thehomeofMillerThomas,formerlytheheadofmyagencyinManhattan.Right—heandhiswife,Francesca,endedupoutheretoo,butconsiderablylaterthanElaineandI—oncemyboss,nowaSanDiegoretiree.Wefinishedtwobottlesofwinewithdinner,maybethreebottles.Afterdinner,wehadbrandy.Beforedinner,wehadcocktails.Wedidn’tknowoneanotherparticularlywell,andmaybeweusedtheliquortorushpastthatfact.Afterthebrandy,IstarteddrinkingScotch,andMillerdrankbourbon,andalthoughtheweatherwaswarmenoughthatthecentralairconditionerwasrunning,hepronounceditacoldnightandlitafireinhisfireplace.Ittookonlyasquirtoffluidandthepopofamatchtogetanarmloadofstickscracklingandblazing,andthenhelaidonacoupleoflargechunksthathesaidweregood,seasonedoak.“Thecapitalistathisforge,”Francescasaid.Atonepointwewerestandinginthelightoftheflames,IandMillerThomas,seeinghowmanybooks

eachmancouldbalanceonhisout-flungarms,ElaineandFrancescaloadingthemontoourhandsinatestofequilibriumthatbothofusfailedrepeatedly.Itbecameatestofstrength.Idon’tknowwhowon.Wecalledformoreandmorebooks,andourwomenpiledthemonuntilmostofMiller’slibrarylayaroundusonthefloor.HehadasmallMarsdenHartleycanvasmountedabovethemantel,acrazy,mostlybluelandscapedoneinoil,andIsaidthatperhapsthatwasn’ttheplaceforapaintinglikethisone,sonearthesmokeandheat,suchanexpensivepainting.Andthepaintingwasmasterfultoo,fromwhatIcouldseeofitbydimlampsandfirelight,amidbooksscatteredallover thefloor . . .Miller tookoffense.Hesaidhe’dpaidforthismasterpiece,heownedit,hecouldputitwhereitsuitedhim.Hemovedveryneartheflames and tookdown the painting and turned to us, holding it before him, anddeclared that he couldeven,ifhewanted,throwitinthefireandleaveitthere.“Isitart?Sure.Butlisten,”hesaid,“artdoesn’townit.Mynameain’tArt.”Heheldthecanvasflatlikeatray,landscapeup,andtemptedtheflameswithit,thrustingitinandout....AndthestrangethingisthatI’dheardanearlyidenticalstoryaboutMillerThomasandhisbelovedHartleylandscapesomeyearsbefore,aboutaneveningverysimilartothisone,thedrinks andwineandbrandyandmoredrinks, the rowdyconversation, the scatteringofbooks, andfinally,Millerthrustingthispaintingtowardtheflamesandcallingithisownpropertyandthreateningtoburnit.Onthatpreviousnight,hisguestshadtalkedhimdownfromtheheights,andhe’dhungthepaintingbackinitsplace,butonournight—why?—noneofusfoundawaytoobjectasheaddedhispropertytothefuelandturnedhisbackandwalkedaway.Ablackspotappearedonthecanvasandspreadoutinasortofsmokingpuddlethatgaverisetotinyflames.Millersatinachairacrossthelivingroom,bytheflickeringwindow,andobserved from thatdistancewithadrink inhishand.Notaword,notamove,fromanyofus.Thewooden framepoppedmarvelously in the silencewhile thegreat painting cookedaway,firstblackandtwisted,soongrayandfluttering,andthenthefirehaditall.

AdmanThismorningIwasassailedbysuchsadnessatthevelocityoflife—thedistanceI’vetraveledfrommyownyouth, thepersistenceof theold regrets, thenew regrets, the ability of failure to freshen itself innovel forms—that Ialmostcrashed thecar.Gettingoutat theplacewhereIdo the jobIdon’t feel I’mverygoodat,Igrabbedmybriefcasetooroughlyanddumpedhalfofitscontentsinmylapandhalfontheparkinglot,andwhilegatheringitallupIleftmykeysontheseatandlockedthecarmanually—anoldman’shabit—andtrappedthemintheRav.Intheoffice,IaskedShylenetocallalocksmithandthentogetmeanappointmentwithmybackman.IntheupperrightquadrantofmybackIhaveanervethatonceinawhilegetspinched.TheT4nerve.

Thesenervesaren’tfraillittleinklines;they’records,infact,asthickasyourpinkiefinger.Thisonegetscaughtbetweentensemuscles,andfordays,evenweeks,there’snotmuchtobedonebuttakeaspirinandgetmassagesandvisit thechiropractor.Downmy rightarm I feel a tingling,anumbness, sometimesadull,sortofmuffledtorment,orelseashapeless,confusingpain.It’sasignal:ithappenswhenI’manxiousaboutsomething.Tomysurprise,Shyleneknewallaboutthissomething.Apparently,shefindstimetobeGooglingher

bosses, and she’d learned of an award I was about to receive in, of all places, New York—for ananimatedtelevisioncommercial.TheawardgoestomyoldNewYorkteam,butIwastheonlyoneofusattendingtheceremony,possiblytheonlyoneinterested,somanyyearsdowntheline.Thislittlegestureofacknowledgmentputthefinishingtouchesonadepressingpicture.Thepeopleonmyteamhadgoneontoother teams, fancier agencies,higheraccomplishments.All I’ddone inbetter than twodecadeswastreadforwarduntilIreachedthelimitofcertainassumptions,andsteppedoff.Meanwhile,Shylenewasoohing,gushing,likeaproudnursewhoexpectsyoutomarvelatallthehorribleproceduresthehospitalhasinstoreforyou.Isaidtoher,“Thanks,thanks.”When I entered the reception area, and throughout this transaction, Shylene was wearing a flashy

sequinnedcarnivalmask.Ididn’taskwhy.OurofficeenvironmentispartoftheNewWave.Thewholeagencyworksunderonegiganticbigtop,

likeacircus—notcrowded,quitecongenial,allofitsurroundingaspaciousbreak-timearea,withpinballmachinesandabasketballhoop,andeveryFridayduringthesummermonthswehaveahappyhourwithfreebeerfromakeg.InNewYork, Imadecommercials. InSanDiego, Iwrite anddesignglossybrochures,mostly for a

groupofWesternresortswheregolfisplayedandhorsestakeyoualongbridlepaths.Don’tgetmewrong—California’sfullofbeautifulspots; it’sapleasure tobringthemto theattentionofpeoplewhomightenjoythem.Just,please,notwithabadlypinchednerve.WhenIcan’tstandit,ItakethedayoffandvisitthebigartmuseuminBalboaPark.Today,afterthe

locksmithgotmebackintomycar,Idrovetothemuseumandsatinonpartofalectureinoneofitssiderooms,awomanoutsiderartistraving,“Artismanandmanisart!”Ilistenedforfiveminutes,andwhatlittleofitshemanagedtomakecomprehensibledidn’tevenmeritbeingcalledshallow.Justthesame,herpaintingswereslylydesigned,intricatelypatterned,andcoherent.Iwanderedfromwall towall, takingsomeofitin,notmuch.ButlookingatartforanhourorsoalwayschangesthewayIseethingsafterward—thisday,forinstance,agroupofmentallyhandicappedadultsonatouroftheplace,withtheirtwisted,hovering hands and cocked heads, moving among the works like cheap cinema zombies, but goodzombies, zombies with minds and souls and things to keep them interested. And outside, where theynormally have a lot of large metal sculptures—the grounds were being dug up and reconstructed—adraglineshovelnosingtherubblemonstrously,andawomanandachildwatching,motionless,thelittle

boystandingonabenchwithhissmileandsidewayseyesandhismotherbesidehim,holdinghishand,bothsostill,likeaphotographofAmericanruin.Next,Ihadasessionwithachiropractordressedupasanelf.It seemed the entire staff at themedical complexnearmyhousewere costumed forHalloween, and

whileIwaitedoutfrontinthecarformyappointment,theearliestoneIcouldgetthatday,IsawaSwissmilkmaidcomingbackfromlunch,thenawitchwithagreenface,thenasunburst-orangesuperhero.ThenIhadthesessionwiththechiropractorinhistightsanddroopingcap.Asforme?Myusualguise.Themasqueradecontinues.

FarewellElainegotawallphoneforthekitchen,asleekblueonethatwearsitsreceiverlikeahat,withacaller-IDreadoutonitsfacejustbelowthekeypad.WhileIeyeballedthisinstrument,havingjustcomeinfrommyvisitwith the chiropractor, a brisk,modest tone began, and the tiny screen showed ten digits I didn’trecognize.Myinclinationwastoscornit,likeanyotherunknown.Butthiswasthefirstcall,theinauguralmessage.AssoonasItouchedthereceiverIwonderedifI’dregretthis,ifIwasholdingamistakeinmyhand,if

Iwaspullingthismistaketomyheadandsaying“Hello”toit.Thecallerwasmyfirstwife,Virginia,orGinny,asIalwayscalledher.Weweremarriedlongago,in

ourearlytwenties,andputastoptoitafterthreecrazyyears.Sincethen,wehadn’tspoken,we’dhadnoreasonto,butnowwehadone.Ginnywasdying.Hervoicecamefaintly.Shetoldmethedoctorshadclosedthebookonher,she’dorderedheraffairs,

thegoodpeoplefromhospicewereinattendance.Before she ended this earthly transit, as she called it, Ginnywanted to shed any kind of bitterness

againstcertainpeople,certainmen,especiallyme.Shesaidhowmuchshe’dbeenhurt,andhowbadlyshewanted to forgiveme,but shedidn’tknowwhether shecouldornot—shehopedshecould—andIassuredher,fromtheabyssofabrokenheart,thatIhopedsotoo,thatIhatedmyinfidelitiesandmyliesabout themoney,and theway I’dkeptmyboredomsecret, andmysecrets ingeneral, andGinnyand Italked,afterfortyyearsofsilence,aboutthemanyotherwaysI’dstolenherrighttothetruth.Inthemiddleofthis,Ibeganwondering,mostuncomfortably,infactwithadizzy,sweatinganxiety,if

I’dmadeamistake—if thiswasn’tmy firstwife,Ginny,no,but rathermysecondwife, Jennifer,oftencalled Jenny.Becauseof theweaknessof hervoice andmyownhumming shock at thenews, also thesituationaroundherasshetriedtospeaktomeonthisveryimportantoccasion—folkscomingandgoing,and the sounds of a respirator, I supposed—now, fifteenminutes into this call, I couldn’t remember ifshe’dactuallysaidhernamewhenIpickedupthephoneandIsuddenlydidn’tknowwhichsetofcrimesIwasregretting,wasn’tsureifthisdyingfarewellclobberingmetomykneesintruerepentancebesidethekitchentablewasVirginia’sorJennifer’s.“Thisishard,”Isaid.“CanIputthephonedownaminute?”IheardhersayOK.The house felt empty. “Elaine?” I called.Nothing. Iwipedmy facewith a dishrag and took offmy

blazerandhungitonachairandcalledoutElaine’snameonemoretimeandthenpickedupthereceiveragain.Therewasnobodythere.Somewhere inside it, the phone had preserved the caller’s number, of course, Ginny’s number or

Jenny’s,butIdidn’tlookforit.We’dhadourtalk,andGinnyorJenny,whichever,hadrecognizedherselfinmyfrankapologies,andshe’dbeensatisfied—because,afterall,bothsetsofcrimeshadbeenthesame.Iwas tired.What aday. I calledElaineonher cell phone.Weagreed shemight aswell stayat the

BudgetInnontheEastSide.Shevolunteeredoutthere,teachingadultstoread,andonceinawhileshe

gotcaughtlateandstayedover.Good.Icouldlockallthreelocksonthedoorandcallitaday.Ididn’tmentionthepreviouscall.Iturnedinearly.Idreamedofawildlandscape—elephants,dinosaurs,batcaves,strangenatives,andsoon.Iwoke, couldn’t go back to sleep, put on a long terry-cloth robe overmyPJs and slipped intomy

loafers and went walking. People in bathrobes stroll around here at all hours, but not often, I think,withoutapetonaleash.Oursisagoodneighborhood—aCatholicchurchandaMormonone,andaposhtownhouse development withmuch open green space, and on our side of the street, some pretty nicesmallerhomes.Iwonderifyou’relikeme,ifyoucollectandsquirrelawayinyoursoulcertainoddmomentswhenthe

Mysterywinksatyou,whenyouwalkinyourbathrobeandtasseledloafers,forinstance,welloutofyourneighborhoodandamongalotofclosedshops,andyouapproachyourveryfaintreflectioninawindowwithwordsaboveit.ThesignsaidSKYANDCELERY.Closer,itreadSKIANDCYCLERY.Iheadedhome.

WidowIwashavinglunchonedaywithmyfriendTomEllis,ajournalist—justcatchingup.Hesaidthathewaswritinga two-actdramabasedon interviewshe’d tapedwhilegatheringmaterial for an articleon thedeathpenalty,twointerviewsinparticular.First, he’d spent an afternoon with a death-row inmate in Virginia, the murderer William Donald

Mason, anamenot at all famoushere inCalifornia, and I don’t knowwhy I remember it.Masonwasscheduledtodiethenextday,twelveyearsafterkillingaguardhe’dtakenhostageduringabankrobbery.Otherthanhislastmeal,ofsteak,greenbeans,andabakedpotato,whichwouldbeservedtohimthe

followingnoon,Masonknewofnofutureoutcomestoworryaboutandseemedrelaxedandcontent.Ellisquizzedhimabouthislifebeforehisarrest,hisroutinethereattheprison,hisviewsonthedeathpenalty—Masonwasagainstit—andhisopinionastoanafterlife—Masonwasforit.The prisoner talked with admiration about his wife, whom he’dmet andmarried some years after

landingondeathrow.Shewas thecousinofafellowinmate.Shewaited tables inasportsbar—greattips.Shelikedreading,andshe’dintroducedhermurdererhusbandtotheworksofCharlesDickensandMarkTwainandErnestHemingway.Shewasstudyingforarealtor’slicense.Masonhadalreadysaidgoodbyetohiswife.Thecouplehadagreedtogetitalloutofthewayafull

week ahead of the execution, to spend several happyhours together andpart companywell out of theshadowofMason’slastday.Ellis said that he’d felt a fierce, unexpected kinshipwith thisman so close to the end because, as

Masonhimselfpointedout,thiswasthelasttimehe’dbeintroducedtoastranger,exceptforthepeoplewhowouldarrangehimonthegurneythenextdayandsethimupforhisinjection.TomElliswasthelastnewpersonhe’dmeet,inotherwords,whowasn’tabouttokillhim.And,infact,everythingproceededaccordingtothescheduleand,abouteighteenhoursafterEllistalkedwithhim,WilliamMasonwasdead.Aweeklater,Ellisinterviewedthenewwidow,Mrs.Mason,andlearnedthatmuchofwhatshe’dtold

herhusbandwasfalse.Ellis located her in Norfolk, working not in any kind of sports bar but instead in a basement sex

emporiumnearthewaterfront,inaone-on-onepeepshow.Inordertotalktoher,Ellishadtopaytwentydollars and descend a narrow stairway, lit with purple bulbs, and sit in a chair before a curtainedwindow.Hewas shockedwhen the curtain vanished upward to reveal thewoman already completelynude, sitting on a stool in a paddedbooth.Then itwas her turn to be shocked,whenEllis introducedhimselfasamanwho’dsharedanhourortwoofherhusband’slastfulldayonearth.Togethertheyspokeoftheprisoner’swishesanddreams,hishappiestmemoriesandhischildhoodgrief,thekindsofthingsa

mansharesonlywithhiswife.Herface,thoughsevere,waspretty,andshedisplayedherpartstoTomunselfconsciously, yet without the protection of anonymity. She wept, she laughed, she shouted, shewhisperedallofthisintoatelephonehandsetthatsheheldtoherhead,whileherfreehandgesturedintheairortouchedtheglassbetweenthem.Asforhavingtoldsomanyliestothemanshe’dmarried—thatwasoneofthethingsshelaughedabout.

Sheseemedtoassumethatanybodyelsewouldhavedonethesame.Inadditiontoherbogusemploymentand her imaginary studies in real estate, she’d endowed herself with a religious soul and joined anonexistentchurch.Thanks toallher fabrications,WilliamDonaldMasonhaddiedaproudandhappyhusband.Andjustashe’dbeensurprisedbyhissuddenintimacywiththecondemnedkiller,myfriendfeltvery

closetothewidow,becausetheyweretalkingtoeachotheraboutlifeanddeathwhileshedisplayedhernakedness before him, sitting on the stoolwith her red spike-heeled pumps plantedwide apart on thefloor.Iaskedhimifthey’dendedupmakinglove,andhesaidno,buthe’dwantedto,hecertainlyhad,andhewasconvincedthatthenakedwidowhadfeltthesame,thoughyouweren’tallowedtotouchthegirlsinthoseplaces,andthisdialogue,infactbothofthem—thedeath-rowinterviewandtheinterviewwiththenakedwidow—hadtakenplacethroughglasspartitionsmadetowithstandanykindofpassionateassault.Atthetime,theideaoftellingherwhathewantedhadseemedterrible.Nowheregrettedhisshyness.

Intheplay,ashedescribeditforme,thesecondactwouldenddifferently.Before long, we wandered into a discussion of the difference between repentance and regret. You

repentthethingsyou’vedone,andregretthechancesyouletgetaway.Then,assometimeshappensinaSanDiegocafé—moreoftenthanyou’dthink—wewereinterruptedbyabeautifulyoungwomansellingroses.OrphanThelunchwithTomEllistookplaceacoupleofyearsago.Idon’tsupposeheeverwrotetheplay;itwasjustanotionhewastellingmeabout.ItcametomindtodaybecausethisafternoonIattendedthememorialservice of an artist friend of mine, a painter named Tony Fido, who once told me about a similarexperience.TonyfoundacellphoneonthegroundnearhishomeinNationalCity,justsouthofhere.Hetoldme

about this the last time I saw him, a couple of months before he disappeared, or went out ofcommunication.Firsthewentoutofcommunication,thenhewasdeceased.Butwhenhetoldmethisstorytherewasnohintofanyofthat.Tonynoticedthecellphonelyingunderanoleanderbushashewalkedaroundhisneighborhood.He

pickeditupandcontinuedhisstroll,andbeforelongfeltitvibratinginhispocket.Whenheanswered,hefoundhimself talkingtothewifeof theowner—theowner’swidow,actually,whoexplainedthatshe’dbeen calling the number every thirty minutes or so since her husband’s death, not twenty-four hoursbefore.HerhusbandhadbeenkilledthepreviousafternooninanaccidentattheintersectionwhereTonyhad

foundthecellphone.AnoldwomaninaCadillachadrunhimdown.Atthemomentofimpact,thedevicehadbeentornfromhishand.The police said that they hadn’t noticed any phone around the scene. It hadn’t been among the

belongingsshe’dcollectedatthemorgue.“Iknewhelostitrightthere,”shetoldTony,“becausehewastalkingtomeattheverysecondwhenithappened.”Tonyofferedtogetinhiscaranddeliverthephonetoherpersonally,andshegavehimheraddressin

LemonGrove,ninemilesdistant.Whenhegottherehediscoveredthatthewomanwasonlytwenty-two

andquiteattractive,andthatsheandherhusbandhadbeengoingthroughadivorce.Atthispointinthetelling,IthinkIknewwherehisstorywasheaded.“Shecameafterme.Itoldher,‘You’reeitherfromHeavenorfromHell.’Itturnedoutshewasfrom

Hell.”Whenever he talked, Tony kept his hands moving—grabbing and rearranging small things on the

tabletop—whilehisheadrockedfromsidetosideandbackandforth.Sometimeshereferredtoa“forceofrhythm”inhispaintings.Heoftenspokeof“motion”inthework.Ididn’tknowmuchaboutTony’sbackground.Hewasinhislatefortiesbutseemedyounger.Imethim

at theBalboa Parkmuseum,where he appeared atmy shoulderwhile I looked at anEdwardHopperpaintingofaCapeCodgasstation.Heofferedhiscritique,whichwaslengthy,meticulous,andscathing—andwhichwasfocusedontechnique,onlyontechnique—andspokeofhiscontemptforallpainters,andfinishedbysaying,“IwishPicassowasalive.I’dchallengehim—hecoulddooneofmineandIcoulddooneofhis.”“You’reapainteryourself.”“Abetterpainterthanthisguy,”hesaidofEdwardHopper.“Well,whoseworkwouldyousayisanygood?”“TheonlypainterIadmireisGod.He’smybiggestinfluence.”We began having coffee together two or three times a month, always, I have to admit, at Tony’s

initiation.UsuallyIdrovetohislively,disheveledHispanicneighborhoodtoseehim,thereinNationalCity.Ilikeprimitiveart,andIlikefolktales,soIenjoyedvisitinghisramblingoldhome,wherehelivedsurroundedbyhispaintings,likeanorphankinginaclutteredcastle.Thehousehadbeeninhisfamilysince1939.Forawhile,itwasaboardinghouse—adozenbedrooms,

eachwithitsownsink.“Damnplacehasajinxorwhammy:First,Spiro—Spirowatchedittillhedied.Momwatched it till shedied.Mysisterwatched it till shedied.NowI’llbehere till Idie,”he said,hostingmeshirtless,hishairytorsodabbedalloverwithpaint.TalkingsofastIcouldrarelyfollow,hedidseemderanged.Butblessed,decidedlyso,withaself-deprecatingandself-orientinghumorthatthegenuinely mad seem to have misplaced. What to make of somebody like that? “Richards in theWashingtonPost,”heoncesaid,“comparedmetoMelville.”IhavenoideawhoRichardswas.OrwhoSpirowas.Tonynevertiredofhisvolubleexplanations,hisself-exegesis—theworksalmostcoded,asiftofool

ordistracttheunworthy.Theyweren’tthechilddrawingsofyourusualschizophrenicoutsiderartist,butefforts a littlemore skillful, on theorderof tattooart, oil oncanvases around fourby six feet in size,crowdedwith imagesbuthighlyorganized,allonbiblical themes,mostlydireandapocalyptic,andallwiththetitlesprintedneatlyrightonthem.Oneofhisworks,forinstance—threepanelsdepictingtheendof theworld and the advent ofHeaven—was called “MysteryBabylonMother ofHarlots Revelation17:1–7.”This period when I was seeing a bit of Tony Fido coincided with an era in the world of my

unconscious,anerawhenIwastroubledbythedreamsIhadatnight.Theywerelongandepic,detailedandviolentandcolorful.Theywereexhausting.Icouldn’taccountforthem.TheonlymedicationItookwassomethingtobringdownmybloodpressure,anditwasn’tnew.ImadesureIdidn’ttakefoodjustbeforegoingtobed.Iavoidedsleepingonmyback,steeredclearofdisturbingnovelsandTVshows.Foramonth,maybesixweeks,Idreadedsleep.Once,IdreamedofTony—Idefendedhimagainstanangrymob,keepingtheseethingthrongatbaywithabutcherknife.OftenIwokeupshortofbreath,shaking,myheartbeat rattlingmyribs,and Icuredmynerveswithasolitarywalk,nomatter thehour.Andonce—maybethenightIdreamedaboutTony,Idon’tremember—Iwentwalkingandhadthekindofmomentorvisitation I treasure, when the flow of life twists and untwists, all in a blink—think of a taut ribbon

flashing: Iheardayoungman’svoice in theparking lotof theMormonchurch in thedarknight tellingsomeone,“Ididn’tbark.Thatwasn’tme.Ididn’tbark.”IneverfoundouthowthingsturnedoutbetweenTonyandthefreshlywidowedtwenty-two-year-old.

I’m pretty sure it went no further, and there was no second encounter, certainly no ongoing affair—because hemore than once complained, “I can’t find awoman, none. I’munder some kind of a damnspell.”Hebelieved in spells andwhammiesand such, inangelsandmermaids,omens, sorcery,wind-borne voices, in messages and patterns. All through his house were scattered twigs and featherspossessingamysterioussignificance,rocksthathadspokentohim,stumpsofdriftwoodwhosefacesherecognized.And,inanydirection,hiscanvases,likewindowsopeningontolightningandsmoke,ranksofcrimsondemonsandflyingangels,gravestonesonfire,andscrolls,chalices,torches,swords.Lastweek,awomannamedRebeccaStamos,somebodyI’dneverheardof,calledmetosaythatour

mutualfriendTonyFidowasnomore.He’dkilledhimself.Assheputit,“Hetookhislife.”Fortwoseconds,thephrasemeantnothingtome.“Tookit,”Isaid...Then,“Oh,mygoodness.”“Yes,I’mafraidhecommittedsuicide.”“Idon’twanttoknowhow.Don’ttellmehow.”Honestly,Ican’timaginewhyIsaidthat.

MemorialA week ago Friday—nine days ago—the eccentric religious painter Tony Fido stopped his car onInterstate8,aboutsixtymileseastofSanDiego,onabridgeaboveadeep,deepravine,andclimbedoverthe railing and stepped into the air. Hemailed a letter beforehand to Rebecca Stamos, not to explainhimselfbutonlytosaygoodbyeandpassalongthephonenumbersofsomefriends.SundayIattendedTony’smemorialservice,forwhichRebeccaStamoshadreservedthebandroomof

themiddleschoolwheresheteaches.Wesatinacircle,withcupsandsaucersonourlaps,inatinygroveofmusicstands,andvolunteered,onebyone,ourmemoriesofTonyFido.Therewereonlyfiveofus:ourhostess,Rebecca,plainandstout,inasleevelessblouseandaskirtthatreacheddowntoherwhitetennisshoes;myselfintheraimentofmyorder,theblueblazer,khakichinos,tasseledloafers;twomiddle-agedwomen of the sort to own a couple of small obnoxious dogs—they called Tony “Anthony”; a chubbyyoungmaninagreenjumpsuit—somekindofmechanic—sweating.Tony’sneighbors?Family?None.Onlythepairofladieswho’darrivedtogetheractuallykneweachother.Noneoftherestofushadever

metbefore.Thesewerefriendships,oracquaintances,thatTonyhadkeptonebyone.He’dmetusallinthesameway—he’dmaterializedbesideusatanartmuseum,anoutdoormarket,adoctor’swaitingroom,andhe’dbeguntotalk.Iwastheonlyoneofusevenawarehedevotedallhistimetopaintingcanvases.Theothersthoughtheownedsomekindofbusiness—plumbingorexterminatingorlookingafterprivateswimmingpools.Onebelievedhecame fromGreece;others assumedMexico,but I’msurehis familywasArmenian,longestablishedinSanDiegoCounty.Ratherthanmemorializinghim,wefoundourselvesasking,“Whothehellwasthisguy?”Rebeccahadthismuchabouthim:whilehewasstillinhisteens,Tony’smotherhadkilledherself.“He

mentioneditmorethanonce,”Rebeccasaid.“Itwasalwaysonhismind.”Totherestofusthiscameasnewinformation.Ofcourse, it troubledus to learn thathismotherhad takenherown life too.Hadshe jumped?Tony

hadn’ttold,andRebeccahadn’tasked.WithlittletoofferaboutTonyinthewayofbiography,Isharedsomeremarksofhisthathadstuckin

mythoughts.“Icouldn’tgetintoritzyartschools,”hetoldmeonce.“Bestthingthateverhappenedtome.It’s dangerous to be taught art.” And he said, “On my twenty-sixth birthday, I quit signing my work.Anybodywho can paint like that, have at it, and take the credit.”He got a kick out of showingme a

passageinhisheftyblackBible—firstbookofSamuel,chapter6?—wheretheidolatryofthePhilistinesearnsthemaplagueofhemorrhoids.“Don’ttellmeGoddoesn’thaveasenseofhumor.”Andanotherofhisinsights,onehesharedwithmeseveraltimes:“Weliveinacatastrophicuniverse—

notauniverseofgradualism.”Thatonehadalwaysgonerightpastme.Nowitsoundedominous,prophetic.HadImissedamessage?

Awarning?Themaninthegreenjumpsuit,thegaragemechanic,reportedthatTonyhadplungedfromournation’s

highestconcrete-beambridgedownintoPineValleyCreek,aflightof440feet.Thespan,completedin1974andnamed theNello IrwinGreerMemorialBridge,was the first in theUnitedStates tobebuiltusing, according to themechanic, “the cast-in-place segmental balanced cantilevermethod.” Iwrote itdownonamemopad.Ican’t recall themechanic’sname.Hisbreast-tagsaid“Ted,”buthe introducedhimselfassomeoneelse.Anneandherfriend,whosenamealsoslippedpastme—thepairofwomen—corneredmeafterward.

TheyseemedtothinkIshouldbetheonetotakefinalpossessionofathree-ringbinderfullofrecipesthatTonyhad loaned them—thecollectedrecipesofTony’smother. IdeterminedIwouldgive it toElaine.She’sawonderfulcook,butnotasaregularthing,becausenobodylikestocookfortwo.Toomuchworkandtoomanyleftovers.Itoldthemshe’dbegladtogetthebook.Thebinderwastoobigforanyofmypockets.Ithoughtofaskingforabag,butIfailedtoask.Ididn’t

knowwhattodowithitbutcarryithomeinmyhandsanddeliverittomywife.Elainewassittingatthekitchentable,beforeheracupofblackcoffeeandhalfasandwichonaplate.Isetthenotebookonthetablenexttohersnack.Shestaredatit.“Oh,”shesaid.“Fromyourpainter.”

Shesatmedownbesideherandwewentthroughthenotebookpagebypage,sidebyside.Elaine:she’spetite,lithe,quitesmart;shortgrayhair,nomakeup.Agoodcompanion.Atanymoment—

theverynextsecond—shecouldbedead.Iwanttodepictthisbookcarefully,soimagineholdingitinyourhands,athree-ringbinderofbright-

redplasticweighingaboutthesameasafulldinnerplate,andnowsettingitinfrontofyouonthetable.Whenyouopenit,youfindapinktitlepage,“Recipes.CaesarinaFido,”coveringatwo-inchthicknessofwhite college-ruled three-hole paper, the first inch or so the usual—casseroles and pies and saladdressings, every aspect of breakfast, lunch, and supper, allwritten in blueballpoint.Halfway through,Tony’smotherintroducesinkofothercolors,mostlygreen,red,andpurple,butalsopink,andayellowthat’shardtomakeout;and,asthesecolorscomealong,herpenmanshipentersakindofhavoc,thelettersswell and shrink, several pages big and loopy, leaning to the right, and then, for the nextmanypages,leaningtotheleft,thenbacktheotherway;andhere,wherethesewarsandchangesbegin,andforbetterthanahundredpages,allthewaytotheend,therecipesareonlyforcocktails.Everykindofcocktail.Earlierthatafternoon,asAnnehandedthebinderovertomeatTony’smemorial,shemadeacurious

remark.“Anthonyspokeveryhighlyofyou.Hesaidyouwerehisbestfriend.”Ithoughtitwasajoke,butAnnemeantthisseriously.Tony’sbestfriend?Iwasconfused.I’mstillconfused.Ihardlyknewhim.

CasanovaWhenIreturnedtoNewYorkCitytopickupmyprizeattheAmericanAdvertisersAwards,I’mnotsureIexpectedtoenjoymyself.Butonthesecondday,killingtimebeforetheceremony,walkingnorththroughmidtowninmydarkceremonialsuitandtrenchcoat,skirtingthePark,strollingsouthagain,feelingthepulse and listening to the traffic noise rising amonghighbuildings, I had ahomecoming.Thedaywassunny,fineforwalking,brisk,andgettingbrisker—andinfact,asIcutadiagonalthroughalittleplazasomewhereaboveFortiethStreet, the lastautumnleavesweresweptupfromthepavementand thrown

aroundmyhead,andasuddenmistyqualityintheatmosphereaboveseemedtosolidifyintoaceilingbothdarkandluminous,andthepassersbyhunchedintotheircollars,andtwominuteslater,thegustssettledintoawind,nothardbutsteadyandcold,andmyhandsdoveintomycoatpockets.Abitofrainspeckledthepavement.Randomsnowflakesspiraledintheair.Allaroundme,peopleseemedtobeevacuatingthescene,whileacrossthesquareavendorshoutedthathewasclosinghiscartandyoucouldhavehiswaresforpracticallynothing,andfornoreasonIcouldhavenamedIboughttwoofhisratdogswitheverythingandacupofdoubtfulcoffeeandthenlearnedthereason—theywerewonderful.Inearlyatethenapkin.NewYork!Once, I lived here.Went to Columbia University, studying history first, then broadcast journalism.

Worked foracoupleofpointlessyearsat thePost, and then for thirteen toughbutprosperousyears atCastle andForbesonFifty-fourth, just offMadisonAvenue.And then tookmy insomnia,myafternoonheadaches,mydoubts,andmyantacidtabletstoSanDiegoandlosttheminthePacificOcean.NewYorkand I didn’t quite fit. I knew it thewhole time. SomeofmyColumbia classmates came from farawayplaces likeIowaandNevada,asIhadcomeashorterwayfromNewHampshire,andaftergraduationthey’dbeenabsorbedintoManhattanandhadlivedthereeversince.Ididn’tlast.Ialwayssay,“Itwasnevermytown.”Today itwasallmine.TodayIwas itsproprietor.Withmyovercoatwideopenand thewind inmy

hair,Iwalkedaroundandforanhourorsopresidedoverthebitsoflitterintheair—somuchlessthanthirtyyearsago!—and thecitizensbentagainst theweather,and the light inside therestaurants,and thepeopleatsmalltableslookingatoneanother’sfacesandtalking.Thewhiteflakesbegantostick.BythetimeIenteredTrumpTower,I’dhadalong,hard,wetwalk.Irepairedmyselfintherestroomandfoundtherightfloor.Attheceremony,mytablewasnearthefront—round,clothedinburgundy,andsurroundedbyeightofus,theothersevenmuchyoungerthanI,alivelybunch,funandfullofwisecracks.Andtheyseemedimpressedtobesittingwithme,andmadesureIsatwhereIcouldsee.Allthatwasthegoodpart.Halfwaythroughdessert,thenerveinmybackbegantoactup,andbythetimeIheardmynameand

started towardthepodiummyrightshoulderbladefeltas if itwerepressedagainstahissingoldNewYorksteam-heatradiator.At theheadof thevastroom,Iheldthemedallioninmyhand—that’swhat itwas,ratherthanatrophy;aninscribedmedallionthreeinchesindiameter,goodforapaperweight—andthankedalistofnamesI’dmemorized,omittedanyotherremarks,andgotbacktomytablejustasanotherpainseizedme,thisoneintheregionofmybowels,andnowIrepentedmycurbsidelunch,mydeliciousNewYorkhotdogs,especiallythesecondone,and,withoutsittingdownorevenmakinganexcuse,Iletthisboutofindigestioncarrymeoutoftheroomanddownthehallstothemen’slavatory,whereIhardlyhadtimetofumblethemedallionintomylapelpocketandgetmyjacketonthehook.I’dsatdownwithmyintestinesinflames,firstmybodybearingthisinsult,andthenmysoulinsulted

too,whensomeonecameinandchosethestallnexttomine.Ourpublictoiletsarejustthat—toopublic;thewallsdon’treachthefloor.ThisothermanandIcouldseeeachother’sfeet.Or,atanyrate,ourblackshoes,andthecuffsofourdarktrousers.Afteraminute,hishandlaidonthefloorbetweenus,thereattheborderbetweenhisspaceandmine,a

squareoftoiletpaperwithanobscenepropositionwrittenonit, inwordslargeandplainenoughthatIcouldreadthemwhetherIwantedtoornot.Inpain,Ilaughed.Notoutloud.Iheardasmallsighfromthenextstall.Byhunchingdownintomyownembraceandstaringhardatmyfeet,Itriedtomakemyselfgoaway.I

didn’t acknowledge his overture, and he didn’t leave. He must have taken it that I had him underconsideration.AslongasIstayed,hehadreasontohope.AndIcouldn’tleaveyet.Mybowelschurnedandsmoldered.Renegadesignalsfrommyspinalnervehammeredmyshoulderandthefulllengthofmyrightarm,downtothemarrow.

Theawardsceremonyseemedtohaveended.Themen’sroomcametolife—thedoorwhooshingopen,therunofvoicescomingin.Throatsandfaucetsandfootfalls.Thespinofthepaper-toweldispenser.Somewhereinhere,ahanddescendedtothenoteonthefloor,fingerstouchedit,raiseditaway.Soon

afterthattheman,thetoiletCasanova,wasnolongerbesideme.I stayed as I was, for how long I couldn’t say. There were echoes. Silence. The urinals flushing

themselves.Iraisedmyselfupright,pulledmyclothingtogether,mademywaytothesinks.Oneothermanremainedintheplace.Hestoodatthesinkbesidemineasourfaucetsran.Iwashedmy

hands.Hewashedhishands.Hewastall,withadistinctivehead—wispycolorlesshairlikeababy’s,andaskeletalfacewiththick

redlips.I’dhaveknownhimanywhere.“CarlZane!”Hesmiledinasmallway.“Wrong.I’mMarshallZane.I’mCarl’sson.”“Sure, of course—he would have aged too!” This encounter had me going in circles. I’d finished

washingmyhands,andnowIstartedwashingthemagain.Iforgottointroducemyself.“Youlookjustlikeyourdad,”Isaid.“Onlytwenty-fiveyearsago.Areyouherefortheawardsnight?”Henodded.“I’mwiththeSextantGroup.”“Youfollowedinhisfootsteps.”“Idid.IevenworkedforCastleandForbesforacoupleofyears.”“Howdoyoulikethat?Andhow’sCarldoing?Isheheretonight?”“Hepassedawaythreeyearsago.Wenttosleeponenightandneverwokeup.”“Oh.Oh,no.”Ihadamoment—Ihavethemsometimes—whenthesurroundingsseemedbereftofany

facts,andnoteventhesmallestphysicalgesturefeltpossible.Afterthemomenthadpassed,Isaid,“I’msorrytohearthat.Hewasaniceguy.”“At least itwaspainless,” thesonofCarlZanesaid.“And,asfarasanyoneknows,hewent tobed

happythatnight.”Weweretalkingtoeachother’sreflectioninthebroadmirror.ImadesureIdidn’tlookelsewhere—at

histrousers,hisshoes.But,forthisoccasion,wemen,everyoneofus,haddressedindarktrousersandblackshoes.“Well...enjoyyourevening,”theyoungmansaid.I thanked him and said good night, and as he tossed a wadded paper towel at the receptacle and

disappearedoutthedoor,I’mafraidIadded,“TellyourfatherIsaidhello.”MermaidAs I trudgedupFifthAvenueafter thismiserable interlude, Icarriedmyshoulder likeabushelbagofburningkindlingandcouldhardlystayupright thethreeblockstomyhotel. Itwasreallysnowingnow,anditwasSaturdaynight,thesidewalkwascrowded,peoplecameatme,forcingthemselvesagainsttheweather, their shoulders hunched, their coats pinched shut, flakes battering their faces, and though thefacesweredarkIfeltIsawintotheireyes.IcameawakeintheunfamiliarroomIdidn’tknowhowmuchlater,andifthismakessense,itwasn’t

thepaininmyshoulderthatwokemebutitsdeparture.Theepisodehadpassed.Ilaybathedinrelief.Beyondmywindow,athicklayerofsnowcoveredtheledge.Ibecameawareofahushofanticipation,

atremendoussurroundingabsence.Igotoutofbed,dressedinmyclothes,andwentouttolookatthecity.Itwas,Ithink,around1a.m.Snowsixinchesdeephadfallen.ParkAvenuelookedsmoothandsoft—

notonevehiclehaddisturbeditssurface.Thecitywasalmostcompletelystopped,itsveryfewsoundsmuffledyetperfectlydistinctfromoneanother:arumblingsnowplowsomewhere,acar’shorn,amanon

anotherstreetshoutingseveralfaintsyllables.ItriedcountinguptheyearssinceI’dseensnow.Elevenortwelve—Denver,andithadbeenexactlythesame,exactlylikethis.OnelonetaxiglidedupParkAvenuethroughthevirginwhite,andIhailed itandaskedthedriver tofindanyrestaurantopenforbusiness. Ilookedoutthebackwindowatthebrilliantsilencesfallingfromthestreetlamps,andatourfreshblacktracksdisappearingintotheinfinite—theonlyproofofParkAvenue;I’mnotsurehowthecabbiekepttothe road.He tookme to a small diner offUnion Square,where I had awonderful breakfast among ahandfulofmiscellaneouswandererslikemyself,NewYorkerswiththeirlarge,historicfaces,everyoneofwhom,deliveredherewithoutanexplanation,seemedinvaluable.Ipaidandleftandsetoutwalkingbacktowardmidtown.I’dboughtapairofweatherproofdressshoesjustbeforeleavingSanDiego,andIwasglad. I looked forplaceswhere Iwas the first towalkandkickedat thepowdery snow.Apianoplaying aLatin tune drewme through a doorway into an atmosphere of sadness: a dim tavern, a stalesmell,thepiano’swearymelody,andasinglecustomer,anample,attractivewomanwithabundantblondhair. She wore an evening gown. A light shawl covered her shoulders. She seemed poised and self-possessed,thoughitwaspossible,also,thatshewasweeping.Iletthedoorclosebehindme.Thebartender,asmalloldblackman,raisedhiseyebrows,andIsaid,

“Scotch rocks,RedLabel.”Talking, I felt discourteous.The piano played in the gloomof the farthestcorner. I recognized the melody as a Mexican traditional called “Maria Elena.” I couldn’t see themusicianatall.Infrontofthepianoabigtenorsaxophoneresteduprightonastand.Withnoonearoundtoplayit,itseemedlikejustanotherofthepersonalitieshere:theinvisiblepianist,thedisenchantedoldbartender, thebigglamorousblonde, the shipwrecked, solitary saxophone.And themanwho’dwalkedherethroughthesnow...AndassoonasthenameofthesongpoppedintomyheadIthoughtIheardavoicesay,“HernameisMariaElena.”Thescenehadamoonlit,black-and-whitequality.Tenfeetaway,at her table, the blond woman waited, her shoulders back, her face raised. She lifted one hand andbeckonedmewithherfingers.Shewasweeping.Thelinesofhertearssparkledonhercheeks.“Iamaprisonerhere,”shesaid.Itookthechairacrossfromherandwatchedhercry.Isatupright,onehandonthetable’ssurfaceandtheotheraroundmydrink.Ifelttheecstasyofadancer,butIkeptstill.WhitMy namewouldmean nothing to you, but there’s a very good chance you’re familiar withmywork.AmongthemanyTVadsIwroteanddirected,you’llrememberoneinparticular.Inthisanimatedthirty-secondspot,youseeabrownbearchasingagrayrabbit.Theycomeoneafterthe

otheroverahilltowardtheview—therabbitiscornered,he’scrying,thebearcomestohim—therabbitreachesintohiswaistcoatpocketandpullsoutadollarbillandgivesittothebear.Thebearlooksatthisgift,sitsdown,staresintospace.Themusicstops,there’snosound,nothingissaid,andrightthere,thelittlenarrativeends,onanoteofcompleteuncertainty.It’sanadvertisementforabankingchain.Itsoundsridiculous,Iknow,butthat’sonlyifyouhaven’tseenit.Ifyou’veseenit,thewayitwasrendered,thenyouknowthatitwasaveryunusualadvertisement.Becauseitreferred,really,tonothingatall,andyetitwasactuallyverymoving.Advertisementsdon’ttrytogetyoutoforkoveryourdoughbytuggingirrelevantlyatyourheartstrings,

notasarule.Butthisonebroketherules,anditworked.Itbroughtthebankmanynewcustomers.Anditexcitedalotofcommentaryandwonseveralawards—everyawardIeverwon,infact,Iwonforthatad.Itraninbothhalvesofthetwenty-secondSuperBowl,andpeoplestillrememberit.Youdon’tget awardspersonally.Theygo to the team.To theagency.Butyournameattaches to the

projectasamatterofworkplacelore—“Whitdidthatone.”(Andthatwouldbeme,BillWhitman.)“Yes,theonewiththerabbitandthebearwasWhit’s.”

Creditgoesfirstofalltothebankingfirmwholetthisstrangemessagegoouttopotentialcustomers,who sought to start a relationship with a gesture so cryptic. It was better than cryptic—mysterious,untranslatable.Ithinkitpointedtoorderlyfinancialexchangeasthebasisofharmony.Moneytamesthebeast.Moneyispeace.Moneyiscivilization.Theendofthestoryismoney.Iwon’tmentionthenameofthebank.Ifyoudon’trememberthename,thenitwasn’tsuchagoodad

afterall.Ifyouwatchedanyprime-timetelevisioninthe1980s,you’vealmostcertainlyseenseveralotheradsI

wrote or directed or both. I crawled out of my twenties leaving behind a couple of short, unhappymarriages, and then I foundElaine. Twenty-five years last June, and two daughters.Have I lovedmywife?We’vegottenalong.We’veneverfeltlikecongratulatingourselves.I’m just shyof sixty-three.Elaine’s fifty-twobut seemsolder.Not inher looksbut inherattitudeof

complacency.She lacksfire.Seemsinterestedmainly inour twogirls.Shekeeps inclosecontactwiththem.They’rebothgrown.They’reharmlesscitizens.Theyaren’tbeautifulorclever.Beforethegirlsstartedgradeschool,weleftNewYorkandheadedwestinstages,ayearinDenver

(toomuchwinter),anotherinPhoenix(toohot),andfinallySanDiego.SanDiego.Whatawonderfulcity.It’sabitmorecrowdedeachyear,butstill.Completelywonderful.Neverregrettedcominghere,notforaninstant.Andfinanciallyitallworkedout.Ifwe’dstayedinNewYorkI’dhavemadealotmoremoney,butwe’dhaveneededalotmoretoo.LastnightElaineandIlayinbedwatchingTV,andIaskedherwhatsheremembered.Notmuch.Less

than I.Wehave a very smallTV that sits on a dresser across the room.Keeping it goingprovides anexcuseforlyingawakeinbed.I note that I’ve lived longer in the past now than I can expect to live in the future. I havemore to

rememberthanIhavetolookforwardto.Memoryfades,notmuchofthepaststays,andIwouldn’tmindforgettingalotmoreofit.Onceinawhile,Iliethereasthetelevisionruns,andIreadsomethingwildandancientfromoneof

severalcollectionsof folktalesIown.Apples thatsummonseamaidens,eggs that fulfillanywish,andpearsthatmakepeoplegrowlongnosesthatfalloffagain.ThensometimesIgetupanddonmyrobeandgooutintoourquietneighborhoodlookingforamagicthread,amagicsword,amagichorse.

SARAHKOKERNOT

M&LFROMWestBranchMITWASTHATmomentinthereceptionwhenwomenleavetheirhighheelsontheporchandmentakeofftheirjacketsanddrapethemoverchairs.Thebrideandgroomandimmediatefamilymemberswentoffwiththephotographertotakeadvantageofthelateafternoonlight.Thesundisappearedbehindahill,andwhatremainedintheairwasahoneyedglowthatforgavethetensesmilesanddarkcirclesundertheireyes.Miriam andGloria bothwore long yellowbridesmaid dresses, gathering their hems above theirkneesastheywadedthroughtheunmowedgrass.Althoughithadn’trained,thefieldbehindthehousewasdampenoughtosoakthroughagoodpairofleatherboots.MiriamwaitedasLiamrolleduphispantsanddiscardedhissocksandshoesbyapatchofwoods.Thenthethreeofthemduckedthroughatightwebofbranches to theneighboringfield,ownedbyacouplewho’dstruckrich in themusicbusinessandnowtendedtoamenagerieofexoticpets.The camel, explainedMiriam, was a real sweetheart. A dromedary rescued from a petting zoo in

PigeonForgethathadgoneoutofbusiness.Atthesightofanapple,she’dgrowlhappilyandgentlytakeitfromyourhandwithherlongcleftlips.EarlierGloriahadraidedtheappetizertraysandstuffedahandfulofcarrotsticksintoLiam’sjacketpocket,alongwithhiswalletandkeys.Theyallsqueezedbyarustedmetalgatewithoutsplashingtheircocktailsorruiningtheirclothes,butwerestoppedafewfeetlaterbyanelectricfence,themetalwiresothinthatitwasnearlyinvisible.Unfortunatelythecamelwasnowhereinsight.Morethanlikelyshewasgettingfedintheblacktobacco

barnthatstoodattheoppositeendofthefield.Liamreachedintohisjacketpocketforacarrotstick.Miriamhadneverseenhiminasuitbeforeand

nowthatheworeone,shenolongerfounditimpossibletobelievehewasanattorney.Hewassixfootfour,broadshouldered,andhandsomeinthatpeculiarwaytallredheadsare,likehehadtoomanybonesinhisface.“Howcanwetellifit’son?”Gloriawavedherhandoverthefencelikeitwasaburneronahotstove.Miriambalancedherglassontopofthefencepost.Shebentover,pluckedabladeofgrass,andheldit

out to Liam. They had dated for three years in high school afterwhat had been, at least for Liam, anagonizingcrushthatcouldbetracedbacktothefifthgrade.Ithadbegunonthedayshewascaptainforrecessbasketball.Hewastheshortestkidbackthenandalwayschosenlast,shiftingfromonefoottotheotherandsmilinggood-naturedly toshowitdidn’tbotherhim.She’dadmiredhimbecauseof this,andpitiedhima little.So she’d tappedhim first.Afterwardhe seemed tobe everywhere, trembling ashepassedheraboxofmarkers,staringatherwithundisguisedlongingacrosstherowsofcafeteriatables.Itwasall tremendouslyflattering.Itwasalltremendouslyirritating.Shewouldignorehimforweeksandthen,forreasonsshecouldn’texplain, returna lookofequal longing,passnotes tohimin theshapeoforigamicranes,shareanswerstothemathhomework,whichhealwaysforgot.Byseventhgradeshehadthesecond-biggestboobsofanygirlinthemiddleschool.Grownmenhonkedtheirhornsandwhistledasshewalkedhomefromthebusstop.MiriamhadconvincedLiamtostealtheanswerstoatest,handoverhis spendingmoney on a field trip to an art museum, buy cigarettes from the vendingmachine at thepizzeria.Sheheldoutthebladeofgrasstohim.Heshookhisheadno.“Justmakesureyourhandsaren’twet,”

hesaid.

Miriam tookadeepbreath.Whenshe touched thegrass to themetalwire, the finehairsonherarmrose.Alow,steadypulsetickledupherneck.Italmosthurt.SherememberedtheyhaddonethisinMrs.Walter’s science class,walking past the edge of the schoolyard through the new subdivision, over thecreek to thefarmwithJerseycattle.Onerecentlyescaped,causingahighwayaccident that leftacow-sizedbloodstainontheasphaltfordays.Thefarmerhadsinceinstalledanelectricfenceasaprecaution.They’dformedachainthatwassixchildrenlongbeforethecurrenttaperedout.MiriamhadheldhandswithLiam.DidLiamrememberhowshemadeabigshowofwipingherpalmonherjeanssotheotherkidswouldn’t teaseher?MiriamwastemptedtograbLiam’shandbutwasstoppedbyall thepossibleinterpretationsofthisgesture.ShereachedforGloria’sinstead.Gloriasquealed.Liamrolledhiseyesandshookhishead.“Noteveryonegrewupinthecountry,”Gloriasaid,reachingforhim.Thecurrenttraveledalongthe

blade and circulated through their bodies. Above the distant chatter of the reception and the hum ofcicadas,abassnotethuddedinsideMiriam’sheadlikeasecondheartbeat.Howpleasantitwastofeelinvadedbythisotherheart!Theendofthedaywasbeautiful.Abluishsoftnesscoatedthetreesandthegrass,andafewfirefliesblinkedoverthefield.HadsheheldLiam’shandshewouldhavesqueezeditjustnow.They almost forgot the camel. “Leave something for when she gets back,” saidMiriam. And Liam

tossedthecarrotsticksfaroverthefence,wheretheylandednearawaterbarrel.Astheywalkedtothehouse,Gloriaunfastenedherbunandabreezerippledthroughherlongdarkhair.Shelookedlikeaprettymaiden in an old painting. Miriam realized that she must look like this too—pretty, old-timey—andbecameawareofLiam’sgazeonthebackofherneck.Thelightsofthehouseappearedthroughthetrees.Theguestshadcongregatedonthepatioandweretalkingloudlywhilethebandtunedupindoors.Atthecornerofthebalconyamanstoodalone,looseninghistie.Heleanedonhiselbowsandtookasipfromhisdrink.Miriamstopped.Themuscles inherchestcontractedoverherheartas thoughshe’dplungedintofreezingwater.ItlookedjustlikeCaleb.Sameangleofthejaw,samecurlybrownhair—eventhesamebrokennose.Sheshookherself.Bynowshewasusedtothesemissightings,theseminorhallucinations.ThemanhadturnedaroundandshecouldseethatitwasclearlynotCaleb.Hisneckwaslonger.Hissmilelookedeasy.Hestraightenedandwalkedintothehouse.“Youallrightthere?”Liamasked.Fewotherpeoplewouldhavenoticed.“It’snothing.”Shelookeddownintoherglassandshrugged.“SeemsI’verunoutofliquor.”

Miriam ordered one gin and tonic, one rum and Coke, and watched Liam sign the guestbook in theentryway.Youcouldseehisbeerbellywithhisjacketunbuttoned.Afewmonthsagohisgirlfriendhadbrokenupwithhim—thesamegirlhe’dleftMiriamfor,theirfreshmanyearofcollege.Shewasnothinglessthandelightedtohearthisnews.ShenotedthatLiamhadclearlynotbeenworkingout,norhadhelosttheapologeticstoopofatallmanwhowasuncomfortablewithhisheight.Heputthepenbetweenhisteeth.Hehadnotchangedmuch.Allinallheremindedherofaskittishorangecat.Shesethisdrinkonthetableandglimpsedthemessagehehadtakensolonginwriting.ToBethand

John,abeautifulcouple.Wishingalonglifetoyouboth,fullofhappinessandlove!Thekindnessofthesewordsfilledherwithshame.Whenshelookedathimhereyescameuponlytothetopbuttonsofhisshirt.“Howmanyforyouthisyear?”heasked,noddingtothesurroundings.Whiteandyellowpaperlanterns

drapedtheporchandswayedinthewind.Beth,thebride,hadfoughthermothertoputtheseup.Apackofyoungnieces and nephews roamedbetween the tables of appetizers, their lips dyed red frommultiple

ShirleyTemples.Auntsanddistantcousins,stepfamily,coworkers,andthefriendsofgrandparentsshookhandsvigorouslyandgavehalfkissesoncheeks.Asmallweddingwithabigreception—thewholeeffectwaslikebeinginvitedtoeatatanicerestaurantwithsomeoneelse’sfamily.“Four,”shesaid,squeezingalimeintoherginandtonic.“Notasbadasitcouldbe.You?”Liam’seyesdartedtoMiriam’srightarm.“It’s gone,” she told him, touchingher bicepwhere a patchof skinwasdiscolored. “Took awhole

paychecktoget it removed.”AssoonasLiamhadturnedeighteentheyhaddriventoa tattooparlor indowntownNashville.Afteryearsofdrawingpossibledesignsinthemarginsof theirnotebooks, they’dfinallysettledonsomethingtheyhopedtheywouldstilllikeatagethirty—theirfirstinitialsinmedieval-manuscript letters.Miriamhad volunteered to go first. Fifteenminutes into the appointment, Liamhadgoneforsomefreshair.Hehadnotreturned.Whenitwasover,MiriamhadwanderedoutsideandfoundLiamsittingonthecurbthreeblocksawaywithhisheadbetweenhisknees.“Ican’tdoit.”Heshookhishead.Miriamfeltsick.Fourhundreddollars.Thetattooburnedunderneathlayersofgauze.“Ijustcan’tdoit,”herepeated.“I’msorry,Mir.”Shethrewupbyalamppost.LiamhadwalkedtothePizzaHutandboughtheraSprite.Hewasafraidhe’dregretthetattoo.There

wasnoway theyweregettingmarried rightafterhighschool like theirparents.She’dsatdownon thecurb, lit acigarette,andoffered it tohim.Hisconcernswere legitimate, she’d toldhim.Buteven if itdidn’t work out, at the very least they would want something to remember the other by. Whateverhappened,theywouldalwaysremainfriends.“Haveyouthoughtaboutgettingyoursremoved?”Miriamasked.“I’vethoughtaboutit.”Herolledtheicearoundhisglasswiththelittleplasticsword.“Whenpeople

ask I just tell them that theM stands for ‘Mom.’”He smiled and looked at her sadly. “They think it’ssweet.”“It’sdifferentforwomen.”Miriam’searsgrewhot.“Youneverseeguyswearingsleevelesstops.”“Soyou’resayingthatifyou’dgottenitonyourassyouwouldn’thaveitremoved?”Miriamopenedhermouthandthenclosedit.“It’sallright.”Helaughedandslappedhershoulder.Miriamstruggledtothinkofsomethingmeaningfultosay.Tellhim,maybe,thatshewasgladthatthey

had been such good friends, or how on his birthday she thought about calling but never did. ShewasrelievedtoseeGloriawalkuptothem,herfaceflushedandexasperated.Miriamwasrequestedupstairs.More than likely itwas troublewith the bustle. Ten hooks! She followedGloria up the longwindingstaircase.Inthedressingroom,half-eatenfingersandwichesandoverturnedplasticcupswerestrewnacrossa

cardtable.Thebridesmaids’giftbagswerelinedupneatlybythebathroomdoornexttoapileofjeansandsneakers.Bethsatattheedgeofanantiquechair,thetulleofherdressbloomingaroundhersothatshe looked likeastamen in thecenterofagiant flower.Gloriashut thedoorbehindMiriam,andBethglancedathernervously.Miriamtoldherself theremustbeaseriousproblemwith thebouquet tossorspeakersystem,butlookedatBeth’sfaceandknewthatitwasnoneofthese.Sheleanedherbackintothedoor.“Didyouseehim?DidyouseeCaleb?”Bethasked.“I thoughtIdid,outonthepatio,”Miriamsaid.“ThenI thoughtImadeamistake.”Miriammeant to

soundcalmbuthervoicecameoutfalsetto.“Wewerehopingtogetyouupherebeforeyousawhim.”Bethstooduptoembraceher,butMiriam’s

arms felt tooheavy and cold to return thehug.Calebwasbeing seenout tohis car,Beth assuredher.

SomeonewouldhavetoexplaintoJohn’scousinMary-Bethwhyherplus-onehaddisappeared,butthatwasn’tsohard.Mary-Bethalwayshadtheworsttasteinmen.They all sat down on the couch and said nothing.Miriam knew that Beth had already procured someemergencyXanaxfromhermother.Aboxoftissueswaitedonthecoffeetable.BethandGloriasatverystraight,poisedforhertodosomethingdramatic.Theywerereadytoconsole,restrain,orcalmher.Forinstance,Miriammighttakealampandthrowitintothemirror,orlockherselfinthebathroomfortherestof thenight,ormarchto thebarandeata jarofmaraschinocherries.Anyof theseactionswouldhavebeenunderstandableandacceptable.Miriamwaitedforastrongfeelingtoovercomeher,butnothingdid,oratleastnothingshecouldcommunicate.Ashiverofpleasureranupherspine.Perhapshehadseenher.Perhapshesawhowwellshelooked.Shesankintothecouch,disappointedthathewasleaving.Eventhoughtheylivedinthesametown,MiriamhadrunacrossCalebonlyahandfuloftimessincethe

eighthgrade.Thelasttimewastwoyearsago.ShewasvisitinghomeoverChristmasbreakfromgraduateschool,drivinghermother’s truck todrop someoldclothesatGoodwill.Calebhad joggedacross theintersectioninapolarfleeceandahunter’sorangewoolhat,hisbreathleavingpuffsofsteamintheair.Hehad lookedbetter thanwell.He’d lookedhappy,witha thin,Buddha-like smileacrosshis face.Athicklayeroficehadcoveredtheroadanditwasdarkandgrayoutside.Hadacarcomeandhithim,shewouldhavelikedtobetheonetocallanambulance.Shewouldrideinthebackwithhimtothehospital.Hewouldwearanoxygenmaskandforamomenthewouldnotknowwhoshewasbutinhisdazewouldmistakeher foranangel.Thenallatoncehe’dgowide-eyedwithrecognition.Hewouldbeunable tospeak. She would take her glove off to squeeze his hand to let him know she had forgiven him, todemonstrateshenolongerwishedhimdead.Miriam told no one about these sightings. She treated these few moments with the same guilt and

exhilarationothers reserved for secret loveaffairs.Beth threadedherdress aroundher fingers;Gloriachewedonherlowerlip.Everyonelookedsoprettyandfinetoday,evenwhentheirfacesweretightwithworry.“Yousureyou’reallright?”askedBeth.Miriamfeltadrylumpforminherthroat.Inthenever-ending

listofawfulthingsthathappentopeopleeachsecond,Miriam’sawfulthingwassosmallthatshecouldrenderit insignificant.Butwhenevershethought ithaddisappearedcompletely, itwouldcomebackasclearanduncomfortableasahotlightonherface.She had been only thirteen. She woke up in her underwear in the woods behind the First Baptist

Church,coveredinmosquitobites.Helateradmittedinthecourtroomthathethoughthehadkilledherbyaccident.Inapanichecoveredherbodywithafewbranchesandanoldtirebeforerunningaway.Hewasthreeyearsolderthanher,theshortstopatthehighschoolandthebrotherofafriendfromthe

softball team.Hebrought themGatoradeandorangesandranaspecialpracticeonhowtostealbases.WhenheinvitedMiriamtodrinkinthebasementwithhishighschoolfriends,herheartsomersaulted.Shespentwhatfeltlikehourslookingforherclothes.Forsomereasonhersneakerswerestillon.She

hadtopeeterriblybutnothingcameout.Finallyshecoveredherchestwithherarmsandlimpedacrosstheparkinglottothesidedoorofthechurch,whereagray-hairedwomanboltedfromhercarandthrewablanketacrossher.Miriamlookeddownandsawthattheblankethaddoghairalloverit,thatit’dbeenusedasaseatcoverandnotbeenwashedinaverylongtime.“Let’scallyourparents,”saidthewoman.ItdawnedonMiriamthatshehadstayedoutlongpasthercurfew.Shewouldbegroundedforever.Herheartbeatquickened.TherewasnowayhermomwouldlethergotoMyrtleBeachinthesummerorplaysoftballeveragain.Atthethoughtofherpunishmentshepassedoutinthewoman’sarms.Miriam assured her friends that everything was all right. People downstairs would be wondering

where the newbridewas.Beth cried andmascara ran downher cheeks.Miriam retraced eyeliner onBeth’slowerlidsanddustedblushonhercheekbones.Gloriapouredthemallaglassofchampagneand

toastedCaleb’sdeathfromaflesh-eatingdisease,oratleasttesticularcancer.Miriamforcedherselftolaugh.Thechampagnebubbledinherthroatandalongingpooledupinsideher.Ifonlyhehadstayedhewouldseehowniceshelookedtonight.Shewouldwalkacrosstheroomandhewouldfidgetnervously,notknowingwhatshewanted.Thenshewouldsmileandaskhowhewasdoing.Shewouldlookhimintheeyesandlookatnothingelse.“I’llberightdown,”saidMiriam.“Wantustowaitforyou?”“Icoulduseamoment,ifyoudon’tmind.”BethandGlorianodded.Miriamwent to thebathroomandlockedthedoor.Shewantedtowashher

facebut thatwouldrequireputtingonhermakeupalloveragainandshewouldnevermakeitdownintimeforthetoast.Shetookahandtowelandranitunderhotwater,wrungitout,andputitoverherchestuntilherheartsloweddown.Someonehadforgottentoturnoffthecurlingiron.Sheopenedandcloseditstrap.Once itmight have calmedher to press the hotmetal to the nape of her neck and hold it until itburnedaflatredmark—butnowshewastoooldtodosucharidiculousadolescentthing.Because shehadbeenaminorhernamehadbeenkeptoutof thenewspaper.Everyone in townhad

known anyway. The gray-haired lady at the First Baptist Church liked to talk. The drama teacher hadgivenMiriama leading role in thehigh schoolmusical, even though shewasonly a freshmanandherauditionwasterrible.Otherteachersatschoolhadbeenextrapatientwithher,thewaytheywerewiththekidswithautism.Noonehadaskedhertothehomecomingdance.Boyshadquittalkingtoher.ExceptforLiam.Liamhadstillshotglancesofundisguisedlongingacross theseaofcafeteria tables, likenothinghadeverhappened.Becauseofhimshehadbeguntorememberwhatsheusedtofeellike.Miriamquietlywalkedbackdownthestairs.ShecouldhearBeth’sdadmakingaspeech,thankingall

thelovedoneswhohadtraveledsofartobehereonthisspecialoccasion.That’swhatshe’dtellLiamtonight.She’dtellhimthankyou.LThecamelhad themostbeautiful longeyelashes.SheblinkedatLiamandchewedonsomething in thebackofhermouth.AfterMiriamhadgoneupstairs,herealizedhe’dlosthiskeysandreturnedtothefieldtolookforthem.Therewasenoughlightleft tomaybespotsomethingmetallicshininginthegrass,buttherewasnothingunusualexceptthedark,humpbackedshapeofthecamel,whogreetedhimatthefence.Thecamelgavealowgrowlandcarefullyextendedherneckwithoutevengrazingthewire.Itdidn’tseemlikeshewantedtoescape.Hepattedheronhermuzzleandsawalargebaldpatcharoundherleftear.Herubbed itwith his thumb and remembered she’d been rescued from a petting zoo.He hoped a personhadn’thurtherwhileshewasthere,butifsothecamelseemedtohaveforgottenallaboutit.“Didyoueatmykeys?”heaskedthecamel.Herlipsfeltthecuffofhisjacket.“I’msorrybutIdidn’t

bringanythingwithme.”Disappointed,sheturnedandheadedbacktothebarn.Liamwent back inside the house and retracedhis footsteps.He searchedon the floor near the long

polishedwoodenbar,thebilliardsroominthebasementwiththeredleathercouch,theparlorwiththeout-of-print books lining the shelves, the organwhose keysmade no sound but a hollow tapping. Thehouse was regularly rented out for banquets, conferences, weddings, memorial services, and familyreunions. In the daytime, seniors from the retirement home took piano lessons and played cards in themint-coloredbreakfast room.Themanagerbehind thefrontdeskwasanattractiveolderwomanwithalargesilverclipfasteningherhair.Nokeyshadbeenfound.Shesuggestedhelookinhiscarwhilehewasatit.“Please,please,please,”hemutteredashejoggedtothegravelparkinglot.Hehadlockedhissister’s

keys in thecar lastThanksgivingandneverheard theendof it.Theparking lothadfilledupandfora

secondhecouldn’trememberwherehe’dparkedJulia’sancientHonda.HewanderedtherowsofcarswhenhesawBeth’sdad,Mr.Johnston,stepintothebrightlightofthesideentranceandfollowamanout.Mr.Johnston’slargefarmer’shandsrestedontheman’sshoulders,butnotinafriendlyway.Theystoppedat a truck,where theman turned around and said a few quietwords, keeping his gaze low.When heopenedthedriver’sdoorthelightfrominsideshoneonhisface.Iftheuniversehadanyfairnessinit,Calebwouldhavebeenmissingafewteeth.Hewouldhaveaged

prematurely,orgrownbloatedandred-facedfromdrinking,orhaggardand thinfromdruguse.Hadhebeenadecentmanhewouldhave,attheveryleast,bagsunderhiseyesfromnotgettingagoodnight’ssleepinthepastfifteenyears.Buthelookedwell-rested,handsomeeven.Calebstartedhistruckandslowlydrovedownthegravelroad.Mr.Johnstonstuffedhishandsinhis

pocketsandwaitedtillthetaillightsdisappearedbeforeturningbacktowardthehouse.Liamdiscoveredhisfeetwouldnotmove.Arushofbloodreturnedtohishandswhenheunclenchedhisfists.MiriamhadoncebroughthimtothelibraryatthehighschoolandopenedtheoldyearbookwithCaleb’spicturefromhisjunioryear,beforehewassentofftojuvie.“Hedoesn’tlookcrazy,doeshe?”whisperedMiriam.Hereyessettledonthepagewithakindofunnervingsoftness.Sheswallowedandplacedtheyearbookbackontotheshelf.AstheywalkedtomathclassLiamtoldherthathe’dkillCalebwhenhegotout.Miriamdidn’trespond.Ormaybehewouldn’tkillhim,Liamsaid.Maybehe’djustbreakhisarms,orbeathisfacesonowomanwouldlookathim.MiriamhadgrabbedLiambythesleeveandpulledhimintothestairwell.“That’snotwhyIshowed

you,”shetoldhim.Thenwhatwasthepoint?“Idon’tknow.”Miriamshookherhead.She’ddyedherhairredfortheschoolplayandthecolormade

herhazeleyesappearbrightgreen.Sheputafingerinthecenterofhischest.“Ifyoutouchhim,”shesaid,“I’llneverspeaktoyouagain.”Hesaw fromher face that she’dgone toaplacedeep insideherself, andheknewshewouldnever

allowhimtogothere.Thatwasallright,Liamhaddecided.Hedidn’tneedtounderstandhersecretstolovehercompletely.Aroundeleveno’clock,MiriamdraggedLiamfromhisspot in thecornerandonto thedancefloor.Upclosehenoticedtheabsenceoffrecklesacrossthebridgeofhernose.Shealwaysusedtogetfrecklesatthis point in the summer and tried to cover themupwith powder.Her round face had grown sharper,especiallywhenshesmiled.Liamfeltawkwarddancing.“Icanhearyoucountinginsideyourhead,”sheteasedhim.HewonderedwhatMiriamwouldlooklikehadshesimplybeenaprettywomanatafriend’swedding.

Herlongblondhairwaspulledintoabunwithloosepiecesaroundherface.Likeall thebridesmaids,sheworeafragrantwhiteflowerbehindherear.NothinginMiriam’smovementsorbehaviorindicatedthatshehadseenCaleb,andyetLiamfeltcertainthatshehadseenhimandwasnowrefusingtoletthisincidentruinagoodparty.They danced four songs in a rowwhen she suddenly leaned into Liam, turning her face so that her

templemettheinsidecurveofhisneck.Thefeelingitgavehimwasthis:Miriamhadbeendeadforyears.Shenowhadreturnedforonenight

todancewithhiminalargehousewithallthesepeoplewhocouldn’tseeherghost.He felt an emotional pain so sharp that he staggered into an elderly couple dancingnearby.Miriam

apologizedandrolledhereyesatLiam.Sheledthemintothenextdance,aslowLatinsongthatbroughtalittlecheerfromhalfthedancefloor.ItappearedthattheentiretyofTennesseehadbeentakingballroom-danceclasssincehemovedouttoCalifornia.Thebestdancers,henoticed,werethegrandparentswhodidn’tknowthestepsbutbroughtwiththemagenerationalknowledgeofthecha-chaandtheTexasswingso that theirpear-shapedbodies, their flat andwide rears, theirbonyshoulders,wereall infusedwith

such lightnessandgrace that the songdidn’t feel at all foreign.Miriam’s right thighgentlypressed theinsideofhis right legand they rockedbackand forth.Thehalf erectioncausedby thismovementwaslittlemorethananerraticwanderingoftheblood,theresultofbreakingupwithCrystalthreemonthsago.Miriammusthavefeltthehardeningbetweenhislegsbutinsteadofmovingbackshedrewhimnearer.Herealizedshemustbedrunk.Whenhedidn’tpushherawayherealizedthathewasdrunktoo.“What’sthistypeofsongcalled?”heaskedoverthemusic.ShesaidawordinSpanishthatheforgotalmostimmediately,butthewordsoundedlikeitcouldmean

bothhelloandgoodbye,solongandpleasecomehere.When thesongcame toanendMiriamwalkedawaywithoutsayingawordorlookingathim,exitingthroughthetalldoorsthatledouttothebackporch.A fiddle swelled into a country tune that everyone knew the chorus to.He excusedhimself across thedance floor.Outside thepaper lanternsdimly lit theporchwherea fewsmokershadcongregated, andMiriamwaitedatthetopofthestepsforhimuntilhesawher.Shedisappearedintothedarkbackyard.Liamwalkeddownthestepsandwaitedforhiseyestoadjusttothedarkness.Themoonwasbrightand

high,andtheskywasfullofdifferentshadesofgrayanddarkblueclouds.Itfeltlikeitmightrain.Itfeltlikeitwouldbeaterribleideatohavesexwithherinthelonginsect-riddengrass.Hewouldfindher,leadherbackinside,andorderthembothaclubsoda.Hewouldmakesureshefoundasoberridehome,andthenextmorning,he’dinviteherouttobreakfasttoletherknowtherewasnothingtobeembarrassedabout.ThegrasswaswetandcoldandMiriamhaddiscardedhershoes,oneaftertheother.Hepickedtheseupandheldtheminhislefthandbytheirstraps.Hecouldrecallwhatshehadbeenlikebeforethiskindof loneliness.Andtheneverythingthathadhappenedtoherhappenedtoher,andafterwarditwaslikeshecarriedabombinsidethatcouldn’texplode.Maybeitwasn’tsuchaterribleidea.Maybeitcouldmakethemhappy.HefoundamarkonMiriam’sshimmeringpaledressandfolloweditthroughthetrees.

VICTORLODATO

Jack,JulyFROMTheNewYorkerTHESUNWASawolf.Thefangedlighthadbeentrailinghimforhours,trickywithclouds.Asitemergedagainfromsheepskin,Jack lookeddownat thepavement,cursed.He’dbeenwalkingaroundsince ten,temperature even then close to ninety. The shadow stubs of the telephone poles and his own midgetsilhouettenowsuggestednoon.Hehadnohat,andhe’dlefthissunglassessomewhere,eitheratJamie’soratTheWheel,ortheymighthaveslippedoffhishead.Theydidthatsometimes,whenheleaneddowntotiehisshoesoremptythemofpebbles.Pebbles?Wasthataword?Hestoppedtoconsiderit,decidedinthenegative,andthenmarchedon,flickinghis

thumbceaselesslyagainsthisindexlikeaZippo.Hisnerveswereshot,butunabletoshutdown.Nooffbuttonnow.He’dbezoomingforhours,thecrackleinhisheadexaggeratedbytheracketofbirdsruckedupintowersofpalm,tossingthedryfronds.Whatweretheydoing?Ransackingsounds.Lookingfornutsordates,probably.Orbirdsex.Possiblybirdsex.MaybeheshouldwalktoRhonda’s,askhertosettlehim.Orunsettlehim.Maybehewantedmore.Sharewaswhatsheshoulddo,ifshehadany.Healwayssharedwithher.Notalways,butitcouldbeargued.Rhondawasacrusher,though,abiggirl,alwaysclimbingontop.Herheftwasnojoke,andJackwasa

reed.Still,helovedher.Ha!Thatwasthetweakcomingon.He’dneveradmittosuchathingwhenhewasflat.Nowhisimmortalbrainunderstood.HewantedtomarryRhonda,haulherupthestepsofherdouble-wide,pumpoutaboutfiftykids.Inthefly-eyeofhismindhesawthem,curleduplikecaterpillarsonRhonda’sbed.Jackpickedupthepace.Theeffectofhislate-morningtokeswasfarfromfinished.Thoughhe’dpulled

nothingbutdregs(thelastofhisstash),itwascomingonstrong,sparkinghisheartinunexpectedways.Somuchgratitude.Jackmadeafistandbangedtwiceonhischest,thinkingofFlaco,aschoolfriend,

nowdead,who’dfirstturnedhimontothisstuff—aprecioussubstancewhoseunadvertisedcharmwaslove.Itwasinfuriatingthatnooneevermentionedthis.Theposters,thebillboards,thePSAs—alltheytalkedaboutwereskinlesionsandrottenteeth.Kids,sadly,werenotgettingwell-roundedinformation.IfJackhadn’tlosthisphone,he’dpointitathisfacerightnowandmakeadocumentary.Traffic,alotofit.OnSpeedwaynow,astrip-malljungle,which,accordingtohismother,usedtobelinedwithpalm treesandoldadobes, tamalepeddlersandmom-and-popshops.Not that Jack’smotherwasnostalgic.ShelovedherMarts—theDollarandtheQuikandtheWal.“Cheapertoo,”shesaid.Shelikedto buy in bulk, always had extra.Maybe he should go to her place, instead of Rhonda’s, grab somegranolabars,afewbottlesofwaterforhispack.Sitontheoldyellowcouchundertheswampcooler,chewthefat.Hehadn’tseenherinweeks.Weeks?Again,thewordprovedthin,suspect.“Mama,”hesaid,testinganother—anutterancethatstoppedhim

inhistracksandcausedhistorsotojackknifeforward.Laughedtospitting.Hecouldpictureherface,ifheevertriedtocallherthat.ShepreferredBertie.Onlysixteenyearshissenior,sheoftenremindedhim.Bertieofthescorchedhair,inhersparkletopsandtogglepants.“What’sitshortfor?”heonceaskedofhername.She’dtoldhimthathisgrandfatherwasahumongouspieceofshit,that’swhatitwasshortfor.Of course, Jack had nevermet the famous piece of shit, had only heard stories. Supposedly he and

GrandmaShitstill livedinTucson,mightbeanywhere, twoofJack’sneighbors.Hemighthavepassed

themonthestreet,orlentthemaneggoracupofsugar.Jacktitteredintohisfist.Whateggs?Whatsugar?Therewasfuck-allinthefridge.Infact,depending

onhislocation,theremightnotevenbeafridge.Busesroaredpast, theirburningflanksthrowingcannonballsofheatat thesidewalk.Jackturnedaway,movedtowardhimself,amurkierversiontrappedintheblackglassfaçadeofalargebuilding.Twenty-two—he looked that plus ten. Of course, a witch’smirrorwas noway to judge. The dark glasswasspooked,nottobetrusted.Hadn’tJamiesaid,onlyyesterday,inthelamplitcorneroftheguestbedroom,thatJacklookedallofsixteen?“Beautiful,”Jamiehadwhispered,touchingJack’scheek.Beautiful. Like something stitched on a pillow, sentimental crap from some other era. The lamplit

whisperingshadmadeJackrestless,thedissolvedcrystalblowinghimsidewayslikeablizzard.TohellwithJamie!Lastweek,afterpartyingallnight,JackhadwokenuptofindJamielyingbeside

him,theman’shandcrawlinglikeasnailacrossthecrotchfurrowsofJack’sjeans.Halfdead, indeepcrash, Jack hadn’t even been sure theywere his jeans—the legs inside them looked too skinny, like akid’s.He’dwatchedthesnail-handforagoodfiveminutes,feelingnothing—andthen,withagush,he’dfelttoomuch.Whenheleapedfromthebed,Jamiescreeched,“Ohmygosh!Ohmygosh!”—apologizingprofusely,claiminghe’dflailedinhissleep.“Whyareyouinmybedatall?”Jackhadasked,storming into thebathroomwithshame-bittenfury.

He’dgotintotheshower,onlytofindabarofsoapasthinandsharpasarazorblade—scrapedhimselfcleanasbesthecould,untilhesmelledbreakfastcomingonhotfromthekitchen.Ithadturnedouttobesilver-dollarpancakeswithwhippedcreamandchocolatechips.Jack’sfavorite.Couldthemanstoopanylower?Jamie just didn’t add up.A beardedMexicanwith a voice like a balloon losing air.Wore pleated

slacks,butwithoutabeltyoucouldsometimesglimpsethongs.Didn’tsmoke,butblewinvisiblepuffsforemphasis.Andthename—Jamie—itsatuncomfortablyonthefence,neutered,achild’sname,wrongforanyoneoverthirty,whichJamieclearlywas.Plushewasfat,whichmadehisbodyindecisive,intricatelylayeredwithlooseslabsofflesh—potbellyandmotherflaps.“Staywithme,whydon’tyou?”he’dsaid,fornodiscerniblereason,attheChevronrestroomsink,whereJackhadbeenrinsinghisclottedpipe.Thathadbeenaweekago,maybetwo.They’dbeenstrangersinthatrestroom,theobesemanappearing

outof thegloomofa shit stall.Hiswords,staywithme, had seemed, to theboy,vaguely futuristic, abeamoflightfromaspaceship.Jackshouldhaveknownbetter.

Thesundrilledtheboy’shead,lookingforsomething.Heclosedhiseyesandletthebitworkitswaytohisbelly,wherethegoodstufflived,wherethemiracleoftenhappened:theblacksmokerevertingtopurewhitecrystal.Asnowflake,anangel.Hesmiledathimself in thedarkglass. Itwassoeasy to forgivethosewho betrayed you, effortless—like thinking ofwinter in themiddle of July. It cost you nothing.ReflexivelyJackscratcheddeep insideemptypockets, then lickedhis fingers.Thebitchof itwas this:forgivenessdissolvedinstantlyonyourtongue,therewasnotimetospititout.He’dhavetoremembertospeakonthis,whenhemadehisdocumentary.

“WelcometoPresto’s!”The blond girl stood just inside the black door, her face gaily frozen, as if cut from the pages of a

yearbook.Jackcomprehendednoneofherwords.“Welcome,”hereplied,attemptingaflawlessimitationofherbirdlikelanguage.Jackwasgoodwith

foreigners.MostofhisschoolbudshadbeenChalupas.

The girl tilted her head; the smile wavered, but only briefly. Her mouth re-expanded with elasticlunacy.“Shiporprint?”Jackwastakenaback.Thoughitwastrueheneededtousethebathroom,hewasdisturbedbythegirl’s

lackofdelicacyinregardtobodilyfunctions.“Numberone,”headmittedquietly.“Ship?”shepersisted.Jackfeltdizzy.Thegirl’steethwereverylargeandverywhite.Jackcouldonlyassumetheywerefake.

Keepinghisowndentalwreckagetuckedunderblisteredlips,heliftedhishandsinagestureofspiritualpeace.“I’mjustgoingtomakeaquickruntotherestroom.”“I’msorry,they’reonlyforcustomers.”“GeorgeWashington,”Jackblurted,stillfascinatedbythegirl’smassiveteeth.“What’sthat?”“Cherrytree,”hecontinuedassociatively.“Oh,likefortheFourth?”askedBlondie.“Yes,”Jackrepliedkindly,eventhoughheknewshewasconfusingpresidents.FourthofJulywouldbe

JeffersonorAdams.JackhadalwaysbeensweetonHistory.Inschool,whenhewasminiature,he’dgotnothingbutA’s.Againhesensed theexpansivenessofhisbrain,amazeof rooms,manyofwhichhe’dneverbeenin.Itdidn’tmatterthathehadn’tfinishedhighschool,therewasanIvyLeagueinsidehishead,librariescrammedwithbooks.Hejustneededtopullthemfrombetweenthefoldsofgraymatterandreadthem.Closehiseyesandgetcracking.See,thiswastheotherthingpeoplenevertoldyouaboutmeth.Itwaseducational.Thegirlinformedhimthattherewerenoholidayspecials,ifthat’swhathewasaskingabout.Jacknoddedandsmiled,tappinghisheadinpretenseofunderstandingherlogic.Ashemovedquickly

towardthebathroom,thegirlskitteredoffinanotherdirection,alsoquickly.Perhapsshehadtoprinttoo.Ortakeaship.Jackgiggledandopenedadoorleadingtoastoragecloset.“CanIhelpyou?”“Yes,”Jacksaidtothemaninsidethecloset.“Iunderstandwhatyou’resaying.”“WhatamIsaying?”askedtheman.“Perfectlyclear,”saidJack.Hehelduphispeace-hands,walkedback through theroomofhumming

andspittingmachines,andexitedthebuilding—behindwhichhequicklypeed,beforeresuminghistrekdownSpeedway.Assoonasheknockedatthetrailerdoor,hewasawareoftheemptinessinhishands.Heshouldhavebrought flowers.Oraburrito.Heknockedagain.Sweatdripped fromunderhisarms,makinghimfeelstrangelycold.“Ihaveflowers,”hesaidtothedoor.“Goaway,”saidthedoor.“I’mnottalkingtoadoor,”saidJack.“Idon’ttakeordersfromdoors.”“Youcan’tbehere.Whyareyouhere?”Thevoicewasexhausted,cakey.Jackcouldpicturethepipe.“Baby,”hesaid.“Comeon.Whyareyoubeingstingy?”“I’llcallthepolice,IsweartoGod.”Jackwassilent,butstoodhisground.Hescratchedatthedoorlikeacat.Afterawhile,someonesaid,

“Please.”Thewordsoundedfunny,likeaflute.Jacktriedsayingitagain.Evenworse.Italmostsoundedasifheweregoingtocry.Whenthedooropened,itdidsoonlyafewinches—mostofRhonda’smouthobscuredbyachain.

“Youcannotbehere,Jack.”Jack,whowasclearlythere,onlysmiled.“I’mOK,”heassuredher.“Youlooklikeshit,”saidRhonda.“Sunburn,”theorizedJack.“It’slikeahundredandtwentyouthere.”Hecouldbarelyseethegirl—or

hecouldseeher,justnotrecognizeher.Sheseemeddifferent,herhairandherclothesfussedup,neat.Hesmellednosmoke,onlyperfume.“What’sgoingon?”heasked,flickinghisthumb.Rhondamadeanirritatedsnort,halflaugh,halffart.Itseemedtocomefromhermouth.Jack,confidenthewasatthepeakofhischarm,refusedtobeputoff.“Canyoujustopenthedoor,so

thatwecantalklikehumans,withoutthefrickin’mustache?”“Thewhat?”“The...”Jackgesturedswoopilytowardthedoor.“Thefrickin’...”“Chain?”suggestedRhonda.“AllIwantis,like,hello,OK?Likehello,whatever,aglassofwater.”Thegirlgrimaceddramatically,eggingonJack’sownsenseoftragedy.“Iamliterallydying,Rhonda.”Jackpressedhisfaceintothedoorcrack, lettingthecoolaircaresshisskin.Hiseyes,blindedfrom

sunlight,barelytookinthefactthatthegirlwasgone.Afteramoment,heheardwaterrunninginthesink,theclinkofaglassbeingpulled fromacupboard.Heclosedhiseyes, felta stirringbetweenhis legs.Rhondahadalwaysbeensokind.“Idon’tneedice,”hecalledout.“Good.Hereyougo.”AtfirstJackwasn’tsurewhatitwas.Thewaterthrowninhisfacewascold.Itdrippeddownhisneck

andintohisshirt,slowtrailsacrosshisbelly.Itlingered,driftedlower,likeakindofkiss.Jacklickedhislips:thetapwatersalty,mixedwithhissweat.Somethingwashummingtoo—thebonesunderhischeeks,nearhiseyes,vibratinglikeatuningforkoranorganatthebackofachurch.“Don’tcry,”hesaidtoRhonda,whosaidshewasn’t.“WhywouldIbecryingafterafuckingyear?”Jacksaid,“Whatyear?”—towhichRhondareplied,“Ithoughtyouweredead.”Shewasn’tmakingawholelotofsense.Jackaskedifshewasgoingfast.“Areyouinsane?”saidRhonda.“Thoseweretheworsttwomonthsofmylife.”“Whydon’tIcomeinandwe’lltakeanap?”suggestedJack.“Listentome,”thegirlsaid.“Youhavetolosethisaddress—doyouhearme?”Jackranahandoverhiswetface.“Please,”beggedRhonda.“Youhavetogo.Ericwillbehomesoon.”JackwonderedifshemeantJack,sincethenamesweresosimilar.“Doyoumeanme?”heasked in

earnest.Hetriedtofindthegirl’seyes—andwhenhedidhesawthatshewasn’tagirlatall.Shewasold,practicallyasoldasBertie.Whatwasmoreastonishing,though,wasthelookonherface.Therewasnoloveinitwhatsoever.“Idon’tknowyou,”saidJack.“Good,”saidRhonda,shuttingthedoor.

Hestoodonsomegravel,andfeltterrible.Eventhelittleplankofshadowbesidethecementwallheldnoappeal.Washetoliethere,he’donlygetthejits.Walkingwaswhatheneeded,andtohellwiththesun.That’swhatpeopleinhispositiondid.Theywalked,theymoved,theygotthingsdone.Sittingwasno

good.Talkingwasfine,ifyouhadsomeone.Sexwasprimal.Jack’sbodyknewtherules.Therewereany

numberofwaystokeepone’sbrainfromexploding.Peoplegoingfastrearrangedthefurniture,orcrawledaroundlookingforcarpetcrumbs.Anythingthat

usedyourhands,which,compelledbytheimaginativefervorofyourmind,becametoolsinabreathlesscampaigntochangetheshapeoftheworld.Itwasart,essentially.Jackwonderedwhymorepeoplegoingfastdidn’tdocrafts.Hesuddenlywished forconstructionpaperandElmer’sglue;glitter, cotton,clay.Once,whenhewaslittle,he’dmadeakick-assgiraffefromawalnutandsometoilet-paper tubes.Thelegs,ingeniously,hadbeenchopsticks.Bertieused to leave themforhours,on thedayssheattendedhermeetings.She’dalwaysmadesure

therewerecoloringbooksandPlay-Doh,carrotsticksandDVDs.LittlenotessayingLoveandBebacksoon.Jackandhissisterhadinnowaybeendeprived.Hissister?Fuck.Hissister.Shecamebacktohimlikesheetlightning.Hehadn’tseenLisasinceshe’d

goneaway.Heclappedhishands,tobanishthethought.Itwasalmostfunnyhow,atcertainelevations,itwassoeasytopretendyoudidn’tknowthingsyoucouldneverforget.Jackdugforhisphone,toseeifhehadLisa’snumber.But,beingthat therewasnophone,hepulleduponly lint—whichhequicklydismissed, into theair,

withapuff.Hewatcheditfloatforamoment,flutteringwithindecision,beforeitdrifteddown,inaslowsashay,andlandedonhisshoe.“Fine,”saidJack.“Fine!”Hepickedupthegrayfluffandstuffeditbackinhispocket.

Walkedaround theblock tosee ifhecould trick it.He’ddone itbefore.Pulloneoveron time.Circlebackandconfuseit.LikeoneofthoseAborigines.Theywerebigwalkerstoo.Uglyfuckers,butthecoolthingwastheycouldwalkathousandmiles,noproblem—andtheyweren’ttryingtogettoChinaorsomeshit like that.What they wanted was to get back to their ancestors—way the fuck past Grandma andGrandpa,allthewaybacktothelizardsandthesnakes.Jack, of course, would have been satisfied with a smaller victory—finding his way back five, six

years,toBertie’scrumblingadobe.StarTrekandpizzawithLisa.Hell,he’dbefinewithgettingbacktojustlastyear,totheoldRhonda,theRhondaofthebra-weltedbackandthecream-cheesethighs,thesadgirlhe’dmetatTheWheel,andwhomhe’dmadehappywithsnowflakesandblackclouds.Had it really been a year? Jack felt nervous now, flicked his thumb even faster, sensed his shadow

growinglonger,trailinghimlikegumstucktohisshoe.Soon,heknew,thefreakwouldcome,thesoul-suck, if he didn’t get one of two things:more crystal or a sound sleep—both ofwhichwould requiremoney,becausesleep,at thispoint,wouldn’tbefree.Itwouldcostabottleofgrainorasix-packorapill.Sometimeshewonderedwhyapersoncouldn’tjusthithimselfovertheheadwitharock.Heclimbedontopof thegasmeterandopenedthewindow,ashe’ddoneamillion timesbefore.A

small,highwindow,facingthealley.Lisa’swindow,whichBertieneverlocked.Atightfit,evenforaskinnydrinklikeJack.Halfwaythrough,hefoundhimselfstuck,butwithaseriesofwriggling bitch-in-heatmotions hemanaged tomake it through, headfirst, onto the dusty shrine of hissister’sneatlymadebed.Thefrictionofpassingthroughthesmallopening,though,hadpulleddownhispants,aswellasgivenhimanerection.Whenhestoodtohoisthisjeans,ayoungwomaninyogatightsenteredtheroom,droppedapear,andscreamed.Jack,thinkingthepearwassomesortofgrenade,coveredhishead,leavinghiserectionexposed.Thewomanmovedquicklytothebureauandgrabbedabead-encrustedcandlestickthatLisahadmade

insixthgrade.Jack,watchingthedramathroughsmoke-scentedfingers,calmed,seeingthefamiliarprop.Plus,thegrenade,bearingteethmarks,wasobviouslyaruse.“I’mnotheretohurtyou,”saidJack—acommentthat,judgingbythewoman’sanguishedface,failedto

impartthecordialityhewishedtoconvey.Thewomansquealedandfledtheroom.

“IjustwanttoseeBertie,”Jackcalledout,pullinguphispants.“I’mherson.I’mJack.”Theideaofhavingtoexplainhisexistenceexhaustedhim.Whenhewalkedintothelivingroom,the

womanwasstill clutching thecandlestick—a lathe-turnedbeauty, towhichLisahadgluedhundredsoftiny red beads. Jack had lent her the epoxy himself, a leftover tube from one of his build-it-yourselfdinosaursets.“Youcanputthatdown,”saidJack.“Look,”saidthewoman,“Beatriceisn’there.Shewon’tbebackforawhile.”“Who?”“You’relookingforyourmother?”Jackfeltapeculiarflutterinhisgut.“I’mmeetingherina—inabit,”stammeredthewoman.“I’lljust—I’llletherknowyouwerehere.”“Whatdidyoucallher?”askedJack.Thewomantookastepback.“Nothing.What?”“Hername,”Jackstatedascalmlyaspossible,“isBertie.”“Well, that’s not how I know her,” said the woman in yoga tights, who, even with the upraised

candlestick,seemedtosmile,aquickflashofarrogance.“Icanseeyourvulva,”saidJack.Thewomancoveredhercrotchwiththecandlestick.“MyGod,doyouevenknowwhatyou’resaying?”“It’sinappropriateisallI’msaying,”repliedJack,strollingovertotheyellowcouch.Hesatatthefar

right,wheretheairoftheswampcooleralwayshityousquareintheface.Askids,heandLisausedtofight over this spot. “Fifteenminutes each,”Bertie used to say,making them share the luxury equally.“Otherwise I’ll shut the damn thing off.” Frickin’ Solomon, thatwas hismother all right.A part-timeChristianwithaguttermouth.Beatrice?Forfuckingreal?HowcouldJacknothaveknownthis—or,moreimportant,whyhadthis

information been kept from him? “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about,” he said to thewoman.Butshewasn’tlistening.Shewasonthetelephone,givinganaddressJackrecognized.Hemadeablah-

blah-blahgesturewithhishand,asthewomanprattledintothephone.Whydidnoonewish tohavea legitimateexchangewithhim?Hewasagoodperson,apersonable

person,apersonwithaheartthesizeofafuckingbullfrog.Couldn’tthewomaninyogatightsunderstandthattherewasnoneedtoinvolvethepolice?“Ilivehere,”saidJack.Thewomansaid,“Thankyou,”andhungupthephone.“I’vecalledthe—”“Iknow,”interruptedJack.Hecrossedhis legs,willinghimself tostaycalm.Anyway, itwouldtake

thematleasttenminutestogethere.Thiswasn’tazipcodeanyonerushedto,especiallythecops.“Doyouwanttogetarrested?”thewomanasked.“Imean,doyouwanttobelikethis?”“Likewhat?”askedJack.“Doyourealizehowmuchpainyou’vecausedBeatrice?”“Whoareyou,exactly?”Jackhad the thought tohaveYogaTightsarrestedwhen thepolicearrived.

“Howdoyouevenknowmymother?”“We’reroommates,”thewomanarticulatedwithunnecessaryaggression.Jackhadavisionofpillowfights,s’mores,backrubs.“Disgusting,”hesaid.“What’sdisgusting?”Jack didn’t reply—glass houses and all. Hemight as well be talking about himself and Jamie. He

stood,annoyed,andwalkedovertothemirroredcabinetinthecorneroftheroom.Itseemeddistinctlysmallerthanithadwhenhewaslittle,likeatoyversionoftherealthing.Hekneeledbeforeit,turnedthe

silver latch, opened the doors.He stared inside, uncomprehendingly (What the fuck?), pushed aroundenvelopesandstamps,apileofoldphonebills.Heshovedhishandstothefarback.NotevenabottleofTioPepeorcrèmedementhe.“Wedon’tkeepanyinthehouse,”thewomansaid.Jackscowled.HeknewBertiebetterthanthat.“Incaseyoucaretoknow,yourmotherisdoingreallywell.”Wonderful!thoughtJack.Applause!Hestood,dustedhimselfoffregally,asifhemightdismissthein-creepingpanic.“Ijustneedtogeta

fewbottlesofwater.”Inthekitchen,inthepantry,hepulledthecord,turnedonthelight.Wellstocked,asusual.ForJudgment

Day,Bertiehadalwaysbeenprepared.Withfood,ifnotwithmercy.“Ican’tbeheldresponsible,”Bertielikedtosay.Inamoregenerousmood,everythingwasGod’splan,God’sdoing.Jacktooksixbottlesofwaterandtengranolabars,stuffedthemintohispack.“Helpyourself,whydon’tyou?”thewomansaid.Unbelievable.Un-fucking-believable.Jackturnedtoher.Shewasstandinginthedoorway,stillholding

thecandlestick.“Doyouevenknowwhothatbelongsto?Doyouevenknowwhomadethat?”Butthewomanhadnointerest indiscussingtherelicsofJack’schildhood.“Just takewhatyouwant

andgo,”shesaid.“Beatricewouldprobablybepissedanyway,ifIgotyouarrested.Idon’tknowwhyshe should be, though. You’ve been a very toxic influence on her.” She shook her head, puffing airbullishlyfromhernose.“EveryoneatFellowshipthinkssotoo,butyourmotheris,like,deluded.”Thewomanmovedthecandlestickfromonehandtotheother.Jacklookedatherhard,justtomakesure

shewasn’tLisa.NoonereallyknewwhatLisalookedlikethesedays.Youcouldalwaystellbytheeyes, though—andwhenJacklookedat thoseheknewthatYogaTights

wasnothissister.“You’renotevenaverygoodreplacement,”hesaid.“Replacementforwhat?”sheasked.But Jackdidnotdeign to answer.Hezippedhispackand,without evenbothering to take the loose

changevisibleonthecounter,scurriedoutthebackdoor.He cut throughneighbors’ yards to avoid running into the cops.He leapedover stones, over crevices,over brown lawns and tiny quicksilver lizards. His speed exhilarated him and then made him feeldistinctlyill.Whenhefinallyheardthesirens,hewasthreeblocksaway,inanalleyfrillywithtrash.Helurchedtoastop,sendingupcloudsofdust.Adrywindblewgritintohiseye.Fuck.Heneededanimprovementinhisitinerary,likeimmediately.Buthehadnoleverage.Noteven

twobucks for thebus.He shouldhave taken thecoins fromBertie’skitchen.Probablynomore thanadollar,butadollarwasenoughtogetstarted.Fourquartersinanewspaperlockboxandyoucouldstealthelot,sellthemfromsomebusyintersection.Old-school,butitworked—evenif,sometimes,ittookfivehourstomakefivebucks.“What’sthat?”Jacksaidtohisstomach,whichwasmumblingsomethingvaguebutinsistent.Hefedita

granolabar,andimmediatelyvomited.Dranksomewater.Vomitedagain.Dirt, weeds, a huge prickly pear like a coral reef. Jack covered his burning headwith his T-shirt,

exposinghisbelly.Whyhadn’ttheFoundingFathersplantedmoreshadetreesouthere?Probablybecausethebastardshadnevermade it this farwest.Theonlypeoplewho’dventured this far,back then,werederelictsandthieves.Uprootedtypes,notpronetoplantthings.Jack was leaning philosophically against a fence for several minutes before he spotted the dog,

sleepingontheotherside.Notapit,justsomebigfloppycollie.Still,itremindedhimofLisa.

Howcouldananimalsleepinthisheatwithallthatfur?Jackkneeledinthealley,windinghisfingersthroughthechain-link.“Psst.”Rattledthefence.“Hey!Buster!”Thedogopenedoneeye,toostunnedtogetup.Shookalegepileptically.“You’rejustgonnaliethere?”Pilesofdriedshiteverywhere,likeaminiaturewigwamvillage.Again

Jackrattledthefence.“What are you doing? Why are you bothering him?” A little man with a lopsided beard, like a

paintbrushthathaddriedcrooked,appearedatawindow.“I’mnotbotheringhim,”saidJack.“Ithoughthewassomeoneelse.”“He’sadog,”saidtheman.“Heain’tgotnothingtodowithyou.”Jack,riled,wasreadytoarguethepoint,butthenletitgo.Hecouldseethatthemanwasold,andso

wasthedog.Besides,hismouthwasdry,andashetriedtogetuphislegsbuckled.ThemansnappedhisfingersinJack’sdirection.“Nofunnybusiness!”Jacknoddedandbackedaway.“I’mgoing.”Hewalkedabouttenfeetbeforehestopped,openedhisbackpack,andpulledoutanothergranolabar—

whichhequicklyunwrappedandtossedoverthefence.“Getupforthat,Ibet.”Thedogdidn’thesitate.“Ithoughtso,”saidJack.Instantly,though,theoldmanshotfromthebackdoorandpulledthefoodfromthedog’smouth.“It’snotpoison!”shoutedJack.“It’sgranola!”A firecrackerwent off in the distance, and Jack turned.Next time, he thought, I’ll do that—stick a

firecrackerinthedamngranola.For years, he’d hated every dog and experienced a paralyzing weakness in their presence. Now,

despitetheoccasionalflashofcruelintention,Jack’sangerhadmostlyturnedintosomethingelse.Adog,anydog,wasliketherelentlesssunshine:mind-alteringlysad.Jacksatonthecurb,touchedhishandtoblazingmacadam.Sometimesitcouldbeburnedoutofyou—thepain.But no, the pastwas here, before himnow like amirage,waveringwith tiny figures, holograms he

recognized.Resistanceisfutile,theBorgsay.Becausenotonlyhadherunintoadog;he’drunoutofhisstashaswell—andrunningoutofcrystal

waslikerunningoutoftime,sinkingbackintothemudthatwasyourlife.Nodustingofwhitesnowtoprettifytheview.Withamad,flea-scratchingintensity,Jackscrapedoutthestemofhispookie,butwhatfellfromitwasworthless:afewflakesofirredeemabletar.Thehologramsgrewtofullsizeandcamecloser.“Grrr,”saidJack,hopinghedidn’tsoundlikeananimal.

Jackhadbeenwithhissister thatday—asummermorning,playingFrisbee inafield.TheFrisbeehadgoneoverafence.Thedogwasblack,nothuge,thesizeofatwenty-gallonicechest.Aftertheattack,Jackwonderedifthey’dreallykilledit.Thepolicehadusedthewordsputtosleep,

butJackhadworriedthattheownersmighthavesomehowwokentheanimalupandwerehidingitinsidetheirhouse.Lisa’sfears,nodoubt,hadbeenfarworse—butJackhadknownbetterthantoaskher.Anyway, Lisa couldn’t really talk after it happened. She had a lot of problemswith her jaw.With

everything,really.Herrighthandwassonerve-damagedthatshehadtouseherleft,whichshenevergotverygoodat.Sheshookalot,refusedtoeat,mostlydranksmoothies.Herpinkiewasmissing.Herface,though,wastheworst.Evenaftertwosurgeries,itlookedlikesomethingbadlymade,lumpy

—asifachildhadmadeitoutofclay.Itwaslessafacethantheideaofone,preliminary,asketch—but

careless,with terribleproportionsandslightlyskewed;primitive—aface thatmightbe touching inart,butinlifewashideous.“Lookat that!”Bertiehadshoutedat the lawyer,showinghimpicturesofwhatLisahad looked like

before.“Beautiful.Andthisiswhatthey’resayingshe’sworth?”Thesettlementhadnotbeenmuch.“Anoutrage,”Bertiesaidtoanyonewhowouldlisten.Shetriedto

getanotherlawyertotakeonthecase.Jackwouldsitwithhismotherinclutteredoffices,staringatthefloor,tellingthesuitswhathe’dseen.“Happenseverysevenseconds,”onelawyersaidwithdisturbingenthusiasm,asifdiscussingtheoddsofwinningthelottery.“Plus,youknowhowpeopleinTucsonlovetheirRottsandtheirpits.”Unfortunately,heexplained,ajackpotsettlementwasusuallytiedtoanattackcatchingtherightwaveofpublicity.“Yourmomenthasprobablypassed,”hesaidwithawince,ashrug.“Thatbaby,”Bertiewouldcomplain,referringtowhatsheconsideredLisa’scompetition.Thesamesummer,atwo-year-oldhadbeenmaulednearSabinoCanyon.There’dbeenafund-raising

campaign.“Foothills,”Bertiehadscoffed,afterseeingthechild’sparentsontelevision,theirbighouseonaridge.“Asiftheyneedhelp!Weshouldstartourowncampaign,”she’dmuttered,afterasip,toJack.“Wecouldmakeposters,”he’dsuggestedsheepishly.“Posters, TV commercials, the whole shebang.” His mother pulled more deeply from her Captain

Morganmug,theiceclinkinglikemoneyinsideapiggybank.“Wanna make them pop, though,” she said of the posters. “Need to get us some big-ass pieces of

paper.”Itwouldhavebeeneasy.Jackwasartistic(everyonesaidso),andBertiehadballs.But,intheend,they’dneverdonea thing;never called aTVstationordecorateda coffee canwith ribbons andapictureofLisa’sface.Nevertookthecasebacktocourt—eventhoughitwasclear,aftertheinitialsurgeries,thatLisawouldrequiremore.Theprocedurescouldn’tberushed,though.ThedoctorhadrecommendedthatLisawaitbeforegoingbackundertheknife:“Toomuchtraumaalready.Let’sseehowthecurrentworkheals.”Whatlittleremainedofthesettlementmoneywaskeptinaseparateaccount,likeavacationfundora

Christmasclub,someperversedowry.Moneyforthefuture,earmarkedforsurgery.Jackhadhelped,atsomepoint,hadn’the?Standingat theedgeof thealley,hescratchedhis leg—a

vaguerecollectionthathe’dgivenLisasomeofhisownskin.IthadbeenmorecompatiblethanBertie’s.Inthefall,Lisahadrefusedtogobacktoschoolforherjunioryear.Shemostlystayedinside,inher

bedroom. There was a lot of pain medication—which was apparently, Jack learned, something to beshared. “I’m in pain too,”Bertie had cried, defensively,whenhe caught her onenightwith the bottle.“Anyway,”shechided,changingthesubject,“yoursistercan’t liveinafogfor therestofher life.Sheneedstogetajob.”Jackdidn’tunderstandwhyaperson inLisa’spositioncouldn’tbeallowed tostay inside, inadark

bedroom,fortherestofherlife.Bertiehadathing,though,aboutself-improvementandpositivethinking,whichoftenmadeherchildrenshrinkfromherasifshewereaterrorist.Amazingly,Lisahadfoundajobfairlyquickly,full-timeatatelemarketingfirm.“Yousee,”Bertiehad

chirped.“Upandat’em,”practicallyshovingLisaoutthedoor,herhairstrategicallyfeatheredoverhercheeks.“Minimumwage,”Lisasaid,andBertierepliedthattherewasnoshameinthat.Allday,Lisahadsatinacubicle,talkedonthephoneinhernewfunnyvoice.Butmaybe,thoughtJack,thepeoplehissistercalledjustassumedshehadatoothache,oranaccent.NooneonthephonewouldhaveknownthathissisterwasahighschooldropoutinTucson—orthat

she’dbeenmutilated.Thatwasawordnoonehadused—not thedoctorsorLisa’s friendsoreven thetruth-obsessedwomenfromBertie’sso-calledchurch.Nooneeversaidmaimed,destroyed,ruined.Bitten,peoplepreferredtosay,modestly,asifLisa’smisfortunehadbeentheworkofanant,orafly.

Jack rubbedhiseye, swattedhischeek.Asheheadeddowntown in long, lopingstrides,hisbodywasdangerouslytaut,atelephonewirestretchedbetweentimezones.Heneededtobringhisthinkingbackto2000-whatever-the-fuck-it-was—thisday,thisstreet.“Excuseme,”hesaidtoawomanwithabriefcaseandpraying-mantissunglasses—butbeforehecouldexplainhispurpose,shedartedawayandleapedintoablacksedan.Thewomanobviouslyhadissues;evenfrominsidethevehicle,shewaswavingherhandsathiminextremesignlanguage:notengonotengonotengo.Afteranhourandahalf,he’dmanagedtoassembletwodollars(afewquartersfromalaundromat,a

fewobtainedbyoutrightbegging).Whenheclimbedontothebusanddroppedthecoinsinthechute,theymadeasoundlikeaslotmachinepromisingapayout.“Whatareyouwaitingfor?”askedthedriver.“Nothing,”mumbledJack,takingaseatattheback.He’dbeenlookingforwardtotheairconditioning,butnowitmadehimshake—thecoldair,likepins

onhisface.Sometimeshe’dmetLisaafterhershift,toaccompanyherhome.Shehadn’tlikedtotakethebus alone. She’d wanted Jack to ride with her in themornings as well—but how could he? Hewasfifteen;hehadschool.Anyway, the afternoonswere enough.Thewalk to thebackof thebushadalways seemed to take a

lifetime.Peoplestared,kidslaughed.Lisaneversaidanything,butsometimesshetookJack’shand,whichembarrassedhim:whatifpeoplethoughtshewashisgirlfriend?Sometimeshecouldhearherbreathing;sometimes,asoundinherthroatliketwigssnapping.That same year, Jack met Flaco. The first time they went fast together, in Flaco’s enamel-black

bedroom,itwaslike,ohyes—totalunderstanding,totalbigpicture,allthenagginglittledetailswashedaway.Soon Jack stoppedmeetingLisa afterwork.He let her take the bus alone,with nothing but herfeatheredhairtoprotecther;herheaddroopinglikeadeadflower;awhitegloveonherrighthandlikeMichaelJackson,thepinkiestuffedwithcotton.ItwasOK,though.Becausethefunnythingwas,he’dbeenabletolovehermore,andwithlesseffort,

fromadistance.Hefelt thatbygoingfasthewasactuallyhelpingLisa,hewashelpingallofthem.Hewas building a white city out of crystal, inside his heart.When it was finished, there’d be room foreveryone. For the first time in his life Jack had understoodBertie’s nonsense about positive thinking,abouttakingresponsibilityforyourownlife.AfterJackmetFlaco,therewerenightshedidn’tcomehomeatall.Sometimes their flights lastedfordays.Bertiemighthavecomplained,butshe toowasspendingmoreandmoretimeathermeetings.ItwasnosurprisewhenLisasaidshewasgoingaway.“Away?Wherecouldyoupossiblygo?”criedBertie.Lisasaidshe’dheardtherewasagooddoctorinPhoenix;she’dstartthere.“Forhowlong?”Bertiehadasked—andwhenLisadidn’tanswer—“AndIsupposeyouplanontaking

themoneywithyou?”“Itismine,”saidLisa.Noonecouldarguewiththat.

Jackpulledthecord,madehiswaytotherearexitofthebus.Thedooropenedwithalife-supporthiss.Whiplash of light coming off a skyscraper. Jack held up his hand to block the sun’s reflection, a

roundishblurofghostlyectoplasmthathoveredsomewherearoundthetwentiethfloor—whichtheboy’sstreetsenseinterpreted,correctly,asroughlyfiveo’clock.Pleasebeoversoon,hethought,knowingfullwellthatthedaywouldlingerforhoursyet.Evenafter

sunset,theheatwouldbeterrible—thesidewalks,thestreets,thebuildings,radiatingbackthefirethey’dabsorbedallday.There’dbenoreliefuntilwellaftermidnight.

Jackwalkedsouth,towardthebarrio,towardthesoundoffirecrackers,thewhistleofbottlerockets.Later,atdark,theneonpompomswouldcome—thebigholidaydisplaysatthefoothillsresorts,andthecity-sponsoredshowonSentinelPeak,whichhalfthetimehadtobestoppedduetothescrubcatchingonfire.From thevalley,youcouldwatch the flames flowingdown themountain like lava.People lookedforwardtothatasmuchastothefireworks.Jack walked with no particular purpose and was surprised when he found himself standing before

Flaco’s house. There was the white storybook fence around the neatly swept yard; the saint with hergarland of artificial flowers, standing on a lake of tinfoil.At theVirgin’s feet, aweirdmix of things:playingcardsandplasticbeads,andwhat looked likepiecesofoldbread.Jackhadalways loved thisdiorama,whichlivedinsidealittlecagelikeachickencoop.Toprotectitfromtherain,Flaco’smotherhadexplained.Hewonderedifshe’dstill recognizehim,maybegivehimsomecarnesecawrapped ina tortillaas

thinas tissuepaper. Insomanyways,his lifehadstarted in thishouse.A thousandhopesanddreams.Jackwonderedif theywerestill in there, insideFlaco’sspray-paintedbedroom.Wonderedtooif theremightbeanycrystalleftinoneoftheoldhidingspots.Fiveyearswas a long time, though.Someonewould alreadyhave smoked it or flushed it down the

drain.Andbesides, Jackdidn’thave the stamina tocrawl throughanotherwindow.Hewasdonewithwindowsanddoors.Hehalfconsideredclimbinginsidethechickencoopwiththesaint.Thesadnessbloomedinhisbelly.Italwaysstartedthere—aradioactiveflower,chaotic,spinningout

inweirdfractalsuntilitfounditswaytohisarmsandlegs,hisquiveringlips.Thenthetelltalebuzzofelectricityinhishair.See,thiswasthereasonitwasbettertogofastwithanotherperson—sothatwhenyoucrashed,you

weren’talone.Thehightoowasbetterwhenshared.SometimesheandFlaco,asateam,couldincreasetheeffectofthedrugs,pinballingaroundthebedroom,generatingsomuchheattheycouldbarelystandthefeeloftheirclothing.Oftenthey’drippedofftheirshirts,lainnexttoeachotheronthebed,watchedinamazementastheirwordsturnedintoflames,roseintotheairlikerockets.Flaco—andthiswassomethingJackwishedtomentioninhisdocumentary—Flacohadnotdiedfrom

crystal.Ithadbeensomethingelse,somethingstupid,acar.Walkingawayfromtheimprisonedsaint,Jackpassedoldwomenputtinglawnchairsalongthestreet,

claiming spots.Brujas in flowered smocks and slappy flip-flops, somewith brooms, territorial. Laterthey’dsittherewithglassesofwatermelonjuiceandwatchthefireworks,theburningmountain.Farthersouthnow,pastBirrieriaGuadalajara,whereheandFlacousedtoeateverything,eventongue.Lengua.WordsnolongerseemedchimerictoJack,nolongerseemedapproximationsforsomethingelse.They

were earthbound now, which was what happened when you were sober. Jack clenched his fists—untrimmednailsdiggingintohisflesh.Allhewantedwastofindasafeplacebeforethebloomsmadeamessofthesky.Hestoppedattherailroadtracks.Stoppedrightbetweentheironrails,kickedasidesometrash,andsat.Inhisdarkjeans,hisdirt-brownshirt,theymightnotevenseehim.“Ow,”hesaid,becauseofthestonesashelaydown.Whilethesuncookedhim,hebecameawareofhowdirtyhewas.Hecouldsmellhimself,evenaslight

tangofshit.Disgusting.Hisbreathstank—andhisstomachwasbubbling,anungodly flatulence fromadietofproteinbarsandblacksmoke.Itwasunderstandablewhyotherswoulddespisehim.Mostpeoplelivedtheirentirelivesstraightandhadnoabilitywhatsoevertoseethroughsurfaces—unlikeJack,who’dbeenschooledincrystalandwhounderstoodhoweasyitwastoforgive.

WhoknewifLisaforgavehim?Hehopedshedidn’t.Hewastheonewho’dthrowntheFrisbeeoverthe fence, a total spaz,missingLisa by amile. She’dpulled a face and told him to goget it. “You’recloser,”he’dshoutedback.“Yougetit.”Jackturnedhishead,toseeifhecouldspotthetrain.Flickerofdistanttraffic:metalandglass.Lost

saguaros, catatonic, above which birds drifted in slow circles, like pieces of ash. To the east, themountains,shroudedindust,wereallbutinvisible.Thetrainwouldcomeeventually, thecrazyquiltofboxcars,thefractiouswhistle.Oh,butitwassoboringwaitingfordeath!Jackhadcometothetracksbefore.Whenthesignallight

begantoflash,hejumpedup.Hewasn’tanidiot.Besides,hecouldn’thelphimself;hissadnesswaslikeariver,carryinghimhome.“Youdon’tlikeyourlife,makeupanotherone.”SomethingBertieusedtosay.Herchildrenhad,inthe

end,listenedtoher.Jackkeptrunning,andwhenhegottoJamie’shedidn’tknock;hewalkedrightin,satatthetable.Itwasn’tlongbeforeJamiecameintothekitcheninhisphonyorangekimono(“Mijo!Mijo!”),flapping

hisarms,flushing,likesomethingoutofaMexicansoapopera.AndthoughJackdidn’tlaugh,herememberedthepartofhimselfthathad—andnotsolongago.Still,

heflinchedwhenthemantriedtotouchhisface.Inthesilencethatfollowed,Jamiebegantosmile.“What?”saidJack—andJamiesaid,“I’mjustlookingatyou.”“Why?”“DoIneedareason?”Jackshrugged,evasive.“I’msortofhungry.”“Well,” Jamie said grandly, “you’re dealing with an expert on that subject. The only question is:

animal,vegetable,ormineral?”Thislastwordsugarcoated,singsong.Jacklookedup,hopefully.“Yes,mijo.”Jamiepattedthepocketofhiskimono.“IdoIdoIdo.”“Ido,”repeatedJack,feelinghisheartleapstraightintotheman’sfatlittlehand.

COLUMMCCANN

Sh’kholFROMZoetrope:All-StoryITWASTHEIR firstChristmasinGalwaytogether,motherandson.ThecottagewashiddenalongsidetheAtlantic,blue-windowed,slate-roofed, tuckednearagroveofsycamore trees.Thebrancheswerebentinlandby thewind.White spindriftblewup from the sea, landingsoftlyon the tallhedges in thebackgarden.DuringthedayRebeccacouldheartherhythmicapproachandfallofthewavesagainsttheshore.At

nightthesoundsseemedtodouble.EveninthewetchilloftheDecemberevenings,shesleptwithherwindowopen,listeningtotherollof

thewatersweepingupfromthelowcliffs,raspingovertherunofstonewalls,towardthehouse,whereitseemedtopause,hoveramoment,thenbreak.OnChristmasmorningshelefthispresentonthefireplace,bythesmalltree.Boxedandwrappedandtiedwithredribbons.Tomastorethepackageopen,anditfellinabundleathisfeet.Hehadnoideawhatitwasatfirst:hehelditbythelegs,thenthewaist,turneditupsidedown,clutcheditdarkagainsthischest.She reached behind the tree and removed a second package: neoprene boots and a hood. Tomas

strippedhisshoesandshirt:hewasthin,strong,pale.Whenhetoreoffhistrousers,sheglancedaway.Thewetsuitwasliquidaroundhim:shehadboughtit twosizestoobigsohecouldgrowintoit.He

spreadhisarmswideandwhirledaroundtheroom:shehadn’tseenhimsohappyinmonths.Shegesturedtohimthattheywouldgodowntothewaterinafewhours.

Thirteen years old and there was already a whole history written in him. She had adopted him fromVladivostokattheageofsix.Onhervisittotheorphanage,shehadseenhimcrouchedbeneathaswingset.Hishairwasblond,hiseyesapellucidblue.Soresonhisneck.Long,thinscarsonhislowerback.Hisgumssoftandbloody.Hehadbeenborndeaf,butwhenshecalledouthisnamehehadturnedquicklytowardher:asign,shewassureofit.Shardsofhisstorywouldalwaysbeamystery toher: theearlyyears,anancestrysheknewnothing

about, a rumor thathe’dbeenbornneara rubbishdump.Thepossible inheritances:mercury, radiationsickness,beatings.Shewasawareofwhatshewasgettingherselfinto,butshehadbeenwithAlanthen.Theystayedina

shabby hotel overlooking theBay ofAmur.Days of bribes and panic.Anxious phone calls late in thenight.Longhoursinthewaitingroom.Adiagnosisoffetalalcoholsyndromegavethempause.Still,theyleftaftersixweeks,swingingTomasbetweenthem.OntheAeroflotflight,theboykepthisheadonhershoulder.Atcustoms inDublin,her fingers trembledover thepaperwork.ThestampcamedownwhenAlan signed. She grabbedTomas’s hand and ran him, laughing, through arrivals: itwas her forty-firstbirthday.The days were good then: a three-bedroom house in Stepaside, a series of counselors, therapists,

speechexperts,andevenherparentstohelpthemout.Now, seven years on, she was divorced, living out west, her parents were gone, and her task had

doubled.Her savingswere stretched.Thebills slippedoneafter theother through the letterbox.TherewererumorsthatthespecialschoolinGalwaymightclose.Still,shewasn’tgiventobitternessorloudcomplaint. Shemade a living translating fromHebrew toEnglish—weddingvows, business contracts,

culturalpamphlets.Therewasaliterarynovelortwofromaleft-wingpublisherinTelAviv:thepaywasderisory,butshelikedsteppingintothatotherness,andthebookswereastayagainstindifference.Forty-eightyearsoldandtherewasstillabeautyabouther,anolivetoherskin,asloetohereyes,an

aquilinesweeptohernose.Herhairwasdark,herbodythinandsupple.Inthesmallvillageshefit inwell,evenifshestoodatasharpangletothestrikingblondnessofherson.SherelishedtheGaeltacht,theshiftingweather,thehardlight,thewindofftheAtlantic.Bundledupagainstthechill,theywalkedalongthepier,amongstthelobsterpotsandcoiledropesanddisintegratingfishingboats.Therainslappedthewindowsoftheshutteredshops.Notouristsinwinter.Inthesupermarketthelocalwomenoftenwatchedthem:morethanonceRebeccawasaskedifshewasthebeancabhrach,awordsheliked—thehelp,thenanny,themidwife.Therewasarawwedgeofthrillinherloveforhim.Thepresenceoftheunknown.Thejourneyoutof

childhood.Thestepintoafutureself.SomedaysTomastookherhand,leanedonhershoulderastheydrovethroughthevillage,beyondthe

abandonedschoolhouse,pastthewhitewashedbungalowstowardhome.Shewantedtoclaspherselfoverhim,shroudhim,absorbwhatevercamehisway.Mostofall shewanted todiscoverwhatsortofmanmightemergefromunderneaththatverypaleskin.TomasworethewetsuitallChristmasmorning.Helayonthefloor,playingvideogames,hisfingersfluidon theconsole.Over the rimofher readingglasses,Rebeccawatched thegray stripealong the sleevemove.Itwas,sheknew,agamesheshouldn’tallow—tanks,ditches,killings,tracerbullets—butitwasasmallsacrificeforanhourofquiet.NoragethisChristmas,nobattles,notears.Atnoonshegesturedforhimtogetready:thelightwouldfadeearly.Shehadtwowetsuitsofherown

inthebedroomcupboard,butsheleftthemhanging,pulledonrunningshoes,ananorak,awarmscarf.AtthedoorTomasthrewhisdufflecoatloosearoundtheneoprene.—Justaquickdip,shesaidinIrish.Therewasnowayofknowinghowmuchofany languageTomascouldunderstand.Hissigningwas

rudimentary,butshecouldtellathingortwofromthecarryofhisbody,theshapeofhisshoulders,thehold of his mouth. Mostly she divined from his eyes. He was handsome in a roguish way: the eyesthemselveswere narrow, yes, but agile.He had no other physical symptoms of fetal alcohol, no highbrow,nothinlip,noflatphiltrum.Theysteppedoutintoashaftoflightsoclearandbrightitseemedmadeofbone.Justbythelowstone

wall,acloudcurtainedacrossandthelightdroppedgrayagain.Afewstrayraindropsstungtheirfaces.Thiswaswhat she loved about thewest of Ireland: theweathermade fromcinema.A squall could

blowinatanytimeandmomentslaterthegraywouldbehuntedopenwithblue.Oneofthewallsdownbythebottomfieldhadbeenreinforcedwithmetalpipes.Itwastheworstsort

ofmasonry, against all local tradition, but thewindmoved across themouths of the hollow tubes andpiercedtheairwithaseriesofaccidentalwhistles.Tomasranhishandoverthepipes,onebyone,adjustingthesongofthewall.Shewassurehisfingers

couldgaugethevibrationsinthemetal.Smallmomentslikethese,theycreptup,joyouslyslicedheropen.Halfway toward the water, he broke into a Charlie Chaplin walk—feet pointed out, an imaginary

walkingsticktwirlingashebentforwardintothegale.Hemadeawhoopingsoundashetoppedariseandcaughtsightofthesea.Shecalledathimtowait:itwashabitnow,evenifhisbackwasturned.Heremainedattheedgeofthecliff,walkinginplace,rotatinghiswrist.Almostaperfectimitation.Wherehadhe seenChaplin?Somevideogamemaybe?Some television show?Therewere times she thoughtthat,despitethedoctors,hemightstillsomedaycrackopentheimpossiblelongingssheheldforhim.

Attheprecipice,abovethegraniteseastack,theypaused.Thewaveshurriedtoshore.Longscribblesofwhite.Shetappedhimonthesmallofhisbackwherethewetsuitbunched.Theneoprenehoodframedhisface.Hisblondhairpeekedout.—Staywhereit’sshallownow.Promiseme.Shescootedbehindhimonherhunkers.Thegrasswascoldonherfingertips.Herfeetslidforwardin

themud,droppedfromthesmallledgeintothecoarsescreebelow.Therockswereslickwithseaweed.Asmallcrabscuttledinadarkpool.Tomaswasalreadyknee-deepinthecove.—Don’tgoanyfarthernow,shecalled.Shehadbeenaswimmerwhenshewasachild,hadcompetedforDublinandLeinsterboth.Rowsof

medalsinherchildhoodbedroom.AchampionshiptrophyfromBrussels.TherumorofascholarshiptoanAmericanuniversity:arotatorcuffinjuryhadcuthershort.ShehadtaughtTomastoswimduringthewarmthofthesummer.Heknewtherules.Nodiving.Endto

endinthecove.Nevergetclosetothebaseoftheseastack.Twicehe lookedas ifhewereabout to round theedgeof thedarkrock into thedeeperwater:once

whenhesawawindsurfer,yetagainwhenayellowkayakwentswiftlyby.Shewavedherarms:Justnomore,love,OK?Hereturnedtoher,fannedthelowwaterwithhisfingers,splashedithigharoundher,botharmsina

Chaplinmotion.—Stopit,please,saidRebeccasoftly.You’resoakingme.Hesplashedheragain,turnedaway,doveunderfortenseconds,fourteen,fifteen,eighteen,cameupten

yardsaway,splutteringforair.—Comeon,now.Please.Comein.Tomas swam toward the seastack, thedarkof his feet disappearing into thewater.Shewatchedhis

wetsuitrippleunderthesurface.Along,sleekshadow.A flock of seabirds serried over the lowwaves in a taunt.Her body stiffened. She edged forward

again,waited.Ihave,shethought,madeaterriblemistake.Shethrewoffhercoatanddovein.Thecoldstunnedthelengthofher,slippedimmediatelyalongher

skin.Thesecondsheclimbedfromthewater,sherealizedshehadleftherphoneinthepocketofherjeans.Sheunclippedthebattery,shookthewaterout.Tomas layon the sand, lookingup.His blue eyes.His red face.His swollen lips. It hadbeen easy

enough to pull him from the cove.He hadn’t struggled. She’d swumup behind him, placed her handsgentlybehindhisshoulders,interlockedhisfingers,pulledhimashore.Helaythere,smiling.Shewhippedherwethairsideways,turnedtowardthecliff.Asurgeofreliefmovedalongherspine

whensheglancedback:hewasfollowingher.The cottage felt so suddenly isolated: the small, bluewindows, the bright half-door.He stood in a

puddleinthemiddleofthefloor,hislipstrembling.Rebecca put the phone in a bag of rice to soak themoisture, shook the bag.No backup phone.No

landline. Christmas Day. Alan, she thought. He hadn’t even called. He could have tried earlier. Thethoughtofhim inDublinnow,withhisnewfamily, their tidyhouse, theirdecorations, theirdramas.Asimplecall,itwouldhavebeensoeasy.—Yourfatherneverevenphoned,shesaidasshecrossedtheroom.Shewonderedifthewordswereproperlyunderstood,andiftheywere,didtheycuttothecore:your

father,d’athair,abba?Whatrattledinside?Howmuchcouldhepossiblycatch?TheexpertsinGalway

said that his comprehensionwasminimal, but they could never be sure; no one could guess his innerdepth.Rebeccatuggedthewetsuitzipandgentlypeeledbacktheneoprene.Hisskinwastautanddimpled.He

layhisheadonhershoulder.Asoundcamefromhim,asoftwhimper.Shefeltherselfloosening,drewhimclose,thecoldofhischeekagainstherclavicle.—Youjustfrightenedme,love,that’sall.

Whendarknessfell,theysatdowntodinner—turkey,potatoes,aplumpuddingboughtfromasmallstoreinGalway.AsachildinDublin,shehadgrownupwiththeancientrituals.Shewasthefirstinherfamilytomarryoutsidethefaith,butherparentsunderstood:thereweresofewJewsleftinIreland,anyway.Attimesshethoughtsheshouldrebuildtheholidayroutines,butlittleremainedexceptthefaintmemoryofwalkingtheRathgarRoadatsundown,countingthemenorahsinthewindows.Yearbyyear,thenumberdwindled.Halfwaythroughthemealtheyputonthepartyhats,pulledapartthepapercrackers,unfoldedthejokes

thatcamewithin.Aglassofportforher.Afizzyorangedrinkforhim.AboxofQualityStreet.Theylayonthecouchtogether,hischeekonhershoulder,asilencearoundthem.Shecrackedthespineonanoldbluehardcover.NadiaMandelstam.Tomasclickedtheremoteandpickedupthegamestick.Hisfingersflittedoverthebuttons:themastery

of apianist.Shewondered if theparentshadbeengiftedbeyond thedrunkenness, if oneday theyhadlookedoutofhighconservatorywindows,orpainteddaringnewcanvases,orpliedthemselvesinsomepoeticrealm,againstalltheodds—sentimental,sheknew,butworthriskinganyway,hopeagainsthope,afaintglimmerintheknitofneurons.Christmaseveningslippedaway,gradationsofdarkoutsidethewindow.AtbedtimeshereadtohiminGaelicfromacycleofancientIrishmythology.Themythswereasortof

music.Hiseyesfluttered.Shewaited.Histurmoil.Hisanger.Nightrages,thedoctorscalledthem.Shesmoothedhishair,butTomasjerkedhisshoulderandhisarmshotout.Hiselbowcaughtthesideof

herchin.Shefeltforblood.Athinsmearofitappearedalongherfingers.Shetouchedherteethwithhertongue.Theywereintact.Nothingtoobad.Perhapsabruisetomorrow.Somethingelsetoexplaininthevillagestore.Timpistebeag.Asmallaccident,don’tworry.Nábacleis.Sheleanedoverhimandfixedherarmsinatrianglesothathecouldn’tbashhisheadoffthewall.Herbreathmovedthefringeofhishair.Hisskinwassplotchywithsmall,darkacne.Theonsetofan

early adolescence.Whatmight happen in the years to come,when thewill of his body surpassed thestrengthofherown?Howwouldsheholdhimdown?Whatdisciplinewouldsheneed,whatrestraint?Shemovedclosertohim,andhisheaddippedandtouchedthesoftofherbreast.Withinamomenthe

wasthrashinginthesheetsagain.Hiseyesopened.Hegroundhisteeth.Thelookonhisface:sometimesshethoughtthefearedgedtowardhatred.Shereachedunderneaththebedforaredhatbox.Insidelayaspongyblackleatherhelmet.Sheliftedit

out.KilmacudCrokesAreMagic!wasscrawledinsilvermarkeralongtheside.Alanhadwornitduringhishurlingdays.IfTomaswokeandbeganbashingagain,itwouldprotecthim.She lifted his head and slipped it on, tucked back his hair and fastened the latch beneath his chin.

Gently,shepriedopenhismouthandsetapieceoffittedfoambetweenhisteethsotheywouldn’tcrack.Oncehehadbittenherfingerwhileasleep,andshehadgivenherselftwostitches—anoldtrickshehad

learnedfromhermother.Therewasstillascaronherleftforefinger:asmallredscythe.Shefellasleepbesidehiminthesinglebed,wokemomentarilyunsureofwhereshewas:thereddigits

onthealarmshining.Thephone,Rebeccathought.Shemustcheckthephone.

Shewenttothefridgeforabottleofwhitewine,stokedherbedroomfire,putRichteronthestereo,settledthepillows,pulledablankettoherchest,openedthebottle,andpoured.Thewinesoundedagainsttheglass,akindlingtosleep.InthemorningTomaswasgone.Sherosesleepilyatfirst,gatheredtheblankettightaroundherneck.Areefoflightbrokethroughthe

baresycamores.Sheturnedthepillowtothecoolside.Shewassurprisedbythetime.Nineo’clock.Thewinestilllayonherbreath,theemptygreenbottleonthebedsidetable:shefeltvaguelyadulterous.Shelistenedformovement.Novideogames,notelevision.Ahardbreezemovedthroughthecottage,anopenwindowperhaps.Sherosewiththeblanketaroundher.Thecoldfloorstungherbarefeet.Shekeyedthephonealive.Itflickeredaninstant,beeped,felldeadagain.Thelivingroomwasempty.Shepushedopenthedoorofhisroom,sawthehangingtongueofbedsheet

andthehelmetonthefloor.Shedroppedtheblanketfromaroundhershoulders,checkedunderthebed,flungopenthecupboard.Inthelivingroom,thehookwherethewetsuithadhungwasempty.Thetophalfofthefrontdoorwasstilllatched.Thebottomhalfswungpanickyinthewind.Sheducked

under,wearingonlyhernightgown.Thegrassoutsidewasbrittlewithfrost.Thecoldseepedbetweenhertoes.Hisnamewasthrownbacktoherfromamongthetreetops.Thesleevesofgrassslappedhardagainsthershinbones.Thewindplayeditstuneoverthepipes.She

spiedaquickmovementattheedgeofthecliff—ahunchedfiguredartingdownandaway,boundingalongthecliff.Itappearedagain,secondslater,asifoutofthesea.Aram,thehornscurledandsharp.Itspedawayalongthefields,throughagapinthestonewall.Rebeccaglanceddowntothecove.Noshoesontherocks.Nodufflecoat.Nothing.Perhapshehadnot

comehereatall.GoodGod,thewetsuit.Sheshouldneverhaveboughtit.Twosizestoobig,justtosavemoney.Sheranalongthecliff,peeredaroundtheseastack.Thewindblewfierce.Thesealaysilverandblack,

anancient,speckledmirror.Whowasoutthere?Theremustbeacoastguardboat.Oranearlymorningkayaker.Afishingcraftofsomesort.Thewindsoughedoff theAtlantic.Alan’svoice inherhead.Youboughthimwhat?Awetsuit?Why,forcryingoutloud?Howfarmightheswim?Therewerenetsoutthere.Hemightgettangled.—Tom-as!Tom-as!Perhapshemighthearher.Aringinginhisears,maybe,avibrationofwatertowakenhiseardrum.She

scannedthewaves.Snapto.Pullyourselftogetherforfucksake.Shecouldalmostseeherself fromaboveasshe turnedbackfor thecottage:hernightdress,herbare

feet,herhairuncoiled,thewetwinddrivingagainsther.Nophone,nofuckingphone.Shewouldhavetoget the car.Drive to town.TheGardaí.Wherewas the station, anyway?Why didn’t she know?Whatneighborswerehome?Youboughthimwhat?Whatsortofmother?Howmuchwinedidyoudrink?Fetalalcohol.Thewindbentthegrassblades.Shestumbledforwardoverthelowwall,intothegarden,asharppain

rippingthroughherankle.At thebackof thecottage the treescurtsied.Thebranchesspeckledthewallwithshadows.Thehalf-doorswungonitshinges.Sheduckedunder,intohisbedroomagain.KilmacudCrokesAreMagic!Stillthephonedidnotwork.Atthekitchencountershekeyedthecomputeralive.Thescreenflared:TomasatsixinGlendalough,

blondhair,redshorts,shirtsleevesflappingashesaunteredthroughthegrasstowardthelake.SheopenedSkype,dialedtheonlynumbersheknewbyheart.Alanansweredonthesixthring.Jesus.Whathadshedone?Wassheoutofherfuckingmind?Hewouldcallthepolice,thecoastguardtoo,butitwouldtake

himthreeorfourhourstodrivefromDublin.Phonemewhenyoufindhim.Hurry.Justfindhim.Hehungupintoasudden,fiercesilence.Rebeccaputherheadtothetable.WhensheclosedSkype,thebackgroundpictureofTomasappeared

oncemore.She ran to her bedroom, struggled into her oldwetsuit. It chafed her body, tugged across her chest,

scrapedhardagainstherneck.Amenaceofcloudshungoutside.Shescannedthehorizon.Thedistantislands,humpedandcetacean.

Thesweepofheadland.Graywater,graysky.Mostlikelyhe’dswumnorth.Thecurrentswereeasierthatway.They’dgone thatdirection insummer.Alwaysclose toshore.Reading thewaythewater flowed.Whereitfrothedagainstrocks,curvedbackonitself.Asmallfishingboattrolledthefaredgeofthebay.Rebeccawavedherhands—ridiculous,sheknew—

thenscrambleddownalongthecliffface,herfeetslippinginthemoisttrack.Halfwaytothebeachshestopped:Tomas’stennisshoeslaythere,neatlypointedtowardthesea.How

hadshemissedthemearlier?Shewouldrememberthisalways,sheknew:sheturnedtheshoesaround,asifatanymomenthemightstepintothemandreturn,ploduptothewarmcottage.No footprints in the sand: it was too coarse. No jacket, either. Had he left his duffle behind?

Hypothermia.Itcouldcomeonwithinminutes.Shehadboughtthewetsuitsobig.Hewasmorelikelytobeexposed.Wherewouldhestop?Howlongwashegonenow?Shehadwokensolate.Wine.Shehaddrunksomuchwine.Shepulledaswimmingcaphardoverherhairandyankedtheziptightonherwetsuit.Theteethofit

werestiff.Rebeccawadedin,dove.Thecoldpiercedher.Herarmsrose,rose,roseagain.Shestopped,glanced

back,forcedherselfonward.Hershoulderached.Shesawhisfaceateverystroke:thedarkhood,theblondhair,theblueeyes.Outpasttheseastack,shemovedalongthecoast,thesoundofthewavesinherears,anotherdeafness,

thebloodrecedingfromherfingers,hertoes,hermind.AnovellahadarrivedfromthepublisherinTelAviveightmonthsbefore,abeautifullywrittenstorybyanArabIsraelifromNazareth:animportantpieceofwork,shethought.Shehadbegun immediately to translate it, the storyofamiddle-agedcouplewhohad lost their two

children.Shehadcomeuponthephrasesh’khol.Shecastaroundforawordtotranslateit,buttherewasnopropermatch.Therewerewords,ofcourse,forwidow,widower,andorphan,butnone,nonoun,noadjective, foraparentwhohadlostachild.NoneinIrish,either.She lookedinRussian, inFrench, inGerman,inotherlanguagestoo,butcouldfindanaloguesonlyinSanskrit,vilomah,andinArabic,thakla,amother,mathkool,afather.StillnoneinEnglish.Ithadbotheredherfordays.Shewantedtobetruetothe text, to identify the invisible, torn open, ripped apart, stolen. In the end she had settled upon theformal bereaved, not precise enough hardly, she thought, no mystery in it, no music, hardly a propertranslationatall,bereaved.Itwasalmostnoonwhen shewasyanked inby theneckofherwetsuit.Acoastguardboat.Fourmenaboard.Shefelltothedeck,facetotheslats,gasping.Theycarriedherdowntothecabin.Leanedoverher.Amask.Tubes.Theirfaces:blurry,unfocused.Theirvoices.Oxygen.Ahandonherbrow.Afingeronherwrist.Theweightofwaterstilluponher.Herteethchattered.Shetriedtostand.—Letmeback,sheshouted.Thecoldburnedinsideher.Hershoulderfeltasifithadbeenrippedfromitssocket.—Sitstillnow,you’llbeallright.Justdon’tmove.

Theywrappedherinsilverfoilblankets,massagedherfingersandtoes,slappedhertwiceacrossthecheek,gently,asiftowakeher.—Mrs.Barrington.Canyouhearme?Intheblueoftheskipper’seyesshethoughtshesawTomas.Shetouchedhisface,butthebeardbristled

againstherhand.TheskipperspoketoherinEnglishfirst,thenIrish,asharpnesstohistone.WasshesureTomashad

gone swimming?Was there anyother placehemight be?Hadhe ever done this before?Whatwashewearing?Didhehaveaphone?Didhehaveanyfriendsalongthecoast?Shetriedtostandoncemore,buttheskipperheldherback.Thewindbuffetedthecabinwindows,whitenedthetopsofthewaves.Afewgullsdartedacrobatically

abovethewater.Rebeccaglancedatthemaritimemapsonthewall,enormouschartsoflineandcolor.Afurnaceofgriefroseupinher.Shepeeredoutpastthestern,thewideningwake.Theradiocrackled:adozendifferentvoices.Shewasmakingthesounds,sheknew,ofananimal.Theboat slowedsuddenly,pulled intoa slipway.A fine shiverof spray stungher face.Shedidnot

recognize thearea.A lamplightwas still shining in thebluedaytime:a faintglow,aprospectofdark.Onlookershuddledby theircars,pointing inherdirection.Beamsofredandblueslashed the treetops.Rebeccafeltahandathershoulder.Theskipperescortedheralongthepier.Oneofherblanketsslippedaway. She was immediately aware of her wetsuit: the tightness, the darkness, the cold. A series ofwhispers.Shewasstruckbytheimmensestillness,thesilence,notabreathofwind.Sh’khol.Sheturned,brokefree,ran.Whentheypulledherfromthewaterasecondtime,shesawamanhurryingtowardher,carryinghis

cellphone,pointingitather,watchingthescreenashefilmedherrisingfromthelow,graywaves:shewould,sheknew,beonthenewsinjustafewhours.—Tomas,shewhispered.Tomas.

Asedativedulledher.Apolicewomansatinacorneroftheroom,silent,watching,ateacupandsaucerinher hands. Through the large plate-glasswindowRebecca could see figureswandering about, castingbackwardglances.Oneofthemappearedtobescribblinginanotebook.TheGardaíhadsetupinthelivingroom.Everyfewmomentsanotherphonerang.Carsturnedinthe

narrowlanewayoutsidethecottage,theirtirescrunchingonthegravel.Somebodywassmokingoutside.Shecouldsmellaragofitmovingthroughthehouse.Sherosetoshut

thebedroomwindow.Something has ended, she thought. Something has finished. She could not locate the source of the

feeling.Shepausedamoment and strode across the floor toward thedoor.Thepolicewomanuncrossedher

legsbutdidnotrisefromthewickerchair.Rebeccastrodeout.Thelivingroomfellquiet,exceptforthestaticofapoliceradio.Awinebottleonthetable.Adiscardedpartyhat.ThescrapsoftheirChristmasdinnerheapedinthesink,swollenwithdishwater.—Iwanttojointhesearchparties.—It’sbestforyoutostayhere.—Hecan’thearthewhistles,he’sdeaf.—Beststayinthecottage,Mrs.Barrington.Shefeltasifshehadchewedapieceofaluminum,thepaininherheadsuddenlycold.—Marcus.MynameisMarcus.RebeccaMarcus.ShepushedopenthedoorofTomas’sroom.Twoplainclothespoliceweresiftingthroughhiscupboard

drawers.Onhisbedwasasmallplasticbagmarkedwithaseriesofnumbers:strandsofhairinside.Thin

andblond.Thedetectivesturnedtoher.—I’dliketogethispajamas,shesaid.—I’msorry,miss.Wecan’tletyoutakeanything.—Hisjammies,that’sallIwant.—Aquestion.Ifyoudon’tmind.As the detective approached, she could smell the remnants of cinnamon on him, some essence of

Christmas.Hestruckthequestionsharply,likeamatchagainsther.—Howdidyougetthatbruise?Herhandflewtoherface.Shefeltasifsomejaggedshapehadbeendrawnupoutofher,rippingthe

roofofhermouth.Outside,theearlydarkhadtakenpossessionofeverything.—Noidea,shesaid.Awomanalonewithaboy.Inawesterncottage.Emptywinebottlesstrewnabout.Shelookedoverher

shoulder: the other guardswerewatching from the living room. She heard the rattle of pills from thebathroom.Aninventoryofhermedicine.Anotherwassearchingherbookshelves.TheIronMountains.FactoryFarming.Kaddish.HouseBeautiful.TheRemainsoftheDay.So,shewasundersuspicion.Shefeltsuddenlymarooned.Rebeccadrewherselftofullheightandwalkedbacktowardthelivingroom.—Askthatpersonoutsidetopleasestopsmoking,shesaid.

Hecamedownthelaneway,beepingthecarhorn,loweredthewindow,beckonedtheguardover:I’mthechild’sfather.Alanhadlostthejowlsofhisoccasionaldrinking.Thethinnessmadehimsevere.Shetriedtolookfor

the old self thatmight remain, but hewas clean-shaven, and therewas something so deeplymanneredabouthim,atweedjacket,athintiepushedupagainsthisneck,acreaseinhisslacks.Helookedasifhehaddressedhimselfinthethirdperson.HeburiedhisfaceinTomas’sdufflebythedoor,thensanktheatricallytohisknees,butwascarefulto

wipethemuckwhenheroseandfollowedhertoherbedroom.Thepolicewomaninthecornerstoodup,gaveanervoussmile.Rebeccacaughtaglanceatherselfin

thefull-lengthmirror:swollen,disheveled.—I’dliketobealonewithmywife,Alansaid.Rebeccaliftedherhead.Wife: itwaslikeawordthatmightremainonapage,thoughthepageitself

wasplungedintodarkness.Alanrepositionedthewickerchairandletoutalongsigh.Itwasplaintoseethathewasseekingthe

briefadulationofgrief.Heneededthelosstoattachitselftohim.Whyhadn’tshewoken?heaskedher.Was thedoor toherbedroomopenorclosed?Hadshe slept throughheralarm?HadTomaseatenanybreakfast?How far couldhe swim?Whydidn’t youget himawetsuit that fit?Whydidn’t youhide itaway?Didyougivehimhislimits?Youknowheneedshislimits.She thought about that ancient life in the Dublin hills, the shiny kitchen, the white machinery, the

German cars in the pebbled driveway, the clipped bushes, the alarm system, the security cameras, thelimits,yes,andhowfarthewordmightpossiblystretchbeforeitrebounded.—Didhehavegloveson?—Ohstop,please,Alan.—Ineedtoknow.Theredlightsoftheclockshone.Ithadbeentwelvehours.Shelayonthebed.—No,hehadnogloves,Alan.ShecouldnotshaketheIsraelistoryfromherhead.AnArabcouplehadlosttheirtwochildrentotwo

illnessesover the courseof fiveyears: one topneumonia, theother to a rareblooddisorder. Itwas a

simplestory—small, intimate,nograndintent.Thefatherworkedasacranedriver in thedocklandsofHaifa,themotherasasecretaryinacorrugated-paperfirm.Theirordinaryliveshadbeenturnedinsideout.After thechildrendied, the father filledashippingcontainerwith theirpossessionsandeverydaymoved it, using the giant crane and the skyhooks, to a new site in the yard, carefully positioning italongsidethesea:shiny,yellow,locked.—Hefeelsinvincible,doesn’the?—OhJesus,Alan.Thesearchpartieswerespreadoutalongthecliffs,theirhopelesswhistlesintheair,herson’sname

blownbackbythewind.Rebeccapushedopentherearslidingdoors to thebalcony.Theskywasshotthroughwith red.Astray sycamorebranch touchedherhair.She reachedup.Acrushingpain splithershoulderblade:herrotatorcuff.Cigarettesmokelingeredintheair.Sheroundedthebackofthecottage.Awoman.Plainclothes.The

whistlesstillcameinshort,sharpbursts.Alosshadlodgeditselfinsideher.Rebeccagesturedforthecigarette,drewlongandhardonthefilter.

Ittastedfoul,heavy.Shehadnotsmokedinmanyyears.—He’sdeaf,youknow,shesaid,blowingthesmokesideways.A tenderness shone in the detective’s eyes.Rebecca turned back into the house, pulled on her coat,

walkedoutthefrontdooranddowntowardthecliffs.Ahelicopterbrokethedarkhorizon,hoveredforamomentrightabovethecottage,itsspotlightshining

onthestonewalls,untilitbankedsharplyandcontinuedupthecoast.Theywentingroupsofthree,linkingarms.Thelandwaspotholed,hillocked,stony.Everynowandthenshecouldhearagaspfromaneighboringgroupwhenafootrolledacrossarock,oralostlobsterpot,orabagofrubbish.Thestonewallswerecoldtothetouch.Thewindrippedunderasheetofdiscardedplastic.Tinytufts

ofdyedsheepwoolshoneonthebarbedwire:patternsofredandblue.Alongthecoastsmallgroupszigzaggedthedistantbeachesinthelastofthelight.Dozensofboatsplied

thewaves.Thebellsontheancientboatstinkled.Ahookerwentbywithitswhitesailsunfurled.Afleetofkayaksglidedclosetotheshore,returninghome.Themoon rose red: itsbeautyappeared rawandoffensive toher.She turned inland.Thedetectives

walked alongside.Rebecca felt suspendedbetween them.Conesofpale torchbeamswept through thegatheringdarkness.Atanabandonedhome,roofless,hemmedinbyanimmenserhododendronbush,acallcameoverthe

radio thatawetsuithadbeenfound,over.Themaledetectivehelda finger in theair,as if figuring thedirectionofthewind.No,notawetsuit,saidthevoice,highalert,no,therewassomethingmoving,highalert,standby,standby,therewassomethingalive,arippleinthewater,highalert,highalert,yes,itwasabody,abody,theyhadfoundsomething,over,abody,over.The detective turned away from her,moved into the overgrown doorway, shielded the radio, stood

perfectlystillinthestarlightuntilthecallclarifieditself:itwasamovementinthewater,discard,theyhadseenaseal,discardthelastreport,onlyaseal,repeat,discard,over.Rebeccaknewwellthelegendoftheselkie.ShethoughtofTomaszipperinghiswayoutintothewater,

sleek,dark,hidden.Thefemaledetectivewhisperedintotheradio:Forfucksake,becareful,we’vegotthemotherhere.Thewordlayonher tonguenow:mother,máthair,em.Theywent forwardagain, through theunbent

grass,intothetunnelsoftheirtorches.

Alan’sclothingwasfoldedonthewickerchair.Hiskneeswerecurledtohischest.Ashallowwheezecamefromthewhiteofhisthroat.Anotelayonherpillow:Theywouldn’tletmesleepinTomas’sroom,wakemewhenyou’rehome.Andthenascribbled,Please.Theyhadcalledoffthesearchuntilmorning,butshecouldhearthefishingboatsalongthecoast,still

blastingtheirhorns.Rebeccatookoffhershoes,setthembythebedroomfire.Onlyafewsmallembersremained,aweak

redglow.Thecuffsofherjeanswerewetandheavyfromthemuck.Shedidnotremovethem.Shewenttothebedandlayontopofthecovers,pulledupahorsehairblanket,turnedawayfromAlan.

Gazingoutthewindow,shewaitedforabaroflighttoriseandpartthedark.Atorchlightborepastinapale shroud. Perhaps there was news. At the cliff he had twirled the imaginary cane.Where had helearned thatChaplinshuffle?Thesheersurpriseof it.Theunknowability.Unspoolinghimselfalong thecliff.Fromthelivingroomcametheintermittentstaticoftheradios.Almosteighteenhoursnow.Rebecca pushed her face deeper into the pillow.Alan stirred underneath the sheets. His arm came

across her shoulder. She lay quite still. Was he sleeping or awake? How could he sleep? His armtightenedaroundher.Hishandmoved toherhair, his fingers atherneck,his thumbat the edgeofherclavicle.Thatwasnotsleep.Thatwasnotsleepatall.Shegentlypushedhisarmaway.Anothertorchbobbedpastthewindow.Rebeccarosefromthebed.Agold-backedhairbrushlayonthe

dressingtable.Longstrandsofherdarkhairweretangledupinsideit.Shebrushedonlyonesideofherhair.Thedamphemofherjeanschilledhertoesandshewalkedtowardthewickerchair,coveredherselfinablanket,lookedoutintotheearlydark.Whendawnbroke,shesawthedooropenslightly, thefemaledetectivepeepinginaroundtheframe,

something warm in the flicker that went between them. Alan stirred, pale in the bed, and moanedsomethinglikeanexcuse.Hispinkishface.Histhinninghair.Helookedbrittletoher,likelytodissolve.In the kitchen the kettle was already whistling. A row of teacups were set along the counter. The

detective stepped forward and touched her arm. Rebecca’s eyes leaped to catch hers, a briefmergedmoment.—Ihopeyoudon’tmind.Wetooktheliberty.There’snonewsyet.Thepresenceofthewordyetjoltedher.Therewould,oneday,benews.Itsarrivalwasinevitable.—WetookoneofTomas’sshirtsfromthewashbasket.—Why?saidRebecca.—Forthedogs,thedetectivesaid.Rebeccawanted suddenly tohold the shirt, inhale its odor.She reached for thekettle, tried topour

throughtheshakeinherhands.Sotherewouldbedogsoutontheheadlandlater.Searchingforherson.She glanced at her reflection in thewindow, saw only him.His facewas double-framed now, triple-framed.Hewaseverywhere.Outon theheadland, running, thedogsfollowing,a ram,ahawk,aheronabove.Shefeltalightnessswellinher.Acurveintheair.Adive.Shegrippedthehemofthecounter.Theslow,sleekslipofthesea.Adarkeningunderwater.Theshroudofcold.Thecoroner,thefuneralhome,thewreaths,theplot,theburial.Shefeltherselffalter.Thebursttothesurface.Aselkie,splutteringforair.Shewasguidedintoachairat the table.She tried to leanforward topour the tea.Voicesvibratedaroundher.Herhandsshook.Everyoutcomewasunwhisperable.Shehadasuddenthoughtthattherewasnosugarinthehouse.Theyneededsugarfortheirtea.ShewouldgotothestorewithTomaslater.Thenewsagent’s.Yes,thatiswhereshewouldgo.Inlandalongthebendofnarrowroad.Beyondthewhitebungalow.Crossingattheonetrafficlight.Walkwithhimpastthebutchershop,pastthesignfortourstothe islands, past the turf accountant, past the shutteredhotel, the silver-keggedalleyway, into thenews

agent’sonMainStreet.Theclinkoftheanchor-shapedbell.Theblack-and-whitelinoleumfloor.Alongtheaisle.Thesharpsmellofparaffin.Pastthepaperracksetuponlobsterpots,thesmallblueandorangeropeshangingdown,oldrelicsofthesea.Shewouldwalkbeyondthenewsofhisdisappearance.Bread,biscuits,soup.Totheshelfwheretheyellowpacketsofsugar lay.Wecannotdowithoutsugar,Tomas,secondshelfdown,trustme,there,goodlad,getit,please,goon,reachin.Shewasn’tsureifshehadsaidthisaloudornot,butwhenshelookedupagainthefemaledetectivehad

broughtoneofTomas’sshirts,helditout,hereyesmoist.Thebuttonswerecoldtothetouch:Rebeccapressedthemtohercheek.Fromthelanewaycamethesoundofscrapingbranches.Vandoorsbeingopenedandclosed.Sheheard

ahighyelp,andthenthescrabbleofpawsupongravel.Shespent thesecondmorningout in thefields.Columnsofsunlight filtereddownover thesea.A lightwindrippledthegrassatthecliffedge.SheworeTomas’sshirtunderherown,tightandwarm.Somany searchers along the beaches. Teachers. Farmers. Schoolchildren holding hands. The boats

trawlingthewatershadtrebled.Atlunchtime,dazedwithfatigue,Rebeccawasbroughthome.Anewquiethadinsinuateditselfintothe

cottage.Thepolicemencameandwentasif theyhadlearnedfromlongpractice.Theyseemedtoghostintooneanother:almostasiftheycouldslipintooneanother’sfaces.Sheknewthem,somehow,bythewaytheydranktheir tea.Foodhadarrived,withnotesfromneighbors.Fruitbowls.Lasagna.Teabagsandbiscuits.Abasketofballoons,ofallthings:ascribbledprayertoSaintChristopherinachild’shand.Alan sat next to her on the couch. He put his hand across hers. He would, he said, do the media

interviews.Shewouldnothavetoworryaboutit.Sheheardthethudofdistantwaves.ThelaboreddroneofaTVtruckfiltereddownfromthelaneway.ASundaynewspapercalled,offeringmoneyforaphotograph.Alanwalkedtoacornerofthecottage,

cuppedhisphone,whisperedintothereceiver.Shethoughtsheheardhimweeping.PagesfromtheIsraelinovelwerestrewnacrossherdesk.Scribblesinthemargins.Besidethepages,

Mandelstam’smemoirlayopen,aquarterofthewaythrough.Russia,shethought.Shewouldhavetotellthem in Vladivostok, let them know what had happened, fill out the paperwork. The orphanage. Thebroken steps. The highwindows. The ocherwalls. The one great painting in the hallway: theBay ofAmur, summertime, a yacht on its water, water, always water. She would find themother and father,explainthattheirsonhaddisappearedswimmingonthewesternseaboardofIreland.Asmallapartmentinthecenterofthecity,alowcoffeetable,afullashtray,themotherwanandwithdrawn,thefatherportlyandthuggish.Myfault.Igavehimawetsuit.Allmyfault.Forgiveme.Shewanted the day to peel itself backward, regain its early brightness, its possibility, its pour into

teacups,butshewasnotsurprisedtoseethedarkcomedown.Itwasalmosttwodaysnow.Alan sat in the corner, curled around his phone. She almost felt a sadness for him, the whispered

sweetheart,theurgentpleadingandexplanationswithhisownyoungchildren.Thatnight,lyingnexttohim,Rebeccaallowedhisarmacrossherwaist.Thesimplecomfortofit.She

heardhimmurmurhernameagain,butshedidnotturn.Atdaylightshetotaledupthehours:forty-eight.

Rebeccaroseandwalkedout into themorning, thedewwetagainstherplimsolls.Thetelevisiontruckhummedfartherupthelaneway,outofsight.Shesteppedacrossthecattlegrid.Thesteelbarspushedhardintothesolesofherfeet.Amuddypathledupthehill.Thegrassinthemiddlewasgreenanduntrodden.Mosslayslickonthestonewall.Apieceoftornplasticwastangledinthehighhedges.Shereachedinandpulleditout,shoveditdeep

intoherpocket:shehadnoideawhy.

Waterdrippedfromthebranchesofnearbytrees.Afewbirdsmarkedouttheirmorningterritory.Shehadonlyeverdriventhispartofthelanewaybefore.Itwas,sheknew,partofanoldfamineroad.Rebeccastoodawhile:thehumfromtheTVtruckuptheroadseemedtocancelouttherhythmofthe

sea.Sheleanedintothehardslopeoftheroad,openedthebaroftheredgate,steppedoverthemud.The

boltslidbackperfectlyintoitsgroove.Shewalkedthecentergrassupandaroundthesecondcornertowhere theTV truck idled against the hedges. Inside, silhouetted against a pair of sheer curtains, threefigureswereplayingcards.Thecurtainsmovedbut the figures remainedstatic.Across the front seatamanlayslumped,sleeping.Asmallgroupofteenagershuddlednearthebackofthetruck,sharingacigarette,theirbreathshaping

cloudsofwhiteinthecold.Theynudgedeachotherassheapproached.She stopped, then, startled by the sight. Alone, casual, adrift. He sauntered in behind the group,

unnoticed.Abrownhuntingjackethungfromhisshoulders.Ahoodedsweatshirtunderneath.Histrouserswere rolled up and folded over.The laces of his bootswere open and the tongueswagged sideways.Steamrolledoffhim,asifhehadbeenwalkingalongtime.Hismouthwasslightlyopen.Hislipwaswetwithmucus.Mudandleavesinthefringesofhishair.

Underhisrightarmhecarriedadarkbag.Thebagfellfromhisarm,andhecaughtholdofitashemovedforward.Along,graystripe.Thewetsuit.Hewascarryingthewetsuit.Hehadnotyetseenher.Hisbodyseemedtodraghisshadowbehindhim:slow,reluctant,butsharp.

Sh’khol.Sheknewthewordnow.Shadowed.ThedooroftheTVtruckopenedbehindher.Hernamewascalled.Mrs.Barrington.Shedidnotturn.

Shefeltasifshewereskiddinginacar.Shewasawareofabustlebehindher,two,three,fourpeoplepilingoutofthetruck.Theimpossible

utteranceofhisname.Tomas.Is thatyou?Turnthisway,Tomas.Ayellcamefromtheteenagers.Lookoverhere.Theyhadtheirphonesout.Tomas!Tomas!Turnthisway,Tomas.Rebeccasawafurredmicrophonepassbeforehereyes.Itdippeddowninfrontofher,andshepushed

it away.Acameraman jostledher.Another shout erupted.Shemoved forward.Her feet slipped in themud.Tomasturned.Shetookhiminherarmswithasurgeofjoy.Sheheldhisface.Thepaleness,thewhitesofhiseyes.Hiswasagazethatbelongedtosomeoneelse:a

boyofanotherexperience.Hepassedthewetsuittoher.Itwascoldtothetouchanddry.

Thenewshadgoneaheadofthem.Thecheerswentupastheyroundedthecornertowardthegarden.Alanranalongthelanewayinhispajamas,stoppedabruptlywhenhesawthetelevisioncameras,grabbedforthegapinthecottontrousers.RebeccashoulderedTomasthroughthegauntlet,herarmencirclinghimtightly,guidinghimtothefront

door.Inthecottage,aswatheoflightdustedthefloor.Thefemaledetectivestoodinthecenteroftheroom.

Hernamebadgeglinted.DetectiveHarnon.ItstruckRebeccathatshecouldnamethingsagain:people,words,ideas.Awarmthspreadthroughthesmallofherback.AsmellofturfsmokecameoffTomas’sclothing.Itwas,shelaterrealized,oneofthefewcluesshe

wouldeverget.Thecottagefilledupbehindher.Shesawaphotographeratthelargeplate-glasswindow.Allaround

her,phoneswereringing.Thekettlewhistledonthestove.AfearhadtightenedTomas.Sheneededtogethimalone.Thephotographershovedhiscameraupagainstthewindowpane.ShespunTomasawayastheflasherupted.

Morning light stamped itself in small rectangles on the bedroom floor.Rebecca closed thewindowblinds. The helmetwas lying on the bed.His pajamaswere neatly folded and placed on a chair. Sheignoredtheknockingatthedoor.Hewasshiveringnow.Sheheldhisface.Kissedhim.Thedooropenedtentatively.—Leaveusbe,please.Leaveusbe.Shetouchedthesideofhischeek,thenshuckedthebrownjacketfromhisshoulders.Ahuntingjacket.

Shecheckedthepockets.Afewgrainsofthread.Asmallballoffur.Awetmatchbook.Heliftedhisarms.Shepeeledthesweatshirtupoverhishead.Hisskinwastightanddimpled.Apieceofleaffellfromhishairtothefloor.Sheturnedhimaround,lookedathisback,hisneck,his

shoulderblades.Hewasunmarked.Nocuts,noscrapes.ShelookeddownatTomas’strousers.Denims.Toolargebyfar.Aman’sdenims.Fastenedwithanold

purplebeltwithagoldclasp.Clothing fromanotherera.Gaudy.Ancient.Aboltofcold ranalongherarms.—No,shesaid.Please,no.Shereachedforhim,butheslappedherhandaway.Thedoorrattledagainbehindher.Sheturnedtosee

Alan’sface:thestretchedwireofhisflesh,thesmallbrownofhiseyes.—Weneedadetectiveinhere,shesaid.Now.

In the hospital itwas still brightmorning and the airwasmotionless in the low corridors andmuddyfootprintslayaboutandtheyellowwallspressedinuponthemandthepungentodorofantisepticmadehergotothewindowsandthetreesoutsidestoodstaticandtheseagullscawedupovertherooftopsandshestoodintheprospectoftheunimaginable,thetangleofrumorandevidenceandfact,andshewaitedforthedoctorsastheminutesidledandthenursespassedbyinthecorridorsandthetrolleysrattledandtheorderliespushedtheirheavycartsandaninexhaustiblecurrentofhumanmiserymovedinandoutofthe waiting room every story every nuance every pulse of the city hammering up against the wiredwindows.Thewaterpouredhardandclear.Shetesteditswarmthagainstherwrist.Tomascameintothebathroom,droppedhisredjumpertothefloor,slidoutofhiskhakis,stoodinhiswhiteshirt,clumsilyworkingthebuttons.She reached to help, but he stepped away, then gestured for her to leavewhile he climbed into the

swimmingtogs.So,hewantedtowearshortsnowwhileshewashedhim.Fairenough,shethought.The housewas quiet again.Only the soundof thewaves. She keyed her newphone alive.Adozen

messages.Shewouldattendtothemlater.Afteramomentshereturnedtothebathroomwithherhandscoveringhereyes.—Ta-da!shesaid.Hestoodthere,paleandthininfrontofher.Theswimmingshortswerefartootight.Alonghisslender

stomachshecouldseeagatheringof tiny,finehairs thatranina linefromhisbellybutton.Hehoppedfromfoottofootandcuppedhishandsovertheintimateoutlineofhisbody.He had been untouched. That is what Detective Harnon had said. He was slightly dehydrated but

untouched.Noabuse.Nocuts.Noscars.Theyhadrunallmanneroftests.Laterthedetectivehadaskedaroundthevillage.Nobodyhadcomeforward.Therewerenootherclues.Theywantedhimtocomeinforevaluationthefollowingweek.Apsychologist,shesaid.Someonewho

mightpiecetogethereverythingthathadhappened,butRebeccaknewthere’dneverbeanyanswers,noamountofprobingcouldsolveit,nophotographs,nomaps,nowalksalongthecoastline.Shewouldgoswimmingwithhimagain,soon,downtothewater.Theywouldeasethemselvesintotheshallows.She

wouldwatchhimcarefullynegotiatetheseastack.Shewouldguidehimawayfromthecurrent.Perhapssomesmallinsightmightunravel,butshewasawareshecouldneverfinallyunderstand.Thesimplegraceofhisreturnwasenough.Ilive,Ibreathe,Igo,Icomeback,Iamherenow.Nothing

else.Rebecca tested thewater againwith her fingers. She helpedTomas over the rim of the tub.Goose

bumpsappearedonhisskin.Hisribsweresharpandpale.Hefellagainsther.Thewetofhistoeschilledher bare feet. She threw a towel aroundhis shoulders towarmhim, then guided himback toward thewater.Hefinallyplacedbothfeetinthebathandletthewarmthcourseupthroughhisbody.Hecuppedhishandsinfrontofhisshorts.Sheputherhandonhisshoulderand,withgentleinsistence,gothimtokneel.Heslidforwardintothewater.—Therewego,shesaidinHebrew.Letmewashthatmop.Sheperchedattheedgeofthebath,tookholdofhisshoulderblades,ranapumicestoneoverhisback,

massagedtheshampoointohishair.Hisskinwassovery transparent.Theair inhis lungschangedtheshapeofhisback.Sheappliedalittleconditionertohisscalp.Hishairwasthickandlong.Shewouldhavetogetitcutsoon.Tomasgruntedandleanedforward,tuggedatthefrontofhisshorts.Hisshoulderstautenedagainsther

fingers. She knew, then,what itwas.He bent over to try to disguise himself against the fabric of hisshorts.Rebeccastoodwithoutlookingathim,handedhimthesoapandthesponge.Impossibletobeachildforever.Amother,always.—You’reonyourownnow,shesaid.Shemoved away fromhim, closed the door and stood outside in the corridor, listening to his stark

breathingand thepersistent splashofwater, its rhythmsoundingout against the faintpercussionof thenearbysea.

ELIZABETHMCCRACKEN

ThunderstruckFROMStoryQuarterly1.WESANDLAURAhadnotevenknownHelenwasmissingwhenthepolicebroughtherhomeatmidnight.Her longbare legsweremarbledredwithcold,andshehadtear tracksonherface,butotherwiseshelooked like her ordinary placid awkwardmiddle-school self: snarled hair, chapped lips, pink cheeks.She’dlostherpantssomewhere,andsheheldinonefistaseeminglyemptyplasticgarbagebag,brown,the yellow drawstring pulled tight at its neck. Laura thought the policemen should have given hersomethingtocoverup.Thoughwhatdidcopsknowaboutclothing:maybetheythoughtthatlongblackT-shirtwas a dress. It had a picture of a pasty overweightman in swashbuckler’s clothes captioned, inmoviemarqueeletters,LINDA.“She’stwelve!”Westoldthepolice,asthoughtheyweretheoneswho’dluredhisdaughterfromher

bed.“She’sonlytwelve.”“Sorry,Daddy,”Helensaid.Lauragrabbedherdaughterbythewristandpulledherinbeforethepolicecouldchangetheirminds

and arrest her, or them. She took the garbage bag fromHelen, uncinched the aperture, and stared in,lookingforevidence,missingclothing,wrongdoers.“Nitrousoxideparty,”said the tallerofficer,who looked likeall the IrishboysLaurahadgrownup

with.Maybehewasone.“Theyinhalefromthosebags.Theownerofthehouseisincustody.Somekidhadabadreaction,shethrewthemallontothelawn.Theothersscatteredbutyourdaughterstayedwiththeboyindistress.Sothere’sthat.”“There’sthat,”saidWes.Helengavehermotherasweet,sinuous,beneath-the-armhug.She’dgottensotallshehadtostoopto

doit;shewasLaura’sheightnow.“Mommy,Iloveyou,”shesaid.Shewasatheatricalchild.Shealwayshadbeen.“Youcouldhavesuffocated!”Laurasaid,throttlingthebag.“Ididn’tputitovermyhead,”saidHelen.Laurarippedaholeinthebottomofthebag,asthoughthatwerestilladanger.Thiswasher flawas aparent, she thought later: shehadnever trulygotten ridof a singlematernal

worry.Theywereallinthecloset,withtheminusculefootedpajamasandhand-knitbabyhats,andeverydayLauratookthemout,unfoldedthem,triedtoputthemtouse.Kitwasseven,Helennearlyateenager,andasmall,choke-worthyitemonthefloorstilldroppedLaura,scrambling,toherknees.Shecouldnotbeartoseehergirlsontheirbicycles,boththecyclingandthecyclingaway.Wouldtheyevenrememberher cell-phone number, if they and their phones were lost separately? Did anyonememorize numbersanymore?Theelectricaloutletswerestilldammedwithplastic,incasesomeonegotanotiontojabatonewithafork.ShehadneverworriedaboutbreathingintoxicatinggasfromHeftybags.Anotherworry.Putitonthe

pile.Soonitmightseemquainttoo.SheblamedherfrettingonHelen’sfirstpediatrician,whohadtoldhertherewasnoreasontoobsess

aboutSuddenInfantDeathSyndrome.“It’llhappenoritwon’t,”saidDr.Moody.Laurahadfoundthisanunacceptablephilosophy.Herworryforthebabyhadheatandenergy:howcoulditbeuseless?Nobodyhadwarnedherhowdeeplybabiesslept,howyoucouldn’talwaysseethembreathing.Youwatched,and

watched, you touched their dozy stomachs to feel their clockwork. Even once the infantHelen startedsleepingthroughthenight,Lauracheckedonhereverytwohours.Sometimesat2a.m.shewassocertainthatHelenhaddiedshefeltanelectricshockto theheart,andthis(shebelieved)startedHelen’shearttoo:herworrywasthecurrentthatkeptthembothalive.Kittoo,whenKit,asurprise,crashedsweetlyintotheirlives.MaybethatwaswhathappenedtoHelen.Shewassupposedtobeanonlychild.She’dbeenpromised.

Kitwasaflirtatiousbaby,afunnyself-assuredtoddler.Shemadepeoplelaugh.PoorawkwardhonkingHelen: itwouldbehard tobeKit’soldersister.Growingup,Laurahadhated thewayherparentshadcomparedhertoherbrother—Benwasgoodatmath,sotherewasnopointinhertrying;Laurawasmoreoutgoing, so she had to introduce her brother to friends—but once she had her own children sheunderstood comparisonwasnecessary. Itwashowyoudiscovered their personalities: the light of onechildthrewtheotherchildintorelief,nodifferentfromhowshe,atthirteen,hadknownwhatshelookedlikeonlybycomparingthelengthofher legsandthecolorofherhair toherfriendsandtheir legsandtheirhair.Helen hit her sister; Helen was shut in her room; afterward all four of themwould go to the old-

fashionedicecreamparlorwiththetwistedwirechairs.SheandWescouldn’tdecidewhentopunishandwhen to indulge, when a child was testing the boundaries and needed discipline, and when she wasdemanding,inthebrutishwayofchildren,morelove.Inthisway,theirlifehadbeenpastedtogetherwithmarshmallowtoppingandhotfudge.Shutherinherroom.Buyherabananasplit.Doboth:seewhereitgetsyou.Helensneakingoutatnight.Helendoingdrugs.Childrenwereunfathomable.Thesamethingthatcouldstopthemfrombreathinginthenightcouldstop

themfromlovingyouduring theday.Couldcause themtobebroughthomeby thepolicewithout theirpantsoragoodexplanation.That long night Laura andWes interrogated her. Laura,mostly, whileWes examined the corners of

Helen’sbedroomand lookedgrief-struck.Whosehouse?Lauraasked.Whathadshebeendoing there?WhataboutAddie,herbestfriend,Addieofthebracesandtheclarinet?Wasshethere?Laurawantedtoknow everything.No, thatwasn’t true. Shewanted to know nothing, shewanted to be told therewasnothingtoworryabout:shewantedfromHelenonlyconsolation.Sheknewshecouldn’tyellcomfortoutofherbutshedidn’tknowwhatelsetodo.“Whatwereyou thinking?”sheaskedHelen, tooloudly,asthoughitwasthinkingthatwasdangerous.Helen shrugged. Then she pulled aside the neck of the T-shirt to examine her own shoulder and

shrugged again.Over the bedwas a poster thatmatched her T-shirt: the same guy, light caught in thecreasesofhisleatherpants,palelipstick,darkeyeliner.“Whathappenedtoyournose?”Lauraasked.Helencovereditwithherhand.“Someonetriedtopierceit.”“Helen!Youdonothavepermission.”Wessaid,lookingattheposter,“Lindasureispretty.”“He’snotLinda,”saidHelen.“Linda’stheband.”Laura satdownnext toher.Helen’snosewas red,nicked,butwhoeverhadwielded theneedlehad

givenup.“BeautifulHelen,whywouldyou?”Laurasaid.Helenbitherliptoavoidsmilingstraightout.Thenshelookedupattheposter.“Hemustbehotinthosepants,”Wessaid.“Probably,”saidHelen.Sheslidunderherbedclothesandtouchedhernoseagain.“I’mtired,Ithink.”“PoorLinda,”saidWes.Herubbedhisfaceinwhatlookedlikedisbelief.“Tosuffersoforhisart.”

“We’llgotoParis,”WestoldLaura.Itwas4a.m.

“Yes.”Theywereexhausted,unslept.Helenseemedlikeanintelligencetesttheywerefailing,hadbeenfailingforyears.Bettertoflee.Paris.“Why?”shesaid.“Helen’salwayswantedtogo.”“Shehas?”“Allthosechildren’sbooks.Madeline.SomeRichardScarrymouse,Ithink.Babar.Kit’soldenoughto

enjoy itnow.We’ll—we’llgetHelenpainting lessons.Kit too, if she’s interested.Or I’ll take them tomuseumsandwe’lldraw.Eatpastries.Getoutofhere.Yourbrother’salwaysofferingusbootyfromhisfrequentfliermillions.Let’ssayyes.Let’sgo.”Thebiggesticecreamsundaeintheworld.Westaughtprintmakingatacommunitycollegeandhadthe

summeroff.Lauraworkedforacatererandwaspaidonlybythejob.They’dhavetodoitfrugallybuttheycouldswingit.“All right,”saidLaura.Theystayedup tillmorning, lookingatapartmentson theInternet.By7a.m.

Benhade-mailedback thathewashappy togive them themiles;byeight theyhadbooked the flights.TheyarrangedforoneofWes’sstudentstolookafterthehouseandthedogforthefiveweeksthey’dbegone.Itwasastonishinghowquicklythetripcametogether.Theplanwastodisrupttheirlives,ajolttoHelen’ssystembeforeschoolstartedagaininthefall.The

citywouldbestrangeandbeautiful,asHelenherselfwasstrangeandbeautiful.Perhapsthey’dunderstandherthere.PerhapstheproblemallthistimewasthathersoulhadbeenwritteninFrench.They flew overnight fromBoston; they hadn’t been on a plane since before Kit was born. Inside theterminaltheytriedtoleadthefamilysuitcases,oldplaidthingswithinsufficientsilverwheelsalongthekeels,proneto tipping.Honeymoonluggagefromthepastcentury: thatwashowlongithadbeensincethey’dtraveled.AtCharlesdeGaulle,alloftheEuropeanspulledbehindthemlikeobedientdogstheirlong-handledperfectlybalancedbags.Theymurmuredintotheircellphones.Laurapattedherpocket,felttheswitched-offphonethatshe’dbeenassuredwouldcosttoomuchtousehere,andfeltsorryforit.Hersuitcasefelloverlikeashotdog.OnlyHelenseemedtounderstandhowtowalkthroughtheairport,asthough itwerea sport suited to thepubescent femalebody,a long-leggedstride thatmade the suitcaseheel.Outsidethemorningwashot,andFrench,andblinding,andWeswasalreadyloadingthecasesintothe

trunkofataxiwiththegrimcareofamandisposingofcorpses.Laurathought:Whatabadideathiswas.Shesqueezedintothebackofthecabbetweenthegirls,anotheroldcaution:proximitysometimesmadethempincheachother.Shehadtofoldhertorsolikethecoversofabook.Wesgotintothepassengerseatandunraveledthepieceofpaperwiththeaddressoftheapartmentthey’drentedovertheInternet.“Excusez-moi,” Wes said to the driver. “Je parle français très mal.” The cab driver nodded

impatiently.Yes,verybadly,itwasthemostself-evidentsentenceeverspoken:anythingWesmighthavesaidinFrenchwouldhaveconveyedthesameinformation.ThedrivertookthescrapfromWes’shand.“L’appartement,”saidHelen,“setrouvedansletroisièmearrondissement,jecrois,monsieur.Cent-

vingt-deuxrueduTemple.”Atthisthedriversmiled.“Ah!Bon!Merci,mademoiselle.Letroisième,exactement.”Theyweresosmashed into theback,Lauracouldn’t turn to lookatHelen.“YouspeakFrench!”she

said,astounded.“ItakeFrench,Mommy.Youknowthat.Idon’tspeakit.”“You’refluent!”saidLaura.Thestreetwascrooked,andthetaxidriverbumpedontothesidewalktoletthemgetout.InEnglishhe

said,“Welcomehere.”Acrossthestreetwereafewwholesalejewelryandpocketbookstores,andLaurawasstunnedbyhowcheap themerchandisehanging in thewindowlooked,andshewonderedwhetherthey’dmanagedtobookanapartment in theonlytackyquarterofParis.Thedoor to theirbuildingwas

proppedopen.Thegirlsmoanedastheywalkedupthestairs,draggingtheirbags.“Ithoughtitwasonthefourthfloor,”saidHelen,andWessaid,“Theycountfloorsdifferentlyhere.”“Likeadifferentalphabet?”saidKit.Thestaircasenarrowedthefartheruptheywent,asthoughatrickofperspective.Atthetopweretwo

doors.Onehadanold-fashionedbusinesscardtapedtoit.M.Petit.Thatwastheircontact.Wesknocked,andasmallelderlymaninanimmaculatewhiteshirtandbluetieanswered.“Bonjour!”hesaid.Hecameoutandledthemto theotherdoor.Heheldonto the tie,as thoughhe

wantedtomakesuretheysawit.“Bienvenue,venezici.Ici,ici,madame,monsieur,mademoiselles.”“Jeparlefrançaistrèsmal,”saidWes,andtherewasthatlookagain.M.Petitdroppedhistie.“Youdoit,Helen,”saidLaura.“Bonjour,monsieur,”saidHelen,andhebroughtthemaroundtheapartmentanddescribedeverything,

pantomimingandsaying,“Comprenez?”andHelenansweredinanasal,casual,quackingway,“Ouah.Ouah.Ouah.”“Whatdidhesay?”WesaskedwhenM.Petithadgone.“Somethingabouthotwater,”shesaid.“Somethingaboutgarbage.Weneedtogetcallingcardsforthe

phone.Helivesnextdoorifweneedanything.”“Somethingaboutgarbage,”saidKit.“Realhelpful.”The apartment was tiny but high-ceilinged, delightful, seemingly carved from gingerbread: a happy

omenfortheirtrip,Lauradecided.Thegirlswouldsleepintwinbedsinoneroom,WesandLauraacrossthehallinabedthatwasnearlydoublebutnotquite.Athree-quartersdoublebed,likethethree-quarterscello thatHelenplayed.Thewindows lookedoutonnext-doorchimneypots.The livingroomwas thesizeof its oriental rug.Thekitchen includeda sink, a two-burnerhotplate, awaist-high fridge, andatabletopoven.Itwastheoldestbuildinganyofthemhadeverstoodin.“Whyarethepillowssquare?”Kitasked.“Theyjustare,”saidHelenknowingly.Sheleanedherheadoutthelittlewindow.Fivestoriesupand

nowaytoshimmydown,thoughtLaura.Helensaid,“Iwanttostayhereforever.”“We’llsee,”saidWes.“Comeon.Let’sgo.Let’sseeParis.”Jet lagandsunshine turned thecityhallucinogenicallybeautiful.“We’llkeepgoing,”saidWes.“Till

bedtime.Bestwaytodealwithjetlag.”DowntheruedesFrancsBourgeois,throughtheplacedesVosgesover to the Bastille, along the river, across one bridge, and another: then they stood staring at NotreDame’sbackend,allitsflyingbuttresseskickingatLaura’ssternum.“NotreDameishere?”saidHelen.Aninsinuatingwindtuggedat thebottomofhershirt;sheheldit

down.“InParis,yes,”saidWes.“Butwejustwalkedtoit?”Weslaughed.“Wecanwalkeverywhere.”Theykeptwalking,lookingfortherightcafé,feelingtheheatlikeoptimismontheirlimbs.Lauraswore

Helen’s French got even better as the daywent on: she translated themenu at the café, she asked fordirections, she found the right amount of money to pay for mid-afternoon crepes. She negotiated thepurchaseof twoprimitiveprepaid cell phones, one forWes andone forLaura.At home thegirls hadphones,butinParistheywouldalwaysbewithoneoftheirparents.Whatwas that odd blooming inLaura’s torso?A sense that thiswas how it happened: you became

dependentonyourchildren,anditwasallright.Theykeptmovinginordertostayawakeuntilitwassortofbedtime.AtsixLaurathoughtshecould

feel the sidewalk tilting up like a Murphy bed, and they went to the tiny grocery store behind theirbuilding,gotbreadandmeatandwine,andheldupthelinefirstwhentheydidn’tunderstandtheyneeded

topacktheirowngroceries,andagainwhentheycouldn’topentheslipperyplasticbags.Oncetheywereout,theyfelttriumphantanyhow.Wesraisedthebaguettelikeasword.Theyturneddowntheirlittlestreet.Upaheadofthemaheavysetwomanhurriedinthemiddleofthe

roadwithafunnyhitch,thensuddenlyturned,workedashinyblackgirdletomid-thigh,andpeedinthegutter,anastoundingfloodthatstoppedtheLangfords.Helensaid,“Awesome.”“That,”saidKit,“wasimpressive.”“Cityoflights,”saidWes.In theirmedieval apartment, they ate likemedieval people, tearingbreadwith their teeth, spreading

butter with their fingers. They all went to bed at the same time, the girls in their nightgowns—Kit’spatternedwithroses,Helen’sanotherLindaXXLT-shirt.“Goodnight,goodnight,”saidLaura,standingbetweentheirbeds.Theyhadneversharedaroom,hergirls.ThensheandWeswentacrossthehalltotheotherroom.Thenecessaryclosenessofthethree-quartersbedamplifiedeverything.HertendernessforWes,who

hadbeensosure thiswas the right thing;herworriesabouthowmuchmoney this tripwouldcost;heranxietyathavingtouseherthreadbarehighschoolFrench.Sheunderstoodthiswasthereasonshewasthirty-sixandhadneverbeentoEurope.Itwasakindofstagefright.In themorning they discovered that the interiorwallswere so thin they could hear, just behind the

headboard,thenoiseofM.Petitemptyinghisbladderasclearlyasifhe’dbeeninthesameroom.Itwasalongstory,theemptyingofM.Petit’sbladder,withmanydigressionsandfalseendings.“We’reinParis,”whisperedWes.“Ithoughttherewouldbemorefoiegrasandlesspee,”Laurawhisperedback.“Both,”saidWes.“Therewillbeplentyofboth.”

InParisHelenbecameachildagain.Shewasskinny,pubescent,nottheleandangerousbladeofanear-teen she’d seemed at home, in skin-tight blue jeans and oversized T-shirts. In Paris you could buychildren’sshoesandchildren’sclothesforapersonwhowasfive-two.Thesaleswereon,clothingsocheaptheykeptbuying.Helenchosecandy-coloredskirtsandT-shirtswithcartooncharacters.At le boulevardRichard-Lenoir, near theBastille,Helen bought a vinyl pursewith a long strap, in

whichshekeptafeweuros,aChapStick,hernameandaddress,anotebookforwritingdownherfavoritesights.ShewalkedhandinhandwithKit:theyweresuddenlyfriends,asthoughtheirfightinghadbeenanallergic reaction toAmerican air.Both girls pickedupFrench as thoughby static electricity, and theyspoke it toeachother, tossing theirhairover their shoulders.“Ouais,” theysaid, in theway thatevenLaura,whosebrainseemedutterlyFrench-resistant,nowrecognizedashowParisiansquackinglyagreed.Thereweresomanypâtisseriesandboulangeriesandfromageriesthattheyratedthepainauchocolat

of one block against the pain au chocolat of the next. The candy shops were like jewelry stores, thewindows filledwith twenty-four-caratbonbons.ThecatererLauraworked forhadgivenhermoney tosmugglebacksomeyoungraw-milkcheesesthatwereillegalintheUnitedStates,andLauradecidedtotasteeveryReblochoninthecity,everySainte-MauredeTouraine,sothatonthelastdayshecouldbuythe best and have them vacuum-packed against the noses of what she liked to imagine were the U.S.CustomsCheeseBeagles.Pariswas exactlywhat she had expected and nothing like it. Themullioned passages full of stamp

shopsanddollhouse-furniturestores,theexpensivewaxmuseumthegirlswantedtogobackandbacktodespite not recognizing most of the counterfeit celebrities, the hot chocolate emporia and the bare-breastedbus-stopads.ThesewerethingsshehadnotknownwereinParisbutfeltsheshouldhave.Thefast-foodjointcalledFlunch,theJewishdistrictwithitsfalafel(“Shallwehavef’laffelforflunch,”Wessaidnearlyeveryday).Sheneverreallygotherbearingsinthecity,nomatterhowshestudiedthemap.

Parisonpaperalwayslookedlikeaboxofpeanutbrittlethathadbeendroppedontotheground,theSeinetheunraveledribbonthathadheldittogether.“What’syourfavoritethinginParis?”Wesasked.“Myfamily,”sheanswered.Thatwasthetruth.Afterawhiletheyboughtathirdpay-as-you-gophoneforHelenandKittoshare,sothegirlscouldgo

outinthecitytogetherafterlunch.ThenWesandLaurawouldgobacktotheapartment.Shethoughteverylanguishingmarriageshouldbeprescribedathree-quarterbed.Theydidn’teventhinktoworryaboutM.Petitontheothersideofthewalluntillater,whennewsofhiscareful,decorouslifefloatedbacktothem:aringingphone,awhistling teakettle,adaintyplasticclatter thatcouldonlybeadroppedbutton.Thiswaswhyitwasgoodtobetemporary,andfortheneighborstobeFrench.“Howdidyouknow?”LauraaskedWes.“Whatdoyoumean?”hesaid.“Helen.Howgoodshe’dbehere.”“Idon’tknow.Ijust—Ifeltit.Sheis,though,isn’tshe?Good.Sweet.Backtoheroldself.”Heroldself?Laurathought.Helenhadneverbeenlikethisadayinherlife.Still,itwasamiracle:taketheclumsy,eager-to-pleasegirltoParis.Watchherdeveloppanache.

ThenitwasAugust.ItwashotinParis.Somehowtheyhadn’trealizedhowhotitwouldbe,andhow—Laurathoughtsometimes—howdirty.Theheatconjuredupdirt,centuriesofcobblestone-caughtfilth.Itwasas thoughParishadneveractuallybeenclean,as thoughyoucouldsmelleverydropofbloodandpissandshitspilledinthestreetssincebeforethedaysoftherevolution.Halfthestoresandrestaurantsshut for themonth, as the sensible Parisians fled for the coast. French food felt tyrannical.When theychose thewrongplace to eat, a café that lookedgoodbutwhere the skinof theconfit de canard wasflabbyandsoft,thebreaddamp,itdidn’tfeellikebadluck:itfeltasthoughthey’dfallenforacon.Asthoughtheplacehadhiddenthebetterfoodintheback,fortheactuallyFrench.Laurawasreadytogohome.Augustwaslikeapageturning.Julyhadfeltlucky:August,cursed.From

thefirstday,Laurawouldthinklater,nomistake.The day ofHelen’s accident—or perhaps the day before; theywould never know exactlywhen the

accidenthappened—shewasaslovelyandchildishasever.InthemakeupsectionoftheMonoprix,shelipstickedamouthontheedgeofherhand,thelowerliponherthumbandtheupperonherindexfinger.“Bonjour,”shesaidtohermother,throughherhand.“Bonjour,madame,” saidLaura,whodidnot like speakingFrench evenunder these circumstances.

TheMonoprixwasair-conditioned.Theyspentalotoftimethere.FrancehadrefinedthefeaturesofHelen’sface—Laurahadalwaysthoughtofthemasslightlycoarse,

the thick chap-prone lips, the too-bright eyes—the face, Laura thought now, of a girl who would doanythingforaboy,evenaboywhodidn’tcare.Herownface,onceuponatime.ButinParisHelenhadchanged.Shehadlost theeagerness, theoddness, thebluntdifficultyofherfeatures.ShehadbecomeaParisienne.LauratuckedthelabelofHelen’sshirtin,feltthewarmthofherback,andwiththeforceofpreviouslyunseenheartachesheknew:theywouldflybackinthreedaysandnothing,nothingwouldhavechanged.Theywouldstepbackintotheaftermathofalltheyhadn’tdealtwith.“Areyoulookingforwardtogoinghome?”Lauraasked.Helen pouted. Then she jutted her thumb out, made her bee-stung hand pout too. “Non,” she said.

“J’adoreParis.I’dliketostayhereforever.”“Notme,”saidKit.“ImissFrogbert.”“Who?”saidHelen.“Ourdog,”saidKit.“Oh,veryfunny.”

“Forever,”Helensaidagain.“Daddy!”shecalledacrosstoherfather,whowasjustwalkingintothestorewithanantiquelampshade.HewantedtostayinFranceforevertoo.Lauracouldimaginehimusingthelampshadeasanexcuse:Howcanwegetthisontheplane?We’dbetterjuststayhere.“Look!”hesaid.“Hand-painted.Seaserpents.”And theywere, a chainof lumpy,dimwitted sea serpents linkedmouth to tail around thehemof the

shade.Itwasagrimy,preposterousthinginthegleamingcosmeticaisleofMonoprix.Helentookitwiththeflatsofherpalms.“It’sawesome,”shesaid.“Daddy,it’sperfect.”Lauradidnot thinkshehadeverseen that lookonHelen’s face—not justhappiness,but thewish to

convey thathappiness to someoneelse,agenerosity.Thatwas theexpressionLaura tried to rememberlater,topastedowninherhead,becausesoonitwasgoneforever,replacedwithaparodyofasmile,alookthatwasnotdreamybutdumbstruck,recognizable,notCinderellaaskedtotheball,butastepsister,yearslater,finallyinvitedbacktothepalace,forgiven.Becausetwelvehourslater,WesandLaura,asleepintheirantiquebed,heardafamiliar,forgottennoise:Wes’sAmericancellphone,ringinginthedresserdrawer.Whywasiton?Lauraansweredit.“Haveyouadaughter?”saidthevoiceontheotherend.Thevoicebelonged toanurse from theAmericanHospitalofParis,whosaid that ayounggirlhad

beenbroughtinwithaheadinjury.“ShehaveashirtthatsayLinda,”saidthenurse.“Shefellandstrikedherhead.”Laurawenttothegirls’room,thephonepressedtoherear.Kitwasasleepamongthesquarepillows

and the overstuffed duvet. Her hair was sweat damp. Helen’s bed was empty. Laura looked to thewindow,asthoughitwasfromthereshe’dfallen,thepavementbelowuponwhichshe’dstruckherhead.Butitwaslockedintoplace,ajartolettheairinbutfixed.IfHelenhadlefttheapartmentitwouldhavebeentheordinaryway.“Jenecomprendspas,”Laurasaid,thoughthenursewasspeakingEnglish.“Sheneedsomeonehere,”saidthenurse.“It’sbad.”

2.This was why you had two children. This is why you didn’t. Wes stood outside their old, old,unfathomably old building. There were no taxis out and he couldn’t imagine how to call one. Hewonderedwhetherhe’dwantedtocometoParisbecauseofthelanguage:thewayhe’dfeltcoddledbylackofunderstanding,delightedtobecapableofsolittle.Bynowhecouldgetalongprettywellbutthisquestion, how Parisworked in themiddle of the night, seemed beyond his abilities.Who he needed:Helen,tohelphimmakehiswaytoHelen.TheMétrodidn’trunthislate,heknewthatmuch.UpstairsKitslepton,Laurawatchingoverher,whichwaswhyhewasaloneonthestreet.Shewasthesparechild.Theonewhowasn’tsupposedtobehere.Theonewhowasallright.Inhispanichehadnotwantedtogoaway fromher: he’dwanted to crawl intoHelen’s empty bed, not even caring howwarmor cold thesheetswere,howlongshe’dbeengone,as thoughthatchildwerealreadylostandtheonly thingtodowaswatchoverthegirlwhowasleft.HeGPSeddirectionsonhissmartphone,theAmericanone.Fourandahalfmiles,inawealthysuburb

calledNeuilly-sur-Seine.Hewouldwalk:hecouldn’tthinkofanalternative.Ifhesawataxihewouldflagitdownbutthemainthingwasmovement.Westward,asfastashecould,andthenhefelthewasinadull,extravagant,incrediblemovie.Hehadaquest,andeverypersonhepassedseemedhugelyimportant:themancarryingthedozingchild,whoaskedfordirectionsWescouldn’tprovide(hehidthephone,hedidn’twanttostop);thetwopolicecarryingriotshieldsthoughWescouldnothearanykindofaltercationthatmight require them; theoldwoman inelegant, filthyclothingwhowas sweepingout the rhomboidfrontofacafé.Allsummerheandhiswomenhadwalked.“It’stheonlywaytounderstandacity,”Wes

hadsaidmorethanonce,“weareflâneurs.”Nowheunderstoodthatwanderingtaughtyounothing.Onlywhenyoumovedwithpurposecouldyouknowaplace.Towardsomeone,awayfromsomeone.“Helen,”hesaidaloud,ashewalkedbeneaththePériphérique’sloopingtraffic.Hehadnotdrivenacarinoveramonth.Theylookedlikewildanimalstohim.Everythinglookedferal,infact.Hewantedaweapon.IttookhimmorethananhourtogettotheupscalewesternsuburboftheAmericanHospital.Bythenthe

sunwasrising.Hestumbled in,shockedby the lights, thepeople.Hedidn’twant to talk toanyonebutHelen,hejustwantedtofindher,butheknewthatwasimpossiblesohestoppedatthelit-updeskbythedoor. The sign above it said INFORMATION. Was that INforMAtion in English, or informaCEEohn inFrench?“J’arrive,”hesaid,asthewaitersdidinbusyrestaurants,thoughtheymeantIwillandnotIhave.He

added,“Iwalkedhere.”Themanbehind thedeskhadshortgreasybangscombeddown inpoints, likeaknifeedge.“Patient

name?”Weshesitated.Whatsortofshapewasshein?WhatinformationhadLauragiventhehospital?“Helen

Langford.”Hefoundsomehopeinsidehim:ofcourseHelenwasconscious.HowelsewouldtheyhavegotWes’sAmericanphonenumber?Shewouldn’thaverememberedtheFrenchone.“ICU,”saidthemanwiththeserratedhair.But it turnedout thatHelenhadtakenhermother’sAmericanphone,hadbeenusingitallsummer to

callfirsttheUnitedStatesandthenParis,totext,totakepicturesofherself.Whenthebatterydrained,sheswappeditforWes’s,recharged,swappedthemback.Thehospitalhadfoundthephoneinherpocket,hadgonethroughthecontactlistandeventuallyfoundhim.TheICUdoctorwasatallmanwithheavyblackeyebrowsandsilversideburns.Wesfeltdizziedbyhis

perfectEnglish,hisunidentifiableaccent,therushofdetails.Helenhadbeendroppedoffatthefrontdoorby some boys. She probably had not been injured in this neighborhood: the boys brought her here, asthoughAmericanwereamedical condition thatneeded tobe treatedat a specialisthospital.Theyhaddone a CAT scan and anMRI. The only injury was to her head. She had fallen upon it. Her bloodscreened clean for drugs but she’d had a few drinks. “Some sweet wine, maybe, made her clumsy.Hijinks,”saidthedoctor,droppingtheinitialh.Ijinks.NotanAnglophonethen.“Children.Stupid.”“Isshedead?”heaskedthedoctor.“What? No. She’s had a tumble, that’s true. She struck her head. Right now, we’re keeping her

unconscious,weputinatube.”Thedoctortappedhisgrayingtemple.“Torelievethepressure.”Whatwascausingpressure?“Air?”Wessaid.“Air? Ah, no. Fluid. Building up. So the tube—” The doctor made a sucking noise. “So far it’s

working.Latertoday,tomorrow,wewillknowmore.”Weshadexpectedhisdaughtertobetinyinthebed,butshelookedsubstantial,womanly.Hereyeswereclosed.Thesideofherheadwasobscuredbyanenormousbandage,withthelittleslurpingtuberunningfromit.No,notslurping.Itdidn’tmakeasound.Weshadimaginedthat,thankstothedoctor.Her little roomwasmade of glass walls, blindered by old-fashioned wheeled screens. There was

nothingtositon.Forhalfanhourhecrouchedbythebedandspoketoher,thoughhereyeswereclosed.Shewasslack.Everypartofher.“Helen,”hesaid,“Helen.Youcan tellusanything.Youshould,youknow.”They’dbeen thekindof

parentswho’dwantedtoknownothing,orthewrongthings.Ithithimwiththeforceofaconversion:allalong they’d believed what they didn’t acknowledge didn’t exist. Here, proof: the unsayable existed.“Helen,”hesaidtohissleepingdaughter.“Iwillneverbemadatyouagain.We’restartingover.Tellmeanything.”

Afreshstart.Heerasedthephotosandtextsfromthephone:hewantedtoknoweverythinginthefuture,not the past. Later he’d regret it, he’d want names, numbers, the indecipherable slang-ridden texts ofFrench teenagers, but as he scrolled down, deleting, affirming each deletion, it felt like a kind ofmeditativeprayer:Iwillchange.Lifewillbroadenandbetter.Half an hour later he stepped out to the men’s room and found Kit and Laura wandering near the

vendingmachines.Kithadbeenweeping.Oh, thedarling!he thought.Thenhe realized thatLaurahadbeengrillingher.Shewasnotasorrowfullittlesister.Shewasaconfederate.“Wetookataxi,”saidLauramiserably.“Good,”saidWes.“Nobodywilltellmeanything,”saidLaura.“Thegoddamndesk.”“Allright,”saidWes.“She’s—”“Howdidshegethere?”saidLaura.“Whodroppedheroff?”“Nobodyknows,”saidWes,whichwaswhathe’dunderstood.“Somebodydoes!”“Look,”saidWes.BeforetheywenttoseeHelen,hewantedtoexplainittoher.Whatheknewnow:

theyneededtotalkabouteverything.Theyneededtobeinterestedintheirdaughters’secrets,notterrified.Hesatthemdownonthemoldedbolted-togetherplasticchairsalongthewalls.Hewasgladfortherest.“We’relucky.Theydroppedheroff,theydidthatforus.”“Cowards,”saidLaura.Wes sat back and the whole line of chairs shifted. Cowards would have left her where she was.

Braverygotherhere.Heknewwhatkindofkidhe’dbeen,ascatteringboy,whowouldnothavestoppedtothinktillhalfamileaway.Adrenalinefloodedyourconsciencelikeanengineyouthencouldn’tstart.ButHelenhadn’tbeenthatkindofkid.Shehadstayedwiththeboyindistress,theofficersofamonthagohadsaid,andtheuniversehadrepaidher.“I’msorry,”saidKit.“I’mso,sosorry.”Shewasstillwearingherrose-patternednightgown,witha

pairofsilversandals.Shelookedlikeamythicalsleep-relatedfigure:Narcolepta,Somnefaria.Assoonashethoughtthat,Wesfelttheneedtosleepfalloverhisheadlikeatossedsheet.“Whoarethey?”LaurasuddenlyaskedKit.“Youmusthavemetthem.”“She’dleavemesomewhereandmakemepromisenottobudge.”“Frenchboys?”“Idon’tknow!”saidKit.Every night for aweek,Helen had sneaked out to see some boys. She hadmet them on one of the

sisters’walkstogether;thenextwalk,shesatKitdownonaparkbenchwithabookandtoldhertostayput.Atnight,shetookeitherhermother’sorherfather’sAmericancellphone;Kitsleptwiththeirsharedphoneset tovibrateunderherpillow.WhenHelenwantedtobeletbackin,shecalledtill thebuzzingphonewokeupKit,whosneakeddownthestairstoopenthefrontdoor.Kitwas going to be thewild child. That’swhat they had said, backwhen shewas a two-year-old

battinghereyesatwaiters,gigglingwhenstrangerspaidattention.ItwasgoingtobeKitsneakingoutofthehouseinthemiddleofthenight,Helenlyingtoprotecther.Youworkedtogetyourkidstolikeeachotherandthiswaswhathappened.TheywenttotheICU.WhenKitsawhersister,shebegantocryagain.“Idon’tknowanythingelse,”

shesaid,thoughnobodywasasking.“Ijust—Idon’tknow.”Laurastayedbythedoor.SheputherarmaroundKit.Shecouldnotlookatanyone.Westhoughtshe

wasabout topull thewheeledscreensaroundher,as though in thiscountry thatwashowyouattendedyourdamagedchild.Amother’sragewastooincandescenttoblazeunshaded.“Howdotheyevenknowshefell?”shewhispered.“Maybeshewashitwithsomething,maybe—wassheraped?”Wesshookhisheaduneasily.TherewasHeleninthebed.Theyneededtogotoher.

“Howdoyouknow?”saidLaura.“Theychecked.”“Iwillkillthem,”shesaid.“Iwilltrackdownthoseboys.Ihatethiscity.Iwanttogohome.”Atlast

shelookedatWes.“Wecan’tmoveheryet.”“Iknow,”saidLaura,andthen,morequietly,“Iwanttogohomenow.”Well,afterall:he’dhadthewidthofthreearrondissementstowalk,gettingreadytoseeHelen.Asa

child he’d been fascinated by the bends—what scuba divers gotwhen they came to the surface of theoceantoofasttoacclimatetheirlungstoordinarypressure.Youhadtobetakenfromplacetoplacewithcare.Laurahadgonefromapartmenttotaxicabtohospitaltooquickly.Ofcourseshecouldn’tbreathe.Butitdidn’tgetanyeasierasthedaywenton.ShelookedatHelen,yes,andarrangedherhairwiththe

pink rattail comb a nurse had left behind. All thewhile, she delivered amuttering speech, woven ofcurses:shecursedtheirdecisiontocometoParis;shecursedthemidmorning’scomicallyelegantdoctorwhoinflatedhercheeksandpuffedwhenaskedaboutHelen’sprognosis;shedamnedtohellthemissingboys.“Theysayboys,”saidLaura,“butiftheydidn’tseethem,howdotheyknow?”“Weneedtosolvetheproblemswecan,honey,”saidWes.ThatafternoonKitandLauratooktheMétrobacktothecity.Kitwasseven,afterall.He didn’t get back to the apartment until ten. Laura was already in bed but awake. They talked

logistics.Intwodaystheywerescheduledtoflyhome.ItmademoresenseforLauratostaywithHelen—she was a freelancer,Wes’s classes started in a week—but there was the question of language. ThequestionofParis.“I’llstay,”Wessaid.Theywereinbed.Beyond,M.Petit’sapartmentwassilent.Kitwasasleepinthe

twinbedroomontheothersideofthehall.Lauranodded.“Shouldn’tweall?”Thensheansweredherself.“Thirdgrade.”“Thirdgrade,”saidWes.SchoolstartedforKit inaweektoo.Sheshouldn’tmissit.“We’vegotthe

phones. Imaginewhat thisused tobe like.”They’d talkedabout that, howappallingly easy technologymadeittobeanexpatthesedays.“Listen,I’msure,I’msureinaweek,ortwo—wecanbringherhome.”NeitherofthemcouldwonderaloudwhatchangeinHelen’sconditionwouldallowthat.“Wherewillyoustay?”Lauraasked.“Oh,God.Ihadn’tthought.”HeknockedthenextmorningonM.Petit’sdoor.Twoyoungmenanswered.Oneofthemwasholding

somedarkartworkinalargeframe.Theotherheldanunfurlednewspaperandwasfoldingacupintooneofitspanes.“Bonjour,”saidWes,andthenhecouldn’tthinkofwhattosay.“English?”saidoneofthemen,abaldingredhead.“Yes.American.”Wespointedatthedoorbehindhim.“Ah!”saidtheredhead,andWescouldseeM.Petitinhisexpression.Inbothoftheirfaces,actually.

Hissons.Theredheadedmanexplained:theirfatherhaddiedsuddenly,unexpectedly.“Oh,no,”saidWes.“Iamsorry.”Hefeltatenderculpability,asthoughhisowndisasterhadseeped

throughthewallsandkilledtheoldman.Hetriedtorememberthelasttimehe’dheardM.Petit’smorningroutine.“Soyousee,”saidtheredhead.“Wemustpack.”“We’vehadanaccident,”saidWes.“Myfamily.Anemergency.IwaswonderingifIcouldextendthe

lease.”“Ah,no.No.Actuallymydaughterismovingin,nextweek,withherhusband.Newlyweds.”

Wesnodded.Hefeltatweakinhischest,disappointmentordespair.Heneededtostay,ascheaplyaspossible,andhecouldn’timaginewherehemightstartlookingforshelter,orhowlongitwouldtake.“But,” said the son. “Would you like—you could perhaps rent this?”He pointed at the floor ofM.

Petit’sapartment,thesamewarmburntorangetilesasnextdoor.Wespeereddownthehallwayintothemurk.“Verysudden,yousee.”“Yes,”Wessaid.“Thankyou.Merci.Mercimillefois.”Hetookthesemesterofffromschool.Hisdepartmentheadsaidthey’dfigurethingsoutsohecouldstill

draw a salary—a course reduction, a heavier load in the spring. Better to solve it now for everyoneinvolvedthantowondereverydaywhetherWesmightbecomingback.On the day of the flight he and Laura and Kit went to the hospital. Kit said goodbye to her sister

tearfully, tenderly, crawled into the bed and stroked Helen’s hair and said, “I promise, I promise, Ipromise.”Whatpromise?Westhoughtshewouldtellhimwhentheysaidgoodbyeattheairport,thoughwhentheygotthereKitwasawkward,unhappy,herhandsbunchedunderherchinasthough,ifhetriedtodrawherclose,shewouldfighthimoffwithherelbows.“Goodbye,Kitty,”hesaid.Shenodded.He thought then that he should find a place to lie down, likeHelen.You said goodbye to someone

differently if they were supine. But he didn’t see any benches, and if he lay on the ground, he’d bepummeled by European feet and suitcases. Security, perhaps. Send ahead his belt and shoes (only inprisonsandairportsdidastrangertellyoutotakethemoff).Puthissadsorrybodydown.Kitmightnotfallforitatfirst.“Dad,”shewouldsay,humiliated,becausenowshehadtobearthehumiliationforhersisteraswell.Butthen,surely,ashedisappeared,hishead,shoulders,beltlesswaist,astheagentssawthetruthofhiskidneys,hisemptypockets,shewouldruntohim,grabathisfeet—no.Feetfirst,sothatshehadenoughtimetowhisperthatpromiseinhisear.In the end he picked her up.He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Her toes knocked

againsthisshins.“We’lltalkeveryday,”hesaid.“Iknow,”sheanswered.ThenhekissedLaura.“Callmewhenyougetin.”“Itwillbetoolate.”“No,”hesaid.“Notpossible.”Hewatchedthemgothroughthecheckpoint.Laurakeptwaving,go,go,buthecouldn’t,notuntilthey

disappearedfromsight.Hetookthetrainbackintothecity,tomovehissuitcaseintoM.Petit’sapartment.Thefurniturewas

ancient,fringed,balding.Thewindowslookedontothecourtyard,notthestreet.Itfeltlikethedepressedcousinoftheapartmentwherethey’dbeensohappy.Therightplacetobe,inotherwords.Thebathroomhadaslippertub,deepandshort,withasteptositon.HowhadM.Petitclimbedintoit?Thebedwasinaloft.Nooctogenarianshouldhavetousealaddertogotosleep.Everythingintheworldnowlookedlikesomethingtofallfrom.HedecidedhewouldsleeponthelittleL-shapedcouch,incaseM.Petithaddiedin thebed.Heput thesea-serpent lampshadein themiddleof thecoffee tableandfellasleep.Hesurprisedhimselfbysleepingthroughthenight.Hecheckedthephone:atextfromLaura,Arrivedwillcallinmymorning/yourafternoon.Hewent,forthethirdday,tothehospital.TheborderbetweenconsciousnessandcomawasnotasdefinedasWeshadbeentaughtbytelevision

toexpect.They’dstoppedsedatingher.Helendidnotcomeburstingtothesurface,asthoughfromalake.Sheroseoutofunconsciousnessbymillimetersoverthenextfewdays.Hernosewokeup.Herforehead.Hercheeks.Hereyes.Thepressureinherskullabated;theventrictubecameout.Shehadthedaftlookofasaint.Evenherhandswereknottedtogetheratherchest,asthoughinprayer.

Hermouthwasopen.Thenursescombedherhair,whatwasleftof it,andthencalledin thehospital’shairdresser,whocroppeditlikeJeanned’Arc’s.

InthehospitalWesstudiedHelenashehadwhenshewasaninfant.Aroundandaroundherface,theknottedfingers, theanglesofhershoulders.Shewasn’tababy,ofcourse.Shewasagirl, thirteen inamonth,withbreasts,whosebodywouldkeepgoing further into adulthoodnomatterwhetherherbraincouldcatchup.Thedoctorssaiditwasstilltooearlytotell.He tried to findhisdaughter in the face, but she’dbeen so completely revised, and thenhe tried to

comforthimself:Helenwaspastworry.Theworstwouldnothappentoherbecauseitalreadyhad.Therewere no decisions to be made right now. She wouldn’t die. She was, for the moment, beyond anypsychologicalcomplexities.Hehadtobehere.Thathecouldmanage.Attheendofeveryday,hewalkedbacktoParis,allfourandahalfmiles:beneaththePériphérique,

through the seventeenth arrondissement, down le boulevardMalherbes, and he spoke toLaura, his earthrobbingagainsttheplasticofthephone.Shesoundedfaraway,relieved.Herelatedthelatestdiagnosis:theywerestillassessingwhetherHelen’sbraininjurywasfocalordiffuse.Herbrainwasstillswolleninherskull.Itmighttakeheryearstorecover.LauratoldhimthenewsofAmerica:theinsurancecompanywasbeingextraordinarilygoodatworkingwiththehospital;thecell-phonecompanywouldnotforgivethenearlythousand-dollarbillforHelen’spurloinedParisianphonecallsandtextmessages.SometimesKitwasthere,thoughtherewereswimminglessonsandplaydatesandflutelessonsorjustthesoundoftheslammingdoorasshewentoutside.“Wemissyou,”Laurawouldsay.“Wemissyoutoo,”heanswered.“Youmissus.Helendoesn’tmissanything.”“Wedon’tknow.”“Ifeelit.”“OK,”hesaid,becauseshemighthavebeenright.Bythetimethey’dtalkedthemselvesouthewasbackinthethirdarrondissement,andthenhewould

zagtowardstheriver.Hewalkedastheyhadtheirfirstjet-laggedday,toexhausthimselfbeforeclimbingthestairstoM.Petit’sapartment,sohecouldfallasleepwithouthearingthenoisesofthegranddaughterandherhusbandinthatthree-quarterbedontheothersideofthewall.Oronthesofa,oranycornerofhisoldhome.Sometimeshethought,That’susstill,andIamM.Petit,andhe tried to find thepartof thewallthatborderedonwhathadbeenthegirls’bedroom.Maybehewouldhearthemscheme.Maybethistimehecouldstopit.Ormaybehe’djustheartheneighborsfucking.OnenightonthewayhomehefoundalittlestorethatcateredtoAmericans,bigboxesofsugarycereal,

candybars,andhewantedtobuythemforHelen,whosenasogastrictubehadjustbeentakenout,thoughshe was fed only purees. The store carried every strain of American crap. French’s mustard, Skippypeanutbutter,StoveTopstuffing,evenCheezWhiz.He’dbeengonelongenoughfromtheU.S.thathefeltsentimentalaboutthefood,andhe’dbeeninParislongenoughtofeelsuperiortoit.Thenhesawthered-toppedjarofMarshmallowFluff.

“Somethingsweetforyou,”hesaidtoHelenthenextmorning.Hehuntedaroundforaspoonandfoundonlyatonguedepressor.Thatwoulddo.Helen closed her eyes as the Fluffwent in, as her roundmouth irised in around the stick.Wes felt

electrified.BeforethismomentHelenhadbeenablank,asmysterioustohimasshemusthavebeentotheemergencyroomwhenshe’dfirstarrived:agirlwho’ddroppedfromthesky.Unidentified.Cutofffromherhistory.Nowsheopenedhereyes,andhecouldsee,forthefirst time,Helenlookingoutofthem,though(he

thought) she couldn’t see anything. She was sunk in the bottom of a well. Everything above her was

hiddeninshadows.Hecouldseehertryingtomakesomethingout.Hermouth,agape,openedfurther,withmuscle,intent,greed:more.Hedugoutalargerdollop.Closedeyes,closedmouth,butwhenthetonguedepressorwentinHelen

begantocough.Itwasaterriblewetsound.“Areyouallright?”hesaid.Hewonderedwhetherheshouldputhisfingerinhermouth,scoopitout,

andthenhedid,andHelenbitdown.Firstjustpressure,thepeaksofhermolars,thenpain.Hetriedtopullouthisfinger.“Wow.Helen,”hesaid.“Helen,please,Helen,help!Help!”andthenherjawrelaxed,andhestoodwithhiswet,indentedfinger,panting.ThedoctoronthefloorwasDr.Delarche,thetallwomanwho’dsoinfuriatedLaura.Bythetimeshe

peeredintoHelen’smouthalltheFluffhadmeltedawayexceptawisponherupperlip.“What is this?” she asked Helen. She touched her chin, looking over her face. “Hein? This sticky

thing.”Wesstillheldhissorefinger.“Fluff.”“Floff?”Thedoctorturnedtohim.“Whatisthisfloff?”Thelidlessjarhadfallentothebed—hepulleditoutfromundertheblanket,andinclinedthemouth

toward thedoctor. “Marshmallow,um,crème,”he said,pronouncing it theFrenchway.“Youput itonbread,withpeanutbutter.”Dr. Delarche looked incredulous. “No,” she said. “This is not good for the body. Even without

traumaticbraininjurybutcertainlywith.Nomorefloff.”“OK,”hesaid,exhilarated.Hismistakehadbeentobelievethatthegirlinthebedwantednothing.ButthatwasHelen,andHelen

wasbuiltofwant.Shelonged,sheburned,evenifshecouldn’tmoveorswallowMarshmallowFluff.Hewishedhecouldfindherboyssotheycouldsitontheedgeofthebedandreadtoher;hewishedhecouldtakeherintothecity,letherdrinkwine.Well,then.Heneededtofindwhatshewanted,andbringittoher.Thatevening,after thewalk,he foundhimselfona street that seemed linedwithart supplies:apen

shop,apaintingshop,apaperstore.Inthepaintshopheboughtapadthatyoucouldpropuplikeaneasel,andwatercolorsinalittlemetalcasewithalooponthebackforyourthumb,forwhenyoupaintedpleinair.Itwasthesortofthinghe’dhaveboughtforthegirlsinanordinarytime.Hehadn’tpaintedhimselfsincegraduateschool—he’dbeenaprintmaker,andthat’swhathe taught—andithadbeenevenlongersincehe’dusedwatercolors.ButHelenhad.She’dtakenlessonsathome.Perhapsshecouldteachhim.That’swhathewouldtellher.“Ah!”saidthedoctor,whenshesawhimsetupthepad.“Yes.Therapy.Verygood.Thiswillhelp.”Theybegantopaint.

Yes,Helenwasthere,shewasinthere.Shecouldnotformwords.Shesmiledmorewidelywhenpeoplespoke to her but it didn’t seem to matter what they said. But with the brush in her hand—Wes juststeadying—shepainted.Atfirstthepaintingswereabstracts,fieldsofyellowandorangeandwaterypink(sheneverwentnearblue)overlaidwithcirclesandsquares.Sheknew,ashedidnot,howto thin thepaintwithwatertogetthecolorshewanted.Helenwasmovedtoaprivateroomonanotherfloor.Thehospitalmanicurist(“HowveryParisian!”

saidLaura,whenhetoldher)gavehervampredtoesandfingernails.Wes’sfavoritenurse,asmallmanwhoremindedhimofachampionwrestlerfromhishighschool,devisedabracefromasplintandacrepebandage to help with the painting, so that Helen could hold her wrist out for longer, though she stillneededhelpfromtheshoulder.“She’spainting,”saidWesonthephone.He’dblurteditoutattheendofaconversation,standingin

frontofthefrontdoorofthebuilding:untilthenhehadn’trealizedhe’dbeenkeepingitasecret.

“Whatdoyoumean?”askedLaura.Heexplainedittoher:thebrace,thewatercolors.“Whatisshepainting?”“Abstracts.I’lltakeapicture,youcansee.”Therewasasilence.“What?”“Nothing.Isighed.Youmeanshe’spaintinglikeanelephantpaints.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“There’sanelephantwhopaints.Maybemore thanone.Theystickabrush in its trunkandgive ita

canvas.Theresultsarebetterthanyou’dthink.Butit’snotreallypainting,isit?It’smovingwithpaint.Shedoesn’tknowwhatshe’sdoing.”“Shedoes,”saidWes.“She’sgettingbetter.”“Bymillimeters.”“Yes!Forward.”“Whatgoodisforward,ifit’sbymillimeters?”saidLaura.“Howfarcanshepossiblygo?”“Wedon’tknow!”“Iwishshehad—”Laurabegan.“Ijustdon’tknowwhatherlifeisgoingtobelike.”Anothersilence.Wesknewitwasn’tsighingthistime.Hesaid,“Listen.Igottago.”Hehadnothadadrinksincetheearlymorningcallfromthehospital;he’dhadthehorriblethoughthe

mighthavewokenupandcaughtHelensneakingoutthatnight,hadhebeenentirelysober.NowhethoughtaboutpickingupabottleofwinetotaketoM.Petit’s.Hepassedbythegymhe’dseenbefore,whichwasstillopenthoughitwastenatnight.Awomansatatstreetlevelinaglassbox,readytosignhimup.Sheworeordinarystreetclothes,notexercisetogs.“Bonjour,madame,”hesaid.“Jeparlefrançaistrèsmal.”“Ah,no!”saidthewoman.“Trèsbien.”Sheseemedtobecondescendingtohim,butinacheerful,nearlyAmericanway.Theactualgymwas in thebasement.ByAmericanstandards itwassmall,primitive,but therewere

freeweights—he’dliftedprettyseriouslyincollege—andacoupleoftreadmills.Fromthenonhecamehereafterhislongwalk,hisphoneconversationwithLaura,becauseonlyexertionbluntedtheknowledgethatLaurawishedthatHelenhaddied.HehopedLaurahadsomethingtodo,tobluntherownknowledgethatheknewshefeltthiswayanddisagreed.Forsomereasononeofthepersonaltrainerstookadisliketohimandwasalwaysbawlinghimoutin

French, forbringingadufflebagonto thegymfloor, for lettinghisknees traveloverhis toeswhenhesquatted,forgettinginthewayoftheFrenchpeoplewhoseemedalwaystobeswingingaroundbroomhandlesasaformofexercise.Thetrainer’snamewasDidier,accordingtotheflyersbythefrontdesk;hishairwas shaved around thebaseof his skull, longon top.Like anoignon,Wes thought.Didier drankostentatiouslyfromabigNalgenebottlefilledwithapaleyellowliquid,anditpleasedWestopretendhewasconsuminghisownurine.Itwasgoodtohatesomeone,tohaveanewrelationshipofanykindwithnomedicalundertones.WhenI’vebeenhereayear,hethoughtonenight,asheperformeddeadliftsinthepowerrack,when

we find therightplace to live,meandHelen—thenI’llgetagirlfriend.The thoughtseemed tohaveflown into his head like a bird—impossible, out of place, smashing around. It didn’t belong there. Itcouldn’tgetout.Afterthreeweeks,Helenwasnotjustbetter,butmeasurablybetter:sheheldherheadup,sheturnedtowhoeverwasspeaking,shesqueezedhandswhenpeoplesaidhername.

Andshepainted.Theabstractshadhardened, angled,untilWescould seewhat shemeant.Shewaspainting Paris. Back in theU.S. they had thoughtHelen had talent and they’d seized on it, bought hersupplies, sent her to classes, not just painting but sculpture, pastel, photography. The problem wascontent,nobetterthananysuburbanAmericangirl’s:Floatingprincesses.Prettyladies.Ballgowns.Nowshepaintedstainedglassandbrokenbuildingsinsunshine,monuments,gardens.Hecouldfeelher

handstrugglingtogetthingsright.Shedrewfaceswithstrangecurvesandbentsmiles.Thefirsttimeshesignedhernameinthecornerinfatbrightletters,Wesburstintotears.Staffandvisitorstookherpaintingsaway,withoutasking,andWeshadtohidetheonesheparticularly

wanted.HewaswaitingfortherightonetomailtoLaura,hetoldhimself,buteveryday’spaintingswerebetterthanthelast.Hewantedtosendthebestone.OnemorningheranintoDr.DelarcheonhiswaytoHelen.“Monsieur,”shesaid,andbeckonedhim.

Weswasalarmed.TherewasneveranynewsfromdoctorsaboutHelen.Heeitherhadtoaskorseeforhimself.Andbesides,Dr.DelarcheworkedintheICU.“Imustaskyousomething,”shesaid.Henodded.“Myhusbandisadocumentarist.Iwonder—ItoldhimaboutHelenandherpainting.Hewishestodoa

littlefilm.”“Oh!”saidWes.“Yes!”ThedocumentaristewasashaggyhandsomeAlgeriannamedWalidwhomadeWeslikeDr.Delarche

better:hehadanairofjoyandincaution.“Youdon’tmind?”hesaid.Hiscamerawasoneofthosecheaphandheld things, a Flip—Laura’s mother had given them one the year before. Wes had better videocapabilitiesonhisNikon,backattheflat.HeimaginedmostofthefootagewouldfeaturetheprofileofWalid’swidecallusedthumb.Hedidn’t tellLaura about the filming. Shewould tell him to throw the doctor’s husband out of the

room.Donotturnourchildintoafreakshow,shewouldhavesaid——butWesknewthatwasallthatHelenhadeverreallywanted.Notlove,andnotquotidianattention:sinceshewasachildshelikedtoscareandalarmherparents

andstrangersandhedidnotbelieveanymorethatitwassomesortofcodedmessage—acryforlove!Shejustwantsyou to talk toher!Helenwanted lovebutnoordinarysort.Shewantedpeople togape.LeftaloneintheU.S.,shewouldnotjusthavehadhernosepierced,norherears,shewouldnothavegotjustblackforkedtattoosacrossthesmallofherback:shewouldhaveobliteratedherselfwithmetalandink,put plugs in her earlobes, in her lips. Peoplewould have stared at her.Theywould havewinced andlookedaway.Shewantedboth.Nowshehadboth.He was not stupid enough, not optimistic enough, to think that she would have made this bargain

herself.Shewouldn’thavegivenuptheboysinsomestrangepartofParis,offeringherwine,watchingherdosomethingstupidbeforeshefell.Butifshewasinbedinahospital,shewould—notwould,butdid—wanttobethemostinterestinggirlinthebedwhoeverwas.Filmedandfussedover.Called,bythemoredramaticofthenurses,miraculous.Visitedbythesickchildrenofthehospital,whowerebroughtbywell-meaningreligiousvolunteers.Helen’sroomwasaplaceofwarmthandbrightness.Everyonesaidso.Walidkeptfilming,thoughWes

wasnevercleartowhatend.“Perhaps,” saidWalid one day, “whenwe are finished, the boys shewaswith? Theywill see this

film.”“Theycouldcometovisit!”saidWes.“Eh?”saidWalid.HestoppedfilmingandregardedWes.“Turnthemselvesin.Repent.That’saterrible

thing, to abandon a girl, isn’t it?You areAmerican and youwant them dead,” he explained. “We, of

course,donotbelieveinthedeathpenalty.Anymore:wehavehadourbumps.Butstill.Terriblething.”“Sheisaninspiration,”saidDr.DelarcheonedayasWesandHelenpainted.“Thisisnotabadthing.”Dr.Delarcheleanedagainstthewallinthelabcoatshemadelookchic:itwasthewayshetuckedherhands in thepockets.SinceWeshadagreed to letWalid film, she came to the roomnearly everyday,thoughneverwhenWalidhimselfwasaround.Maybeshehadacrushonhim,thoughthatseemedveryun-French.Hehadacrushonher.“Thelightinthepaintings,”shesaidtohim.“LikeMonet,hein?”“God,no,”saidWes.“IhateMonet.Whereyougoing,Helen?Red?Here’sred.”“Renoir,”suggestedDr.Delarche.“Worse.No,”saidWes,“IwilltakeyoursideagainsttheItalianswithwine,andcoffee,andevenice

cream,butpainting?Theyhaveyoubeat.TheFrencharetoopretty.”“We are pretty,”Dr.Delarche agreed. “And cheese also,we are better.Wine, of course. Everyone

knowthat.Sothen.Youaremakingplans?”Heshookhisheadpleasantly,notknowingwhatshemeant.“SoonHelenwillgo,”shesaid.“Die?”hesaid.HestoppedhishandandfeltthepressureofHelenwantingtomove,buthepulledthe

brushfromthebraceandsetitdown.Hewassorryhe’dsaidthewordinfrontofher.“Ah,no!”saidDr.Delarche.Shesoundedinsultedthathe’dmisunderstoodhersobadly.TheFrench,in

hisexperience,wereofteninsultedbyotherpeople’sstupidity.“Fromhere.”“Toanotherhospital.”“Home.TotheUnitedStates.Youwilltalktothesocialworkers,seewhattheyknow—sheisbetter.Of

course.Sheismuch,muchbetter,andnowsheisstrongenoughtotravel.So,hurrah,isn’tit?Youwillgohometoyourfamily.”“Ofcourse,”hesaid.Heleftthehospitalthen;healmostneverwalkedoutofthebuildingduringtheday.Neuilly-sur-Seine

lookedlikeastagesetbuiltbysomeonewhohadneverbeentoParisandimagineditwasboring:cleannineteenth-century buildings with mansard roofs, little cafés that served coffee in white china cups,nothingnotableorseedy.HethoughtabouttakingHelenbacktoM.Petit’sapartmentandherealizedthatwastherealreasonhe’dstartedgoingtothegym:heliftedweightssothathecouldliftHelen.Fiveflightsup.Intotheslipperbath.AroundParis,even.He’dwalkedenoughofthecitytoknowitwasaterribleplaceforawheelchair.NoAmericanswithDisabilitiesAct,nocutoutsincurbs.Itwouldbeeasieronfoot.HewouldcarryhertotheJardindesPlantes.Theywouldpainttheanimalsinthezoo,visitthemosaic

tearoomatthemosque.Inhisheadhesawherimprovebytimelapse:hermouthclosed,shesatstraighter.He didn’t care that their short-term visas would expire in two weeks. He could not picture them inAmerica.IfshecouldnotwalkorspeakinAmerica,thenshewouldnotwalkorspeakfortherestofherlife,and

thatwassomethinghewouldnotaccept.ButwhenhecalledLauraonhiswayhomethatnight,shesaidshewascomingintwodays.Kitwould

staywithfriends.Herbrotherhadgivenheralast-minuteticket.ShewantedtoseeforherselfhowHelenwasdoing.AsWeswaitedattheairportheworriedhewouldn’trecognizehiswife—healwaysworriedthis,whenmeetingsomeone—andhisheartclatteredeverytimetheelectricdoubledoorsopenedtorevealanotherexhausted traveler. When she came out, of course, he knew her immediately, and he felt the oldpercolationofhisbloodof their earlydates,whenhe lovedher anddidn’t knowwhatwouldhappen.

That’sher,hethought.Shecrossedthetileoftheairportanditwasnomirageofdistance.Shefellintohimandhelovedher.Hefeltashamedofeveryawfulthoughthe’dhadaboutherforthepastweeks.Theyheldeachother’stirednessawhile.“Youfeeldifferent,”shesaid.“Thinner.Youlookkindofwonderful.How’sDidier?”“Ihatehimwitheveryfiberofmybeing.Youlookmorethankindofwonderful.”Sheshookherhead.Thenshesaid,“Idon’twanttogobackthere.”“Where?”hesaid.“Oh.Well,that’swhereHelenis.”“That’snotwhereHelenis.”“She’sbetter.She’s—she’llknowyou’rethere.”Assoonashe’dsaiditherealizedhe’dbeentelling

Lauratheopposite,tocomforther:Helendidn’treallyknowwhowasthereandwhowasn’tandthereforeitwasallrightthatLauraandKitwerethousandsofmilesawayinAmerica.“Really?”saidLaura.“Yes.”“Howdoessheshowit?”Theyheadeddowntotheairport trainstation.WeshadalreadyboughttheticketsbackintoParis.At

lasthesaid,“She’spainting.She’sstillpainting,Laura.”Thetrainstoppedinfrontofthemwitharefrigeratedhissandtheysteppedon.“Iknow.”“What?”“Kit showedme.OnYouTube. Imean, itdoesn’t showherpainting.She’snot really, is she. Idon’t

believeit.”HehadheardaboutnewstravelingontheInternet,butheimaginedthatwasgossip,oraffairs,orboss

badmouthing:ittraveledlocally,notfromcountrytocountry.“Who’s really painting?” saidLaura. “The therapist, or someone.One of those religiouswomen. In

someoftheshotsyoucanseeahandsteadyingherelbow.”“Helen,”saidWes.“Ipromise.Comeon.She’llshowyou.”AttheGareduNord,Laurasaid,“Let’stakeacab.Let’sgoseeHelen.”“Don’tyouwanttodropoffyoursuitcase?”Sheshookherhead.“Iwishyou’dfoundanotherplacetostay.”Theywenttothestandalongthesideofthestation.Hehadn’tbeeninsideataxisincetheirfirstdayin

Paris.Mornings,hewenttothehospitalunderground,afternoonshecamebackbyfoot.Hefeltsuddenlythateverynationalweaknessapeoplehadwasevidentonitshighways.“Doyouhavecash?”Lauraaskedastheypulledup.“Ithoughtyoudid.”“Ijustgothere.Ihavedollars.”Hedugthroughhispocketsandfoundjustenough.Theysteppedoutside.“Ihateithere,”Laurasaid,lookingatthecleanfaçadeofthehospital.“Iknow.Ihateittoo.”“No.You’rebetterthanme.Youdon’thateit.Youhatethesituation.That’stherightresponse.Me,I

wanttorunoutthedoorandnevercomeback.Iwould,ifIcould.”“Thisway,”hesaid.“Theymovedher.”AtfirstWeswasstruckbyhowgoodHelenlooked,thepinkinhercheeks,thenearlychichaircut,and

thenheglancedatLauraandthenheunderstoodhowlittle,really,theirdaughterhadchanged.Ithadbeensixweeks.Shelookeddazedandcheerful.Shecouldn’tspeak.“Hi,honey,”saidWes.“Look.Mommy’shere.”“Oh,God,”saidLaura.“Sshh,”saidWes.

But Laurawas by the bed. She touchedHelen’s cheek. “Honey,” she said. “Sweetheart. Shit.” Shelookeddown the lengthofHelenandpulledup the sheet:herbentkneeswith thepillowbetween, thewastingmuscles,thecathetertube.Sheshookherhead,rearrangedthesheet.“Iknow,Iknowwhatyouthinkofme,Wes.”“Idon’t—”“It’snotthatit’snother.It’sthat—whoeverthispersoninthebedis,she’swheremyHelenshouldbe.

That’swhatIcan’tgetoverandit’swhatIknowIhaveto.”LaurawaswearingadressshehadboughtintheJulysaleswhenthey’dfirstarrived,red,withblue

embroideredflowersontheshoulderslikeepaulets.Shehadbeltedittootight.Shehadlostweighttoo.“Justsit,”hesaidtoher.“Therearechairs.Here’sone.We’llpaint.Shallwepaint,Helen?”Hewoundthebracearoundherwrist,alwaysapleasingtask,andslidinHelen’sfavoritelong-handled

brush,meantforoils,notwatercolors.Heproppedupthepadonthewheeled table thatcameover thebed,gotthewater,thecolors,dampenedthepaints.Theybegan.“You’redoingit,”saidLaura.“No,”hesaidpatiently.“I’mjuststeadyingherhand.”“Thenletgo,”saidLaura.Hedid,andhebelieveditwouldhappen:herhandwouldsailup,likeabirdtossedintheair.Itwould

justkeepflying.Yes,thatwasright.Ifanything,hewantedtotellLaura,hewasholdingherhandtoostill,hewasinterfering.Shedidn’tneedhimanymore.Butherhandwenttickingdowntothebottomofthepage,andstopped.Helen’sjawworked,andLauraandWeswatchedit.Shehadnotmadeanoiseinweeks.Shedidnot

makeonenow.Theshorthaircutlookedalternatelygamineandlikeapunishment.Wespickedherhandbackup,placedit,letgo.Tick,tick,tothebottomofthepage.“Soyousee,”saidLaura.Wesshookhishead.No.She’dneededthehelpbuthewasnotcapableofthosepaintings.Andifhewas,whatdidthatmean?ThepaintingswerewhatwasleftofHelen.“She’snotafraud,”saidWes.“No,Idon’tthinksheis,”saidLaura.“Idon’tthinkshe’sanything.She’snotathome,Wes.”“Isn’tshe?”saidWes.“No,”saidLaura.Shetappedherhead.“Imeanhere,inherbrain,she’snotathome.Itdoesn’tmatter

whereherbodyis.Herbodywillbeathomeanywhere.Butitmatterswhereyourbodyis.Weneedtotakeherhomeandyoutoo.”“Itisn’tjustmewho’sseenit,”saidWes.“Whodoesn’tloveamiraclegirl,”saidLaura,butwithlove.“Iwantedonetoo,honestly.Iwouldhave

lovedit,ifithadbeenreal.”But,thoughtHelen—becauseHelenwasathome,Helenheardeverything—wasn’titmoreofamiracle

thisway?Hermotherwas right. She could notmove her hands: thatwas her father. But she saw thepicturesinherhead,thosefieldswiththeapartmentblocks,thatgoldenlight—andshecouldn’tmoveherhandtogetthemonthepaper.Herfatherdid.Therewasthemiracleeveryonespokeabout,inEnglishandinFrench.Thevisitingnuns said itwasGod,but itwasher fatherwho tookherhandandpainted thepicturesinherhead.Everytimehegotthemright:thebuildings,thelightposts,thosetranslucentfloatingthingsacrossherfieldofvisionwhenshewasn’texactlylookingatanything,whatasachildshethoughtofasherconscience—floaters,herfatheroncetoldhertheywerecalled.“Ihavethemtoo,”he’dsaid.Theywereworseinthehospital,permanentstatic.Shesaw,hepaintedtheinsideofhersnow-globeskull,all those thingswhizzingaroundwhenshefell—thewater toweron topof thebuilding, theboywho’dkissedher,theotherboywho’dpushedher,thoseweretheirfacesinthecornerofthepage,thebottlesofwineshe’ddrunk—backhomeshe’dhadbeerandpeppermintschnappsandhaddrunkcoughsyrup,but

notwine.Winewas everything here. Those boyswould come visit her. They’d promised theywouldwhentheydroppedheroff.Shehadtostayput.Don’tlethertakeme,Daddy.Hermotherhadn’tlookedherintheeyesinceshe’dcomeintotheroom,butwhenhadshe,ever,ever,ever,thoughtHelen.Allherlife,she’dbeentoobrightalight.“CarelessHelen,”saidLaura,andthentoWes,“Doyouknow,IthinkI’veonlyjustforgivenher.”“Whatfor?”askedWes.Sherubbedhernoseabsentmindedly.“Funnysmell.Whatisthat?”Notmedicinenorillness:theiridescentpolishthemanicuristhadappliedtoHelen’stoes.Inordertowakeupeverymorning,thoughtWes,he’dconvincedhimselfofalotofthingsthatweren’t

true.Hecouldfeelsomeofhisbeliefscrumblelikeoldplaster—life inParis,walkingthestreetswithHelen inhisarms, revengeonDidier,evenDr.Delarche’scrush.Ofcourse theywouldgoback to theStates,whereKitwas,theywouldtalktoexperts,theywouldfindafacility,theywouldbringHelenhomeassoonastheycould,whereshewouldbevisitedbyAddieofthebracesandtheclarinet,andboysfromherschool.Shemightneverwalkagain.Butherbodywouldpersist. Itwasbrokenbutnotfailing.Shewastheirsfortherestoftheirlives,andthenKitwouldinherither.ThatwaswhatLaurahadseenfromthefirstday,andithadcrushedher,andshewasonlyjustnowshiftingthatweightfromherchest.Helenpainted.Thatwasreal.Heknewhisownbrain,whatitcouldmakeupandwhatitcouldn’t.He

lookedathiswife,whomheloved,whomhelookedforwardtoconvincing,andfeltasthoughheweredivingheadfirstintohappiness.Itwasacircusact,aperilousone.Happinesswasanarrowtank.Youhadtomakesureyouclearedthelip.

THOMASMCGUANE

MotherlodeFROMTheNewYorkerLOOKINGINTHEhotelmirror,DavidJenkinsadjustedtheStetsonhedislikedandpulledonawindbreakerwithacattle-vaccinelogo.HeworkedforasyndicateofcattlegeneticistsinOklahoma,thoughhe’dnevermethisemployers—hehadearnedhiscredentialsthroughanonlineagriculturalportal,muchthewaythatsomepeoplebecameministers.Hewasstill inhis twenties,averybrightyoungman,butastonishinglyuneducatedineveryotherway.HehadspentthenightinJordanattheGarfieldHotel,whichwasanideallocationformeetinghisranchclientsinthearea.Hehadwokenearlyenoughtobethefirstcustomeratthecafé.Onthefrontstep,anolddogsleptwithacanceledfirst-classstampstucktoitsbutt.BythetimeDavid had ordered breakfast, older ranchers occupied several of the tables,waving to him familiarly.ThenamanfromUtah,whomhe’dmetatthehotel,appearedinthedoorwayandstopped,lookingaroundthe room. Theman, who’d told David that he’d come to Jordan to watch the comets, was small andintense, middle-aged, wearing pants with an elastic waistband and flashy sneakers. Several of therancherswerestaringathim.Davidhadaskedthehoteldeskclerk,anelderlyman,aboutthecomets.Theclerksaid,“Idon’tknowwhathe’stalkingaboutandI’velivedhereallmylife.Hedoesn’tevenhaveacar.”Davidstudiedthemenutokeepfrombeingnoticed,butitwastoolate.Themanwasathistable,laughing,hiseyesshrinkingtopointsandhisgumsshowing.“Stopworrying!I’llgetmyowntable,”hesaid,drumminghisfingersonthebackofDavid’schair.Davidfeltthatinsomeoddwayhewasbeingassessed.Thedoor to thecafé,whichhadannoyingbellsona string,kept clatteringopenand shut to admit a

broadsampleofthecommunity.Davidenjoyedallthecomradelygreetingsandgentleneedlingfromtheranchersandfelthimselftobeconnectedtothescene,iflightly.OnlythefellowfromUtah,sittingalone,seemedentirelyapart.Thecookpusheddishafterdishacrosshertallcounterwhilethewaitressspedtokeepup.Shehada lot todo,but it lentherastarqualityamongthediners,whoteasedherwithmockpersonalquestionsorair-pinchedasherbottomwentpast.Davidmadenotesaboutthisandthatonapadhetookfromhisshirtpocket,untilthewaitress,ayellow

pencilstuckinherchignon,arrivedwithhisbaconandeggs.Heturnedawelcomingsmiletoher,hopingthatwhen he looked back themanwould be gone, but hewas still at his table, givingDavid an oddmilitarysaluteandthenholdinghisnose.Daviddidn’tunderstandthesegesturesandwasdisquietedbytheimplicationthatheknewtheman.Heatequickly,thenwenttothecountertopay.Thewaitresscameout of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth, looked the cash register up and down, and said,“EverythingOK,Dave?”“Yes,verygood,thanks.”“Putitawayinanawfulhurry.OuttoLarsen’s?”“No,Iwasthereyesterday.Bredheifers.Theyheldeverythingback.”“They’rebigonnextyear.Iwonderifit’lldothemanygood.”“They’restillhere,ain’tthey?I’mheadedforJorgensen’s.Bigday.”Twoof the ranchers had finished eating and, Stetsons on the back of their heads, chairs tilted, they

pickedtheirteethwiththecornersoftheirmenus.AsDavidputhiswalletinhispocketandheadedforthedoor,herealizedhewasbeingfollowed.Hedidn’tturnuntilhewashalfwayacrosstheparkinglot.Whenhedid,thegunwasinhisstomachandhisnewfriendwassmilingathim.“Name’sRay.Where’syouroutfit?”Rayhadalong,narrowfaceandtightlymarcelleddirty-blondhairthatfelllowonhisforehead.

“Areyourobbingme?”“Ineedaride.”RaygotinthefrontseatofDavid’scar,tuckedtheguninhispants,andpulledhisshirtoverthetopof

it, a blue terry-cloth shirt with a large breast pocket that contained a pocket liner and a number ofballpointpens.Theflapofthepocketlinersaid“PowellSavings,Modesto,CA.”“Nicecar.What’reallthefilesinbackfor?”“Breedingrecords—cattle-breedingrecords.”“Mind?”HepickedupDavid’scellphoneand,withoutwaitingforananswer,tappedinanumber.Ina

moment, his voice changed to an intimate murmur. “I’m there, or almost there—” Covering themouthpiece,hepointedtotheintersection.“Takethatonerightthere.”Davidturnedeast.“Igotitwrotedownsomeplace,East200,North13,butgiveittomeagain,myangel.OrIcancallyouaswegetcloser.OK,afriend’sgivingmealift.”Hecoveredthemouthpiece.“Yourname?”“David.”“Davidfrom?”“ReedPoint.”“Yeah,greatguyIknewbackinReedPlace.”“ReedPoint.”“I mean, Reed Point. Left the Beamer for an oil change, and Dave said he was headed this way.

Wouldn’tevenletmesplitthegas.So,OK,justleavingJordan.Howmuchlonger,Morsel?Twohours!Areyoufuckingkidding?OK,OK,twohours.I’mjustanxioustoseeyou,baby,notbeingshortwithyouatall.”Liftinghis eyes to the emptymilesof sagebrush,Ray snapped the cellphone shut and said, sighing,

“Twofuckinghours.”Ifitweren’tfortheguninhispants,hecouldhavebeenanyotheraginglovebird.Heturnedtheradioonbriefly.SwapShopwason theair:“Brokenrefrigeratorsuitable forasmoker.”Babiesbawlinginthebackground.Heturneditoff.DavidwastryingtoguesswhoRaymightreallybe—thatis,ifhewasafugitivefromthelaw,someonehecouldbringtojustice,inexchangeforfameorsomekind of reward, something good for business.He had tried everything he could to enhance his cattle-inseminationbusiness,evenrefrigeratormagnetswithhisfaceonthemthatsaid“Don’tgobustshippingdries.”Heasked,“Ray,doyoufeelliketellingmewhatthisisallabout?”“Sure,Dave.It’sallaboutyoudoingasyou’retold.”“Isee.AndI’mtakingyousomewhere,amI?”“Uh-huh,andstayingasneeded.JesusChrist,ifthisisn’ttheugliestcountryIeverseen.”“Howdidyoupickme?”“Ipickedyourcar.Youwerea throw-in. Ihadn’t tookyoualongyou’d’ve reportedyourcar stolen.

Thiswayyoustillgotit.It’sawin-win.Theluckythingforyouisyou’remypartnernow.Andyouwannapickupthetempohere?You’redrivinglikemygrandma.”“This isn’t a great road. Deer jump out on it all the time. My cousin had one come through the

windshieldonhim.”“Fuckin’pinitorI’lldriveitlikeIdidstealit.”Davidspedupslightly.ThisseemedtoplacateRayandheslumpedbythewindowandstaredatthe

landscapegoingby.Theypassedanoldpickuptruck,travelingintheoppositedirection,adeadanimalinthebackwithoneuprightlegtrailinganAmericanflag.After they’d driven for nearly two hours,mostly in silence, a light tail-dragger aircraftwith red-and-white-bandedwingsflewjustoverheadandlandedontheroadinfrontofthem.Thepilotclimbedoutandshuffledtowardthecar.Davidrolleddownhiswindow,andalean,weatheredfaceunderasweat-stained

cowboyhat looked in.“Youmissedyour turn,” themansaid.“Mileback, turnnorthon the two-track.”Rayseemedtobetryingtosendagreetingthatshowedallhisteethbuthewasignoredbythepilot.“NicelittlePiperJ-3Cub,”Raysaid.Thepilotstrodebacktotheplane,taxieddowntheroad,gotairborne,andbankedsharplyoverafive-

strand barbed wire, startling seven cows and their calves, which ran off into the sage, scatteringmeadowlarksandcloudsofpollen.Davidturnedthecararound.Raysaid,“Oldfellowbackatthehotelsaidthere’ssupposedtobedinosaursaroundhere.”Hegazed

atthepalelightofagaswellonafarridge.“That’swhattheysay.”“Whatd’yousupposeoneofthemisworth?LikeawholeTyrannosaurusrex?”David just lookedatRay.Herewas the turn,a two-track thatwasbarelymanageable inanordinary

sedanandDavidcouldn’t imaginehowitwasnegotiated inwinterorspring,when thenotorious localgumbo turned tomud.He’ddeliveredaCharolaisbullnearhereone fall, and itwasbadenough then.Plus,thebullhadtornuphistrailerandhe’dlostmoneyonthedeal.“So,Dave,we’reabouttoarriveandIshouldtellyouwhatthegunisfor.I’mheretomeetagirl,butI

don’tknowhowit’sgonnaturnout.Imayneedtobailandyou’remylift.Thestoryis,mycarisinforrepair.Youstayuntilweseehowthisgoesandcarrymeoutofhere,ifnecessary.Myfriendheresaysyou’reonboard.”“IguessIunderstand,butwhatdoesthisalldependon?”“It depends onwhether I like the girl or not,whetherwe’re compatible andwant to start a family

business.IhavealotI’dliketopassontothenextgeneration.”Thenextbendrevealedthehouse,atwo-storyranchbuildingwithlittleofitspaintleft.Raygazedat

thePiperCub,whichwasnowparkedinafieldbythehouse,andattheMontanastateflagpoppingontheiron flagpole.“Oro y plata,” he said, chuckling. “Perfect.Now,Davey, I need you to boneup on thesituationhere.ThisistheWeldonCasecattleranch,anditrunsfromhererightuptotheBakkenoilfield,fortymilesaway,whichiswherealltheoroyplataisatthemoment.I’mguessingthatwasWeldonintheairplane.ImetWeldon’sdaughter,Morsel,throughadatingservice.Well,wehaven’tactuallymetinrealtime,butwe’reaboutto.Morselthinksshelovesme,andwe’rejustgonnahavetoseeaboutthat.AllyouhavetoknowisthatMorselthinksI’manAudidealerfromSimiValley,California.She’sgoingononephotographofmestandinginfrontofanAudiflagshipthatdidnotbelongtome.Youdecideyouwanttohelp,andyoumayseemorewalkin’-aroundmoneythanyou’reusedto.Ifyoudon’t,well,you’veseenhowIputmywishesintoeffect.”Hepattedthebulgeunderhisshirt.“Ijustwhistleahappytuneandstartshooting.”Davidpulledupunder the gazeofWeldonCase,whohad emerged from the plane.Whenhe rolled

downthewindowtogreettheoldmanagain,Casejuststared,thenturnedtocallouttothehouse.“It’sthecowboy way,” Ray muttered through an insincere smile. “Or else he’s retarded. Dave, ask him if heremembersfallingoutofhishighchair.”Astheygotoutofthecar,Morselappearedonthefrontstepandinquired,inapenetratingcontralto,

“Whichoneisit?”Rayraisedhishandsandtiltedhisheadtooneside,asthoughmodestlyquestioninghimself.DavidnotedthatthegunwasinadequatelyconcealedandturnedquicklytoshakeWeldonCase’shand.Itwaslikeseizingaplank.“You’relookingathim,”RaycalledouttoMorsel.“Oh,Christ,”sheyelled.“IsthiswhatIget?”Itwashardtosaywhetherthiswasapositiveresponse

ornot.Morselwasascalemodelofherfather,wind-weatheredand,ifanything,lessfeminine.Herviewof the situation was quickly clarified as she raced forward to embrace Ray, whose look of suavedetachmentwasbrieflyinterruptedbyfear.Atoothwasmissing,aswellasasmallpieceofherear.“Oh,Ray!”

Weldon lookedatDavidwitha sourexpression, then spoke, ina lusterless tone:“Morselhasmadesomepeachcobbler. Itwasherma’s recipe.Herma isdead.”Rayputonaghastly lookof sympathy,whichseemedtofoolMorsel,whosqueezedhisarmandsaid,“Startedinherliverandjusttookoff.”A small trash pile next to the porch featured a couple of played-outOdor-Eaters.Davidwondered

where thewalkin’-aroundmoneyRayhad alluded towas supposed to come from. “Place is kindof amess,”Morselwarned.“Wedon’tcollectbutwenevergetridof.”Astheywent intothehouse,WeldonaskedDavidifheenjoyedshootingcoyotes.Hereplied,“I just

driveRayaround”—Rayturnedtolisten—“andwhateverRaywantsIguessiswhatwedo...whateverhe’s into.”Davidkept tohimself thatheenjoyedpoppingcoyotesouthiscarwindowwith the .25–06withaRedfieldrangefinderscopeandatripodthathe’dgotfromHillCountryCustoms.Davidlivedwithhismotherandhadahabitoftellingheraboutthegreatshotshe’dmade—likethefive-hundred-yarderonTinCanHillwithonlythehoodforarest,nosandbags,notripod.David’sUncleMauryhadtoldhimalongtimeago,“Itdon’tshootflat,throwthefuckin’thingaway.”David,who enjoyed brutally fattening food, thoughtMorselwas a good cook, butRay ate only the

salad,discreetlyliftingeachleafuntilthedressingranoff.WeldonwatchedRayandhardlysaidaword,asMorselgrewmoremanic,jigglingwithlaughterandenthusiasmateachlightheartedremark.Infact,itwas necessary to lower the temperature of the subjects—toheart attacks, highwaywrecks, cancer—inorder to get her to stop guffawing. Weldon planted his hands flat on the table, rose partway, andannounced that he’d use the tractor to pull the plane around back. David was preoccupied with themountain of tuna casserole between him and the peach cobbler and hardly heard him.Ray, small anddisorientednexttoMorsel,shothiseyesaroundthetable,lookingforsomethinghecouldeat.“Daddydon’tsaymuch,”Morselsaid.“Ican’tsaymuch,”Raysaid,“withhimhere.Dave,couldyoucutusalittleslack?”“Sure,Ray,ofcourse.”Davidgotup,stillchewing.“Seeyouintheroom,”Raysaidsharply,twistinghischintowardthedoor.

Weldon had shown them their room bywalking past it and flicking the door openwithout aword. Itcontainedtwoironbedsteadsandadresser,atopwhichwereDavid’sandRay’sbelongings,thelatter’sconsisting of a JanSport backpackwith the straps cut off.Davidwas better organized,with an actualovernight bag and a Dopp kit. He had left the cattle receipts and breeding documents in the car. Hefloppedonthebed,handsbehindhishead,thengotupabruptlyandwenttothedoor.Helookedoutandlistenedforalongmoment,easeditclosed,andshottothedresser,wherehebeganrootingthroughRay’sbelongings: rolls of money in rubber bands, generic Viagra from India, California lottery tickets, apassportidentifyingRaymondCoelho,awoman’saqua-coloredwallet,withadebitcardinthenameofEleanorCoelhofromFoodProcessorsCreditUnionofModesto,Turlockgroceryreceipts,abagoftrailmix, and the gun. David lifted the gun carefully with the tips of his fingers. He was startled by itslightness.Turning it over inhishand,hewas compelled to acknowledge that therewasnohole in thebarrel. Itwasa toy.He returned it to thepack, fluffed thesides,andsped tohisbed tobegin feigningsleep.Itwasn’tlongbeforeRaycamein,singing“NowIstheHour”inaflatandaggressivetonethathardly

suitedthelyrics:“Sunsetglowfadesinthewest,nighto’erthevalleyiscreeping!Birdscuddledownintheirnest,soonall theworldwillbesleeping.Butnotyou,Dave.You’reawake,Icantell.Ihopeyouenjoyedthesong.It’sHugoWinterhalter.Morselsangittome.She’sverynice,andsheneedsaman.”“Lookslikeyougotthejob.”“Dowhat?Hey,here’swhat’sgoingonwithme:I’mstarving.”“I’msureyouare,Ray.Youatelikeabird.”

“Ihadnochoice.Thatkindoffoodgathersaroundthechambersoftheheartlikeanoctopus.Butrightbehind the house they got a vegetable garden, andmy plan for you is to slip out and bringme somevegetables.I’vebeentoldtostayoutofthegarden.Don’ttouchthetomatoes—they’renotripe.”“Whatelseisthere?”“Greensandrootvegetables.”“I’mnotgoingoutthere.”“Oh,yes,youare.”“Whatmakesyouthinkso?”Raywenttohispackandgotoutthegun.“Thismakesmethinkso.Thiswillreallysticktoyourribs,getit?”“I’mnotpickingvegetablesforyou,or,technicallyspeaking,stealingthemforyou.Forgetit.”“Wow.Isthisamoodswing?”“Callitwhatyouwant.Otherwise,it’sshootorshutup.”“OK,butnotforthereasonyouthink.Iprefernottowakeupthewholehouse.”“Andthebody’dbeaproblemforyou,asahouseguestandnewfiancé.”“Verywell,verywell.Thistime.”Rayputthegunbackinhispack.“Youdon’tknowhowcloseyou

came.”“Whatever.”David rolled over to sleep, but he couldn’t stop his thoughts. He should have spent the day at

Jorgensen’s with his arm up a cow’s ass. He had a living to make and, if it hadn’t been for hisinappropriatecuriosityaboutRayandMorsel,he’dalreadybebackinJordan,lookingtograbaroomforthenight.ButtherollofmoneyinRay’spackandthehintsofmoretocomehadmadehimwonderhowanxioushewastogetbacktowork.Therewasopportunityintheairandhewantedtoseehowitwouldallplayout.“Ray,youawake?”“Icanbe.Whatd’youwant,asshole?”“IjusthavesomethingIwanttogetoffmychest.”“Makeitquick.IneedmyZ’s.”“Sure,Ray,trythisoneonforsize:thegun’satoy.”“Thegun’sawhat?”“Atoy.”“Youthinkagun’satoy?”“No,Ray,Ithinkyourgun’satoy.It’safake.Andlookslikeyouaretoo.”“Where’sthefuckin’lightswitch?I’mnottakingthisshit.”“Stubyourtoejumpingoffthebedlikethat.”“Mightbetimetoclipyourwings,sonny.”“Ray,I’mhereforyou.Just takeamoment to lookat thebarrelofyourso-calledgun,andthenlet’s

talk.”Rayfoundthelampandpacedthesqueakingfloorboards.“Takingaleakofftheporch.Berightback,”

hesaid.Throughtheopenbedroomdoor,Davidcouldseehimsilhouettedinthemoonlight,asilverarcsplashingontothedirt,hisheadthrownbackinwhatDavidtooktobeaplausiblepostureofdespair.By the timeRaywalkedback in hewas already talking: “. . . an appraiser inModesto,California,

whereIgrewup.Ididsomecommunitytheaterthere,playedPrinceOhSoTrueinachildren’sproductionandthoughtIwasgoingplaces,thenTwelveAngryMen—Iwasoneof them,whichiswherethepistolcamefrom.IwasthehangmaninMotherlode.Gotmarried,hadababygirl,lostmyjob,gotanotherone,wenttoHawaiiasastewardonayachtbelongingtoamoviestar,whowasworkingatasnow-conestandayearbefore theyacht, thecoke, thebabes,andthewine.Ihadtosignanondisclosureagreement,but

thenIgotintoafightwiththemoviestarandgotkickedofftheboatatDiamondHead.Theyjustrowedmetoshoreinadinghyanddumpedmeoff.Ihikedallthewaytothecraterandusedtherestroomtocleanup,thentookthetourbusintoHonolulu.Itriedtosellthecelebritydrug-usestorytoalocalpaper,butitwent nowhere because of the confidentiality agreement. Everything I sign costsmemoney.About thistime,mywife’suncle’swalnutfarmwasfailing.Hetookaloanoutontherealestate,andIsoldmycar,whichwasamint,rust-free’78TransAm,handlingpackage,W-72performancemotor,SolarGoldwithaMartiniqueBlueinterior.WeboughtabunchofFEMAtrailersfromtheKatrinadealandhauledthemtoCalifornia.Welostourasses.Theunclegaseshimselfinhisgarage,andmywifethrowsmeout.Imovedinto a hotel formigrantworkers and started using the computers at the StanislausCounty Library andsleepingattheMcHenryMansion.OneofthetourguideswassomeoneIusedtofuckinhighschoolandsheslippedmeintooneoftheroomsfornaps.ImetMorselonline.ItoldherIwasonhardtimes.Shetoldmeshewascoiningit,sellingbootlegOxycontinintheBakkenoilfield,butshewaslonely.Itwasalongshot.Montana.Freshstart.Newme.BustoBillingsandhittheroad.ImadeittoJordan,andIhadnothingleft.Theclerkatthatfleabagbarelyletmehavearoom.ItoldhimIwasthereforthecomets.Idon’tknowwhereIcomeupwiththat.Breakfastatthecaféwasmylastdimeandnotip.Ihadtomakeamove.Sowhathappensnow?YoubustmewithMorsel?Youturnmein?Oryoujoinus?”“Youprettysureonthebusinessendofthisthing?”Davidasked,withacoldnessthatsurprisedhim.“Ahundredpercent,butMorsel’sgotissueswithotherfolksalreadyinit.There’ssomerisk,butwhen

isn’tthere,withstakeslikethis?Thinkaboutit,Dave.Ifyou’reatallinterestedingettingrich,youtellme.”Raywas soonsnoring.Davidwas intrigued that all these revelations failed todisturbhis sleep.He

himselfwaswideawake,broodingoverhowcolorlesshisownlifewasincomparisonwithRay’s.Raywas a conman and a failure, butwhat hadhe ever done? Finish high school?High school had beenanguish, persecution, and suffering, but even in that hewas unexceptional.He’d never had sexwith amansiontourguide.He’dhadsexwithafatgirlhedisliked.ThentheNationalGuard.FortHarrisoninthe winter. Cleaning billets. Inventorying ammunition. Unskilled maintenance on UH-60 Blackhawks.Prayingfordeploymentagainstworldwidetowelheads.AcommandingofficerwhotoldtherecruitsthatthepresidentoftheUnitedStateswas“apencil-wristedtwat.”Girlfriendfattereverytimehewenthome.Hestilllivedwithhismother.Wasstillbuyinghisdopefromthesameguyatthebodyshophe’dgotitfromintheeighthgrade.Perhapsitwassurprisinghe’dcomeupwithanythingatall,buthehad:BovineDeluxe,LLC,acrash

course in artificially inseminating cattle. David took to it like a duck to water: driving around thecountryside detecting and synchronizing estrus, handling frozen semen, keeping breeding records—alleasilylearnable,butDavidbroughtarttoit,andhehadnoideawherethatarthadcomefrom.Hewasageniuspreg-tester.Whetherhewasstraightor stoned,his rateofaccuracy,asproven in springcalves,was renowned. Actually, David preferred preg-testing stoned. Grass gave him a greater ability tovisualize theprogressofhisarmup thecow’s rectum.Hisexcitementbeganas soonashedonnedhiscoveralls, pulled on his glove, lubed it with OB goo, and stepped up to the cow stuck in the chute.Holdingthetailhighoverheadwithhislefthand,hegothisrighthandallthewayin,againstthecow’sattempttoexpelit,shoveledoutthemanuretoclearthewaypastthecervix,andfinally,nearlyuptohisshoulder,graspedtheuterus.Davidcouldnailapregnancyattwomonths,whenthecalfwassmallerthanamouse.Henevermissed,andnocowthatshouldhavebeenculledturnedupwithoutacalfinthespring.Hecouldtelltherancherhowfaralongthecowwasbyhisinformalgradations:mouse,rat,Chihuahua,cat,fatcat,raccoon,beagle.Gothroughtheherd,oruntilhisarmwasexhausted.Throwthegloveaway,writeuptheinvoice,stripthecoveralls,lookforfoodandaroom.Perfect.Exceptforthedough.

He’doncedreamedofowningjewels,especiallyrubies,andthatdreamwascomingback.MaybeglueoneonhisforeheadlikeaHindu.It’dgooverbigonhisranchcalls.Morselmade breakfast for her father,David, andRay—eggs, biscuits, and gravy.Davidwas thinkingaboutRay’s“lastdime”backinJordanversustherollsofbillsinhispackandwatchingWeldonwatchRayasbreakfastwasserved.Morseljustleanedagainstthestovewhilethemenate.“AnyonewanttogotoBillingstodaytoseethecagefights?”sheasked.Davidlookedupandsmiledbutnooneansweredher.Raywasprobingaroundhis foodwithhis fork,pushing thegravyawayfrom thebiscuits,andWeldonwasflinching.WeldonworehisblackStetsonwiththesalt-encrustedsweatstainhalfwayupthecrown.Davidthoughtitwasdownrightunappetizing,notthesortofthingacustomerfortop-drawerbullsemenwouldwear.AtlastWeldonspokeattopvolume,asthoughcallingouttohislivestock.“What’dyousayyournamewas?”“Ray.”“Well,Ray,whydon’tyoustickthatforkallthewayinandeatlikeaman?”“I’mdoingmybest,Mr.Case,butIwilleatnothingwithacentralnervoussystem.”“Daddy, leaveRayalone.You’ll have time toget toknoweachother and findoutwhatRayenjoys

eating.”WhenMorselbroughtRaysomecannedpineappleslices,helookedupatherwithwhatDavidtookto

begenuineaffection.SheturnedtoDavidandsaid,“It’sallyoucaneataroundhere,”butthemomenthestuckhisforkback

inhisfoodsheputahandinhisfaceandsaid,“That’sallyoucaneat!”andlaughed.Davidnoticedhercoldblueeyesandthoughthewasbeginningtounderstandher.ToWeldon, she said, “Daddy, you feel like showing Ray ’n’ ’em the trick?” Weldon stopped his

rhythmiclippursing.“Oh,Morsel,”hesaidcoyly.“C’mon,Daddy.Giveyouadollar.”“OK,Mor,putonthemusic,”hesaidwithasighofgood-humoreddefeat.Morselwentovertoalow

cupboardnext to thepiesafeandpulledoutasmallplastic recordplayeranda45-rpmrecord,whichproved to be a scratchy version of “CoolWater,” by the Sons of the Pioneers.Weldon swayed to themournful tuneandthenseemedtocometolifeasMorselplacedapeanut infrontofhimandthelyricsbegan:“Keepa-movin’,Dan,/Don’tyoulistentohim,Dan./He’sadevilnotaman.”Weldontookoffhishatandsetitupsidedownbesidehim,revealingthethinnestcomb-overacrossasnow-whitepate.Thenhepickedupthepeanutand,withsinuousmovements,balanceditonhisnose.Itremainedthereuntilneartheendoftherecord—“Dan,canyousee,/Thatbiggreentree,/Wherethewater’srunnin’free”—whenthepeanutfelltothetableandWeldon’schindroppedtostareatit.Whentherecordended,hereplacedhishat, stoodwithout aword, and left the room. For amoment itwas quiet, and then came the sound ofWeldon’splanecrankingup.“Daddy’sprettyhardonhimselfwhenhedon’tmakeittotheendoftherecord,”Morselsaidglumly,as

shecleared thedishes.Heading for the living room,sheadded,“MeandRay thoughtyouought to seewhatdementialookslike.Itdon’tlookgoodandit’sexpensive.”DavidhadtakencaretocopyouttheinformationfromRay’spassportontothebackofamatchbookcover,whichhetoreoff,rolledintoacylinder,andputinsideabottleofaspirin.AndthereitstayeduntilRayandMorselheadedofftothecagefights.Davidusedhiscellphoneand411ConnecttocallRay’shomeinModestoandchatwithhiswifeor,assheclaimedtobe,hiswidow.Ittooktwocalls,acoupleofhoursapart. The first try, he got her answeringmachine: “You know the drill: leave it at the beep.”On thesecondtry,hegotRay’swife.DavididentifiedhimselfasanaccountassistantwiththeInternalRevenue

Service andRay’swife listened only briefly before stating in a firm, clear, and seemingly ungrievingvoicethatRaywasdead:“That’swhatItoldthelastguyandthat’swhatI’mtellingyou.”Shesaidthathehadbeenembezzlingfromacreditunion,leftasuicidenote,anddisappeared.“I’mdoinghomehealthcare.Whateverhestolehekept.Killinghimselfwastheonegoodideahecome

upwithinthelastthirtyyears.Atleastit’skeptthegovernmentfromgarnisheeingmywages,whatlittletheyare. Ibeen throughall thiswith theotherguy thatcalled,andwehave towait forhisdeath tobeconfirmedbeforeIgetnobenefits.IfIknowRay,he’sonthebottomoftheTuolumneRiver,justtofuckwithmyhead.IwishIcouldhaveseenhimonemoretimetotellhimIgavehiswaterskisandcroquetsettoGoodwill.Ifthebankhadn’ttakenbackhisairplane,Iwouldhavelostmyhouseandbeensleepinginmycar.Toobadyoudidn’tmeetRay.HewasanA-to-Zcrumbbum.”“I’mterriblysorrytohearaboutyourhusband,”Davidsaidmechanically.“Idon’tthinkthegovernmentis‘terriblysorry’tohearaboutanything.Youreadingthisoffacard?”“No, this is justa follow-up tomakesureyour file stays intactuntilyou receive thebenefitsyou’re

entitledto.”“Ialreadyhavethebigone:picturingRayinhellwithhisassenfuego.”“Ah,youspeakabitofSpanish,Mrs.Coelho?”“EverybodyinModesto‘speaksabitofSpanish.’Whereyoubeenallyourlife?”“Washington,D.C.,”Davidsaidindignantly.“Thatexplainsit,”Mrs.Coelhosaid,andhungup.Ofcoursehehadnocarwhenwemet,Davidthought.Noneedtoleaveapapertrailbyrentingcarsor

buyingticketsonairplanes.He’dgotdoneallheneededtogetdoneontheModestolibrarycomputers,whereheandMorsel,twocrooks,hadfoundeachotherandgoneintobusinesswithouteverlayingeyesoneachother.BeforeheadingtoBillings,MorselhadtoldDavidhowtogettotheIndiansmallpoxburialgroundto

lookforbeads.Otherwise,therewasnothingtodoaroundhere.Hewasn’tinteresteduntilhediscoveredtheliquorcabinetandbythenitwasearlyevening.HefoundabottlemarkedHoopoeSchnapps,withapictureofabirdonitslabel,andgaveitatry:“Bottomsup.”Itwentstraighttohishead.Afterseveralswigs,hewasunabletoidentifythebirdbuthewasveryhappy.Thelabelsaidthatthedrinkcontained“mirabelles,”andDavidthought,Hey,I’mtotallyintomirabelles.Asheheadedfortheburialground,Davidwastotteringabit.Roundingtheequipmentshed,henearly

ran intoWeldon Case, who walked by without speaking or apparently seeing him. Behind the ranchbuildings,acowtrailledintotheprairie,thenwoundtowardahillsidespringthatdidn’tquitereachthesurface,visibleonlyby thegreeneryabove it. Justbelow thatwas theplace thatMorselhad toldhimabout,pockmarkedwithanthills.Theants,Morselclaimed,carriedthebeadstothesurface,butyouhadtohuntforthem.Davidsatdownamongthemoundsandwassoonbittenthroughhispants.Hejumpedtohisfeetand

swept the ants away, then crouched, peering and picking at the anthills. His thighs soon ached fromsquatting,butthenhefoundaspeckofskyblueinthedirt,abead.Heclaspedittightlyinonehandwhilestirringwiththeotherandflickingawayants.Hedidn’tthinkaboutthebodiesinthegroundbeneathhim.Bythetimeitwastoodarktosee,hispalmwasfilledwithIndianbeadsandhefeltelevatedandstilldrunk.Ashepassedtheequipmentshed,hemadeoutfirstthesilhouetteofWeldonCase’sStetsonandthen,

veryclose,thefaceofWeldonhimself,whogazedathimbeforespeakinginalowvoice.“Youbeeninthegraves,ain’tyou?”“Yes,tolookforbeads.”“Yououghtnottohavedonethat,feller.”“Oh?ButMorselsaid—”

“Lookupthereatthestars.”“Idon’tunderstand.”Weldonreachedhighoverhishead.“That’sthecrowridingthewatersnake,”hesaid,andturnedback

intothedark.Davidwasfrightened.Hewent to thehouseandgot intobedasquicklyashecould,anxiousfor the

alcoholtofade.Hepulledtheblanketupunderhischin,despitethewarmthofthenight,andwatchedamothbattingagainstanimageofthemooninthewindow.Whenhewasnearlyasleep,hesawMorsel’sheadlightswheel across the ceiling, then turn off.He listened for the car doors, but itwas nearly tenminutesbeforetheyopenedandclosed.Herolledclosetothewallandpretendedtobeasleep,whilethefrontdooropenedquietly.Once the reverberationof the screen-door springhaddieddown, therewaswhisperingthatcameintothebedroom.Hefeltashadowcrosshisfaceassomeonepeereddownathim.Soonthesoundofmuffledcopulationfilledtheroom,stoppedforthetimeittooktoraiseawindow,thenresumed.Davidlistenedmoreandmoreintently,untilRaysaid,inaclearvoice,“Dave,youwantsomeofthis?”DavidstucktohisfeignedsleepuntilMorsellaughed,gotup,andwalkedoutwithherclothesunder

herarm.“Night,Ray.Sweetdreams.”Thedoorshutand,afteramoment,Rayspoke.“WhatcouldIdo,Dave?Shewasaftermyweenielikea

chickenafteraJunebug.”Snorts,and,soonafter,snoring.Morselstoodinthedoorwayofthehouse,takingintheearlysunandsmokingacigarette.Sheworeanoldflannelshirtoverwhatlookedlikeabodystockingthatrevealedalazilywinkingcameltoe.Hereyesfollowedher fatherashecrossed theyardvery slowly.“Look,” she said, asDavid steppedup.“He’swettinghispants.Whenheain’twettinghispants,hewalksprettyfast.It’sjustsomethingheenjoys.”WeldoncameupandlookedatDavid,tryingtorememberhim.Hesaid,“Thisain’tmuchofaplaceto

live.Myfolksmovedusouthere.WehadanicelittleranchatCoalBankLanding,ontheMissouri,butonedayitfellintheriver.Morsel,I’muncomfortable.”“Goinside,Daddy.I’llgetyouachangeofclothes.”Oncethedoorhadshutbehindhim,Davidsaid,“Whyintheworlddoyoulethimflythatairplane?”“It’sallheknows.Heflewinthewaranddustedcrops.He’llprobablykillhimselfinthedamnthing.”“What’shedoupthere?”“Looksforhiscows.”“Ididn’tknowhehadcows.”“Hedon’t.Theyallgotsoldyearsago.Buthe’lllookforthemlongashe’sgotfuel.”MorselturnedbacktoDavidonherwayinside.“Ican’tmakeheadsortailsofyourfriendRay,”she

said.“Hewascomingontomethewholetimeatthecagefights,thenhetakesoutapictureofhiswifeandtellsmeshe’sthegreatestpieceofassheeverhad.”“Huh.What’dyousaytothat?”“Isaid,‘Ray,shemust’vehadasnappin’pussybecauseshe’sgotafacethatwouldstopaclock.’He

didn’tlikethattoomuch.SoIpunchedhimintheshoulderandtoldhimhehadn’tseennothingyet.What’dyousayyournamewas?”“I’mDavid.”“Well,Dave,Raysaysyoumeantothrowinwithus.Isthatafact?”“I’msuregivingitsomethought.”David was being less than candid. He would have slipped away the day before if he hadn’t felt

opportunityheadedhiswayonsilverwings.“Youlooklikeateamplayertome.Iguessthatbitchhe’smarriedtowillhelpoutonthatend.Longas

Ineverhavetoseeher.”

David had an unhappy conversationwith hismother, but at least itwas on the phone, so she couldn’tthrowstuff.“Thephoneisringingoffthehook!Yourranchersarecallingconstantly,wantingtoknowwhenyou’ll

getthere.”“Ma,Iknow,butIgottiedup.Tellthemnottogettheirpantiesinawad.I’llbethere.”“David!”shescreeched.“Thisisnotanansweringservice!”“Ma,listentome.Ma,Igottiedup.I’msparingyouthedetailsbutrelax.”“HowcanIrelaxwiththephonegoingoffeverytenseconds?”“Ma,I’munderpressure.Pullthefuckingthingoutofthewall.”“Pressure?You’veneverbeenunderpressureinyourlife!”Hehunguponher.Hecouldn’t livewithheranymore.Sheneeded to takeherpacemakerandgeta

room.Thatweek,MorselwasabletogetacustodialorderinMilesCity,basedonthedangertothecommunitypresentedbyWeldonandhisairplane.RayhadsomuchtroublemusclingWeldonintoMorsel’ssedanfortheridetoassistedlivingthatbigstrongDavidhadtopitchinandhelpRaytiehimup.Weldontossedoffsomefrightfulcursesbeforecollapsingindefeatandcrying.ButtheGodhecalleddownonthemdidn’tholdmuchwateranymore,andtheymadeshortworkoftheoldfellow.Atdinnerthatnight,Morselwasalittleblue.Thetrio’ssomewhatobscuretoastsweretothefuture.Davidlookedonwithasmile;hefelthappyandacceptedandbelievedhewasgoingsomewhere.HisinquiringlooksweremetbygiddywinksfromMorselandRay.Theytoldhimthathewasnowa“courier,”andRayunwoundoneofhisbundlesofcash.HewasgoingtoCalifornia.“Drivethespeedlimit,”Raysaid.“I’mgoingtogettoknowtheairplane.Takeitdowntotheoilfields.

It’simportanttoknowyourcustomers.”“Doyouknowhowtofly it?”Thiswasaninsincerequestion,sinceDavidhadlearnedfromtheso-

calledwidowaboutRay’srepossessedplane.“How’sthirteenthousandhourssoundtoyou?”“I’llkeepthehomefiresburning,”Morselsaid,withouttakingthecigaretteoutofhermouth.DavidhadaperfectlygoodideaofwhathewasgoingtoCaliforniafor,buthedidn’task.Heknewthe

valueofpreservinghisignorance.Ifhecouldkeephisstatusasasimplecourier,hewasnoguiltierthantheUnitedStatesPostalService.“YourHonor,Ihadnoideawhatwasinthetrunk,andIampreparedtosaythatunderoathortakealie-detectortest,atyourdiscretion,”herehearsed.Hedrovestraightthrough,ornearlyso.HestoppedbrieflyinIdaho,Utah,andNevadatowalkamong

cows.Hismannerwithcattlewassofamiliarthattheydidn’trunfromhimbutgatheredaroundinbenignexpectation.Davidsighedandjumpedbackinthecar.Hedeclinedtopursuethisfeelingofregret.ItwaslatewhenhegotintoModesto,andhewastired.HecheckedintoaSuper8andwokeupwhen

thehot light of aCaliforniamorning shone through thewindowontohis face.He ate in the lobbyandcheckedout.ThedirectionsRayhadgivenhimprovedexact:withintenminutes,hewaspullingaroundthehouseintothesidedriveandbackingintotheopengarage.Awomancameoutofthehouseinabathrobeandwalkedpasthiswindowwithoutaword.Hepopped

thetrunkandsatquietlyassheloadedit,thenclosedit.Shestoppedathiswindow,pullingthebathrobeupclosearoundherthroat.Shewasn’thardtolookat,butDavidcouldseeyouwouldn’twanttoarguewithher.“TellRayIsaidbecareful.I’veheardfromtwoIRSguysalready.”Davidsaidnothingatall.Hewassocautiousthatthetripbacktooklonger.HestayedovernightattheGarfieldagain,soasto

arriveindaylight,andgotuptwiceduringthenighttocheckonthecar.Inthemorning,heskippedeatingatthecaféforfearhemightencountersomeofhisrancherclients.Plus,heknewthatMorselwouldtake

careofhisemptystomach.Hewassoclosenowthatheworriedabouteverything,frommisreadingthegasgaugetoflattires.Heevenimaginedthetrunkflyingopenfornoreason.Nowhedrovepastfieldsofcattlewithhardlyaglance.Hehadimaginedaheartygreeting,anenthusiastichomecoming,buttheplacewassilent.Ahawksaton

thewirethatranfromthehousetothebunkhouse,asthoughithadtheplacetoitself.ItflewoffreluctantlywhenDavidgotoutofthecar.Inside,thereweresoiledplatesonthedining-roomtable.Lightfromthetelevisionflickeredwithoutsoundfromthelivingroom.Davidwalkedinandsawthetelevisionfirst—itwasontheshoppingnetwork,aclose-upofahanddanglingagoldbracelet.ThenhesawMorselonthefloorwiththechannelchangerinherhand.She’dbeenshot.Davidfeltanicycalm.Raymusthavedonethis.Hecheckedthecarkeysinhispocketandwalkedout

of the house, stopping on the porch to survey everything in front of him. Then hewent around to theequipmentshed.WheretheairplanehadbeenparkedinitstwoshallowrutslayRay,alsoshot,apoolofbloodextendingfromhismouth likeaspeechballoonwithoutwords.He’dlostashoe.Theplanewasgone.Davidfeltasifheweretrappedbetweenthetwobodies,withnosafewaybacktothecar.Whenhegot

toit,amanwaswaitingforhim.“Imusthaveoverslept.Howlonghaveyoubeenhere?”HewasDavid’sage, thin and precise in clean khakis and a Shale Services ball cap. He touched his teeth with histhumbnailashespoke.“Oh,justafewminutes.”“Keys.”“Yes,Ihavethemhere.”Davidpattedhispocket.“Getthetrunkforme,please.”Davidtriedtohandhimthekeys.“No,you.”“Notaproblem.”Davidbent to insert thekeybuthishandwasshakingandat firsthemissed theslot.The lidrose to

revealthecontentsofthetrunk.Daviddidn’tfeelathing.

MAILEMELOY

MadameLazarusFROMTheNewYorkerMANYYEARSAGO,afterIretiredfromthebank,JamesbroughtasmallterriertoourapartmentinParis.ItoldhimIdidnotwantit.Iknewhewastryingtokeepmeoccupied,anditisaridiculousthing,tohaveadog.Maybeonedayyourisefrombedandsay,“Iwould like topickupfive thousandpiecesofshit.”Well,then,Ihavejustthethingforyou.Andforamantohaveasmalldog—itmakesyouafool.“Please,”Jamessaid.“Let’sjustseehowitgoes.”Iconsidered thedog,ablond femalenobigger thanacat.Shehad longhair likewhiskersoverher

eyes,sosheseemedalwaystoberaisinghereyebrows.Shesatdown,asifsheknewthatwouldhelphercase.JamesisEnglishandwantedtocallherCordelia,notforLearbutforanEnglishnovel.ItwasnotthenameIwouldhavechosen,butitwasnotworththeargument.Hedidaringmasteractwithsometoys—aknotofcloth,aball,aroundbed—toshowmehowgoodthiswouldbe.Ihadlongassociatedterrierswith the barking arts, but this one did not bark. She sniffed at the toys and the bed, waiting for mydecision.The next day James was gone to Brazil or Argentina, leaving me with the dog. He had an import

businessandwasoftenaway.IthinkCordeliahadalreadyguessedthathewasnotasurething,andshelookedatmeforournextmove.Itookheroutsidetodoherbusiness.Shewasnotallowedtogointheimpasse,wherethecarspark

andtheconciergeisalwayswatching,sowewentout throughthegatetothestreet.WewalkedaroundParis.WewenttotheBoisdeBoulogne,andthereahawkcircled,eyeingCordelialikeasnack.“Don’teventhinkofit,”Itoldthishawk.Peoplespoketomewhowouldnothavebefore,andtheywantedtopetCordelia,wholetthem.When

wearrivedhome,Desiwastheretomakelunch,andshecriedoutanddroppedtoherkneestorubtheearsofthedog.DesiisfromIndonesia,veryproper,andshehadworkedformeformanyyears,butIhadneverseensuchadisplay.Cordelialickedherfaceingreeting,andDesilaughed.ThenIsattoreadthepaper,andCordeliacurledherselfintomylap.AtfirstIbelievedthattheappearanceoflovefromadogisonlyastrategy,towinprotection.Cordelia

chosemebecauseIwastheonetofeedherandtochaseawaythehawksandthewolves.Butafteratimewecrossedoveraline,CordeliaandI.Wewentouteachdaytochasethepigeonsandsmellthepissofotherdogsonthetrees,andwecamehometoreadthepaper.Thelookwiththeeyebrowswassometimesskepticalaboutmyactions,andsometimesaquestionthatIunderstood.Therewerenoargumentsexceptsilentones—Idonotwanttogothereontheleash—andthesecouldbeeasilysolved.Herhairneededto be cut, so I found awoman to do it, who tied pink ribbons over Cordelia’s ears. She hated theseribbons.Youcouldseeshewasashamed.Itoldthegroomernomore—sheistoodignifiedforthis.And,ifshefeelsshame,thenwhynototheremotions?Acreature’seyesareonyouallthetime,orthewarmbodyisnexttoyou.Thereisanunderstanding.AndIthinkthisbecomessomethinglikelove.I am older now than I thought possible. I did not believe Iwould ever be this ancient person. The

doctorsaysIshouldhavenowineatlunch,formyheart.Butifyoucannothavealittlewinewithyourlunch, there is no life. If youare asold as I am,youbelievedaGermanwould shootyou in theheadbeforeyouwereoldenoughtohavesexwithanotherhumanbeing.Everythingbeyondthatbecomesextra.Thethingspeopledotolivelong—drinkingsomuchwater,runningupanddowntoruintheknees—thisiswhatthedoctorshouldwarnabout.

Jamesisyoung,faryoungerthanI.Whenyouaretheolderman,youcanbeequal,foratime.Hehasyouthandbeauty,butyouhavemoneyandexperience.Youknowmanypeople,andyoucantakehimtoPortofino,toBiarritz,toCapri.Itisanoldstory.Buttheyearsgoby,andyourdoctorisconcernedforyourheart.Yourjointsarenotsogood.Youdon’t

want to look in themirrorwhenyougo to takeabath.Andthemanyou love isstillstrongandyoung,moreorless.Hetravelsagreatdeal.Heisawaymoreoften.Thedogknewthefirsttimeshesawhim:hewasnottheonetorelyon.Myex-wife,Simone,comes for lunchsometimes, andwe talkofour sons,whoare longgrownand

havechildrenoftheirown.OnelivesinNewYorkandtheotherinZurich—theyarebothinthebanking.TheyknowJames,ofcourse,buttheydonotlikehim.Thereisnoreasontheywould.Theyareseriousmen,andJames isnot.Theirchildren,mygrandchildren,arecharmedbyhim.TheyconsiderJamesanuncle.He is thecorrect age, andhe iswilling toplaywith them inawayadults arenot.AndSimoneacceptshim,whichisinsomewaysaremarkablething.Simonelooksasshealwaysdid,althoughshesaysthisisonlybecauseIneversawher,notreally.ButI

do:sheisanelegantwoman,allangles,goldbraceletsonthin,tanwrists.Andsheunderstandswhatitistobeold,whichisacomfort.Aftersheleaves,Desiclearsawaythelunchdishes,andItakeCordeliaoutforawalk.TherecameapointwhenIrealizedthatJameswasinParisonlywhentherewasanimportantparty.

Everypersonhas onegreat gift, and James is unequaled at an important party.He is good-looking, ofcourse,withthewell-cutbrownhairandthetrimbodyandthebespokesuit.Hehasabrilliantsmile,verywarm and interested and sincere, and when he talks to people they feel special. He has many otherabilities,butthisoneaboveall.Theywanttodobusinesswithhimbecauseofthisattention.Heisneverlookingovertheshouldertoseewhoelseisattheparty.Whoheistalkingto,thispersongetseverything.But then we go home, and the attention goes off like a light. He does not give me the warm and

interestedsmile.Hesaysathingortwoabouttheparty,intheFrenchhespeakslikeanEnglishmanbutverywell.Helooksathisphone,swipingwithhisthumb.Hetakeshisexpensiveclothesoffcarelessly,leavesthemonthefurniturelikeachild.Hehashadmoneyalways,andgoodlooks,andwashismother’sdarling.HesaysDesiwillpickuptheclothes,althoughItellhimthisisnotherjob.Hesaysofcourseitis,what else is her job?He is careful onlywith his shoes.He puts themonwooden shoetrees in thecloset,thengoesintothebathroomandclosesthedoor.IthinkofthefirstboyIloved,twolifetimesago.Hecametomyfamily’shouse,andIraninsidefrom

playingandsawhimstandingwithhismother.Hehadalightbehindhiseyesandacrownofsilkencurls.Hewaslikesomeonestandinginthesun,eveninthedim,coolroom.Iwasstillveryyoung,anditwasashock,becauseitwasthefirst timeIknewwhoIwas.HewasolderthanI,andheunderstoodalso—Icouldseethat.Thencamethewar,andthepeoplefleeingParis,andtheGermansinthecity.IwassenttoEnglandto

live with some cousins, and I did not know what happened to this boy. He stayed behind. When Idiscoveredhimagain,inanightclubafterthewar,hedidnotliketotalkaboutthoseyears.ThebeautythatcouldhelphiminanothertimewasnotsousefulduringtheOccupation.TheGermanswouldbehappytokill him, or to send him to build their bunkers,whichwould be the same, and I do not knowhowheescaped.HesaidhetriedtohelptheMaquis,butthepeopleheknewdidnotwanthim.Hedidnotseemstrong,orrobust.Hewasnotasaboteur.Perhapshecouldgetinformation,buttheydidnottrusthowhewoulddoit.Hewasarrestedattheendofthewar,whentheGermanswereinapanic,andtheysimplylefthimin

prisonwithnofood.WhenIsawhiminthenightclubhehadthetuberculosefromthisprison,buthewasstillextraordinarilyhandsome.Heseemedverypitifultome,andverydesirable.

Myolderbrotherhadhisownflatthen,tobeindependent,butIstilllivedinthefamilyhouse.Thisboycametovisitmewhenmyparentswereaway.Iknewmyfatherwouldnotapprove,butitwasexciting.Irememberedthewaytheboyhadlituptheoldcarpets,thepaintings,thedustfloatingintheair.Onenight,theboyandIwereeatingdinneratoneendofthelongtableinmyfamilyhouse—hewas

alwayshungry—whenhebegantocough.Thesoundwaswetandterrible,andthecoughingdidnotstop.Therewasbloodonthenapkin,andhisfacewaspurplearoundtheeyes,andthensomethingwentverywrong.Therewassomuchblood,andhewascoughing,dying, thereon thedining-roomfloor. Ididn’tknowwhattodo,howtostopthishemorrhage.Ithought,Hewillopenhiseyesinaminute,hewillsmile,hewillwipehismouthandsay,“No,no,donotworry.Iamfine.”Butitdidnothappen.Iheardaroaringliketheseainmyears.Myhandswereshaking.Itelephonedthedoctorandmybrother,andtheycame.Mybrotherwasfurious,concernedonlywith

thescandalofthisdisreputablenightclubboydyinginourfamilyhouse.“Youshouldhaveputhiminabathtub,”hesaid.“Fortheblood.”Istaredathim.WhenwasItocarryhimupstairs?TherewouldbebloodeverywhereifIdidthis.Thedoctorwaskinder,morepractical.Heaskediftherewouldbesemenonthebody,orinsideit.I

wasshockedbythequestion,butIsaidno.Itwasthetruth.Hesaidthiswouldmakeiteasier.Heaskedmetohelpcarrytheboytohiscar,andIliftedtheshoulders.Thedoctortookthelegs.Heweighedsolittle.Theheaddroppedback—thepaleface,thebruisedeyes—andIcouldnotlook,Iwasfilledwithhorror. The doctor took him away in his car to themorgue and said Iwas never to speak of it.N’enparlonsplusjamais.And,yousee,stillIfindIdonotwanttosayhisname.Thehousekeeperwouldarriveinthemorning,somybrotherhelpedmeclean.Imovedveryslowly,my

armsandlegsfrozen,whilemybrothergavemeorders.Irancoldwateronthenapkinsandtowelsinthesink, for theblood. IknewIcouldnever repaywhat thedoctorhaddone. I alsoknew thatmybrotherwouldnowhavethemoraladvantageovermefortherestofmylife.ThatiswhatIthoughtwithmyhandsinthecoldpinkwater,feelingsorryformyself,whenitwastheboyIlovedwhowasdead.Withintheyear,ImetSimone.Shewasveryappropriate,withagoodfamily,themostgracefullinesin

adress.Shewasineverywaycorrect,andImusthaveproposed,becausetherewasanengagement,agreatannouncement.Ihadneverseenmyfathersohappy.Mymotherwasnotsosure,butwehadnowayof discussing this at that time. There was the momentum of the approaching wedding—it was likeclimbing into an enormous carwithoutbrakes.Theparty, all thepeoplewatching, the flowers and thecaterers. In frontof everyone Iknew, Iputmygrandmother’s ringonSimone’seleganthandandmadepromisesthatIcouldnotkeep.Cordeliasleepsonourbed,inthewidegulfbetweenJamesandme.Butsheisoldnow,likeme,andshegetsdownandpeesontherug.IgoforthebottleofPerrier,thetowel.Thenshepeesinthehall.Jamesisstillasleep,soIcleanthehallfloorandleavethebottlethere.Iputonmyclothesquietly,andItakethedogoutside.Cordeliastartstogointheimpasse,whichsheknowsisnotallowed.Theconciergewillcomeout,the

neighborswillcomplain,itwillbeawholeissue.IspeaktoCordelia,Ipullonherleash,butshedoesnotwanttomove.Ipullharder.Finallyshefollows,veryslowly.Icouldpickherup,butsheneedstowalk,justalittle.Thisistheimportantthing,nottostopmoving.Onthepavementoutsidethegate,shestandsandseemstothinkaboutsomethingfaraway.Hereyesare

cloudy.Shedoesnotdoashit.Shemakesastrangesoundandfallsover.Herfeetgoupintheair,likeadeaddoginacartoon.Here I become not so dignified. I fall down on my knees on the pavement and put my hands on

Cordelia’schest.Ifeelnoheartbeat,andItrytoremembertherules.Twofingersforbabies,oryoubreaktheribs.Cordeliaisaboutthissize.Iputmytwofingersonherchestandstarttopush.Ithinkaboutthe

heartbeat—howfast?Myownheartispoundinginmyears,toofast,butCordeliaissmall.Perhapstherhythmisright.Ipressdownwitheachloudpulseinmyhead.Peoplewalkaroundmeonthestreet.Icanfeelthemstare.Afewspeak:theyaskcantheyhelp,should

theycallanambulance.Ionlyfeelforthepulse.Ithink,absurdly,oftheboycoughinganddyingonmyfloor, inanothertime.Icouldnotpressonhischestbecausethebloodwascomingfromhislungs,andeverythinghadbrokenloose.Ididnotknowwhattodo.NowIpressandpress.Mykneesache,andIthinkthereisbrokenglassonthepavement,cuttinginto

myskin,butitisonlysandandgrit.Minutesgoby,andmoreminutes.Myarmstremble.IcountthetimesIpush,andthenstopcounting.IwonderifIhavebrokenCordelia’sribs.Someonetoldmeoncethatthispressingdoesnotworkwithoutthetrucmachin—thepaddlestotheheart.IthinkifIcouldopenthebonychestIcouldholdtheheartinmyhandandsqueezeituntilitbegantobeatagain.Maybesomeoneshouldcallanambulance.Butwhatwouldthedriversay,arrivingtoseemewithan

olddog?Dotheyhavethisserviceforanimals?Ihavenofeelinginmyhand.“Ilestmort,”ahelpfulpersonsays,standingoverme.Ayoungmanthistime.“Elle,”Isay.Thedoghasherfeetintheair.Theworldcanseesheisnotamale.Dotheyoungknow

nothing?ButwhenIlookatherIthinkheisright—sheisdead.“Ouais,bien,elleestmorte,”theyoungmansays.Andthenheisgone.Icontinuetopress.Ilookatmywatch,butIdonotknowwhattimewecameoutside.AndthenCordeliacoughs.Sheopenshercloudyeyes.Sheseemstofeeltheindignityofherposition,

and shewriggles until her legs are under her. She coughs again, and shakes her head. She raises hereyebrows, as if to sayhow ridiculousweare, sitting in the street.What am I thinking, tomakeher sofoolish?Istruggletomyfeetandpickherup,ignoringthepeoplewhostare.Icarryherintotheimpasse.Icanfeelherheartbeatingagainstmyarm.Wetakethetinyelevator—Ihavenostrengthforthestairs.Inthefadedbronzemirror,Ihaveneverlookedsoold.Intheapartment,Jamesisawake,holdingthePerrierbottle,inawhitecottondressinggownthatDesi

hasironed.Herubshisface,runshisfingersinhishair.“Ididn’tknowwhereyouwere,”hesays.“Outside.”Myvoiceishoarse.“Anotheraccident?”Thegreenbottleisbrightagainstthewhitecotton.“Thedogiskillingme,”Isay,andIhandCordeliaintohisarms.“Shewasdead.Nowshe’snot.”“Dead?”hesays.But I haveno explaining left inme.My legswill not holdmeup. “I’mgoing tobed.” I go into the

bedroom,takeoffmyclothes,steparoundthepissontherug,andclimbbeneaththecovers.ThenIhearascratchingatthedoor,whichopens,andsmallfootsteps.Cordeliaclimbsthelittlecarpetedstepsattheendofthebed,whichJamesboughtwhenshecouldn’tjumpupanymore—thereisstilltendernessinhim—andIfeelthesmallbodycurlbesideme.Wesleep.Jamescalls thevet,andwetakethedogtogether.ThevetsaysCordelia ismostlyblind,anddeaf,anddemented.Butshewagshertail,sheeatssomefood.Sheputsonagoodshow,forthevet.Jamesasksthedoctor,inmanydifferentways,ifCordelia’squalityoflifeisnotdiminished.Thisisa

code, a hint.Hewants thevet to saymaybe it is time tokill thedog. I find thismoreupsetting than Ishould.Butthevetischeerfulandwillnotsaythewords.Hepretendsnottounderstand.HecallsthedogMadameLazarusandsaysitisamiracle,shehasreturnedfromthedead.Cordelialicksmyhandaswedrivehome:asteady,appreciativelick.Sheknows.Thenextmorning,Jamesleavesagain,forAmsterdam,Dubai,Idon’tknow.Somewhereisaschedule.

Desicomestocleanandmakelunch,andItellherwhathappened.Westudythedogtogether.Cordeliawagshertailatus,sheeats.Butshecannotturnherheadtotherightanymore,onlytotheleft.Sheturnsherwholebodyinacirclewhenshewantstolookright.NooneaskshowLazarusfeltafterhecameout

ofthetomb.Maybeitwasnotsogood.Maybehefelloveranddiedagainassoonasthepeoplewerenotwatching.Desigoestoworkonthespotontherug,andIthinkofthemorningafterthedoctortooktheboyaway,

whenthehousekeeperfoundthatIhadwashedsomenapkinsandtowels.ShewasFrench,hergrayhairinatightknot.Itwasnotnormalformetowashanything.Shefrowneddownattheplacewherethecarpetwaswetandalittlepink,andItoldherIhadspilledthesoup.Shelookedatmeinthesteadywayofamaîtresseinschool.Andthenshewentbacktoherworkandsaidnothing.SometimesCordeliatakeshersmallstepsintoanemptyroomandstandsthere,staring.Ifollowtosee

whatshesees:thefurniture,thepicturesonthewalls.Butcansheseethem?Sheislistening,maybe,forJames’svoice.Shestandstherealongtime,waitingforsomethingthatdoesnotcome.Ibegintocarryherupanddownthestairsandouttothestreet.Sometimes,afterpissingontherug,she

cannotdoitoutside.Iknowthisfeeling,soIsqueezehertohelp,whilepeoplepassby.Arivercomesout.Icarryherabitsoshecansmelltheair,andIthink,MyGod,whatcomesnext?Whatcomesnextisamorning,threemonthslater,whenCordeliadoesnotgetoutofbed.Icarryhertothestreet,butshecannotstandup.Shedoesnotwaghertail.Shedoesnoteat.IcallJamesonhismobileinsomeothercountry.Hesoundsbusyat first,but thenhe is listening,payingattention.The tenderness isthere.Hesays,“Chéri,maybeit’stime.”IwaitforDesitoarrive.WespeakEnglishtogether,becauseshedoesnotspeaksomuchFrench,after

somanyyears.Enoughtoshopandtoeat.SheliveswithotherIndonesians, it isnotnecessary.“Comewithmetothevet,”Isay.Desi’seyesslideawayfromme,andIseeshedoesnotwanttogo,butthenshecollectsherbag.Icarry

Cordelia, andwe find a taxi. I cannot drive andhold the dog also, andDesi does not drive.The taxidrivertalksonhismobile,theradioislow—allinArabic.Desisitswithherhandsfoldedonherbag.Cordeliaisverystillinmylap.Ithinkaboutseeingthatboythefirsttime,whenIwasonlyachild,beforeeverythinghappened.The

crownofhair,thedazzlingeyes,theboltofunderstanding.N’enparlonsplusjamais.Atthevet’soffice,IaskDesitocometothebackwithme,butsheshakesherhead.Shewillwait.ThevetgreetsCordelia,cheerfulasbefore.“MadameLazarus!”hesays.ButIdonotwantmorejokes.

Iputheronthetable.Thedoctorexaminesher.Ipressmyhandstogethertostoptheshaking.IfeelaskipinmyheartandthinkofthewineIwillhaveatlunch.“Ah,Cordelia,”thedoctorsays,strokingher.“Tun’espasimmortelle,aprèstout.”Cordelialooksforthesourceofthetouch,withhercloudyeyes.The doctor says it might be time. He says all the lines James suggested to him before, about the

diminishingqualityoflife.Iaskhimtowaitamoment.Igoouttothewaitingroom,whereDesiissittingwithagirlwithpurplehairandasmalldiamondinhernose.Abigsheepdogliesatthegirl’sfeet.Itliftsitsheavyheadtolookatme,toseeifIamathreat.“Desi,”Isay.“Thevetsaysit’stime.Willyoucomein?”Desishakesherhead,tearsinhereyes.“Ican’t,”shewhispers.“Ican’tseeit.”“Don’tmakeher,”thepurple-hairedgirlsays.ShehasaGermanaccent.“It’sterrible.Iwasheretwo

monthsago,withmyolddog,andIcriedforaweekafter.”IlookattheGermangirl,whosebusinessitisnot.Sheisstrong,alittleheavyinthehips.Iamtheage

ofhergrandfather.Idonotwanttotalkaboutherdog,killedinthisdoctor’soffice.IturnbacktoDesi.“Pleasecomein,”Isay.ButDesisaysno.Shehascookedmyfood,cleanedmyhouse,pickedupafterJamesforsomanyyears

Icannotcount.HerjobistodoasIask,butshewillnotdothis.“Ican’t,”shesays,andsheispleading.

SoIgobackalonetotheroomwhereCordelia isonthetable.Hereyeslookatnothing.Jameswasrighttobringherhome,togivemesomethingtotakecareof.“Youlookterrible,”thevettellsme.“Sitdown.”Thenursebringsmeaglassofwaterandsayssomethingcomforting.IthinkofJames,ourlonglifetogether,hisshoetreesinthecloset,hisclothesonthefloor.Thedogis

the last string to tie him tome, andnow—snip.Soon Iwill startwalking into the bedroom, staring atnothing,listeningforvoicesthatarenotthere.“It’syourdecision,”thevetsays.Inod.“Youcanholdher,”thenursesays,andsheputsCordeliaintomyarms.Thensheputsapadonmyleg

likeadiaper,beneaththedog,andIthink,Thiswillbebad.Cordeliasniffsmyhand,licksitonce,andIamnolongersureaboutthequalityofherlife.Shecanstill

smelltheworld,shecanstilllove.ButthenIrememberthemorning.Herlegsnotholdingherup.Iwishfor a wildmoment that I had brought Simone withme,my loyal wife, but she has never liked dogs.Allergique.Thedoctorisworking—hetiesatourniquetonCordelia’sleg,andthenhepreparesaneedle.I thinkhewillmiss,hewill jabit inmyarm.Buthedoesn’t,heslipsit intoher thinlegwhereIcan’timaginethereisavein.Cordelia looksaround the roomforsomething.Wehave towait someminutes for the tranquilizer to

work.Ifeelherpulseinherthroatandthinkagainthatthisisamistake.Threemonthsago,Igotonmykneestopushbloodthroughthissmallbody,andnowIamlettingthedoctorkillher.Shecloseshereyes,and I think Iwill tellhim this iswrong,buthe isalready therewithanotherneedle, another injection.Cordeliaflinches,shemakesalittlesigh.Thenherheadsinks,andherchinisonmyhand,herthroatsoft.Thewhitepadonmylegbecomesheavy—shehasgonein thewrongplaceonemore time.Thedoctortakesherfromme,andthenurseputsherhandonmyshoulder.Outinthewaitingroom,theGermangirlhasherarmaroundDesi,andthetwoofthemarecrying.The

sheepdog’sheadisonthegirl’sknee.Desilooksatme,hereyeswetandswollen,andIwonder,forthefirsttime,ifCordeliawillbethelaststringforDesi,also.Shecouldfindanewjobandstartagain.Shemightfindchildren tocarefor, todelightherasCordeliadid. Itwouldbemore interesting thananoldman.I reach intomypocket formywallet, but the receptionist shakesher head,makes a little gesture of

sympathy.Thisissomething,atleast.Theydonotmakeyoupay.Ifwelivedinthecountry,wecouldwrapCordeliainablanketandburyher,butwehavenowhere,so

we leaveherwith thevet.Myarms feelempty.Outside,wewait fora taxi. I seeanoldmanwalkingdownthestreet,bentalmostinhalf,evenolderthanI.Hewouldhavebeenayoungmanduringthewar,butoldenoughtofightortoworkortorun.IthinkIneedsomethingtocarry.Mymindisconfused.Ihavejustkilledmydog.Ataxipullsuptothecurb.IturntoDesi,whoisblowinghernose,lookingatsomethinginthestreet.Herblackhairhassomegray

now.Ineverseeheroutside,inthesunlight.Herbag,brightyellow,hangsonherarm.“Don’tleaveme,”Isay.Desilooksup,surprised.Hereyesarered.Thetaxiiswaiting,impatient.IthinkIwillsayeverything

now,Iwillspeakofeverything.Thereisnotsomuchtime.“Pleasedon’tleave,”Isay.

SHOBHARAO

KavithaandMustafaFROMNimrodTHETRAINSTOPPEDabruptly,at3:36p.m.,betweenstations,twentykilometersfromtheIndianborder,onthePakistaniside.Kavithalookedoutthewindow,intheheatofafternoon,andsawonlyscrubland,anendlessyellowplainofdustandstuntedtrees,asfarastheeyecouldsee.Sheknewwhatthismeant.Oneofthemenintheberth,thetalloneKavithahadbeeneyeing,calmlytoldthewomentotakeoffalltheirjewelsandvaluablesandputthemintheirshoes.They’llsearcheverything,hesaidwithmeaning,whichmade the youngwoman in the corner blush. Two or three of thewomen gasped. The old lady startedcrying.Therewereelevenpeoplecrowded into theirberth, includingKavithaandherhusband,Vinod.Theywere all from Islamabad and had been squeezed onto thewooden benches of this train now forsevenhours.Therewasanoldercouplewhoseemedtobetravelingwiththeirmiddle-agedsonandhiswife.Theyoungwomaninthecornerwastravelingwithhermotherandolderbrother.Andthetallmanwaswithhisson,orsoKavithapresumed,thoughtheylookednothingalike.Theboywasnotmorethaneightornineyearsoldbut,ofallofthem,heseemedtoremainthecalmest,evenmoresothanhisfather.Heserenelytooktwothinpebbles,acurledlengthoftwine,andachitofpaper,maybeaphotograph,fromhispocketsandputtheminhisshoe.Theyheardaclamorfartherdownthetrain,afewbalefulscreams,thenaseriesofthuds.Everydoor

wouldbebarred,theyallknew,butwhentheyweredonelootingthetrain,Kavithahopedtheywouldletitcontinueonasitwas.Shehadheardstories,though:sometimestheyuncoupledthebogiesandsentthemin different directions.At other times, they forced themen to disembark and allowed thewomen andchildrentocontinue.Morethanonce,shehadheard,theyboardedwithkerosene.KavithareachedoutandtookVinod’shand.Itwasoutofhabit,sherealized,butitwasstillacomfort.Theyhadtalkedofthis,nowandthen,inthecourseoftheirten-yearmarriage:whichonemightdiefirst.Kavithahadalwaysinsistedthatshewantedtogofirst,thatshecouldnotpossiblybearthepainoflivingwithoutVinod.Butthatwasalie.Sheknewverywellshewouldmanagejustfinewithouthim,maybeevenbetterthanshehadwithhim.Theirmarriage,arrangedbytheirfamilieswhenshewassixteenandhetwenty-two,asidefromoneor two instances, had been mostly uneventful. Boring, really. He’d seemed handsome enough on theweddingdaisbutwhenshe tooka long lookathim,aweekorsoafter thewedding,his foreheadwassquat, andhis eyesweredull.As themonthswentby, shenoticed that thedullnesspersisted;his eyesflickeredforamoment,maybetwo,whenhewasontopofher,butthentheydiedoutagain.Dulleyes?her friends had exclaimed. Just be happy he doesn’t beat you.True, true,Kavitha had agreed, but shesecretlywonderedifperhapsthatiswhatitwouldtaketobringhisgazetolife:violence.There were four of them. The one who entered the berth first had a distended ear, fanned out like acabbageleaf,andwasclearlytheleader.Hesteppedinside,holdingamachetebyhisside,bythehandle,swingingitlikeasprayofflowers.Theotherscrowdedbehindhim,holdingsticks,andoneametalrod.Nowtherewerefifteenintheberthmeantforsix,theheatgrowingevenmoreunbearable,andthemiddle-agedman,theonewhowastherewithhiswifeandparents,lunged,withacry,atthemetalbarsofthetrain’swindows,tryingtoloosenthem.Itwaspointless.Theywereweldedinplace.Hiswifeandmothertriedtocalmhimbuthewasweeping.Look,howsweet,theleadersaid,Wehaveababyintheberth.Theleadersmiledserenely,lookedat

eachoftheminturn,thenputhishandontheshoulderofthemanatthebarredwindowandsaid,Here,letmehelpyou.Theman—withatremulouslook,hisfacestainedbytears,hishandsandshirtfrontstained

bytherustfromthewindow—turnedandlookedathim.Come,come,theleadersaid,letmeshowyouthewayout.Hepushedtheothersaside,andledthemantothedoor.Theman,stillshaking,thesurpriseofbeingledfromtheberthhardeningintoflight,tookonequicklookathiswifeandparentsandboltedoutoftheberth.Cabbageleafsmiled.Youseehoweasythatwas,hesaid.Theystoodinsilence.Wouldanyofyou like to leave?he asked.A fly buzzed.Theywaitedmotionless, as if theyhad all

anticipatedthesoundsofthescufflethatreachedthemfromtheotherendofthebogie,followedbyaloudthump,ascream,andthenastrangeandpreternaturalquiet.Theoldlady—themotherofthemanwho’dlefttheberth—letoutalong,piercingwail.Now,now,theleadersaid,there’snoneedforthat.Thenhisvoicedropped,itgrewfangs.Yourjewels,hesaid.Itwasarainyafternoon.Kavithawasathome,preparingtheeveningmealofrotianddalwithspinachandsweetbuttermilk.Vinodwas the taxcollectorfor thedistrictofTaxilaandwashomenolater thaneighteverynight.ShesweetenedthebuttermilkbecauseVinodpreferredsweetbuttermilktosalty,andshedidn’thaveapreference.Infact, inthetimesincethey’dbeenmarried, itseemedtoherthatshe’dlostmostofherpreferences.Shehadoncelikedtakingeveningwalks,buthe’dalwayssaidhewastootired.Shehadlikedweavingjasmineintoherhair,but theirscenthadmadehimnauseous.Whenshenoticedfalleneyelashesonhercheeks,she’dputthemonthebackofherpalm,closehereyes,andmakeawish.Thenshe’dblowonthem.If theyflewaway,shelikedtothinkthewishwouldcometrue.Ifnot,she’dwait patiently for another eyelash. She’d believed this since she was a child. He noticed her once,collecting the eyelash, blowing it away, and askedherwhat shewasdoing.Hehardly ever askedheraboutherself,soKavithalookedathim,astonished,thentalkedfortenminutesabouttheeyelashes,andthewishes,andthewaits,sometimeslengthy,forthenextone.Vinod’seyesseemedtoflicker—orsoshethought—andthenhefrowned.Whatisit?sheasked.That’sthemostridiculousthingI’veeverheard,hesaid.It’sjustplainsilly.Sowhat?Kavithasaid;I’mnotaskingyoutodoit.Itwasthefirsttimeshehadtalkedbacktohim,and

shefeltgoodforhavingdoneit.Thatwaswhenheslappedher.Nothard,butjustenoughsothatsheunderstood.Understoodwhat,she

wondered.Shelooked,intheinstantaftertheslap,intohiseyes.Theywereempty.Notaflicker.Notasignofanger,orregret,orevensatisfaction.Shelookeddown.Shetoofeltempty.Thatwasyearsago.

Onthisnight,afterpreparingtheeveningmeal,Kavithasatatthewindowoftheirflat.Vinodwouldbehomeinanhour.Thewindowwasbigandlookedoutontoarowoffacingflats,andmostclearlyintotheflat directly opposite. A young couple lived in it, Kavitha had noticed, and she liked to watch themespecially.Thiswasaboutthetimetheyounghusbandwasduehome,andKavithawaitedanxiouslyforhisarrival.Itwasnotthattheywereeverlewdorinappropriate,oreventhattheydidanythinginterestingorunusual;itwasjustthattherewassuchsweetnessbetweenthem.Shecouldtelljustbytheirgestures,byhowtheymoved,byhowtheirbodiesseemedtolightenthemomenttheotherwalkedthroughthedoor.Onpreviousafternoons,she’dnoticedthattheyoungwifeworeaplaincottonsariduringthedayand,justbefore her husbandwas to arrive, shewould change into amore colorful fancy sari. Todaywhen sheemerged from the back room, she had on a yellow sari.Kavitha squinted and thought that itmight bechiffon,withablueborderof somesort.Thebreezesweptupherpullooasshewalked fromroomtoroom.Shelookedlikeabutterfly.Shelookedlikethepetalsofaflower.Whenthehusbandarrived,hehad clearly brought home snacks to eat with their tea—perhaps pakora or maybe samosas, Kavitha

guessed—because theyoungwifedashed to thekitchenand returnedwithaplate.Thenshewentbackand, after a fewminutes,broughtout their teasona tray.Kavithawatched themwithenvy.Shenearlycriedwithit.Yourjewels,herepeated.Themiddle-agedwifeandthemotheroftherecentlydepartedmanweptsilently.Itwasodd,butitfelt

likeonlynow,onlyaftertherewasonefewerpersonintheberth,didapalldescendonthegroup.Theymovedslowly;theshadowofthetrainlengthened.TheAugustheatwasoppressive.Sweattrickleddowntheirfaces,theirclothesstucktotheirbodies.Fliesenteredtheberthindrovesbutthepassengersweretooscared toswat themaway, tomakeanysuddenmovements.Kavitha lickedher lipsand tastedsalt.Hurryup,theleadersaid.Thethreeothermenwereoutsidethedoor,standingguard,Kavithaassumed.Theleader,though,watchedthepassengerskeenly.Eachofthewomenhadleftasmallpieceofjewelryvisible, so theywouldn’t suspect the ones in their shoes—Kavitha had left her earrings in, the youngwomanhernose-ring, themiddle-agedand theelderlymothera fewbracelets.They took themoffandplacedtheminapileonthewoodenbench.Cabbageleaflookedatthepile,shookhishead,andlaughed.Iknowyouhavemorejewelrythanthat,hesaid.Whenhefinishedlaughing,hesaid,Wouldyoulikemetohelpyoulook?Thewomenglancedfromonetotheother,thentheylookedatthemen.Cabbageleaf—whosenamewasAhmed;Kavithahadheardoneofthemenguardingthedoorcallhim

that—waitedpatiently.Whennoonemoved,heplacedhismachetenexttothepile,seatedhimselfbesideit, and said, I’m going to enjoy this. Then hewrapped his arm around thewaist of the youngwomanstanding closest to him, and pulled her onto his lap.Yes, I am, he breathed into her neck, pulling herchunnioffhershoulder.Thebrotheroftheyoungwomanlurchedforward.Hismothercaughttheveryendofhiswristbuthe

slippedout.Itdidn’tseempossibleinsuchatinyspace,withsomanypeoplecrowdedintoit,butitfelttoKavithaasifhesailedacrosstheberth,hisarmsreachedoutasiftostranglethebandit.ButAhmedwasquicker.Heswervedtotheside,sothatthebrotherlandedinaheapagainsttheseat.Andinaflashofmetal,oneof theoutsideguards, theonewith therod,swungat thebrother.AllKavithaheardwas thethwack of metal against bone. The brother let out a howl, gripping his arm. Blood spurted from thewound.Hismotherkneelednexttohim,usingthepullooofhersaritostaunchtheblood.Itwouldn’tstop.Itwasnowcoveringtheflooroftheberth,poolingaroundtheirshoes.Myshoes,Kavithathought.Get him out of here, Ahmed growled, We have enough flies as it is. The guard went into the

passagewayandyelledforhelp.Anotheroneoftheguardscamein,andheandtheonewiththemetalroddraggedthebrotherout.Hewhimperedashelefttheberth.Youseewhathappenstoheroes,Ahmedsaid.Theirberthwasthelastinthebogie,onthefarend,nexttothelavatories.Kavitha,seatednexttothe

dooranddirectlyacrossfromthelittleboy,caughtaglimpseofthetinysteelsinkthatwasusedbythepassengerstobrushtheirteeth,anditwasagainstthissinkthatthebrotherwasproppedup.Bloodwasstillpouringoutofthegashonhisarmandshewonderedifhemightdie.Shelookedup,andthelittleboywaswatchingher.Therewas,shenoticed,intentioninhisgaze,andshelookedawayonlywhenAhmedaddressedher.You,theleadersaid,pointingtoKavitha,Givemethat.Shehadforgottenabouthermangalsutra.She’dswappedthegoldchainofherweddingnecklacefor

turmeric-soaked thread justbefore the trip, for safety’s sake,but the round locketsweremadeofgold.Howcouldshehaveforgotten?Sheslippeditoverherheadandhandedittohim.Vinodseemedtowince.Wasitforherorforthegold?Ahmedbounceditinhispalm—theweddingnecklaceshe’dnotoncetaken

offintenyears—upanddown,upanddown,asifweighingthegold.Itmuststillholdthewarmthofmyskin,shethought.Andthenshefeltathrill,arushofheat,floodingherbody,tothinkthataman,anyman,heldinhishandthewarmthofherbody.Theboywasstilllookingather.Kavithacouldn’tunderstandit—hisstare—butshefelttoofainttoreturnit.Shehadn’teateninoversevenhours;theyhademptiedtheirwaterbottlethreehoursago.Sheclosedhereyes.TherehadbeenapregnancyinKavithaandVinod’smarriage,butthechildhadbeenstillborn.Thestillbirthhadbeenaculminationofmanyyearsof tryingforchildren,and thenext timeVinodhadreachedforher,anappropriatenumberofweeksafterthefailedpregnancy,shehadlookedathimevenly,alittlesadly,andsaid,Please.Nomore.Inhermemory,thatwasthesecondinstanceofaflickerpassingacrosshiseyes.Sheknewitwasunfair—allofit—butshefeltgratitudetowardVinodforunderstanding,fornothavingtouchedhersince,andinasmallway,hehadincreased,incrementally,herloveforhim.Whensheopenedhereyes,Ahmedwasbythewindow.Hewassearchingthebagsoftheoldercouple.

Themanybucklesandbeltshadbeenhackedoffbythemachete,buttherewerestillbundlestuckedunderthewoodenseats,andthecoupleandtheirdaughter-in-lawweremakingmattersworsebytheirdistress,by opening and reopening the samebundles and folding and refolding the same clothes.Most of theseclotheswere now strewn across the berth.Vinod,whowas sitting next toKavitha, reached over andpatted her hand, as if to calm her, but she was already strangely calm. Even with one of the guardsstandingrightnexttoher,ontheothersideofthedoor,closeenoughtotouch,soclosethathismetalrodwaswithinKavitha’sarm’sreach.Whenshelookedagainattheboy,hewaslookingstraightbackather.Thistime,sheslowlycameto

understandthathewastryingtotellhersomething.Butwhat?Kavithawatchedhim.Andasshedidtheboyraisedhisrightindexfingertohisrightearandtappedit.Shestaredathim.Whywashetappinghisear?Didithurt?SheturnedtoVinodbuthisattentionwasfixedonAhmed.WhenKavithaspunback,theboywas pointing toward the guard, the onewhowas standingby the door.What could hemean?Sheguessednowthathewantedher to listen,but towhat?Theguardwassilent,unmoving.Theonlyothersoundwasanoccasionalscreamfromanotherbogie,loudenoughtotravelthroughthetrain.Theremustbeothermen,inotherpartsofthetrain.Shehadassumedit:thesefourcouldnotpossiblysubdueawholetrain.Butwhywouldhewanthertolistentothat?Shestrainedherearssomemore.Therewereafewnightsoundsthatreachedher,anowl,perhaps,orabulbul,butthosewereinfrequentandcouldhardlybethereasonfortheboy’ssignaling.Sheknewhewasn’tdeaformutebecauseshe’dseentheboyandhisfatherconversingearlier.Sowhatwasit?Thentherewasalull.Aquiet.Forafewseconds,afewpreciousseconds,therewasnoscreaming,no

wailing.Ahmedwasbusylookingthroughabag,andeventheoldcoupleandthedaughter-in-lawwererestrained,stoicastheygatheredtheirremainingtatteredbags.Andthatwaswhensheheardit.Footsteps.Atfirst,theymeantnothingtoher.Shelookedattheboy,perplexed.Hehadheardthemtoo,andsheknewbecause he nodded. They were what he had wanted her to hear. But why? Kavitha concentrated.Footsteps. She heard them approaching, growing louder. And louder. And then, just as the footstepspassedtheguardinfrontoftheirdoor,shearchedherneckandsawthatitwasoneoftheguardswhohadcome with Ahmed. So he was patrolling the bogie. She had assumed all three guards were standingoutsidetheirdoor,butnowitmadesensethatoneofthemwouldhavetopatrolthepassengersintheotherberths.Shesatbackandlookedattheboy.Shehardlyhadachancetoblinkwhen,inthenextinstant,theother

guard passed the one at the door, going the other way. She nearly gasped. Two of the guards werepatrolling.Andnotonlythat,sincetheirswasthelastberthintheirbogie,oneoftheguards,atanygiventime,wasprobablyinthenextbogieover.Hewasn’tevenintheirbogie,letaloneanywhereneartheirberth.

Shehadthoughttherewerethreemenoutsidethedoor.Buttherewasonlyone.Kavithahadnoideawhatanyofthismeant,butsheknewitmeantsomething.Shenearlyreachedout

andhuggedtheboy.Andheseemedtoknowitbecausehesmiled.Kavithasatback.Sheheldherbreath.Sheknewtherewasnotmuchtime.Ahmedhadalreadymovedontosearchingthebagsoftheyoungersisterandhermother.Shemappedoutthelayoutoftheirbogieinherhead.Therewereeightberths,exactlyliketheirs,behindthem.Thoseberthswerebeingpatrolledjustastheirswas,exceptAhmedhadalreadylootedtheothereightberths.Infrontwerethetwodoors,facingeachother,thatledonandoffthetrain.Pastthedoorswerethelavatoryandthesink.Andagainstthissinkthebrotherstillslumped.Heseemedconscious,butbarely.Betweenthelavatoryandthesinkareawasanarrowpassagewaythatledtothenextbogie.Sheknewalltheirhopewasinfront,wherethedoorswere,butthatwasallsheknew.Shethoughtaboutthelayout,andshedespaired.Therewasnowayout,notwithaguardstandingbythe

door,and twomoreapproachingorwithinearshot. Itwouldhave tobe lightningquick,before the twopatrolguardscouldbealerted,buteventhen...ShelookedatVinod.Itwasgrowingdarkoutside,andallthelightsinthetrainhadbeenextinguished,

butshecouldstillseehisface,waryofAhmed’smovements,watchinghimasheunpackedthesuitcasesof themotherandherdaughter.Vinod’sbodywasas ithadalwaysbeen,since theday they’dmarried,slim, straight-backed, the recentgrayathis templesonlyaccentuatinghis seriousness,his reserve.Shewanted,forthefirsttimeinthetenyearsshe’dknownhim,tocollapseintohisarms.Shewantedtoweep.She wanted to say, There has to be a way out. How are you holding up? he whispered. Instead ofansweringsherestedherforeheadagainsthisupperarmandfelttheknobbinessofhisshoulderbone,itshardnessagainstthehardnessofherforehead;shefeltinthatmomentthattheanswermustlieinthebody,initsunquenchablewilltolive.Hergazefellonthelittleboy’sfeet;theydangledoffthefloorofthetrainandhisshoeshungloosearoundthem,asizetoobig.Theendofthepieceoftwinehe’dputinthemwasvisible,nearhisleftankle.Shelookedatthepieceoftwineandthensheliftedherhead.Theboystillseemedasthoughhewaslisteningtothefootsteps,andwhenhenoticedhergaze,Kavitha

pointedathisshoesandgesturedforhimtopassher theircontents.TheboywaitedforAhmed to turnaway,justasKavithahadhopedhewould,andquicklyhandedherthetwothin,flatpebblesandthepieceof twine.Therehadbeenachitofpaper,sherecalled,but thishekeptforhimself.Again,nothingwasquiteclearinhermind,butneverhadtworocksandapieceoftwineseemedtoholdsomuchpromise.Thecontentsofhershoes—anecklace,somerings,andasetofmatchingbracelets—heldnone.Kavithawaited.Shedidn’tknowwhatshewaswaitingfor,butsheknewshehadtowait.Ahmed, in themeantime, had found the jewelry in the shoes of the youngwoman. Kavitha became

awareofitonlywhenhelaughedoutloudandsaid,Sothat’swheretheyare.Heturnedtofacetherestoftheberth.Everybody,hesaid,swinginghismachete,hisvoicerisingattheircollusion,takethemoff.Kavithaslowlyundidthebuckleofhersandals;allthistime,thehemofhersarihadcoveredthem.Her

necklace fell out first. Ahmed picked it upwith hismachete. It dangled off the tip like a lizard, likesomethingwrithing,andnotmeanttobetouched.Headdedittothepileofjewelryonthebench.Justasheturnedbacktowardher,theoldman,standinginthecornerbythewindow,clutchedathischest.Heletoutalonggroanandcollapsedontotheseat.Hisdaughter-in-lawshrieked.Hiswifewasbentoverhim,pleading,Kyabhathhey?What’swrong?Air, someonesaid,givehimair.Ahmed’s facebristled.Thedaughter-in-lawrose to take theoldmanoutside,butAhmedpushedherdown.Staywhereyouare,heseethed.Heneeds air, shepleaded, hemightdie.Youallmight,Ahmed said.He summoned theguardpostedatthedoor.Gettheoldmansomeair,hesaid,andstandwhereIcanseeyou.Theguardsteppedintotheberthandledtheoldmantothedoor.Theystoodjustoutside,inthepassageway.Kavithacountedtoteninherhead.Oneoftheguardswentby.Thentheother.

Ineedtousethelavatory,shesaid.Theotherswerebusyemptyingtheirshoes.Ahmedtooknonoticeofher.IsaidIhavetousethelavatory.Shutup.It’sfemaletrouble,shesaid.Vinodgaveherasharplook.Ahmedpaused.Leaveyourshoeshere,hesaid,thepileofjewelryrising

behindhimlikeahillofsand.TheboylookedatKavitha.Shelookedbackathim.

Thebrother,theoneslumpedbythesink,liftedhiseyeswhenshecameoutoftheberth.Thebleedinghadslowed,itseemedtoher,buthewasclearlyweak.Hehadgonepale;hisclothesandskinweresoakedwithblood.Forafleetingmoment,shethoughtshemighthelphim,perhapsevenbysimplyliftinghimtoasittingposition,butsheknewtherewasnoroomforthat.Notime.Shepassedtheoldman,theguard,bothat thewindow facing theberth, andwhen she reached thebrother, shekneeled swiftly next to his ear,shovedoneofthepebblesintohishand(hisleft;thegoodone),andwhispered,Throwit.ThrowitthemomentIcomeoutofthelavatory.Shejumpedupandduckedinside.Hadheheard?Washeevenconscious?Shelistenedforthefootsteps

oftheguards.Shecouldnolongerhearthem,notwiththedoorclosed,onlywhentheywerejustoutsidethelavatorydoorwouldshebeabletohear.Breathe,shetoldherself,takingabreath.Breatheagain,shesaid.Andshedidthisoverandoverandoveragain,thinkingonlyofthelittleboy.Thelavatoryhadnowindow.Justasquattoilet,atapforwater,andahandleforgrip.Theholewas

openandshowedthegravelonthetracks.Shelookedthroughthehole,linedwithexcrement,andsawthegravel.Everystonethesamecolor,quarriedinsomedistantplace,andvaryingonlyslightlyinshape.Theyearsfollowingthestillbirthhadbeenlikethat.Shehadoftenwondered,duringthoseyears,whethersheshouldhavenamedthebaby.Shedecideditwasbetterthatshehadn’t.Notbecauseshewouldhavefeltagreaterloss—therewasnot,sheknew,alossanygreater—butbecausenamingthechild,agirltheyhadtoldher,wouldhavebeenanactofbravery,andshedidn’twanttobebrave.Shewantedallthefearsandweakness of a dark, unnamed place.And shewanted to love the child in thatway,without hope andwithoutaname.Whenbothguardshadpassedandbeengoneafewseconds,sheopenedthelavatorydoor.Atthesound

ofthedoor,thebrotherseemedtowakeasiffromadeepsleep.Helookedatthepebble,alittletoolong,alittletoolong,Kavithafretted,thenflungitdownthecorridor.Ahmedyelled,Whatwasthat?Theguard,theonebytheoldman,tookafewtentativestepspasttheberth.Thiswasthemoment.Thiswasit.Kavithadartedpast thebrother, reached in,andgrabbed the littleboy’shand.They jumpedfromthe

train,throughthedoornearthelavatory,andassoonastheyhittheground,Kavithahandedthelittleboyoneendofthetwine,shovedhimagainstthedoor,andsaid,Holdit.Tight.Sheheldtheotherend,ontheothersideofthedoor.Ahmedcameracingout,theyheldonuntilhetripped,andleapedoutofthewaysotheywouldn’tbreakhisfall.Thentheyran.Itwasdark.Therewereafewstars,notmany.Thesliverofmooncasthardlyanylight.Theyscurriedunder the bogie, up a few cars, toward the engine, and lay on the couplings, facedown, their armswrappedtightaroundthem.Neitherspoke.Kavithawaiteduntiltheguardshadrunpast,checkingunderthebogiesandinsidethem,thenindicatedtheladderthatledtotheroofofthetrain.Theyclimbedup—therungsdiggingintoKavitha’sbarefeet—andcrawledtothemiddle,iffornootherreasonthantobeatthehalfwaypointincasetheyhadtorunineitherdirection.ItwasfromthisvantagepointthatKavithasawa

roadinthedistance,afullkilometeraway,atleast;athin,darkribbonthatsheassumedwasaroad.Butitwasempty,notacaroralorryorabullockcartpassed.Thenightdeepened.Shecouldnothavesaidhowmuchtimehadgonebywhenshesawasmalllightinthedistance,almost

apunctureinthenightsky.Itgrew—slowly,becauseitwassofaraway.There,shewhispered,look.Theboy raisedhis head.What dowedo, he said.Theywaited.The light got bigger.Alarmingly fast. Sheknewtherewasnowayforbothofthemtoreachtheroadbeforethelightpassedthem.Shestudiedtheground.Nearthetrainwasasmalltree.Furtheralongwaswhatlookedtobeapileofluggage.Shehandedtheboythesecondpebble.Shesaw,aftera time,hissmall,murkyshapemoving to the tree.Then the luggage.Hehad toldher,

beforehe’ddescendedtheladder,thathe’daimedpebblesatmovingtrainslotsoftimes,inhisvillage.Inever missed, he boasted. Kavitha didn’t point out to him that the moving light was not a train, butsomethingmuchsmaller.Shedidn’t tellhim,but it’sdark.Andshedidn’tsay,weonlyget toplay thisgameonce.Sheheardaclink.Didn’t she?Whatelsecould itbe?Therewasnothing formany,manykilometers

surroundingthetrain.ThatwasofcoursewhyAhmedandhismenhadpickedthisspot.Andthat’swhatshehadthoughtwhiletravelingonthetrain:thattojourneythroughsuchemptinesswastoinviteitinside.Thelightstopped.

Thedriverofthelorry,aburlySikhwhospokeverylittle,excepttosay,I’mgoingtoAttari,nofurther,ignoredKavitha.Butwehavetogetthepolice,shesaid,theauthorities,themilitary,Idon’tknow.Thattrainisundersiege,shecried.Myhusbandisonit,hisfather.Peoplearehurt.Thecabinofthelorrywasdark.Sheturnedfromthedrivertotheboy.Hewasstaringoutofthewindow.Hewasn’tmyfather,theboysaid,fallingsilentagain.Kavithalookedathim,asifforthefirsttime.What’syourname?sheasked.Mustafa.AMuslim.ButwhywashegoingtoIndia?Theydroveonandon,eastward.Youdidn’tmiss,shesaidtoMustafa.Thenshesaid,Wasthatluggage?No.Whatwasit?Kerosene,hesaid.Andshetoofellsilent.

TheyreachedAttarilatethenextmorning.She’dlearnedfromMustafathatthemanshe’dtakentobehisfatherwasaHindufriendofhisparents’,entrustedtotaketheirsontorelativeslivinginEastPakistan.But where are your parents? she’d asked. He’d looked away, and said nothing. After amoment he’dturnedtoherandsaid,Mycousinsarewaiting.Sheknewshewouldtakehimthere.Herefusedtotakeanothertrain,andshewasnotkeenonit,either,

so they traveledslowly,overlandbyroad.Mostly lorriesandbullockcarts,apassingcar if theywerefortunate.Shehadsilverankletsshe’dpusheduphercalves,sothatAhmedwouldn’tsee,andshetradedtheseformoney.ItranoutwellbeforetheygottoEastPakistan.Inthepresenceofotherpeople,thetwowereoftensilent,lettingthemassumetheyweremotherandson.Thatseemedeasiest.Sittingfortheselongstretchesofquiet,KavithawassurprisedbyhowoftenshethoughtofVinod.She

knewhewasgone,thatshewasnowawidow.Theawarenesswasnotstartling.Notevenfrightening.Iwaswidowed long ago, she thought.And sheknew that on the train,when she’d laid her headonhisshoulderandhadfelttheroundnessandknobbinessofabonesofunny,soirreverent,sounlikehim,shehadsaidhergoodbye.

Theywereonahorsecart,nearingEastPakistan.Maybeaday,nomore.Itwaslateafternoon.Itwasacovered,two-wheeledcartandKavithalayinitsshade,dozing.Mustafalaybesideher.Themotionofthecartwokeher(orwasitadream?)andshesaidtoMustafa,Whathappenedtous, it’sours.Yoursandmine.Don’tspeakofit.And inhishalf-sleep,perhapsalsodreaming,Mustafaheard,Youaremine.Don’tspeak.Andsohe

neverdid.

JOANSILBER

AboutMyAuntFROMTinHouseTHISHAPPENSAlot—peopletravelandtheyfindplacestheylikesomuch,theythinkthey’verisentotheirbestselvesjustbybeingthere.Theyfeeldistantfromeveryoneathomewhocan’tbegintounderstand.Ifthey’reyoung,theytakeupwithbeautifullocalsoftheoppositesex;theysettlein;theygetusedtohoweverythingworks;theymakehomes.Butusuallynotforever.Ihadanauntwhowassuchaperson.Shewent toIstanbulwhenshewasinher twenties.Shemeta

good-looking carpet seller from Cappadocia. She’d been a classics major in college and had manyquestionstoaskhim,manyobservationstooffer.Hewasagentleandintelligentmanwhospenthisdaystalkingtotravelers.He’dcometothinkhenolongerknewwhattosaytoTurkishgirls,andhelovedmyaunt’sairyconversation.WhenhergirlfriendswentbacktoGreece,shestayedbehindandmovedinwithhim.Thiswasin1970.His shop was in Sultanahmet, a well-touristed part of the city, and he lived in Fener, an old and

jumbledneighborhood.Kiki,myaunt, likedhavingpeopleover, and theirapartmentwasalways filledwithmenfromherhusband’sregionandexpatsofvariousages.Shewashappytocookbigsemi-Turkishmealsandmakeup thecouchforanyonepassing through.Shehelpedout in thestore,explainedcarpetmotifstoanyonewhowalkedin—thosewerestarsforhappiness,scorpiondesignstokeeprealscorpionsaway. Inher lettershome,shesoundedenormouslypleasedwithherself—shedroppedTurkishphrasesintohersentences,reporteddaysspentsippingçayandkahve.ShesenthometoBrooklynacarpetshesaidwasKurdish.ThenKiki’sboyfriend’sbusinesstookaturnfortheworse.Therewasafloodinthebasementofhis

store and a bill someone never paid and a new shop nearby that was getting all the business. Orsomething.Thestorehadtoclose.HerfamilythoughtthismeantthatKikiwascominghomeatlast.Butno.Osman,herguy,haddecidedtomovebacktohisvillagetohelphisfather,whoraisedpumpkinsfortheirseedoil,aswellastomatoes,greensquash,andeggplant.Kikiwasupforthemove;shewantedtoseetherealTurkey.IstanbulwasreallysoWesternnow.Cappadociawasveryancientandshecouldn’twaittoseethevolcanicrock.Shewasgettingmarried!HerfamilyinBrooklynwassurprisedaboutthatpart.Weretheyinvitedtothewedding?Apparentlynot.Infact,ithadprobablyhappenedalreadybythetimetheygottheletter.“Wearingabeadedhatandaglitzyheadscarf,thewholeshebang,”Kikiwrote.“Istillcan’tbelieveit.”Neithercouldanyofherrelatives.Buttheysentpresents,oncetheyhadanaddress.Amicrowaveoven,

aMr.Coffee,anelectricblanketforthecoldmountains.Theywereapracticalandliberalfamily; theywanted tobehelpful.“Iknowit’shardforyou to imagine,”Kikiwrote,“butwedoverywellwithoutelectricityhere.EverymorningImakeawoodfireinthestove.Verygood-smellingsmoke.Imakealittlefireinthebottomofthewaterheatertoo.”Kikibuiltfires?Noonecouldimagineherasthepioneerwife.Herbrother,Alan(wholaterbecame

my father), was always hoping to visit. Kiki said not a word aboutmaking any visits home. No onenaggedher;she’dbeenatouchyteenager,giventosullenoutbursts,andeveryonewasafraidofthatKikiappearingagain.Shestayedforeightyears.Herletterssaid,“MyhusbandthinksIsewaswellashissisters”and“I’m

rereadingmycopyofOvidinLatin.It’snotbad!”and“Wintersooolongthisyear,Ihateit.Osmanhasalreadytaughtmeallheknowsaboutthestars.”Noonecouldmakesenseofwhoshewasnow.Therewerenochildrenandnopregnanciesthatanyoneheardabout,andthefamilyavoidedasking.

HerbrotherwasjustabouttofinallygethimselfoverforavisitwhenKikiwrotetosay,“Guesswhat?I’mcomingbackatlast.Forgood.”No,thehusbandwasnotcomingwithher.“Mylifeherehasreacheditsnaturalconclusion,”Kikiwrote.“Osmanwillbemydearfriendforeverbutwe’vecometotheendofourroad.”“Sowhoranaroundonwho?”therelativeskeptasking.“She’llneversay,willshe?”

Everybodywonderedwhatshewouldlooklikewhenshereturned.Wouldshebesun-driedandweather-beaten,wouldshewearbillowingsilktrouserslikeabellydancer’s,wouldthenewerbuildingsofNewYorkamazeher?Noneoftheabove.ShelookedlikethesameoldKiki,thirty-onewithverygoodskin,andshewaswearingjeansandaturtleneck,possiblythesameonesshe’dlefthomewith.Herluggagewasamess,wovenplasticvalisesbaledupwithstring,verythirdworld,andtherewerea

lotofthem.Shehadbroughtbackninecarpets!Whatwasshethinking?Sheintendedtosellthem.Herbrotheralways remembered thatwhen theyate their firstmeal together,Kikiheldherknifeand

forklikeaEuropean.Shelaughedatthingslightly,asiftheabsurdityofitallwasn’tworthshriekingover.SheteasedAlanabouthiseyeglasses(“youlooklikeageniusinthem”)andhislargeappetite(“hasnotchangedsinceyouwereeight”).Shecertainlysoundedlikeherself.Before very long, she moved in with someone named Marcy she’d known at Brooklyn College.

Marcy’smotherboughtthebiggestoftherugs,andKikiusedtheproceedstorentastorefrontintheEastVillage where she displayed her carpets and other items she had brought back—a brass tea set andturquoisebeadsandcottonpantswithtuckedhemsthatsheherselfhadonceworn.Thestorestayedafloatforawhile.Herbrotherwonderedifshewasdealingdrugs—hashishwasall

overIstanbulinthemovieMidnightExpress,whichhadcomeoutjustbeforeherreturn.Kikirefusedtoseesuchafilm,withitsluridscenesofmeanTurkishprisons.“Whohasniceprisons?”shesaid.“Nameonesinglecountryintheworld.Justone.”Whenherstorebegantofailandshehadtogiveitup,Kikisupportedherselfbycleaninghouses.She

evidently did this with a good spirit; the family was much more embarrassed about it than she was.“Peopleheredon’tknowhowtocleantheirhouses,”shewouldsay.“It’ssortofremarkable,isn’tit?”By the time I was a little kid, Kiki had become the assistant director of a small agency that bookedhousekeepersandnannies.Shewastheoneyougotonthephone,theonewhodidn’ttakeanynonsensefromclientsorworkerseither.Shewasfriendlybutstrictandkeptpeopleonpoint.AsachildIwasateenybitafraidofher.ShecouldbeverywitheringifIwasactingupandgetting

crazyandknockingoverchairs.Butwhenmyparentstookmetovisit,Kikihadspecialcookiesforme(IlovedMallomars)andforawhileshehadaboyfriendnamedHernandowhowouldplayairplanewithmeandgobuzzingaroundtheroomwithmeonhisback.Ilovedvisitingher.MyfathertoldmelaterthatHernandohadwantedtomarryKiki.“Butshewasn’tmadeformarriage,”

he said. “It’s not all roses, you know.”He andmymother had a history of having, as they say, theirdifferences.“Kikiwasalwayslikeabird,”myfathersaid.“Flyinghereandthere.”Whatacornythingtosay.

IgrewupoutsideBoston,inasmallsuburbantown,whoseleafysafetyIspurnedonceIwasoldenoughforhipdisdain.ImovedtoNewYorkassoonasIfinishedhighschool,whichIbarelydid.Myparentsand Iwerenotongood terms inmyearlyyears in thecity,butKikimadeapointofkeeping in touch.She’dcallonthephoneandsay,“I’mthirsty,let’sgohaveadrink.OK?”AtfirstIwasupinInwood,asfarnorthinManhattanasyoucanget,soitwasalongsubwayridetoseeherintheEastVillage,butonceImovedtoHarlemitwasn’tquitesobad.Whenmysonwasborn,fouryearsago,Kikibroughtmethe

most useful baby stuff, things a person couldn’t even know she needed.Oliverwould calmdown andsleepwhenshewalkedhimaround.HegrewupcallingherAuntGreatKiki.Thetwoofuslivedinahousingproject,butoneofthenicerones,inanapartmentillegallypassedon

tomebyanex-boyfriend.Itwasadecentsize,withgoodlight,andIlikedmyneighbors.ThatfalltheTVstartedtellingustogetpreparedforHurricaneSandy,andOliverhadagreattimeflickingtheflashlightonandoff(areallyannoyinggame)andwatchingmetapegiantX’sonthewindowglass.Allthekidsonourfloorwerehypedupandexcited,runningaroundandshrieking.Wekeptlookingoutthewindowsasthe sky turned a sepia tint. When the rains broke and began to come down hard, we could hear themoaningof thewinds and things clattering and banging in the night, awnings and trees getting the hellbeatenoutofthem.IkeptswitchingtodifferentchannelsontheTVsowewouldn’tmissanyofit.Thetelevisionhadbettercoveragethanmyviewoutthewindow.AnewscasterinasuittoldustheConEdtransformeronFourteenthStreetexploded!The lights in thebottomofManhattanhadgoneout! Imadeefforts to explain electricity to Oliver, as if I knew. Never, never put your finger in a socket. Oliverwantedtowatchabetterprogram.Atnine-thirtymyfathercalledtosay,“YourauntKikidoesn’thavepower,youknow.She’sprobably

sittinginthedark.”Ihadforgottenaboutherentirely.ShewasonEastFifthStreet,intheno-electricityzone.IpromisedI’dcheckonKikiinthemorning.“Imighthave towalk there,” I said.“It’s likeahundredand twentyblocks.You’renotgoing toask

aboutmyneighborhood?It’sfine.”“Don’tforgetabouther,OK?Promisemethat.”“Ijusttoldyou,”Isaid.

Thenextday theweatherwas shockinglypleasant,mild,withawhite sky.Wewalked for ahalf-hour,which Oliver really did not like, past some downed trees and tossed branches, and then a cabmiraculouslystoppedandweshareditwithanoldguyallthewaydowntown.Notrafficlightsworking,no stores open—how strange the streetswere. InKiki’s building, I ledOliver up four flights of darktenementstairswhilehedrovemenutsflickingtheflashlightonandoff.WhenKikiopenedthedoorontoherpitch-blackhallway,shesaid,“Reyna!Whatareyoudoinghere?”Kiki, of course, was fine. She had plenty of vegetables and canned food and rice—who needed a

fridge?—andshecouldlightthestovewithamatch.Shehaddaylightnowandcandlesforlater.Shehadpotsofwatershecouldboiltowashwith.Shehadfilledthetubthenightbefore.HowwasI?“Oliver,isn’tthisfun?”shesaid.Oh,NewYorkersweremakingsuchabigfuss,shethought.Shehadatransistorradiosothefussing

camethrough.“Imyselfamenjoyingthedayofffromwork,”shesaid.ShewasrereadingTheGreekWaybyEdithHamilton—hadIeverreadit?Ididn’treadmuch,didI?—andsheplannedtofinishittonightbycandlelight.“Comestaywithus,”Isaid.“Wouldn’tyoulikethat,Oliver?”Olivercrowedoncue.Kiki said she always preferred being in her own home. “Oliver, I bet youwould like some of the

chocolateicecreamthat’sturningintoalovelymilkshake.”Wefollowedherintothekitchen,withitspaintedcabinetsandoldlinoleum.WhenItookoffmyjacket

tosettlein,Kikisaid,“Oh,no.Didyougetanewtattoo?”“No.Youalwaysaskthat.You’rephobicaboutmyarms.”“I’llnevergetusedtothem.”Ihadadoveandasparrowandatigerlilyandabranchwithleavesandsomesmallolderones.They

allstoodforthings.Thedovewastosettleafight;thesparrowwasthetrueNewYorkbird;thetigerlilymeantboldness;andthebranchwasanolivetree inhonorofOliver. Iusedto try to tellKiki that they

werenodifferentfromthepatternsonrugs.“Areyouafloor?”shesaid.Sheaccusedmytattoosofbeingforms of mutilation as well as forms of deception over my natural skin. According to what? “Well,Islamicteaching,foronething,”shesaid.KikihadneverbeenapracticingMuslimbutshelikedalotaboutIslam.Imayhavebeentheonlyone

in the familywhoknewhow into it she’d once been.She used to try to getme to readAverroës, shethoughthewasgreat,andAvicenna.Onlymyauntwouldbelievethatsomeonelikemecouldjustdipintotwelfth-centuryphilosophyifIfeltlikeit.Shesawnoreasonwhynot.“Oliver,myman,”shewassayingnow,“youdon’thavetofinishifyou’refull.”“Dad’sworriedaboutyou,”ItoldKiki.“Ialreadycalledhim,”shesaid.Itturnedoutherphonestillworkedbecauseshehadanoldlandline,

nothingdigitalorbundled.She’dbeenoutsideearlierintheday.Somepeopleonherblockhadwaterbutshedidn’t.Oliverwas

entrancedwhenKikishowedhimhowsheflushedthetoiletbythrowingdownapotfulofwater.“It’smagic,”Isaid.Whenweleft,Kikicalledafterus,“I’malwaysgladtoseeyou,youknowthat.”Shecouldhavegiven

usmorecreditforgettingallthewaythere,Ithought.“Youmightchangeyourmindaboutstayingwithus,”Icalledback,beforewewentoutintothedark

hall.Ihadanextrareasonforwantinghertostay.Nottobeoneofthosemotherswhowasalwaysdesperateforbabysitting,butIneededababysitter.Myboyfriend,Boyd,wasspendingthreemonthsatRikersIsland.Hewasthereforsellingfiveounces

ofweed(whothinksthatshouldevenbeacrime?).ForallofOctoberI’dgonetoseehimonceaweek,anditmadeabigdifferencetohim.Iplannedtogothatweek,oncethesubwayswererunningandbusesweregoingoverthebridgeagain.ButitwashardbringingOliver,whowasn’thiskidandwhoneededalotofattentionduringthosetoylessvisits.IlovedBoydbutIwouldn’thavesaidIlovedhimmorethantheothersI’dbeenwith.Fortunatelynooneasked.NotevenBoyd.Therewasnoneedforpeopletokeepmouthingoffabouthowmuchtheyfelt,inhisview.Somedegreeofrealinterest,somepersistenceinshowingup,wasenough.EveryweekIsawhimsittinginthatvisitors’roominhisstupidjumpsuit.Thesightofhim—heavy-faced,wary,waitingtosmileslightly—alwaysgottome,andwhenIhuggedhim(lighthugswerepermitted),I’dthink,It’sstillBoyd,it’sBoydhere.Olivercouldbeanuisance.Sometimeshewasvery,verywhinyafterstandinginsomanydifferentlines,orhewasincensedthathecouldn’tbringinhisgiantplasticdinosaur.Orhegotoverstimulatedandhadtonestle up to Boyd and complain at length about some kid who threw sand in the park. “You havingadventures,right?”Boydsaid.Meanwhile,IwastryingtoaskBoydifhe’dhadanOKweekandwhynot.Ihadanhourtogivehimthejoysofmyconversation.Dealingwiththosetwoatoncewasnottheeasiest.IgotaphonecallfromAuntKikiontheseconddayafterthehurricane.“Howwouldyoufeelaboutmycomingoverafterworktotakeahotshower?”shesaid.“Icanbringatowel,I’vegotpilesoftowels.”“Ourshowerisdyingtoseeyou,”Isaid.“AndOliverwilllendyouhisducky.”“KikiKikiKikiKikiKiki!”Oliveryelledwhenshecamethroughthedoor.MaybeI’dworkedhimup

toomuchinadvance.We’dgottentheplaceveryclean.Assoonasmyauntemergedfromthebathroom,dressedagain inherslacksandsweaterandwitha

steamed-pinkfaceundertheturbanofhertowel,Ihandedheraglassofredwine.“Apersonwithoutheat

orwaterneedsalcohol,”Isaid.Wesatdowntomeatloaf,whichIwasgoodat,andmashedpotatoeswithgarlic,whichOliverhadlearnedtoeat.“Thisisafeast,”shesaid.“Didyouknowthesultanshadfeaststhatwentonfortwoweeks?”Oliverwas impressed.“Thisonecouldgoon longer,” I said.“Youshouldstayover.Orcomeback

tomorrow.Imeanit.”TomorrowwaswhatIneeded—itwasthevisitingnightforinmateswithlastnamesfromMtoZ.“Maybethepowerwillbebackonbythen,”Kikisaid.“Maybemaybe.”AtRikers,Boydandtheotherinmateshadspentthehurricaneunderlockdown,nowanderingoffinto

thetorrent.Rikershaditsowngenerator,andthebuildingswereinthecenteroftheisland,toohighuptowashaway.Itwasnevermeanttobeaplaceyoumightswimfrom.“YouknowIhavethisboyfriend,Boyd,”Isaid.KikiwaslookingatherplatewhileItoldher,asmuchasIcouldinfrontofOliver,thesituationabout

theweeklyvisits.“Oh,shit,”shesaid.Shehadtofinishchewingtosay,“OK,sure,OK,I’llcomerightfromwork.”WhenIleanedovertoembraceher,sheseemedembarrassed.“Oh,please,”shesaid.“Nobigdeal.”

WhatamysteryKikiwas.WhatcouldIeversaytoherthatwouldthrowherforaloop?Bestnottopushit, of course. Andmaybe she had a boyfriend of her own that I didn’t even know about. She wasn’tsomeonewho told you everything. Shewasn’t showeringwith him,wherever hewas.Maybe hewasmarried.Amanthatage.Oh,wherewasIgoingwiththis?WhenKikiturnedupthenextnight,shewasforty-fiveminuteslaterthanshe’dsaidshe’dbe,andIhad

givenuponherseveraltimesover.Shebustledthroughthedoor,saying,“Don’taskmehowthesubwaysarerunning.Go,go.Getoutofhere,go.”She looked younger, all flushed like that.What a babe shemust’ve once been.Or at least a hippie

sweetheart.Oliverclamberedalloverher.“Willyouhurryupandgetoutofhere?”shesaidtome.Thesubway(whichhadonlystartedrunningthatday)wasindeedslowtoarriveandverycrowded,butthebusnearQueensPlazathatwenttoRikerswasthesameasever.Afterthefirstfewstops,allthewhitepeople exceptme emptied out. I readPeoplemagazinewhilewe inched ourway to the bridge to theisland; lovewasmaking amess of the lives of a number of celebrities.And look at that teenage girlacrosstheaisleinthebus,combingherhair,checkingitinamirror,pullingsomestrandsacrossherfacetomake ithangright.Girl, Iwanted tosay,he fuckedupbadenough togethimselfwherehe is,andyou’restillworriedhewon’tlikeyourhair?Ofcourse,Iwasallmoussedandlipstickedmyself.Ihadstandards.Butyoucouldn’twearanythingtoo

revealing—noripsorsee-throughfabrics—theyhadrules.Visitorsmustwearundergarments.AfterIstoodinalineandputmycoatandpurseinalockerandshowedmyIDtotheguardsandgot

searchedandstoodinalineforoneofRikers’ownbusesandgotsearchedagain,IsatinaroomtowaitforBoyd.ItwasoddbeingtherewithoutOliver.Thewaitwentonsolong,anditwasn’tlikeyoucouldbringabook.AndthenIheardBoyd’snamereadfromthelist.Thosejumpsuitsdidn’tflatteranyone.Butwhenwehugged,hesmelledofsoapandBoyd,andIwas

sorryformyselftohavehimawaysolong.“Heythere,”hesaid.“Didn’tmeantogetheresolate,”Isaid.Boydwanted tohearabout thehurricaneandwhogothit theworst.AuntKikibecamemymaterial:

“Oh,shehadhercandlesandherpotsofwaterandhercansofsoupandherbagsofrice,shecouldn’tseewhyeverybodywassoupset.”“Can’tkeep’emdown,oldpeoplelikethat,”hesaid.“Goodforher.That’sthebestthingI’veheardall

week.”

IwentonaboutKiki’sgameness.Howshe’dtaughtmetherightwaytoclimbtreeswhenIwasyoung,whenmymotheronlyworriedI’dfallonmyhead.“Ididn’tknowyouwereaclimber.HavetotellClaude.”His friendClaude,muchmoreofanathlete thanBoyd,hadrecentlydiscovered theclimbingwallat

somegym.Boydhimselfwasacouchpotato,buta leanandlankyone.People toldhimhe lookedlikeLebronJames,onlyskinnier.Washegettingpuffynow?Alittle.“Claude’samonsteronthatwall.GotLynnettedoingittoo.”LynnettewasClaude’ssister.AndBoyd’s

girlfriendbeforeme.“Girlscandothatstufffine,hesays.”“Whendidhesaythat?”“Theycamebylastweek.Thewholegang.”Whatgang?Onlythreevisitorsallowed.“Lynnettewashere?”“AndMaxwell.Theycametoshowsupport.Iappreciatedit,youknow?”I’llbetyoudid,Ithought.Iwastryingnottoleaptoanyconclusions.Itwasn’tasifshecould’vecrept

intothecornerwithhimforaquickie,thoughyouheardrumorsofsuchthings.Urbanmyths.“DoesClaudestillhavethatstringyhaircut?”“Hedoes.Looks like a root vegetable.Man shouldgo tomybarber.”TheRikers barber hadgiven

Boydanonionlook,ifyouwerecitingvegetables.“They’recomingagainSaturday.You’renotcomingSaturday,right?”InevercameonSaturdays.Icuthimalook.“Becauseifyouare,”hesaid,“I’lltellthemnottocome.”

Youcouldn’tblameamanwhohadnothingforwantingeverythinghecouldgethishandson.ThiswasprettymuchwhatIthoughtonthebusridebacktothesubway.Oh,Icouldblamehim.Iwasspendinganhourandahalftogetthereeveryweekandanhourandahalftogetbacksohecouldentertainhisex?Iwastornbetweenbeingpissedoffandmyprinciplesaboutbeingagoodsport.WhyhadBoydtoldme?Theguycouldkeephismouthshutwhenheneededto.Becausehedidn’tthinkheneededto.BecauseIwasagoodsport.Whatsurprisedmeevenmorewas

howpainfulthiswasstartingtobe.IcouldimagineBoydgreetingLynnette,inhisoffhand,Mr.CoolWay.“CanIbelievemyeyes?”Lynnettesilkyandtough,tellinghimithadbeentoolong.ButwhatwassogreataboutBoydthatIshouldtwistintormentfromwhatIwasseeingtooclearlyinmyhead?Iwasonthebusduringthisanguish.IwantedBoydtocomfortme.Hehadatalentforthat.Ifyouwere

insultedbecausesomeassholeatdaycaresaidyourkid’sshoeswereunsuitable,ifyousplurgedonaniceTVandthenrealizedyou’doverpaid,ifyougotfiredfromyourjobbecauseyouusedupsickdaysanditwasn’t your fault, Boyd couldmake it seem hilarious. He could remind you it was part of the ever-expandingjokeofhumantrouble.Notjustyou.WhenIgotbacktotheapartment,Oliverwasactuallyasleepinhisbed—hadKikidruggedhim?—andKikiwasinthelivingroomwatchingtheCookingChannelonTV.“Youwatchthiscrap?”Isaid.“Howwasthevisit?”“Medium.Who’swinningonChopped?”“Thewrongguy.ButIhaveathingforMarcusSamuelsson.”Hewasthejudgewhohadarestaurant

rightinHarlem,achefborninEthiopia,tallandrangyandverygood-looking.So,IwantedtoaskKikiandIalmostdid,isthewholefuckingworldaboutmen?“Oliverspilledalotofyogurtonthefloorbutwegotitcleanedup,”shesaid.Iwantedadrink,Iwantedajoint.Whatwasinthehouse?IfoundaveryoldbottleofBeaujolaisinthe

kitchenandpouredglassesforusboth.

“Whendoeshegetout?”Kikiasked.“TheysayJanuary.He’sholdingupOK.”“Hehasyou.”“Youdon’thavetotellmeifyoudon’twantto,butwhenyougotdivorced,”Isaid,“wasitbecauseone

ofyouhadbeenmessingaroundwithsomeoneelse?”“Whooh,”Kikisaid,“wheredidthatcomefrom?”“SomeonenamedLynnettehasbeenvisitingBoyd.”Kikiconsideredthis.“Couldbenothing.”“SowhenyouleftTurkey,whydidyouleave?”“Itwastime.”I admiredKiki’swayof decidingwhatwasnoneof your business, but itmadeyou think therewas

businessthere.ItwasmybadluckthatConEdgotitsacttogethertheverynextevening,soelectricityflowedinthewallsofKiki’shome togiveher lightand refrigerationand topumpherwaterand thegurglingsteam inherradiators.IcalledhertosayHappyNormal.“Normalisoverrated,”shesaid.“I’llbesobusynextweek.”“Metoo,”Isaid.Oliverhardlyeverhadsitters.HewasindaycarewhileIwentofftomyunglamorousemploymentasa

part-timereceptionistataveterinarian’soffice(itpaidlousybutthedogswereusuallynice)andatnightItookhimwithmeifIwenttoseefriendsorBoyd,whenIusedtostaywithBoyd.SometimesBoydhadacousinwhowatchedhim.“Oliverwantstosayhi,”Itoldmyaunt.“Iloveyou,GreatKiki!”Oliversaid.Thisdidn’tmovehertovolunteertositforhimanothertime,andIthoughtitwasbetternottoaskagain

sosoon.Oliverwasn’t bad at all on the next visit to Rikers. Theweatherwas colder and he got towear hisfavoriteSpider-Mansweater,whichBoydsaidwasverysharp.“Yourmom’slookinggoodtoo,”BoydsaidtoOliver.“BetterthanLynnette?”Ihadn’tmeanttosayanysuchwhiny-bitchthing;itleapedoutofme.Iwashorrified.Iwasn’tasgood

asIthoughtIwas,wasI?“Notinyourleague,”Boydsaid.“Girl’snowherenear.”Hesaidthisslowlyandsoberly.Heshookhis

onionheadforemphasis.Therestofthevisitwentverywell.BoydsuggestedthatOlivernowhadthesuperpowertospinwebs

fromtheceiling—“Yougoingtofloataboveusall, landrightonall thebadguys”—andOliverwassotickledhehadtobestoppedfromshriekingwithgleeattopvolume.“Knowwhat Imiss?”Boyd said. “Well, that, of course.Don’t lookatme thatway.But also Imiss

whenweusedtogoiceskating.”Wehadgoneexactlytwice,rentingskatesinCentralPark,fallingonourasses.IalmostcrushedOliver

onetimeIwentdown.“Youtellingeveryoneyou’rethenextbighockeystar?”Isaid.“Ihopethere’sstillicewhenIgetout,”hesaid.“Therewillbe,”Isaid.“It’ssoon.Beforeyouknowit.”

Kikihadnowstartedtoworryaboutme;shecalledmoreoftenthanIwasusedto.She’dsay,“YouthinkObama’sgoingtogetthisCongressinline?Andhow’sBoyddoing?”

Iletherknowwewerestillanitem,whichwaswhatshewantedtoknow.WhyinGod’snamewouldIeverthinkofsplittingupwithBoydbeforeIcouldatleastgethimbackhomeandinbedagain?WhatwasthepointofallthesebusridesifIwasgoingtoskipthatpart?“Youwouldn’twantmetodeserthimatatimelikethis,”Isaid.“Becareful,”shesaid.“He’snotmuchofacriminal,”Isaid.“Hewasjustabartendersellingontheside,notanybig-time

guy.”Ididn’thavetotellhernottomentionthistomyfather.“Anybodycanbeinjail,Iknowthat,”Kikisaid.“HikmetwasinjailforthirteenyearsinTurkey.”Ithoughtshemeantanoldflameofhersbutitturnedoutshemeantafamouspoetwhowasdeadbefore

sheevengotthere.AfamousCommunistpoet.She’dreadallhisprisonpoems.Boydwasn’tinjailforpolitics,althoughsomepeopleclaimedthewarondrugswasaracewar,and

theyhadapoint.Mymomanddadwereknowntosmokedopeeverynowandthen,andwasanycopstop-and-friskingthemonthestreetsofBrookline?“SocanIaskyou,”Isaid,“weretheredrugsaroundwhenyouwereinTurkey?”WhatablurterIwas

thesedays.“Werepeoplesellinghashoranything?”“Not in our circles. I hate thatmovie, you’ve seen thatmovie. But therewas smuggling. Imean in

antiquities,bitsfromancientsites.Peoplewentacrosstotheeasternparts,broughtstuffback.OrtheygotitovertheborderfromIran.Beautifulthings,really.”“It’samazingwhatpeoplegetmoneyfor.”“IfOsmanhadwantedtodothat,”shesaid,“hewouldn’thavebecomeafarmer.Itwasthefarmingthat

mademeleave,bytheway.”Iwasverypleasedthatshetoldme.“Andheleftofffarmingfiveyearslater,”shesaid.“Isn’tthatironic?”“Itis,”Isaid.“IstillwritetoOsman.He’sagreatletterwriter.”Thiswasnews.Didshehavealltheletters;howhotwerethey;didhee-mailtoo?Ofcourse,Iwas

thinking:Maybeyoutwoshouldgetbacktogether.It’sahumanimpulse,isn’tit,towanttosettheworldintocouples.“Thewifehehasnowismuchyounger,”Kikisaid.

ByDecember I’d gotten a new tattoo in honor ofBoyd’s impending release. Itwas quite beautiful—abirdcagewith thedooropenanda lineof tinybirdsgoing towardmywrist.Somepeopledesign theirbodyartsoitallfitstogether,butIdidminepiecemeal,likemylife,anditlookedfine.Kikinoticeditwhenitwasaweekoldandstillswollen.Shehadjustmadesupperforus(overcooked

hamburgersbutOliverlikedthem)andIwasdoingthedishes,keepingthatarmoutofthewater.Soakingtoosoonwasbadforit.“AndwhenBoydisoutofthepicture,”Kikisaid,“you’llbestuckwiththisinkthatwon’tgoaway.”“It’smyhistory,”Isaid.“Myarmisanalbum.”“WhatifBoyddoesn’tlikeit?”“It’sforme,”Isaid.“Allofthesearemine.”“Don’tbeacarpet,”shesaid.“Youdon’treallyknowverymuchaboutthis,”Isaid,“ifyoudon’tmindmysaying.”WhywouldItakeadvicefromawomanwhoslepteverynightaloneinherbed,cuddlingupwithsome

copyofAristotle?Whatcouldshepossibly tellme that Icoulduse?Andshewasgettingolderby theminute,withhersquintyeyesandhershorthaircuttooclosetoherhead.

ItwassnowingthedayBoydgotreleasedfromRikers.IwashomewithOliverwhenClaudewenttopickhim up. He didn’t want me and Oliver seeing him then, with his bag of items, with his humblingpaperwork,withtheguardsleaningovereverydetail.BythetimeIgottoviewBoydhewasinourlocalcoffeeshopwithClaude,eatingacheeseburger,lookinghappyandgreasy.Oliverwentberserk,leapingall over him, smearing his snowy boots all overBoyd’s pants. I leaped a little too. “Don’t knockmeover,”Boydsaid.“Nah,knockmeover.Goahead.”“Showhimnomercy,”Claudesaid.AlreadyBoydlookedvastlybetterthanhehadinjail,andhe’dbeenoutonlyanhour.“Can’tbelieve

it,”hesaid.“Can’tbelieveIwaseverthere.”HefedfrenchfriestoOliver,whopretendedtobeadog.Boydhadhisotherhandonmyknee.Wecoulddothatnow.“Hey,girl,”hesaid.Thesnowoutsidethewindowgaveeverythingalunarbrightness.Thefirstnighthestayedwithme,afterittookforevertogetOliverasleepintheotherroom,Iwasmadlyeagerwhenwemadeourwaytoeachotheratlast.Howdiditgo,thisdream—didwestillknowhowtodothis?Knewjustfine,thoughtherewerefumblesandpauses,littlelaughinghesitations.IhadimaginedBoydwouldbehungryandevenrough,butno,hewascareful;he loopedaroundandcircledbackandtooksomebywaysbeforesettlingonhisgoal.Hewastrying,itseemedtome,tomakethisfirstcontactveryparticular,tryingtorecognizeme.Ihadn’texpectedthisfromhim,whichshowedwhatIknew.Atmyjobinthevet’sofficemyfellowworkersteasedmeaboutbeingsleepyatthedesk.Theyallknewmyboyfriendhadreturnedafteralongtrip.Anyyawnbroughtongrouphilarity.“Lookhowshewalks,shehobbles,” oneof the techs said.What a raunchyoffice Iworked in.All I saidwas, “Laugh away,you’regreenwithenvy.”I was distracted, full of wayward thoughts—Boyd and I starting a restaurant together, Boyd and I

runningoff toThailand,BoydandIhavinganotherkid,maybeagirl,whatwouldwenameher,Oliverwouldlikethis—orwouldhe?IlostfocuswhileIwasdoingmytasksatthecomputerandhadtoputupwitheveryonesayinghowsleepyIwas.Jaildoesn’talwayschangepeopleingoodways,butinBoyd’scaseitmadehimquieterandlessapttothrowhisweightaround.Hehadtofindanewjob(noalcohol).Iwasproudofhimwhenhestartedasawaiterinadinerjustnorthofourneighborhood,abigchallengetohisstylishself.Thiswasdefinitelyastepdownforhim,whichheboregrudginglybutnotbitterly.Afterworkhishairsmelledoffryingoilandbroilersmoke.Hishomewasnotexactlywithme—hewasofficiallylivingathiscousin’s,sincehenolongerhadhisapartment—buthespenta lotofnightsatmyplace. I liked thecousin(itwasMaxwell,whohadoncebabysatforOliver)buthehadatendencytodragBoydouttoclubsatnight.Inmyyoungerdays I liked togoclubbingsameasanyone,butonce IhadOliver itprettymuch lost itsappeal. IhadreasontoimaginegirlsinteensyoutfitsthrowingthemselvesatBoydintheseclubs,butitturnedoutthatwasn’ttheproblem.TheproblemwasthatMaxwellhadaschemeforincreasingBoyd’sadmittedlypaltryincome.IthadtodowithsmugglingcigarettesfromVirginiatoNewYork,ofallidioticwaystomakeaprofit. Just to cash inon the taxdifference. “Areyouout of your fuckingmind?” I said. “Youwant toviolateprobation?”“Don’tshout,”Boydsaid.“Crossingstatelines.Areyoucrazy?”“That’s it,”Boyd said. “Nomore talking.You always have opinions.Topic closed. Forget I said a

word.”Ididn’ttakewelltobeingshushed.Isnappedathimandhegotstonyandwenthomeearlythatnight.

“Amanneedspeace,isthattoomuchtoask?”

“YouthinkIgiveafuck?”Isaid.IwaswithKikithenextday,havinglunchnearmyoffice.Shewascheckinguponmethesedaysasmuchasshecould,whichincludedtreatingmetoafalafelplate.ItoldheraboutthedogI’dmetatmyjobwhoknew three languages. It could sit, lie down, and beg in English, Spanish, andASL. “A pit-bullmix.They’resmart.”“YouknowwhatIthink?”Kikisaid.“Ithinkyoushouldgolivesomewherewhereyou’dlearnanother

language.Everyoneshould,really.”“Someday,”Isaid.“IstillhaveafriendinIstanbul.IbetyouandOlivercouldgocampoutatherplace.Foralittlewhile.

It’saverykid-friendlyculture.”“Idon’tthinkso.Mylifeishere.”“Itdoesn’thavetobeIstanbul,thatwasmyplace,it’snoteveryone’s.Thereareotherplaces.I’dstake

youwithsomecashifyouwantedtotakeoffforawhile.”Iwasn’teventempted.“It’sverygoodofyou,”Isaid.“You’llbesorrylaterifyoudon’tdoit,”shesaid.Shewanted togetmeawayfromBoyd,whichmighthappenon itsown,anyway. Iwas touchedand

insultedbothatonce.AndthenIwastryingtoimaginemyselfinanewcity.TakingOlivertoaparkinRome.HavinginterestingchatswiththelocalswhileIsatonabench.LaughingawayinItalian.Myphone interrupteduswith theping thatmeant Iwasgettinga text.“Sorry,”Isaid toKiki.“I just

needtocheck.”ItwasBoyd,andIwassoexcitedthatIsaid,“Oh!FromBoyd!”outloud.Sorry,babywasinthemessage,andsomeotherthingsthatIcertainlywasn’treadingtoKiki.ButIchuckledinjoy,tickledtodeath—Icouldfeelmyselfgettingflushed.Howfunnyhecouldbewhenhewanted.ThatBoyd.“Excuseme,”Isaid.“Ijusthavetoanswerfast.”“Goahead,”Kikisaid,notpleasantly.Ihadtoconcentratetotaptheletters.IttookafewminutesandIcouldhearKikisighacrossfromme.I

knewhowIlooked,toogirly,toojackedupovercrumbsBoydthrewmyway.Kikiwasnotgladaboutit.Shedidn’tevenknowBoyd.ButIdid—Icouldseehimverydistinctlyinmymindjustthen,hisgrumblingsweetness,hisspellsofcoldscorn,hisbragging,hisridiculousillusionsaboutwhathecoulddo,andthewavesof tendernessIhadforhim,thesuddenpangsofadoration.Iwasperfectlyaware(or just thenIwas, anyway) that somepart ofmy lifewithBoydwasnot entirely real, that if I pushed it toohard awholeotherfeelingwouldshowitself.Iwasn’tabouttopush.Iwantedustogoonaswewere.Apersoncanknowseveralthingsatonce.Icouldknowallofthemwhilestillbeingmovedtodelightbyhim—hiskissesonmyneck,hiswayofhummingtothemostblaringtune,hisgoofingaroundwithOliver.AndIsawthatIwasprobablygoingtohelphimwiththecigarettesmugglingtoo.IwasgoingtobeinitwithhimbeforeIevenmeanttobe.Iwasgoingtorideinthecarandcountthecash;Iwasgoingtolethimstorehisillegalcigarettesinmy

house.Allbecauseofwhatstirredme,allbecauseofwhatBoydwastome.Allbecauseofbeauty.Ihadmyownlifetolive.AndwhatdidKikihave?Shehadherjobmakingdealsbetweentheveryrich

andtheverypoor.Shehadherbooksthatshesettledinsideofindustyprivatesatisfaction.Shehadheroldandfabledpast.Ilovedmyaunt,butshemusthaveknownI’dneverlistentoher.WhenIstopped textingBoyd, I lookedup,andKikiwasdabbingatherplateof food.“Thehummus

wasgood,”Isaid.“TheysaySaladinatehummus,”shesaid.“Intheelevenhundreds.Youknowabouthim,right?Hewas

aKurdwhofoughtagainsttheCrusaders.”

She knew a lot. She was waiting forme tomake some fucking effort to know a fraction asmuch.Saladinwho?Inthemeantime—anyonelookingatourtablecould’veseenthis—wewerehavingalongandunavoidablemoment,myauntandI,ofeachfeelingsorryfor theother.Inourseparateways.Howcouldwenot?

ARIABETHSLOSS

NorthFROMOneStoryMYFATHERMADE it as far asLittle Iceland.Thatwas thenameof the iceberg they foundhisnotebookfrozen into, interred like a fossil. At least that was the name written on one of the last pages of hisnotebook,underasketchofwhatmightormightnothavebeen the iceberg.Therewas thequestion, inthosedays,ofwhattoname.Theimpulsewastolayclaimtoeachnewfragmentoftheunknown.Labeleverything.Buticebergsdoastheyplease.Theyformandbreaksoquickly,itispossibletoclaimoneoneday,onlytowatchitdivideitselfoutofexistencethenext.Whatmymothersaid:wedowhatwecantomakethingsstick.

Myfatherwasanexplorer.Everyfewyears,hepackedhisthings—clothes,boots,notebooks,tinsoffood—and kissedmymother goodbye. She watched from the steps of their cabin in northern Idaho as hehoistedhisbagontohisshoulderandsetoffdownthepathtothemainroad.Whenhegottothegapinthetreeswherethepathbentbacklikeahairpin,hestoppedandwaved,afigurenobiggerthanherthumb.He came close to dying enough times she stopped keeping track.Back then, people traveling to the

placeshediddisappearedbecauseofallkindsofthings:exhaustion,hypothermia,trichinosis,bears.Foralongtime,myfatherwaslucky.Thethingsthatwentmissingwerelargelyexpendable:food,sleddogs,scientificmeasuringtoolswhosecostgotchalkeduptoanexpedition’soverhead.Still,somethingsareirreplaceable.Byhis thirtiethbirthday, theonlyfingers remainingonhis lefthandwerehis ringfinger,indexfinger,andthumb.Butmy fatherwas a stubbornman.Hehad an internal compass, he said. It just kept pointingnorth.

Once, at my mother’s insistence, he went to see the local doctor in Coolin. The doctor frowned:“Strange,” he said, shaking the thermometer. “Let’s try that again.”Butmy father laughed and hoppeddownofftheexaminingtable.He’dalwaysknowniceranthroughhisveins,hesaid.Itwasonlyamatteroftimebeforetherestofhimfroze.Onedaymyfatherdidwhatanyonemighthavepredicted.Hehoistedhispackontohisback,waved

throughthegapinthetrees,boardedthetrainthatwoundthroughtheSelkirkMountains,gotoffinSeattle,andwasneverheardfromagain.Mymotherwaitedyears,butthebodywasneverfound.Forthatreasonshewenton fora long timebelievinghemightcomeback.WhenIwasyounger,and thought lovewassomething the world owed you, I had to hide in my room when I wanted to cry over it, this greatunfairness.Theseacaptainwhofoundmyfather’snotebookfrozenintothesideofLittleIcelandcameallthewaytonorthernIdahotohand-deliverittomymother.Weallthoughtveryhighlyofyourhusband,hesaid.Theworldcouldusemoremenlikehim.Mymothernodded.Shesaidthenotebookhadclearlybeenleftthereintentionally.Itwasstuffedinside

aspecimenjar,stoppered,carefullysealedwithwax.Thepageswereinperfectcondition,shepointedout,thewordsonlyalittlesmudgedhereandthere.Theseacaptainnodded.Theballooncouldhavelandedanywhere,hesaid,sunkanywhere.Thewater

would have carried the party’s belongingsmiles fromwhere they died.With time, their bodieswouldhavebeendispersedinthiswayaswell.Or,mymothersaid,hecouldhavedeliberatelythrownitoverboard.Aclue,shecalledit,asthoughthe

wholething—myfather,theballoon,theyearsofwaiting,allofit—wasnomorethanapuzzlewaitingto

besolved.Everylovestorybeginswithadiscovery:amidsttheordinary,thesublime.Thisishowitbegins.MymotherandhersisterswerecrossingtheroadinthetownofSumpter,NorthDakota,whenabuggy

stoppedinfrontofherandamanleapedout.Heworeatallhat,wideredsuspenders.Hisbootswerecoveredinmud,hiscoatfilthyandraggedalongthehem,buthewalkeduptomymotherasthoughthey’dknowneachotheralltheirlives.“Goodafternoon.”Hestoodthere,smilingather.Mymotherhadneverseenasmilelikehis.Itwasasmilelikeamagician’s,fullofhiddenwonders.“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, tipping his hat, and her sisters giggled into their

handkerchiefs.MymotherhadneversetfootoutsideofSumpter.Herfamilywasclose-knit,clannish,fivegirlsbornto

a Virginia preacher who’d ended up in a dusty town in the middle of nowhere because the Lordcommandedhimso.HiswifelikedtoremindanyonewhowouldlistenthattheLordhadn’tcommandedhertogoanywhere.ShewouldhavestayedinVirginiaforever,ifanyonecared.Shewouldhavestayedtheretilltheendoftime.Therewasn’tmuchformymotherandhersisterstodoinSumpter.Theyspentlongafternoonssewing

ontheporch,watchingthedustystreetsturncopper-coloredinthesun.Butmymotherwasnotquite likehersisters.She’dbeen taken to the townphysicianfrequentlyasa

child,becauseshedidstrangethingstoherbodyevenGodcouldn’tseemtoexplain.Sherippedthenailcleanoffherthumboncebecause,shesaid,shewantedtoseeherhandplainly.Shetookapairofscissorstoherbraidandchoppedthewholethingoff,thecurlsthatremainedsoshortherearsshowedthroughlikelittle shells.She slippedout towhere theprairiegrassesgrewhighasher shoulders,pulledherdressoverherhead,andranthroughthosearid,sweet-smellingfieldsuntilherlegsbuckledunderher;shelaytherealongtime,breathinghardintothehotalluvialsoil,lettingthebloodytasteofitsettleacrosshertongue.Shedidn’tknowhowtoread,butshespentlonghoursbentovertheBible,movingherlipsinawaythatmighthavesuggestedtoanyonewhodidn’tknowherthatshewaspraying.Shehaddesiresshedidn’thavewordsfor.Nomanwillwantawildwomanforawife,hermothertoldher,notunkindly.Awildmanwill,mymothersaid,andhersisterslaughed,becausethewayshesaiditmadeitsound

true.Atnight,mymothersneakedout tositon theporch.Sheneeded tobreathe,she toldhersisters.She

couldn’tforthelifeofherunderstandhowanyonesleptcoopeduplikethat.Shecurledherselfintotherockingchair,stillasacat.Countedthestarsinthesky,memorizedthepinprickpatterntheypunchedintotheblue.Withalittleconcentration,shefound,shecouldfloatupamongthem.Vanishfromtheporch,thestill,too-closeair.Inthewinkofaneye,escape.Thiswasoneofthefirstthingsshetoldmyfatherwhenhecametocallonherthenextday.I shouldwarnyou, she said, eyeinghimas sheusedherpinky to coaxa sugar tornadoup from the

bottomofherglassoflemonade.Ihaveahabitofdisappearing.Buthejusttappedhischestandsmiledhismagician’ssmile.AskmewhatIdoforaliving.

Thisishowitbegins.My father, Thomas Hamblen, stands on the narrow strip of shoreline. Overhead, the sky burns a

brilliantblue.ItislateAugust,andabreezeripplesthesurfaceofthelake.Theairatthisearlyevening

hour is already cool, but comfortably so.Even aman unaccustomed to the cold could spend the nightoutdoorswithoutcomplaint.Myfathereaseshimselfdowninfrontof thewater,stretchinghisbackagainst thegravellysand.He

wearsalong-sleevedshirtandcottonpants.Slowly,deliberately,heremoveshissocks.Hehasbeenhomeforfivedays.Heisafraidhemightbelosinghismind.Overthecourseofthepastfifteenyears,myfatherhastraveledtotheArcticandbackatotalofthree

times.Hecamewithinanestimatedsixty-oddmilesoftheNorthPole—soclose,hetellsmymother,hecouldtasteit.Hewentfirstasaboy,chosenforhisspeedandagility.Later,becauseheretainedaboy’shunger for the unknown. He goes where few other men dare. He does so willingly, eagerly. For thisreason,heisrespectedbyotherexplorers.Admired,even.Thisdoesnotprotecthimfromanything.Forexample,loss.Hehaslostsomuchbythispointithardlyregisterswhenhelosesitalloveragain,

hismemorystretchedovertimetoadangerousthinness.Whatdidhelose?Afellowexpeditionmember.Aphotograph.Ammunition.Mementos—lockets,pocketknives,letters.Theyslidintothewaterwhenanicefloecracked,ortheyfelloutofhisjacket,orhetradedthemforsomethingnecessary,somethingthatinthemomentdrewthelinebetweenlifeanddeath.Therearenightshelies,sleepless,besidemymotherandtriestoadditallup:fivemen,sixteendogs,fivepoundsofdriedmeatplustenpoundsofbeans,twonotebooks...butitisafutileexercise.Hegivesupandgoesbacktocountingsheep.Easierarithmetic.Orhegetsoutofthewarmbedandgoesintothekitchen,wherehepourshimselfwhiskeyafterwhiskey,drinkinguntilthenumbersdisappear.Therearemomentsonhisexpeditions, trekkingacrosssnowsobrilliant its lightseems thrownfrom

some alien sun,whenmy father stops abruptly, drops his head in his hands.He pretends to cough, tosneeze, to wipe at the tiny icicles forming at the corners of his eyes. He has to, to hide what hiscompanionsontheselongjourneyscannotsee:heisinlove.Hisface,likeaschoolboy’s,wouldgivehimaway.Now he lies back against the damp stones andwatches the setting sun bleed into the blue. Clouds

shuttlebackandforth,pinkinguparoundtheiredgesuntiltheyglowlikefleshincandlelight.Highabovethepinetrees,apairofsharp-shinnedhawksturnlazycircles,scoutingoutmiceandvoles.Myfathershutshiseyes,squeezinguntilredstarsexplodeagainsttheblack.Heblinks,andtheskyopensabovehimlikeaninvitation.

WhatdidthePoletastelike?Likedirtymetal.Likesalt.Likethis,hetellsmymother,andshewaits,eyesclosed,lipspartedfora

kiss.Themonths between expeditions are never easy. In the absence of imminent disaster, my father findshimself listless, irritable. His appetite vanishes; his body softens like fruit. Days pass and he loseshimselfintheirpassing,thepredictablesamenessofonemorningtothenext.Heloseshourstosleep,ortosomestrangefuguestatebetweensleepingandwakingfromwhichhestartsasthoughfromanightmare,findinghimselfinthemiddleofsomesmalltaskhehasnorecollectionofhavingbegun.Hewalksoutsidetofetchwaterfromthecreekandwakeswithanaxinhishand,hisheadleaningagainsttherough,sweet-smellingtrunkofawhitepine.HeopenshisbatteredcopyofOriginofSpeciesandfindshimselfontheshoreanhourlater, lefthandaching,asthoughfeelingthelossofthosefingersanew.Hefindsapenciland sits on a log, copying lines intohis notebookuntil thepain ebbs fromhis palm.Great as are thedifferencesbetween thebreedsof thepigeon . . . he switches thepencil tohis righthand, forcinghiswrist tocurve inawaystillunnatural.Over theyears, themuscles in thosefingershavegainedonlyalittlemorefluidity,buthekeepsatit.Anticipatetheworst,afellowexploreroncetoldhim—thisoneof

themen now gone, succumbed to something or other in lands unknown.The only surprise should befindingyourselfalive.Oneafternoona fewweeksafterhearriveshome,my fathergoes into thekitchenandputshisarms

aroundmymother.Heisnotamangiventoregret,butonthisafternoon,theworldhoneyedbythewarmSeptemberlight,hefeelssuddenlyheavywithit,asadnessthatsitsonhischestlikeastone.Hetellsmymotherhehasbeenafooltoleaveheralltheseyears.Hesayssheiswhathethinksofeverynightheisgone.Thatsheiswhatsaveshim.Whenheiswithher,hetellsher,thecoldthathasaholdonhisbodyretreatsalittle.Retractsitsclaws.Heisnothingwithouther,hetellsher.Anoone.Heishardlyamanatall.Please,hesays.Forgiveme,hesays.Foramoment,shestandsperfectlystill.Throughthewindow,thepinetreesaremovingtheirfeathered

branchesinthebreeze,thecool,cleansmellofthemsostrongshecanfeeltheruttedsurfaceoftheirbarkbeneathherhands,feelthesaplacingitselfstickilyacrossherpalms.Thenallatonce—chattering,hervoicetooloud—sheducksoutfromunderhisarm.Look! shesays,

pushinguphersleeve.Lookhowstrongshe’sgotten!Shemakeshimfeelthesinewymusclesalonghershoulder.Shehasbeenchoppingwoodallspringandsummer.Sheputuptenjarsofhuckleberryjamandateenoughfreshberriessheworriedherskinmightturnblue.Therewerebearsupalongthemountainsidewherethehuckleberriesgrow.Shecountsoffonherfingers:afamilyoffour,twoyoungones,amotherand three cubs, a solitarygiant—male, she thinks.She crept away—so, soquietly—andmade it homewithherstoreintact.Shecaughttroutinthestreamanddriedandsmokeditforwinter.Shemadefriendswiththeirneighborsinthenextcoveandhasbeentakingthecoachwiththewife,Bernice,intotownforsupplieseveryfewweeks.Shestitchedanewquiltfortheirbed.Shetaughtherselfhowtocrochet.Sheembroideredthreeseparatepillows,oneforeachchair.Shewentswimmingeveryafternoon,forhoursandhours—Seehowstrongsheis?Howbrown?Shethrustsherarmoutagain.Onlytwobadstorms,andwhat littledamagetherewasshecleanedupeasily.Thesunafter this longwinterablessing,shesays.ThesunitsownGod,shesays,makingheavenoutof—sheshakesherhead,brushingsomethingoff thefrontofherdress.Heaven,shesays.Endofstory,shesays.Helooksatherandseessheisdesperatelyunhappy.

Thesunsailsfromonesideofthelaketotheother.Asitmounts,theairgrowsheavywithheat.Thebirdsthinout.Theyretreatintothewoods,thoughthepairofhawksremains,ridingaircurrentscarelesslybackand forth.When they sight something—a fish slidingunder the surfaceof the lake, amouse scrabblingthroughthetangleofhuckleberries—theyreleaseathin,highwhistle.Astheafternoonstretcheson,theaircools,andotherbirdsbegintoreappear—loonsandgrebes,thetinygray-tailedGrunterfinch.Myfatherwatchesthebirdscoastbackandforth,retreatingandadvancingtowardland.Bythetimethesunbeginsto slip toward the lake, the bats have joined in, dim shapes flicking back and forth across thewater,sailinglowtoscoopupthebugscongregatingjustabovethesurface.Theairisfullofflyingthings.Myfatherwatches.Adullpainuncoilsitselfalongthebaseofhisskull.Hehasnoteatenanythingall

day,andhisbrain,despitethepain,feelssharperforit.Heslideshisnotebookfromhispocketandstartsafewsimplesketches—aduck,afinch,afiligreeofalder leavesagainst thesky—beforedroppingthepencil,hisrighthandspasminginawaythatmakeshimwanttoweep.Glancingatthehorizon,hecatchesa ribbon of ice glinting out from behind the distant mountain ridge: it is bluish, glittering, a faintiridescencelikeabutterfly’swing.Whenhelooksagain,itisgone.The sky is an angrybruise-coloredviolet by the timemymothermakesherwaydown to the lake’s

edge.Cloudshanglowalongthehorizon.Myfatherhaslainhereforhoursnow,half-shadedbyarowof

tallcedars.Apatchofskinacrosshisleftfootstings:sunburn,probably,thoughmostofthefeelinginbothfeethelosttofrostbiteyearsago,theskintheresmoothandwhiteasacadaver’s.Mymotherstandsoverhim,smiling.“Resting?”“Thinking,”hesays,andsheturnsawaytooquickly.An eagle emerges fromanearby cove, gliding in before flapping its enormouswings—once, twice,

spiralingdownacrosstheopenexpanseoflake,sendingthehousesparrowsintoafrenzy.Theeagle,myfather has read, is nearly seven feet across thewingspan, though to see it glide across the cove is tobelieve it larger still. It is a bird of such grace and power it seems to come from another world.AccordingtothegreatDarwin,theeagleistheresultofcenturiesofcarefulgeneticwinnowing.Heistheoutcomeofathousandintricatesurvivalgames:Doesthiswingspanhelptheeagleflyhigherorlonger?Does this particular curvature of the beak aid or hinder the tearing of flesh?Does the chickwith theslightlylargercranialsockethuntmoreefficiently,ordoesitdiewhenitsheadgetsstuckintheburrowofsomewoodlandanimalithaschasedintotheunderbrush?Theskyisdarkeninginearnestnow,turningindigoandvelvety,denseascream.Aclouddriftsoutfrom

behindtheridgeoftreestohisrightandmyfathertriestowatchthemsimultaneously,eagleandcloud,butin the last faint wash of daylight, his eyes refuse to focus. He squints, raises himself on one elbow.Suddenly,theeagleplunges.Itdropsfromtheskylikeacannonball,sofastmyfatherbarelyhastimetositupbeforethebirdisflappingitsenormouswings,skiddingtoanawkwardsuspensionasitscoopsonetalonintothewaterandtakesoffagain.Itsvictoryscreamishighandloud.Againsttherisingmoon,theoutlineofasmallpikewrigglinginthebird’stalonsisneatandblackasastamp.Uptheeaglerises,up,up.Theskysnuffsitselfoutlikeacandle.Myfathergrabsthenearestbitofdriftwoodanddrivesit intothepebbles, lights theendonfire.He

snatchesuphisnotebook,turnstoafreshpage,anddrawstheeaglecoasting,thendropping,thenbrakingagainsttheair—then,ashismakeshiftlanternsputtersandspits,drawstheeagleliftingagain,thesuddenparasolofthosewings.Whenmymothercallshiminfordinner,shehastosayhisnamethreetimesbeforehestands.Hisbody

isstifffromhoursofinertia.Hisfootburns.Hismouthissodryhislipshavecracked,thebottomone—whenherunshistonguealongitexperimentally—weepingafewdropsofblood.But:hismind.Hismindvibrateslikeapluckedstring.Mymothersitsacrossthetablefromhim,smoothingthenapkinacrossherknees.Shepretendsnotto

noticehowquicklyheeats,movinghis forkmechanicallybackandforthuntilhisplate isclean.Whendinnerisdone,hegetsupimmediatelyandgoestothelittledeskbythewindowandsitsdown.Openshisnotebooktoanewpage.Suppliesneededfortheconstructionofaballoon,hewrites.

Whenmymothergoes tobed,she leaves thecandlesburning.Myfatherdoesnotraisehisheadasshestepspasthim,puttingherfeetdowndeliberately, rattlingthedoor in itscasing.Inbed,she tossesandturns;itisafteronebythetimeshefinallyblowsthecandlesout.Sheliesthereinthedark,listeningtothescratchofthepenagainstpaper.Shecountstheminutesastheypass.Whenshewakes,sheisstillalone.Lightleaksinaroundthehalf-closeddoor;shegetsupandcrosses

theroom,pullingasweateronoverhernightgowntofendofftheearlymorningchill.My father sits at the desk, scribbling furiously. He does not turn, andmymother stands there only

brieflybeforeslippingoutthebackdoor.Here,inherownhomeontheedgeofalakesowideshecan’tseetotheotherside,shenolongerhastositoutsideinordertobreathe.Onthenightsshefindsherselfunabletosleep,shesimplyleaves.Walksalongthetrailuntilshecomestothemainroad,thenupthehill

towhereitcrestsagainstthesky.Whenshereachesthetopofthehill,sheturnsaroundandlooksbackatthecabin,theglintofmoonlightoffitswindowsgivingitaway,likeatelltaleheart.Shewouldliketoknowhowitfeels,isall.

The next few months are a slow grind of activity. Each day my father cycles through exhilaration,exhaustion, frustration. Each day he arrives at the conclusion that he has embarked upon the mostsignificantjourneyofhislife,onethatwillwritehisnamebesideDarwin’sinthehistorybooks.Eachdayhedecideshehasfinallygonemad.Hesitsonthestonybeachwithastackofnotepaper,writingletterafter letter. He is gathering what he will need to coax his expedition into the realm of possibility:information,interest,hazypromisesofinvolvement,financialandotherwise.Withoutthenecessaryfunds,theideawillneverleavethepage.Hewriteseveryonefromeveryexpeditionhehasbeenapartofsincehebecameamemberofthisstrangeclub,theclubofexplorers.HewritesJohnManley,whoonceshotandkilledthelargestpolarbearanymemberoftheirpartyhadeverseen.Nanook,hecalledit,afterthenativepeople’swordforthebear.Hesaidhehadbeenwaitinghiswholelifetokillabearthatbig.DearJohn,myfatherwrites.IwritetotellyouthatIhavediscoveredmyNanook.Itisattainingthe

NorthPolebywayofaballoon.Hewritestheheadofthesciencedepartmentattheuniversity.HewritesthegreatexplorerAdolphusGreely,recentlyreturnedfromanexpeditiontoEllesmereIsland—thetripforall intentsandpurposesadisaster,allbutsixof the twenty-five-mancrewdead.DearMr.Greely,myfatherwrites.Before I begin my application for your counsel in earnest, may I express to you myutmost admiration for the bravery demonstrated by you and your crew on your most recent PolarExpedition.Thisisnoeasyroad,hewrites.Godhelpallofuswhohavechosentojourneyit.Hewritesthe celebrated British balloonist Henry Tracey Coxwell, the architect and pilot of such spectacularspecimensasMarsandMammoth:DearMr.Coxwell,myfatherwrites.Itiswithgreatrespectforyourmany accomplishments in the field of aeronautics that I write to you today in search of guidancepertainingtoallthingsballoon.HewritesAlfredNobel,whosegenerosityhasmadehimacovetedcontactamongadventurersArctic

andother.DearMr.Nobel,myfatherwrites.Ihavenothadthepleasureofmakingyouracquaintance,butIunderstandweholdasimilarpassionforinventionclosetoourheart.IhaveanumberofideaspertainingtotherecentandunfortunatelyfailedventurestotheNorthPoleandwaysinwhichImight,withmybreadthofexperienceintheregioninquestionandmyextensiveknowledgeoftheconditionsrelatedtosaidregion, improve(considerably)uponthesefailuresand, indeed, triumphwhereothershavefailed.HewritesthepresidentoftheUnitedStates,reasoningthatintheoffchancesomeexcitableunderling

may,ashesiftsthroughthemail,findmyfather’sletterandscentthecrispodorofadventure,itwillbeentirelyworththeeffort.DearMr.President,Iamwritingtoinformyouofathrillingnewdevelopmentin the field ofArctic exploration, a field inwhich our brave nationmight and indeed by all rightsshould,Ibelieve,excel.Sir,hewrites,itismyhumbleopinionthatifgiventheopportunityIcanandshall lead us into the future. Under his signature he writes “Seasoned Arctic Explorer.” At the lastminute,headds:“andInventor.”This iswhatmy father seeswhen he looks out over the lake: balloon after balloon, rising toward theheavens.Afishflipsoutofthelake.Balloon!Inthearcofthefish’sbodyasitleapsoutandreentersthereisafluiditythatsendshimbacktohisnotebook,sketchingfuriously.Thatheisentirelyunfamiliarwiththenuts and bolts of ballooning gives him little pause: he knows the terrain, he knows the cold. He isintimatelyacquaintedwiththebrutalphysicsofheatlossandhope.Overtheyears,hehaslinedthecabinwallswithstacksofbooks—avastassortmentofweatheredencyclopedias,primarily,collectedalonghisjourneys and carried back at the expense ofmore practical acquisitions: canned goods, a sharp knife,

warmclothes formymother,whohasdarnedandre-darnedherskirtssomany times themendingyarnnow blots out the original fabric entirely. No matter. The latest spoils yielded a reasonably well-preservedandfairlyrecenteditionoftheBritannica,whichheflipsthroughwithgrowingimpatience.When he findswhat he is looking for, he hesitates only an instant before ripping the page from the

spine.Theprize?AdrawingofthelateFrenchmanJean-PierreBlanchard’sballoon—thespecificsofitsconstructionantiquatedbynowbutstilluseful.Thedrawingitselfisquiteelegant,abitoffancymyfatherhadadmiredinpassingandthenpromptlyforgotten—itsbeauty,hehadthought,theindulgenceofafool.Myfatherbendsoverhisnotebook.Hebeginstosketch.Hereis theenvelope,hereis theburner,herearethedragropes,hereis thebasket.Theobservation

platforminBlanchard’sdiagramissparebutfunctional;placedbelowtheburner,itwillallowtwomentostandwatchandtakenotesontheweather,theclouds,theviewastheypeerdownfromtheirperch.Thebasket will need to be lined with something warm—sealskin? Something that repels water would behelpful.Ropethatcandoubleasballast.Hispenfliesover thepages,makingascratchingsoundashedraws.Heturnsthepage,fillsit;turnstoanother,another.OnherweeklytripstothedrygoodsstoreinCoolin,mymothercollectsstacksofoldnewspapersand

practicesherreadingatnight,onelaboriouspageata time.Myfather takesthepapersshehasalreadyreadanddrawspreliminarysketchesacrossthebrittlepages,scrawlingthroughheadlineswithabandon.MANDEADATTWENTYbecomesMNDEDATTWNTY.STORMAPPROACHESCOEURD’ALENEbecomesTRMAPOCHESCURD’ALEE.Heusesthreeentirenewspapersinasingleafternoon,goingthrough a dozen sketches, two dozen, calculating and recalculating various heights andweights beforesettlingontheproperdimensionsforoneof theballastropes,whichhethenmeticulouslycopiesdownintohisnotebook.Mymotherwatcheshim takeastackof freshpapersout to thebeachandwipesherhandsonherapron,takesaloafofbreadfromthestove.Sheputsitinthewindowtocool,leansforward.Pressesherforeheadtotheglass.Achipmunkknocksapineconedownfromanearbytree.Myfathersquints:balloon!Theywillneed

moreballastthananyonehaseverthoughtnecessary.Iftheballoonistostayafloatforamatterofdaysrather than hours, and if it is required of the balloon that it be able to be controlled tightly once theyapproachtheyawningterritoryoficeandbitterwinds,thentheywillneedtoharnessnotonlythepowerofthesunandtheaircurrentsbutalsothatofgravity.Sand,myfatherreads,istheusualthing,butwhenhedrawsasketchofthebasketheincludesthreefive-poundsacksofsugar.Theycanuseitintheircoffee,pitchwhat’snotneededovertheside.HehasheardthattheNorwegianexplorerFridtjofNansen,talesofwhoserecentforaysintoGreenlandhavebeguntoassumethesizeandheftofmyth,takescoffeeoneveryexpedition,nevermindthevehicleofmotion:sled,boat,foot.Myfatherfindsthethoughtofcoffeeintheairappealing:itisasthough,flying,heneednotbeanylessathomethanheisontheground.Hesipsthecoffeemymotherhasmadehimandstartsapreliminarylist:

Coffee,fivepoundsSugar,twelvepoundsMeat,tenpoundsFowl,tenpounds

Whenhishandbeginstocramp,myfathercloseshiseyes.(Hisrighthandhehasabandoned,theworktoofine,thedegreeofcontrolrequiredtoohigh.)Thesunburnsthroughhislids,producingashimmeringredglow.Balloon!Hotairfillstheenvelope.Thehydrogenhisseslikeasnake.If he rounds the bottom of the basket, will it bounce lightly along the ground rather than smash to

smithereens?Ifhecancontrolthedragropesthewayhecontrolstheropesthatguidethesleddogs,keepthemfromtanglingupinoneanother,what is tostophimfromlandingtheballoonlightlyasafeather?

Anyonewhoknowsiceknowsitmustbetreatedlikeabeautifulwoman:gently,warily,withafirmbutrespectfulhand.Heflipsthenewspaperoverandwetsthenubofthepencilagainsthistongue.Adragonflylightsonhisknee,wingsquiveringasitcleansitsfrontlegs.Balloon!

AletterfromHenryTraceyCoxwellarrives.Myfathertakestheenvelopedowntothelakeandopensitthere,hisheartflutteringgirlishly.Theletterisbriefbutcordial.InitCoxwellexpresseshisenthusiasmformyfather’sventureandoutlinesthespecificwaysinwhichhewouldliketobeofservice:thenamesof a few potential crew members, a wealthy benefactor acquaintance with a taste for the exotic, aseamstresswillingtopurchasereamsofsilkoncredit.Myfatherstandsaminute,pressingthelettertohislips.Itissunset,andtheairhastakenonanexquisiteshimmer,awashofbluesandvioletsandpalepetal-pinks.Iwishyoutheverybestofluckinyourventures,Coxwellwrites.Godspeed.Itisonlywhenmyfathergoestoputtheletterbackintheenvelopethathediscoversthesecondsheet

tuckedintoonecorner,foldedneatlyintoquarters.Heunfoldsthequadrants,smoothesitagainsthisarm.Intheduskyquiet,myfatherletsoutawhoop.Asinglemeticulousdiagramcoversthepage:aballoon,

perfectasapearl.Wintercomesandgoes.Spring.Mymothersweepsaclusteroffallenelderberryblossomsfromthesteps.Astheywhirluparoundher

broom,sheseestheyarenewspaper,shreddedintotinybits.Theicemelts.Thestreamthatemptiesintothelakeswellsandgroans,therushingofitsoverflowso

louditwakesmymotherupatnight.Sheliesthereamoment,shiveringalittleunderthethinquilt,thenturnsontohersideandliftshernightgownsoshecanpressherbareskinagainstmyfather’sback.Heisburningupallthetimenow,hisbodyrunningonsomestrange,inexhaustiblefuel.Sheisoutclippingthelaundryonthelinetodryonemorningwhenmyfatherstealsallthepillowcases

fromthelinenclosetandspendsanentireafternoonattheedgeofthelake,tossingthemintotheair,wheretheybillowandcollapselikelungs.Hepulls theleavesoffherfavoritealderandsitsbythewaterfordays, clumsily sewing them together, blunting her needle until it is unsalvageable. He takes all thesilverwarefromthekitchendrawers;hespendstherestoftheweekbuildingstrange,gleamingcitiesinthesand.Atmealtimetheyeatwiththeirhandsandmymotherwondersidlyifmyfatherisgoinginsane.Hedisappearsintothewaterforhours,swimmingtowardthehorizonuntilthelakeclosesbehindhim.

Notsomuchasarippletoshowwherehe’sgone.Amallardbeatsitswings,pitchingitsfeetforwardasitslows,flappinghardasitcomesdowntorestontheshore.Itsbodyissleekandfat,thefeathersglossy.Myfatherrubshiseyesandturnstoafreshpage.Balloon!Balloon!Balloon!

Mymotherbeginsspendingallher timeinside.Shestopsgoing into town.Stopswading in thestream,surprisingunluckytrout.Stopswalkingthetrailsuptowherethehuckleberriesclusterinfatblue-blackglobes,leavesherneedlepointtolanguishonthebedsidetable,thethreadslowlyunspooling.Instead,shestandsinthekitchen,stirringsugarintocupaftercupoftea,watchingmyfatherthroughthewindow.Thespoonhittingthecupoverandoveragainmakesasoundlikealittlebell.Oneevening,whenmyfatherfinallyemergesfromoneofhismarathonswims, thesunhitshimfrom

behindjustso;heisgolden,glowing.Thelightissostrongithasthepeculiareffectofdrawingasecond,shimmering man around the first, as though my father has doubled himself, gone into the water andemergedwithatwin.

Heliftsahandtohisforehead,squintingatsomethinginthetrees,andhistwindoesthesame,hishanddrawingastreakagainsttheskylikeashootingstar.Thespoonfallstothefloorwithaclatter,mymother’spulsesuddenlywild.

Thatnightwhilemy father snores,mymother slipsherhandsunderhisnightshirt.She runsher fingersacrosshisribs,upanddowntheknobbyarticulationofhisspine.Heissothinthesedaysshemightseethroughhim. If she litacandleandbrought itunder thesheets, shemightseestraight in to themessoforgans,thatdense,wettangle.Shemightseethroughtohisheart,thetirelessmuscleofhisdesire.Andher?Inoneswiftmotion,sheyankshernightgownupoverherhead.Atacertainpointheclutchesheraroundthewaistandshefreezes,herhipsliftedaquarter-inchabove

his.Buthishandsfallawayalmostimmediately.Hegroans;once,hemurmurshername.Ormaybeitissorry.Maybeitisglory.Orgoodbye.Shewatcheshiseyesflutteropen,thewhitesoftheminthedarkstartling.After,sheliesbackagainstherpillowandfoldsherarmsacrossherchest.Warmthrisesfromher like themist thatcomesoff the lake inearlymorning.Or like there issomethingdangerousrunningthroughher,bothofthemburningupfromthesamefever.Therearethingsmyfatherwisheshecouldexplain.Thingshewouldlikemymothertounderstand.TheskythereisGod,hewantstotellher.TheiceisGod.Thefat,hideouswalrusisGod.Mymotherplacesapieinthewindowtocool,standingafewdeliberateinchesfromthesteamthatrisesfromit,smellingofburntsugar.Thenauseahasjustcomeon.Alittleovertwoweeksagonow,butshe’dknownwhenthefirstdayofherbleedingcameandwentwithoutsomuchasavaguecramping.Shehasalwaysbeen regularasaclock.Herbodyhasnever failedher.Andnow—well,now ithasdoneonlywhatsheaskedofit.Shefindsthenauseaunpleasantbutfeelsotherwisewellenough;sheisalittletired,occasionallydizzy.Noappetitemostoftheday,thoughattimeshungercomesuponhersosuddenly,withsuchurgency,shefindsherselfracingtothekitchentocramhunksofbreaddownherthroat.Ithelpsbothnauseaandfatiguetofocusonasinglepoint.Standingbythewindow,shepretendssheisonaboatinthemiddleofavastocean,thoughshehasneverseentheocean,neverseenabodyofwaterlargerthanthislake.Shehasnever, truthbe told,beenanywhere.Shegrips theedgeof thekitchen table,pressingherpalmsagainst thewoodasherstomachrollsandflips.Whenshecloseshereyes,shesees it:hopethesizeofaseed.Whenmyfathercomesinfromchoppingwood,cheeksredfromexertion,sheisstandingoverthepie,

halvingit,quartering,slicingitintoeight.Shedoesnotturnaround.Allthesemonths,hehasneversaidonewordabouttheballoon.Heislikeachild,afraidtospeakhiswishforfearofitnevercomingtrue.Butofcourseitisludicroustopretendmymotherdoesn’tknow.Evenbeforetheletters,beforehebegancoveringthepagesofhisnotebookwithsketchesandcalculations,fillingitwiththemanyblueprintsofhisdreams—longbeforeanyofthat,shesawit,theglintinhiseye.She does not knowwhenmy father’s leaving turned from adventure to abandonment.Nor does she

knowwhenthefreedomtodowithherdayswhatshepleasesbecameitsownoppression,butshepinssomeportionofthechangetothatafternoonuponthemountainside,pickingberries.Shehadbeenhappytrampingthroughtheunderbrush,thesunhittingherfull-tilt.Herbasketfilledtothebrimwithfruit.Shehadbeenlookingforwardtothejam,totheelbow-deepimmersionitsmakingrequired,thosemanyhoursherstodowithasshewished.Andthen,assheturnedhalfwaydowntoadmiretheview,somethingaboutthe lake, theway it curled around themountainside, still and unwieldy as a giant’s finger—somethingaboutthathadstoppedherinhertracks.Shehadtoliedownrightthereinthebushesandwaituntilthe

roaringinherheadsubsided.Thisiswhatshehadmeanttotellmyfather.Notaboutthebears,butaboutthelonelinessthatstruckher,suddenasastorm.Sheplacesasliceofpieonhisplate.Howmanypairsofsocks,shesays,turning,doeshethinkhe’llneedthistime?

Atdinnerheeatsalittlelesseachnight.Mymotherserveshimthesameheapingplate,twiceasmuchascovershers,andhementallyquarterseachportionandeatsasslowlyashecan, ignoringthegroansofprotest from his gut. They are both eating less and less. Pretending for very different reasons thateverythingis justas ithasalwaysbeen.Shepushesherfoodaroundwithherforkanddrinksplainhotwater,cupaftercup.Shehasaheadache,shesays.Sheisjusttired,shesays.Myfatherstandsontheshorelineinhisundershirt,watchingthemoonglazethefrozenlakesilver.He

flipsthroughhisnotebook,runshisfingeracrossthepagescoveredtoptobottomwithhiscrampedprint,hiscarefullydetailedfigures,thelistsdutifullynumberedandseparatedaccordingtocategory.Thefewlettersreceivedinreplyhekeepstuckedintothebackcover,thepagesfoldedandrefoldedsomanytimesthepaperhasbeenworntounnaturalsoftness,Coxwell’sballoondiagramthetextureofvelvet.Mymotherhasstoppedcrying.Forthis,heisgrateful.A looncalls somewherenot too far fromwherehe standsandhe squints into theglowingdarkness,

searching.Behindhim,thelastcandleguttersoutinthecabin.Bal-loon,criestheloon.Bal-loon,bal-loon.

Theweatherbeginstoturnagain.Thesnowmeltsonthemountainside,sendingdownwaterlikeabiblicalflood.Mymotherwakes one night to a sensation so strange she nearly cries out: just belowher rib cage,

underthenewsoftnessinherbelly,asmallwaverollsthroughher.Sheliesthereinthedarkforhoursafter,pressingherhandagainstthememory.Thedaymyfatherleaves,mymotherwakesearly.Sheslipsoutofbed,pullshisfavoritedressoverherhead.Shehasmadeaspecialtripintotownthedaybefore,buyingprovisionsforpancakes:flour,butter,eggs,preciousasgold.Evenso,itisnotuntilshestandstherebuttoningherdressinthesemi-darkness,her fingers tremblingsoviolentlyshe finallyabandons the last few, thatshe realizeswhatshewilldo.Whatshehasbeenplanningtodoeversinceshefeltmeinthenight,flippinginsideherlikealittlefish.Shestandsinthekitchen,whiskingsaltintotheflour.Herheartiseverywhere:inherthroat,herchest,

theheatshe feels inhercheeks.Shewill tellhimoverbreakfast.Shewillgetupfromherchairashewipesthelastofthesyrupfromhisplate,takehishandandplacehispalmflatagainstherbelly,thegivewhere,soonenough,Iwillpushtheskinout,tautasadrum.“John,”shewillsay.“Afteryourfather.Dorothyifitisagirl.”Whatheisleavingbehindisnodifferentthatwhatheisleavingfor,shewilltellhim.Atruthstranger

thananymagic:Insideheristhewildestland.Shestandsandpoursthefirstofthebatteronthegriddle,makinganeatrowofcircles.Sheishumming

loudlytocoverupthenoiseofherheart,atunesheusedtosingwithhersisters—solongagonowsheremembersnomore than the refrain:mydear,my sweetheart,myhind.Whenmy fatherwalks in, sheturnsawaytohidehersmile.“Mary,”hesays,andwhenshehearsthedeterminationinhisvoicesomethingthatisnotmeflipsover

insideher.“Mary,”hesaysurgently.“Listentome,”hesays.“Iamgoingtochangetheworld.”Andjustlikethat,hersmiledisappears.

Myfatherhasbeengonefourmonthsthenightmymotherwakesuptoabandofpainlikeavisetighteningaroundtheswellofherbelly.Sheshiftsontohersideandliesstillaslongasshecanstandit.Itisdarkwhen shewakes, andas she turnsontoone side, then theother, shewatches the lightbegin to seep inaroundtheedgesofthecurtains.Shewatches,inparticular,onebarthewidthofherankle,makesherselfguessthelengthitcreepsalongthefloor.Whenthepaingetsworse,shestandsandpacesthesmalllivingroom.Ittakestenstepstogofromonewalltoanother.ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR.Shecountsoutloud.Inbetweencontractions,sheputswoodintothestove,managestogetafewpotsofwaterboiling.Shecan’t imaginewhat shewill dowith thewater but she remembers this fromher ownmother, the potsbubblingonthestove,remembersthebirthsofeachofherfouryoungersisters,thehot,saltysmellthatfilledtheirsmallhouse, thedampnesshangingintheair.Sheremembersthelookonhermother’sface,after,thebluntincredulousnessofit.Thebrokenveinsbeneathhereyesstrangeandbeautiful,likecrushedflowers.Sheremembershersisters,eachblonderthanthelast,andshe,mymother,darkasanowl.Howterriblethat loveshouldcontainsuchcontradictions.Howutterlyinsane,shethinks,bitingdownonthepillow,thatherbodyshouldthinkitcancontainanotherhumanbeing.Sheoughttohaveknownallalongitismadness,thisbusinessofbelonging.Itislunacy.Asthecontractionsgetstronger,mymotherstaresoutthewindowatthewater,brightwiththelastof

themoonlight,andcountsoffthesecondsuntiltheyaredone.Shesaysthetwonamestoherself,overandover again, like a spell. John. Dorothy. John. Dorothy. If she says them enough times, she reasons,eventuallysomeonewillappeartoclaimoneofthem,astrangershewillmakeherown.OfcourseshewillknowmetheinstantIcomehowlingintotheworld.ShewillknowexactlywhoI

am.Iambornatnoonthenextday.Mymothertellsmethisisthefirstthingshedid:shecheckedtheclock.Iam still attached toherwhen she looks.Wearenot yet twowhen shebegins to keep trackofme, thesecondsIhavebeenaliveandthen,aftershecutsthroughthecordherself,cleavingmybodyfromherswithakitchenknife,thesecondsIhavebeenonmyown.Thisiswhatwomendo,shesays.BywhichshemeanssheunderstandsthatonedayIwillleavehertoo.Liftofftheground,thinkmyself

beyondgravity.Letgo.

LAURALEESMITH

UnsafeatAnySpeedFROMNewEnglandReviewTHEDAYAFTER his forty-eighth birthdaywas the samedayTheoBitner’s seventy-five-year-oldmotherfriendedhimonFacebook.Itwasalso thesamedayhiswife toldhimheneededtoseeadoctor.Oratherapist. “It’s your mood,” she said. “It sucks.” Counting his mother, Theo now had eight Facebookfriends.Sherrill,hiswife,had609.Itwasjustpastdawn,intheperfidiouspartofthedaythatimpliedanything was possible when, really, nothing was very likely. He regarded his Facebook profile, thefacelessbluebustofamanstaringfromthemarginofthescreenwhereheshould,bynow,haveuploadeda photo of himself. “TheoBitner is new toFacebook,” the caption read. “Suggest a friend forTheo!”Sherrillfinisheddressingandlefttheroom,andTheoleanedbackinhischair.Hestaredattheceilinginthecornerof thebedroom,wherehe’dproppedhis computer, ahulkingdinosaurof a tower,ona tinytablemadeofpressboard.Bycontrast,SherrillhadaMaclaptopthesizeofaplacemat.ShecarrieditaroundinazipperedrhinestonebagandtookitwithhertoStarbucksandCrispers.Theestrogenlevelsatthehouse,asmallishTuscannumberinanuninspiredneighborhoodsouthofSt.

Augustine,werethroughtheroof,inTheo’sopinion.WithhisdaughterAshley,unemployedandfreshfromFSUwithadegreeinWomen’sStudies(whatthehell?),ensconcedbackinherchildhoodbedroom,withhismother,Bette,nowlivinginthespareroomhe’doncefanciedhisoffice(the“bonusroom,”Sherrillcalledit),andwithSherrillherselfgenerallyholdingcourtovertherestofthehouse,Theohadbeguntofeelincreasinglyscuttled,shunted,reduced.Therewasaconspiracy,hereckoned.Hedidn’tlikeit.He turnedoff thecomputerandpickedup theCraigslistadhe’dprintedout.“Corvair!” theadread.

“$5,000.Twomodels.Callfordetails.”Thephotoshowedapristineermine-whiteCorvaircoupe,’66hewasguessing,justsharpasJesusitwas,shotagainstalushgreenbackdropofpalmettos.Hestudiedthephotoandmentallyrandownthespecs:95hpinarear-enginedesign,voluptuousCoke-bottlestyling,andaseductiveglimpseofredupholstery.Thecarlookedlikesalvation.BeneaththephotowastheaddressforacarauctioninLakeland.Hetookashowerandgotdressed.Hechoseayellowbutton-downshirtandapairofdarkbluechinos.

Notie.Independentsalesrepresentativesfordentalequipmentdidnotwear ties.He’dlearnedthis.HepickeduptheCorvairadandputitinhispocket.Inthekitchen,SherrillandAshleywereeatingbagels,andtheystoppedtalkingwhenheenteredtheroom.SherrilllookedatAshleyknowinglyandraisedhereyebrows.“Goodmorning,”hesaid.“Tellhim,”Sherrillsaid.Ashleysighed.“Tellhim,”Sherrillsaid.“It’stheonlywayhe’lllearn.”“Tellmewhat?”Theosaid.Ashleyputherbageldownonherplateandturnedtoregardhim.Hereyeswererimmedwithapasty

bluesparklysubstance,andTheolookedather,blinking,havinglostsightmanyyearsagooftheplump,pliant littlegirlwho liked tositonhis footasheclompedaround thehouse,herarmswrapped tightlyaroundhiscalf.“My laundry,” Ashley said. She looked at him sadly, enunciated her words clearly, as if he had a

hearingimpairment.“Mylaundryisinaseparatebasket.It’snottobetouched.”“DidItouchit?”hesaid.

“Yes,youtouchedit,”shesaid.“Youmixeditinwithalltheotherlaundry—thetowels?Thesheets?Yourunderwear?Imean,gross.”“Well,”hesaid.“Shedoesn’twantyoutotouchherlaundry,”Sherrillsaid.Shegavehimasmilethatwasnotreallya

smileatall.“Idon’tthinkthat’stoomuchtoask.”“Well,maybeIjustwon’tdoanylaundryatall,”hesaid.“Thatwaytherewon’tbeanyconfusion.”“Ofcourse,”Sherrillsaid.“He’sdefensive.Didn’tItellyou?”ShelookedatAshley,rolledhereyes.

“Didn’tItellyouhewouldfreakout?”“I’mnotfreakingout,”hesaid.Hepouredacupofcoffee,thenstoodbackandlookedatthem.“You’refreaking,”Sherrillsaid.“You’realwaysfreaking.”Betteenteredthekitchenandploddedtowardtherefrigerator.“Isentyouafriendrequest,”shesaid.“Isawthat,”hesaid.“Youdidn’tacceptit?”“Ididn’thavetime.”“Didn’thavetime?Howlongdoesittaketoclick‘accept’?”Sheleanedintopullthebutterdishfrom

the refrigerator, and a tinymuffled fart flapped through her dress. “You don’twantme in your secretFacebooklife,isthatit?”Shestoodupandlookedathim.Herfacewaspowdery.Tinywhitehairsstoodupalongherforearms.“Oof.”Heshrugged.“Igotnosecrets,”hesaid.“What’sthatsupposedtomean?”Sherrillsaid.“Look,”Ashleysaid.“AllI’msayingis,don’ttouchmystuff.Youcan’taffordtoreplaceit.”Theotookhiscoffeeouttothebackpatio,wherehesquattedonaresinfootstoolandreadthepaper.

Thenhesatstillforafewminutes,watchingafrogthathadgottencaughtinthereturnattheedgeoftheswimmingpool.Thefrogwaspale,exhausted.It flexedits legsandbutteditsheadupagainst thewallagain,again,again,lookingforanescape.Ithadprobablybeenthereallnight.“Hooo,buddy,”Theosaid.“Sucks,don’tit?”Heput thecoffeedownon thepooldeckandcuppedhishandsunder the frog to flip itoutonto the

concrete.Thefrogcrouched,frozen,astonished.“Goon,”Theosaid.“You’rebackinthegame.”Hesmiled.“Congratulations,littleman.”He found thecheckbook inSherrill’spurse,whichwashangingonahook in the laundry room.The

washingmachinechugged.Twoplasticbasketssatonthefloor,onemarkedwithablackSharpiealongtherim.DO.NOT.TOUCH.,itsaid.Heleftthehousewithoutanotherword.Heclimbedintohisminivan,alatemodelDodgeCaravan,andswattedangrilyatthefeltheadlinerdanglingacrossthetopofhishead.Attheoffice,Erniewasalreadywaitingforhim.“Bro,”Ernie said. “Where you been, bro?”Erniewas fifteen years younger thanTheo, thoughhe’d

outpaced him long ago in terms of income and ambition. Ernie owned a distributorship for dentalequipment,droveaBMW,woreaRolex.HiseyelasheswereblackerandlongerthananyTheohadeverseenonaman.Hischestwasthickbeneathagolfyturtleneck.Theohatedalmosteverythingabouthim,exceptforthecar.ThefactthatTheoworkedforErnie,andnottheotherwayaround,wassickeningsometimes,whenhe

let himself think about it. He consoled himself with the idea that he was still an “independent” rep,clinging to theconceptofautonomyandfreedomthat thewordpromisedand turningablindeye to therealityoftherelationship,whichmeantthatTheowasfreetohelplineErnie’spocketswithsaleswithoutthecomplicationsofhealthbenefitsoraprofit-sharingplan.But the territory—the territorywasprimo,accordingtoErnie.Thetophalfofthestate,westtoPensacolaandsouthallthewaytoTampa.“Thesky’s

thelimitoncommissions,bro,”Erniesaidregularly.“Getoutthereandsellthatshit.Youwhoreit,youscoreit.”ThismorningTheosettledhimselfintoametalchairacrossfromErnie’sdesk,wishinghe’dhadmore

coffee.Heflippedthroughastackofleadsandlookedforlornlyathislatestcommissioncheck.“Don’t get comfy there,”Ernie said. “What’s on deck today?You got that endodontist inLakeland?

Kelso?”“Yeah,”Theosaid.“Kelso.Maybegethimtocloseontheexamchairs.”“ThePremiers?”“TheBasics.”“Shit,Theo,”Erniesaid.“Upsellthatsonofabitch.HeneedsthePremiers.”“HewantstheBasics.”“Upsellhim.”Ernieunclippedhis cellphone fromabelt attachmentandpeeredat the screen.He started textinga

message,stilltalkingtoTheo.“Yougottagetsomeballs,man.What’sthematterwithyou?Yoursalesarecrap.Yougottaupsellthisshit.Thesearedentists,man.They’renotbusinessmen.Thisisn’tSteveJobs.Thisisn’tgoddamnJackWelch.”“Idon’tevenknowwhoJackWelchis,”Theosaid.Erniestoppedtextingandstaredathim.“Andthatrightthereistheproblem,”hesaid.Theolookedaway.“Upsellthisshit,man,”Erniesaid.“Right,”Theosaid,buthistonewasunconvincing,eventohimself.Hejiggledhisknee,lookedathis

watch.“Allright,nowlisten,”Erniesaid.“BeforeyougotoLakelandIgotthisnewguyIwantyoutosee.

Wainwright.He’sgotapracticeinPalatka.”Erniewroteanaddressonapieceofpaperandsliditacrossthedesk.“Jesus,Palatka?”Theosaid.“It’sonyourway,”Erniesaid.“Sortof.Andyouneedthesales.”Heraisedoneeyebrowandlookedat

Theopointedly.Theopicturedtheroute—Palatkawasatleastanhour’sdetourfromthebeelinehe’dbeenplanningto

maketoLakeland.AndwhatkindofdentistcouldbeinPalatka,anyway?TheosighedandpickedupthepaperfromErnie’sdesk.“Thatall?”hesaid.“Youtellme,bro.”TheowalkedoutofErnie’sofficeandlookedacrosstheparkinglottowheretheCaravansatbroiling

in thesun.The lightwaswhiteandfuzzy,andeverythingwasdampwithhumidity.Hedidafewquickcalculations.Itwasonlynineo’clock.HecouldmakeittoPalatkainunderanhour,seeWainwright,thenbebackon the roadandmake it toLakelandbyearlyafternoon. Ifhe rushed the secondsalescall,hecouldstillleaveplentyoftimetogettothecarauction.Heslippedhishandintohispockettomakesuretheadwasstillthere.HepulledintotrafficandmadeforMcDonald’s,whereheorderedalargecoffeeandaMcGriddleto

go.HeheadedsouthonUS-1andcrankedupthevan’sairconditioning,but theair fromtheventswasdampandwarm.Deadcompressor,hethought.Fabulous.Heloweredthewindowsandletthemorning’shotairrushin.Thisgoddamnvan.ThisgoddamnCaravan.WhydidithavetobeaCaravan?Sherrill’scastoffrelic,

bestoweduponTheoagainsthiswisheswhen sheboughtherself aVolvo threeyears ago.ACaravan.She’dinsistedonittenyearsago,whenAshleywasapreteenandSherrillhadbeendrivingkidsallovertownandmakingeyesatthatimbecilePTApresident.ButnowAshleyherselfdroveaBeetle,andSherrillhadtheVolvo,andTheowasstuckdrivingalloverFloridainthisfatporkerofavan.Puttybeigeexterior

andagrayvelourinterior.Crap-tasticinstrumentpanel.Thewholethingsmelledlikeoldsocks.Oh,God,thevehiclewrungalmostallthejoyoutofdriving.Almostall.Hetookadeepbreathandwilledhimselftorelax.Thetrafficwassparse,andtheroadopeneduppast

Moultrie,soheinchedupthespeedandfeltthewindincrease.Afterafewminutes,heunbuckledhisseatbeltandsteeredwithhiskneeswhileheremovedhisshirtanddrapeditoverthepassengerseat.StrippeddowntoaT-shirt,hefeltliberated,youngersomehow.TheMcGriddlewentdowneasy,andhechaseditwiththecoffee.His phone buzzed and he looked at it and saw a text from Sherrill. “You have ckbk?” it said. He

droppedthephoneintothecupholderandturnedontheradio,butitwasallstatic,soheclickeditoffandlistenedtothewind.HefollowedUS-1southforastretch,thencutoverandpushedthroughHastingsandSpuds,imaginingtheaquiferundertheblacktop,all theseroadscuttingthroughFloridalikeveins.Likeveinsinapenis,itoccurredtohim,andhesmiledatthethoughtofit,thebawdiness,thestateofFloridanothingbutabigpenishangingdownoffthebottomofthecountry,pointingoutacrosstheKeysandintothe southAtlantic.He laughedout loud.He’dbeendrivingall over the state foryears, buthe’dneverthoughtofthatbeforetoday.InPalatka,Wainwrightwasabust.Wouldn’tseehim.Thereceptionistslidopenafrostedglasswindowandshookherheadwhenhetoldherhisname.“He’s got patients,” she said. “He said maybe tomorrow.” She looked up at Theo, and his first

sensationwasoneofpity.Thegirlwasnotpretty;shehadcoarseblackhaircutinachunkyarrangementofbangsthatfellheavilyacrossherface.Herlipswereoverlarge,herglassesweresmudgedwithanoilyfilm.She’dclearlybeencryingrecently;hereyeswerepuffyandhernostrilswereraw,damp.“Hetoldmybosswecouldmeetfortenminutes,”Theosaid.“IjustdroveallthewaydownfromSt.

Auggie.”“He’sgotpatients,”sherepeated.Shesniffed,thenofferedhimastarmintfromabowlonthecounter.“Thosegoodforpeople’steeth?”hesaid.Sheshrugged.“Trytomorrow,”shesaid.Sheleftthemintsonthecounterandslidthefrostedwindow

closedagain,buthecouldseehershapebehindtheglass,andhewatchedherrollherchairacrossavinylmatandstarttappingatakeyboard.Hetookthreestarmintsfromthebowlandputtheminhispocket.Helookedaroundthewaitingroom,whereonlyoneoldmanslouched,sleeping,inanuncomfortable-lookingchair.Hetappedontheglassagain,andthegirlrolledacrossthefloor,slidthewindowopen,andlookedat

himoverthetopofherglasses.“Yousurehewon’tseeme?”hesaid.“Imean,Itotallydetouredtocomehere.I’mtryingtogettoLakeland.IcouldhavegottentherealotfasterifIhadn’tcomeherefirst.”Shepursedherlipsthenandregardedhimcarefully,holdinghisgazeabeatlongerthanhewouldhave

expected.Theoldmaninthewaitingroomgurgledsuddenly,wakinghimselfwithasmallsnore,andthennoddedoffagain.Theoglancedathim,butthenlookedbackatthegirl,whostillregardedhiminthatodd,unaffectedmanner.“IseverythingOK?”heaskedquietly.Sheblinked.“Whatdoyoumean?”shesaid.Hehesitated.“Imean,Iknowit’snoneofmybusiness,butyouseemupset,”hesaid.Hisphonebuzzed

inhispocket,andheignoredit.Whatwashedoing?Hehadnoideawhyhewasinsertinghimselfintothisyoungwoman’sdrama,whateveritwas.Hewas,generallyspeaking,notthatsortofperson.Intimesofpublic strife—ahusband andwife arguing in a restaurant, amother spankingher child in a grocerystore,acustomerbawlingoutacashier—hegenerallylookedaway.Itwasjusthowhewaswired.But now—she blinked again. “I’m fine,” she said stiffly. “It’s boyfriend stuff.” Boyfriend stuff! He

couldnotimagine.Shepushedherbangsbackoffherforeheadandhefeltanunexpectedstirringinhis

groin. Shewas young, probably in her late twenties, he guessed, and her bodywas smooth under herrayonblouse.Hecouldseethesmallbulgeatthetopofherbrawhereherbreastsoverflowed.Shesawhimlookingather,andhecaughtaflickerinhereyes,asuddenlight.Shewipedathernose

withatissue.“Well,I’msorrytohearthat,”hesaid,andhealmostsaidmore,almostsaid,“Well,hisloss!”buthe

stoppedhimself,bithislip.Aflickerofasmilecrossedherlips.“Maybe tomorrow,” he said finally. “Thank you, anyway.” He walked out of Wainwright’s office

feeling jolted, somehow,moreawake.Heheard the frostedglass slidingshutbehindhimashepassedthroughthefrontdoor.Outside,theheatwasridiculous.HegotintotheCaravanandtookhisshirtoffagain,drapingitover

thepassengerseat.Thenhestartedthevanandcheckedthetime—10:35.Hecalculatedhisroute:countyroadsforthenexthourtobacktracktoI-95,thenhecouldheadsouthtoDaytona,pickupI-4,andcoverthetwohourslefttoLakeland.Shit!Wainwright!ThislittledetourtoPalatkahadjustcosthimmostofthemorning.HefishedhiscellphoneoutofhispocketandcalledthenumberontheCraigslistad.Hereachedarecordedmessagesayingthecarauctionclosedatfive.Allright,then.He’dmakeit,thoughitwouldbetight,dependingonhowlongtheLakelandcalltook.Hecouldblowoffthecall,hethought,andhepausedfor amoment, entertaining the notion.Kelso?WhatwouldKelso care?AndErniewould be none thewiser,but theproofwouldbe in theemptycommissionsheetat theendof themonth.Hesighed.Fine.Kelso.UpselltothePremiers.Whatever.Buthe’dmakeitquick,stillgettotheauctionbeforeitclosed.As he put the Caravan into reverse, a quick movement caught his eye, and he looked toward

Wainwright’s office to see the dark-haired receptionistwalking toward him, an enormous black pursehangingfromthecrookofherelbow.Hepaused.Herheelsweretoohigh,andshehadtoputherweightontheballsofherfeetinordertomovequickly.Sheshort-steppeduptotheCaravan’sopenpassengerwindow.“Mr.Bitner,”shesaid.“Canyougivemearide?”Withoutwaitingforananswershepulledthedoor

openanddroppedintotheseatbesidehim.“Well,”hesaid.“Please,”shesaid.“Justalittleways.I’vegotafamilyemergency.”Shewasbreathinghard,andherchestheavedupwardwitheachbreath.Herskirthadcaughtunderher

thighswhenshesatdown,andhefeltaflickerofelectricityinhisveins.Sheclosedthedoor.“Please,”shesaidagain.She turnedand lookedstraightathim,mouthopenslightly,eyeswide.The

Caravan’senginehiccuped,thenregrouped.“Okay,”hesaidfinally.Hepulledhisshirtoutfrombehindherandleanedovertolayitontheback

seat.“Sure.Wheredoyouneedtogo?”“Takearighthere,”shesaid.Ashepulledoutoftheparkinglotandturnedright,shetwistedaroundin

herseatandlookedoutthebackwindowattherecedingofficebuilding.“Oh,myGod,”shesaid.Thenshelookedathimagainandall tracesofherearlier tearsweregone,

replacedwithsuchelationthathewas,onceagain,astounded.“What?”hesaid.“Ijustwalkedoutonmyjob.”“Oh,my,”hesaid.Hesloweddown.“Don’tstop,”shesaid.“Keepgoing.”“Wasthatagoodidea?”hesaid.“Imean,toquityourjobjustlikethat?”Shestartedtolaugh,ashortgiggleatfirst,thenswellingintoaguffaw.“Ijustquitmydamnjob!”She

puther fistsout in frontofher,dragged themina rhythmic,sidewayssquare,bounced inherseat.Herskirtrodeuphigheronherthighs.Hestaredather,thenjerkedhiseyesbacktotheroad.

“Allright,there,you’remakingmeabitnervous,”hesaid.“Areyousureyou’reOK?”“Mr.Bitner,”shesaid.“I’mfantastic.”Helookedoveragain,andshesmiledathim,ahuge,dangerous

smile.Shewasnotpretty,hethoughtagain,buttherewassomething.Something.Heturnedaway.“I’mStacey,”shesaid.“WheredoIturn?”hesaid.“Anywhereyouwantto,”shesaid.“It’stotallyuptoyou,Mr.Bitner.”Hehesitated,thenacceleratedslightly,andthewindrushedthroughthewindows,hotanddamp.“It’sTheo,”hesaid.

Hedidn’tknowwhattodowithher.Shewasevasive,confusinginherdirections,tellinghimtoturnhere,not turnthere,gostraight,goright,goleft, justkeepgoing,andhegathered,eventually, thatshehadnoparticulardestinationatall.Sheclutchedherpurseonherlapandjitteredcrazilyinherseat,fussingwiththeradio,rollingthewindowup,then,realizingtheairconditionerdidn’twork,backdownagain.“Look,Stacey,”hesaidfinally.“Ineedtoletyououtsomewhere.I’mtryingtogettoLakeland.”“Whatfor?”“Ihaveasalescall,”hesaid.Andthen,“AndI’mbuyingacarthere.”Itwasthefirsttimehe’dsaidit

outloud.“Really?Whatkindofcar?”“ACorvair.Anantique.”“ACorvette?”shesaid.“Cool.”“NotaCorvette.ACorvair,”hesaid.“Different.”“Better?”“Well,no,”headmitted.Hethoughtofthecheckbookinhispocket.“Ionlyhavefivethousanddollars.

Corvettesarealotmore.”“Toobad,”shesaid.Hepulledintoaparkinglotatadrycleaner’s.“Don’tstop,”shesaid.“Igottastop,”hesaid.“Ineedtoknowwheretotakeyou.”Shelookedathim.“TakemetoLakelandwithyou,”shesaid.“Stacey.”“No,really,Mr.Bitner.Theo. . .please.TruthisIreallyneedtoget toTampa,but ifyougetmeto

Lakelandthat’salmostthere.MymotherlivesinTampa.ShecouldcometoLakelandtopickmeup.”Hehesitated.“It’s only a few hours, right?” she said. “Please, Theo. I’m desperate. I don’t have a job.Andmy

boyfriendisanasshole.Idon’twanttogoback.Please?I’llgiveyousomegasmoney.”“Youdon’tevenknowme,”hesaid.“HowdoyouknowI’mnotarapist?Amurderer?”Shelaughed.“Oh,Icantell,”shesaid.“Well,Icouldbe,”hesaid,stubborn.She clasped her hands under her chin, looked up at him from under her glasses, pursed her lips.

“Please?”shesaid.“Please,please,please?”Itwastoohottoidleatthedrycleaner’s.Theairwasstagnantinthevan.Abeadofsweatappearedon

herupperlip,andhestaredatherforamoment,thenpulledoutofthedrycleaner’sandheadedsouth.WhenthephonebuzzedinhispocketandhesawthemessagewasfromErnie,heturnedthedamnthingoffandputitintheglovebox.TheymadeitbacktoI-95inrecordtimeandmergedwiththesouthboundtraffic.Ontheinterstate,hetookthevanuptoseventyandfeltthesweatcoolingonhisneck.Sheraisedhervoiceovertherushingwind

andtoldhimaboutherboyfriend.“He’sa lotolder thanme,” shesaid.Herhairwasblowingcrazilyaround the front seat. “Probably

yourage.”“Thanks.”“I’mjustsaying.”“Buthe’sawaste,”shesaid.“Ihatehim.”“Thenwhyareyouwithhim?”“That’swhatI’vebeenaskingmyself,Theo.”Sherolledhereyes.Sherummagedinherpurse,founda

hair tie, andpulledherhair intoa raffishbunatopherhead.Thensheswappedoutherglasses foranenormouspairofsunglasses,andtheresultwas,surprisingly,quitefetching.“He’sadaytrader,right?Sohespendsalldayonthecomputer,lookingatthestocks,makingdecisions.Orsohesays.ButIlookathisGooglehistory.Iknowwhathe’sdoing.”Asemitruckpassedontherightatanalarmingspeed,andTheoswervedslightly.“He’slookingatporn.It’sdisgusting,”shesaid.“Well,I’msorry,”Theosaid.Hewasn’tsurehowelseheshouldrespond.“Whydomenlookatporn,Theo?”shesaid.Heglancedover,andshewaslookingathimaccusingly

overthetopofthesunglasses.“Idon’tknow,”hesaid,feelingguilty.“Notallmendo.”“Youdo,”shesaid.“Don’tyou?”Heshrugged,defeated.“Ithoughtso,”shesaid.Shesighed.“Well,whataboutyouandthiscar,then?It’s,like,old?”shesaid.“1966,”hesaid.“Andit’saCorv-what?”“Corvair,”hesaid.“It’sabeautifulcar.”Hepaused,thenchangedlanestomaneuveraroundasluggish

Civic.“Itgotabadsafetyraponce,though,”hesaid.RalphNader,Godblesshim.Theooftenthoughtthatifithadn’tbeenforNader,he’dneverbeabletoaffordtheCorvair,whichhadbeenevisceratedinthemedia in 1965 after Nader penned a damning account of the car’s rear-engine instability and wonkysuspension. “Unsafe at any speed,” Nader had proclaimed. General Motors protested mightily andlaunchedanaggressiveredesignandaccompanyingPRcampaign,butthedamagewasdone,andby1967theCorvairwasoutofproduction.“Wow.Soyou’rebuyingadangerouscar,”Staceysaid.“Nah,”hereplied.“It’sfine.Theyfixedtheprobleminthelatermodels.Itwasjustthoseearlyyears

thatwerebad.”Heshiftedpositiontoreachintohispocketandpullout thead,whichheunfoldedandhanded to Stacey. He caught a glimpse of the photo as he handed her the paper, and his heart caughtslightlywhenhe realized that everymileon the roadwasamile closer to the little car, itspower, itsgrace,itstenacious,ballsy,bantampresence.Corvair!Thenamemadehimwanttoshout.“Well,”shesaid.Shetookhersunglassesoffandsquintedatthephoto,thenputtheglassesbackonand

sighed.“Safety’snotall it’scrackeduptobe,anyway,”shesaid.ShefoldedthepaperandsliditbackintoTheo’spocket,lettingherfingerslingerbeneaththefabricforabeat,itseemed.Hestaredatheruntilshepointedbacktotheroad,andthenhejerkedhiseyesbacktothefront.“You

areonehundredpercentcorrectaboutthat,”hesaid.SheflippedopenthecenterconsoleandstartedflippingthroughCDs,andhewasembarrassedbythe

selection.“SusanBoyle?”shesaid.“Oh,Theo,really?”“It’smywife’s,”hesaid.Sheraisedaneyebrow.

Shewas a talker, it turnedout.She tookoff her shoes andproppedher bare feet upon theCaravan’sdashboard and chattered on about all number of topics: Lady Gaga,Extreme Home Makeover, evenNASCARwhen theypassed theSpeedway inDaytona,andTheowas impressedwithher range.“ThatDaleJuniorissomethingelse,”shesaid.“I’dfrychickenforhimanynightoftheweek.”“Wouldyou,now,”hesaid.Heglancedoverather,triedtoimaginewhatthismeant,exactly.Butthen

shecaughtsightofaWANTEDbillboardfeaturingarowofconvicts,andshesatupstraight.“Lookatthem,there,”shesaid.“Badguys.Ontheloose.”Shepointedatthebillboardandsquintedat

ituntiltheywentpast.“They’llnevercatchthosesonsofbitches.They’retohellandgone.”“Howdoyouknowthat?”hesaid.“IwatchNancyGrace,”shesaid.“It’sonlythosehigh-profiletypesthattheyreallygoafter.Theones

thatmake a good story. TheCaseyAnthonys andwhat have you. Those scrappy old nobodies like upthere?”Shegesturedbackat thebillboard, now fading into thedistance. “Nobodycares.”She studiedTheo.“AndyouknowwhatelseI’velearnedfromNancyGrace?”shedemanded.“Here’sthething:youwanttocommitacrime,you’dbestcommititalone.It’salwaystheaccomplicethatgetsthesepeopleintrouble.Gosolo,that’swhatIsay.”Herbarefoottwitchedonthedashboard.Shetookhersunglassesoffandcleanedthemonthehemof

herskirt,andwhensheputthembackonshewasquietforafewmoments.“Youhavekids?”shesaidsuddenly.“Adaughter,”hesaid.Hedidn’tofferAshley’sage.“Andmymotherliveswithus,”headded.“Igota

lotofwomeninmyhouse.”“Well,maybethatexplainsit,”shesaid.“Explainswhat?”“You’reverykind,”shesaid,“givingagirlaride.”Heshrugged.“Doesyourwifeknowyou’rebuyingtheCorvair?”shesaid.Hehesitated.“Nowwhywouldyouaskthat?”hesaid.“Justwondering,”shesaid.Sherearrangedthebunontopofherheadandsquirmedabitintheseat,

likeachild.Thensheduginherhandbagforlipstickandpaintedherlipsabrightorange.“Letme buy you lunch,” she said abruptly. “I’m starving.”He glanced at her, and her gazewas so

openlysexualhealmostswerved.“Aren’tyou?”shesaid.Hehesitated.“I’monatimeline,”hesaid.“Well,that’snofun,”shesaid.Shepouted,lookedupathimunderhoodedeyes.“ButIcouldeat,”hesaid.TheyfoundaTGIFriday’snorthofOrlando.Theinsidewasforcedlycheerfulandsmelledlikebleach

andonions.Thewaitressshowedthemtoatwo-topinthecorner,underafakeTiffanypendantlamp,andtheyweresogratefulforthecooldarknessthatforamomentneitherofthemspoke.“Orderup,”Staceysaidfinally.“Mytreat.Thechickenfingersaredivine.Andtheygotthemappletinis

here.You’vegottotryone.TheytastejustlikeJollyRanchers.”He tried two. She tried three.Halfway through the second drink he had an out-of-body experience,

where he saw himself at the edge of an enormous cavern, a steep precipice before him, beckoning,offeringacoolnessandarespitehe’dneverknownpossible.Hetippedhisheadbackandlethimselffall.Hewouldn’tletherpayforlunch.TherewasaRamadaInnnextdoortotheTGIFriday’s.Hepaidfor

theroomtoo.Whentheyfirstgotstartedatithefoundhimselfapologizingquiteabit,buteventuallyhestoppedthatandjustsurrendered to thepuregrottypleasureof itall, the jigglingstickyabandon.WithSherrill sexwasalwayssocontrolled,procedural.Hefeltsometimestheycouldhaveusedachecklist.Butthisbusiness

withStacey.MyGod!Shewasravenous,greedy,downrightriotous.Hehadnoideasuchbehaviorevenexisted,andhewasbothappalledandawestruck.Hefeltadeeprecalibrationofvalues.Theyreachedanintermissionofsortsandhegotuptousethebathroom.Hebroughthisphoneinwith

himandcheckedthedamagewhilestandinginfrontofthetoilet.AtextfromErnie(“kelsoago,bro?”)and,fromSherrill,twomissedcallsandavoicemail.He stared at the phone for a longmoment.The light in the bathroomwas overbright, and aweb of

mildewsnakedup thewallbehind the toilet.He’dbeenmarried toSherrill for twenty-sixyears.He’dneverbeenunfaithful toher,notevenaftershe’dconfessedherownaffairwiththat thugfromthePTA,thatsnarkysingledadworkingthemiddleschoolparents’scenelikeitwasanightclub.Still—he’dnevercheated on her, had never even wanted to. How on earth had this happened? He looked up and sawhimselfinthebathroommirror,naked,paleandpaunchy.HeheardStaceyflickontheTVinthebedroom.Hewasn’tsurewhatanyofthismeant.Atoiletflushedontheothersideofthewall.Itwasthemiddleoftheafternoon!MyGod,thisRamada

wasdoingsomebusiness.Hetookanotherlonglookathimselfinthemirrorandshookhishead.Allright.He’d get dressed.He’d call Sherrill.He’d textErnie.He’d get his goddamn act together, get this girldeliveredtoLakeland,getbackontheroad.He’dforgettheCorvair—apenancetoSherrill.Heshiftedpositiontoflushthetoilet,andashedid,hiselbowknockedtheceramictowelholderandhewatchedinslowmotionashisphonewasjoltedfromhishandandjumpedintoabeautifulcleararctowardthetoiletbowl,whereitplungedintothewaterandurineinonesingle,horrifyingblip.Theostoodnaked,staringatthephoneinthetoilet.Thenheflushedthetoiletonce,twice,threetimes.

Thephonewaslodgedinthebottomofthebowl,stubborn.“YouOK,Theo?”Staceycalledfromthebedroom.Hefishedthephonefromthebowl;itnowfeaturedastrangelybeautifulsilverbloomacrossthescreen.

Hepunchedtheon/offbuttonbutnothinghappened.Hewrappedthephoneinatowelandthrewitinthewastebasket.Thenhewashedupandwalkedoutofthebathroomandbacktothebed.SheturnedtheTVoffandopenedherarms.Thingsweredifferentnow.Everythingwasdifferent.

Theytookshowersanddressed,buttherefreshmentofthecoolhotelandthehotshowerwasshort-livedwhentheysteppedoutoftheroomintothewhitehotlightofafternoonagain.Theolookedathiswatch:3:15.Coulditbeonly3:15?Hefeltasthoughalifetimehadelapsedinthespaceofthisoneday.“Holdon,”hesaidtoStacey.Hewalkedthirtyyardstothefrontoffice,entered,anddroppedtheroom

cardsonthereceptioncounter,avoidingtheclerk’sgaze.Whenhearrivedbackatthevanandapproachedthedriver’sdoorherealizedStaceywasbentoverneartherearhatch.Shestraightenedasheapproached.“EverythingOK?”hesaid.“Peachy,”shesaid.Theyclimbedintothevanandheadedbacktothehighway.“Here,” she said.She fished inher bag andpulledout twobottlesofwater she’dpinched from the

roomandapacketof ibuprofen.“I thinkwemightneedsomeof this.Youfront-load,see,and then thehangoverisnotsobadwhenthevodkawearsoff.”“I’mlearningallkindsofthingsfromyou,Stacey.”“That’sright,”shesaid.“AndIbetyouthoughtIwasjustadumbgirl.”Heswallowedanibuprofenandturnedontheradio,punchingthebuttonsandthensettlingonarock

station.AC/DCpromiseddirtydeedsdonedirt cheap.God,he’d forgotten about theseguys.HisheartswelledwithloveforAngusYoung.Staceytappedherfootonthedash,keepingtime.Theopulledoutofthehotellotandintotraffic.Hespedforwardtostayaheadofthecrush,andthenhemergedcleanlyontotheinterstateandheadedsouth.

Allright,sohe’dbagthesalescallwithKelso.Thatwasano-braineratthispoint.Thelossofthephonehadrenderedhimuntetheredfromreality,itseemed.Plus,hewasstillalittledrunkfromtheappletinisandthesex,andtheresultwasawelcomebonhomiethatwaskeepingallimpendingconsequencesnicelyatbay,atleastforthemoment.Hetappedhisfingersonthesteeringwheelandcalculateddistancesagain.TaketheI-4souththroughOrlando,praythey’dbeatrushhour,headstraightintoLakeland.StraighttotheCorvair.Hourandahalf,tops,ifallwentwell.Heglancedtohisright.Staceyhadputherhairbackup,butshewassweatingagain.“I’msorrythere’snoairconditioning,”hesaid.“Airconditioningisoverrated,”shesaid.“Iliketheheat.”Theydrovefornearlyanhour,andshefellasleepforawhileandthenwokeandannouncedsheneeded

abathroom.“We’realmosttoLakeland,”hesaid,glancingathiswatch.“Youcan’twait?”“Theo,”shesaid.“Mybackteetharefloating.”HepulledoverataCitgojustoffthehighway.“Doesn’tlooktooclean,”hesaid.“Youwantmetofindsomethingbetter?”“Well,aren’tyouthegentleman,”shesaid.Shebouncedupanddownontheseatandgrimaced.“Igotta

pee.Idon’tcarewhatitlookslike.”Sheleftherhandbagontheseatandraninside.Hestartedtoreachforhisphonetocheckmessages,

thenremembered.Ashadowfellacrosstheinteriorofthevanandheglanceduptoseethebeginningsofathunderheadbuildinginthedistantsky.Hisgazedriftedaroundthecarandfellonthehandbagontheseatnexttohim,whereathickenvelopeprotrudedfromtheopenzipper.HeglancedupattheCitgoandthenslipped the envelope out of the purse and opened it. Insidewere several fat bricks of cash, stacks ofhundreds in rubber-banded piles two inches thick. He stared at the money, tried a quick calculation.Thousands?Atleastthousands.Tensofthousands?The passenger door of the Caravan was yanked open, and Stacey plopped down in the seat and

snatchedherhandbagoutofhishands.“Mindyourown,”shesaid.Anoteoffearhadcreptintohervoice.“Howmuchmoneyisthat?”hesaid.Shehesitatedamoment,thenturnedandlookedathim.“Seventythousand,”shesaid.“Ittookmeeight

years.”Sheheldhisgazeforalongmoment,thenpulledattherearviewmirrorandleanedforwardtoapply

herorangelipstick.Herhandshook.“Wegoing?”shesaid.“You’rescaringtheshitoutofme,Stacey,”hesaid.Hestartedthevan.“I’mscaringtheshitoutofmyselftoo,”shesaid.

Ashemergedbackontothehighwayshetoldhimhowshedidit.“Whenthepatientspaycash,that’seasy,”shesaid.“Butothertimesyoucanrecorditasano-charge,

oryoucangivethemadiscountandpocketthedifference.Youhavetobecreative.Noteverycaseisthesame.”“AndWainwrighthadnoidea?”hesaid.“Pfftt,” she said. “He doesn’t know his asshole from his elbow.” She paused, squinted at the road.

“AlthoughnowthatI’mgone,”shesaidthoughtfully,“he’llprobablycatchon.”Theofeltacoolnessrunthroughhisveins,andheprocessedtheimplicationsofthecurrentsituation.So

far today, he’d initiated (though admittedly had not yet executed) an unapproved expenditure of fivethousanddollarsfromthejointcheckingaccounthesharedwithSherrill;he’dverylikelylosthisbiggest

commission of the month, if not his entire job, by blowing off the sales call with Kelso; and he’dcommittedtawdryandoutrageouslyathleticadulterywithawomanhalfhisage.Andnow,itseemed,he’dalsoaidedandabettedaconfessedembezzler.Hewatchedtheroad.Hefelt inhispocketagainforhisphone.Hegrippedthesteeringwheeluntilhisknucklesturnedwhite.“You’rewanted,”hesaid.Sherolledhereyes.“Well,howniceofyou tosay,Theo,”shesaid.“Iguess there’sa first timefor

everything.”Headjustedtherearviewmirroranddroveon.

Itwas nearly four-thirty.Theheat hadbeendialed back a smidge andTheowatched the thunderheadsbuildinearnestnowtothewest,thelightninglacinglikefingersthroughthedistantclouds.Itwashardtotellifthey’ddriveintothestormornot,butheappreciatedthegraycasttheskyhadtakenonandthedampair,merelytepidnow,rushingintotheCaravan.HewonderedaboutSherrill’svoicemails, uncheckedon the ruinedphone,whichwasprobably still

sittingonthebottomofthewastepailattheRamadaInn,steepedinurine.Itwasn’tlikeSherrilltoleavevoicemails.Shewasmoreofatexter.Avaguefeelingofnauseacreptintohisabdomen,andhefeltthefirst twinge of regret for the appletinis, for the affair, for the entire afternoon. A fat lovebug hit thewindshield andburst, leavinga creamyblobof entrails just at eye level.He turnedon thewindshieldwasher,butitwasoutoffluid,sothewiperssimplysmearedthebugintoanopaquerainbowofwhitesandyellows,andhehadtoslouchinhisseatinordertoseebelowit.Themovementstrainedhisback,andhestraightenedoutandthenhunchedoverthesteeringwheel.HeglancedsidelongatStaceyandtriedtomusterabitofthearousalthathadsoconsumedhimjustacoupleofhoursago,butgotnothing.Ah,God!Hadheruinedeverything?Hehadavisionofhimselfbehavingthiswayfortherestofhisdays:abent,beatenoldman,neuteredbyremorse,drivingtowarddisaster,unabletosee.“No,”Staceysaid.Helookedoverather.“No,no,no,no,no.”Hereyeswerewideandhergazewas

fixed, frightened,on thewingmirroroutsideherwindow.He looked in the rearviewandsaw theblueflashing lights, and his stomach clenched.He glanced at the speedometer and saw he’d inched aboveeighty.“Shit,”hesaid.“Holyhell.”“Don’tstop,Theo,”shesaid.Hetookhisfootofftheacceleratorandscannedtheroad’sshoulderforaplacetopullover.“Don’tstop,”shesaidagain.Hervoicewaspanicked,desperate.“Ihavetostop,”hesaid.“No,youdon’t,” she said. “Keepgoing.”She reachedover andputherhandon the steeringwheel,

tryingtokeeptheCaravanstraightinthelane.“Ihavetostop.Areyoucrazy?It’sacop!Ihavetostop.”Shewaswigglingoverthecenterconsolenow,tryingtoputherownfootontheaccelerator,tryingto

keepthesteeringwheelstraight.Herweight tippedover theconsoleandshefell intohim;theCaravanswervedcrazilyintothenextlane.Heshovedherroughlybackintoherownseatandstartedtopulltothesideoftheroad.Aquarter-mileahead,anexitrampyawneddownanarrowslope.Staceyclutchedathisarmandstartedtocry,andwhenhelookedather,hereyeswideandterrified,herlipspulledbackinagrimacesofraughtitwasalmostbeautiful,somethingshifted.He’dneverseenanyonesoalive.“Oh,Jesus,”hesaid.“Oh,Jesus,helpmenow.”He pulled the Caravan back into the lane, steadied the wheel, and stomped on the accelerator. He

pushedituptoninety,thenbulleteddowntheexitramp.Thecopevidentlyhadadelayedreactiontothepursuit,andTheoimaginedhimstartled,fumblingwiththeradio,callingforhelp.ButthenheobviouslyflooreditandTheowatchedintherearviewasthegapdwindledandthepolicecarfollowedthemdown

theramp.Thelightwasredatthebottom,andasolidlineoftrafficrushedacrosstheroadperpendiculartotheexit.Heglancedatthespeedometer.Theywereapproachingtheintersectionandstilldoingfifty.Intherearview,thereflectionofthecop’sbluelightsricochetedagainsttheblackwallofthunderheads.“Doit,”Staceysaid.Atthecrossroads,hetookhisfootofftheacceleratorforonlythebarestinstant,tappingthebrakesjust

longenoughtododgeasemi,andthenanother.ThetwotrucksclosedbehindtheCaravanlikecurtainsandthetruckdriversimmediatelyslowedfromtheshockofthenearmiss,effectivelyblockingboththecop’strajectoryandhisvisionforagoodtenseconds,atleast.Andthen—myGod!Theywerestillalive,andTheowaspilotingtheshaking,rattlingCaravanstraightbackupthenextramptoreentertheinterstate.HewasBurtstinkingReynoldsnow,andheletoutayelpwhenherealizedtheyweregoingtomakeit.InaCaravan! He pounded the accelerator and pulled straight up the ramp, reentering the same stretch ofhighwaythey’djustexitedandleavingthedumbcopinthedistancesniffingaroundtheexitramplikeageriatricbloodhound.He accelerated to a sensible sixty and then hung there, panting. He edged into a clump of traffic,

alongsideasilverToyotaminivan,andtheyhawkedtherearview,silentandsober,butthecopwasgone.Staceyclappedherhands,gleeful.“Youdidit!”shesaid.“Youlosthim!”Theadrenalinedrainedasquicklyasithadarrived.Theofeltlikehewasgoingtobesick.Thefirstfat

dropsofrainspatteredthewindshield.“He’sgoingtohaveeverycopinLakelandlookingformytag,”hesaid.Shelaughedandreacheddownforherhandbag,andthenshepulledouttheCaravan’slicensetag.“You

meanthisoldthing?”shesaid.Theypulledoffatthenextexit,andshesatinthevaninthepouringrainwhilehestolealicensetagoff

aHondaOdysseyparkedataWaffleHouse.TheymovedtoparkbehindaBP,whereheboltedthestolentagontotheCaravan.Foronce,hewasgladitwasaCaravan,amillionothersjustlikeitbetweenhereandLakeland.Thenhe climbed into thevan,wiped thewateroff his facewith anoldpaper towelhefoundinthebackseat,andgotbackontheroad.Withthewindowsupintherain,theinsideofthevanwas steamy and dank. He put the vents on full blast. They gasped hot air into the front seat. Staceyclutchedherhandbagtoherchestandheldhishandwhilehedrove.Theofelther tremblingslow, thenstop.InLakeland, they exited the interstate and headed north on a county road slickwith rain, the steam

risinglikeghostsinthedistance.TheCorvairwasn’tattheauction.Itwasparkedinachain-linkyardbehindagaragetwoblocksaway.THEKARKORRAL,thesignoverthegaragesaid,andthemaninsideexplained:“Thishereisdirectsales.These cars won’t sell at auction,” he said. He was terribly thin, cancer-thin, with sunken eyes andyellowedfingers.Hesuckedonacigarette.Hisname,Rick,wasstitchedabovehispocket.“They’renotcompetitiveenough,”hesaid.“Auctionisforthecarseverybodywants.Notlikethesehere.”Hegestured to the lot, andTheoapproached the fence.The rainhad stoppedand the sunwasback,

brutal,heatingthepuddlesintovapor.Staceyfollowedhimtotheyard,wherenotonebuttwoCorvairssatswelteringamongacrowdofdecrepit,rust-eatenMustangsandCamaros.Rickunlockedthegateandtheywalkedintotheyard.TheopulledthecrumpledadoutofhispocketandshowedittoRick.“Righthere,”Ricksaid.Heledthemtooneofthecars.Itwasa1963Corvair,blue,anditwasoneof

themostdepressingthingsTheohadeverseen.Itwasaconvertible,andtheragtopwastatteredbeyondrepair. The interior was a catastrophe—a cheap velour redo now dirty and damp-looking, with burntorangefoambulgingoutfrombetweenrippedseams.Thedashboardwascracked,thefloorboardswere

rusted,andaheftydentacrosstwoquarterpanelskeptthepassengerdoorfromevenopening.Thewholecarsmelledlikecat.“Oh,gawd,”Staceysaid.“Idon’tknow,Theo.Thisisit?”“No,”Theosaid.“That’snottheone.”HeturnedtothewhiteCorvairbehindhim.“Thisonehere.”“That’sagood’un,”Ricksaid.“Bettercar,allaround.Aftertheredesign,youknow.Thishere’66isa

sweetlittlecar.”Theonodded.Indeeditwas.Neatasapin,acleandryhardtopwithabeautifulcreamyfinishandaredinterior.Itwasthecarfromthephoto.Itwasevenbetter inperson.Staceyopenedthepassengerdoorandclimbedin,smiledupathim.Theo stared at the ad in his hand, which was written, he now saw, as ambiguously as possible.

“Corvair!”itsaid.“Twomodels.$5,000.Callfordetails.”“Sowhichoneisfivethousanddollars?”heasked,feelinghisheartsink,alreadyknowingtheanswer.Ricklaughed,awetjaggedchuckle.“TheragtopIcanletyouhaveforfive,”hesaid.“Thislittlecoupe

hereisalmostfullyrestored.Shegoesfornine.”“Christ,”Theosaid.HeshowedRicktheadagain.“Thishereisbaitandswitch.”Rickgazedathimlevelly.“YousayingIdon’thaveaCorvairhereforfivethousanddollars?”Staceygotoutofthecar.“It’s foryourdaughterhere?”Ricksaid. “Maybewecannegotiatea littlebit.She looksprettyasa

pictureinthatcoupe.”Thiswasalie,ofcourse.Staceywaswet,bedraggled,androad-worn,andshelookedworsethanshe

hadwhenshe’dslidopenthefrostedglasswindowatWainwright’searlierthismorning.Allofitwasalie,andTheowassickanddisgusted,suddenly,witheverything.Hedidn’thaveninethousanddollarstospendonthewhiteCorvair.Hedidn’tevenhavefivethousandfortheblueone,cometothinkofit;he’ddebitedninety-fivedollarsfortheroomattheRamadaandseventy-ninedollarsforchickenfingersandappletinisatTGIFriday.He’dhavetodosomenegotiatingjusttowinthe’63,whichwasawanked-outpropositiontobeginwith,thedamnthingnotevendrivable,nowaytogetithomewithoutatow.Alemon.A’63—theyearbeforetheredesign.Theidiotyear.Whatabust.Whatagoddamnbust.HeturnedandstrodebacktotheCaravan.“Youwanttotakemycard,thinkitover?”Ricksaid,butTheodidn’t turnaround.“I’mstayingopen

late.I’mheretillsix,youchangeyourmind,”Rickcalled.TheobarelywaitedforStaceytogetbackintothevanbeforehelurchedintoreverseandturnedaroundinthegravelparkinglot.Hepulledoutontothehighwayagain,drovenorthintodowntownLakeland,withnoparticulardestinationinmind.“I’m sorry,Theo,” she said, after aminute. She bit her lip. “Youwantme to help youmake up the

difference?”Heshookhishead.“I’mnotbuyingacarwithstolenmoney,”hesaid.Hestoppedatared lightandlookedatherhard.

“NowwherethehelldoIletyouout?”Sheturnedaway,blinking.He’dstungher.Hedidn’tcare.Betweentheappletinisandtheheatandthe

leftoveradrenaline,hewasbeginningtothinkhemightreallybesick,sowhenhesawaBooks-a-Millionhulkingonthecornerofabusyintersection,hepulledin.“Wegottacooloff,”hesaid.Theywalkedintothebookstore,butthecaféareawastoocrowded,sotheymovedtothebackofthe

store and sat on low benches in the children’s department. A young father was parked on one of thebenchesacrossfromthem,supervisingthreetinykids,alloutfittedinsomesortofdenimcamouflage.Hewasreadingthelittlegirlabook,andhisvoicehadthereadingmonotoneofasecondgrader.Hestoppedwhenthetwolittleboysstartedwrestlingoveranoversizedbookshapedlikeatruck.“Putthatbookback,”themansaid.“Anddon’tgetyounomore.”HelookedatTheoandStaceyand

grinned.TheotookStacey’selbowandscootedherfurtherdownthebench.

“Listen,I’vegottogohome,”hesaid.“I’vegotathree-hourdrive.”Staceyclutchedherhandbagtoherchestandwatchedthelittleboys,whohadturnedtheirattentiontoa

woodentrainsetspreadoutonalowtable.“HowamIgoingtogettoTampa?”shesaid.Hesnorted.“You’refilthyrich,”hesaid.“Ithinkyou’llfigureitout.”Shestartedtocry,asilentuglyweepingthatmadehimfeelsmallandembarrassed.Thecamouflaged

familylookedatthem.TheyoungfatherraisedhiseyebrowsatTheo.“I’mscared,Theo,”Staceysaid.“What’sgoingtohappentome?”Hepattedherdampshoulderandsmiledgrimlyattheyoungfather.Thenhetookadeepbreath.“I’llgetyouacoffee,OK?”hesaid.“Justsittight.”Heleftherhunchedoverherpurseonthelittlewoodenbench.Hewalkedtowardthecafé,andhispace

quickenedashemoved,untilhewalkedoutthefrontdoorofthebookstoreandovertotheCaravan.Hestartedtheengine,rolleddownthewindows,andheadedforI-4.Northbound.The trafficon the interstatewasheavy,buthe’ddriven throughworse.Heglancedathiswatch.Five-thirty.Theafternoon’sthunderstormwasjustalingeringdampnessnow,andheknewthatbythetimeheapproachedOrlandotheusualrushhourshouldhavedissipated.He’dprobablybehomebeforenine.He hunkered downbehind aU.S.Mail semi, steadied his speed at fifty-five, and tried to relax.He

pushedtheplaybuttonoftheCDplayer.AndbeforeSusanBoylehadevenreachedthechorusof“WildHorses,”hewasbackdowntheexitramp,retracinghisrouteandpullingintothestill-dampparkinglotoftheBooks-a-Million,whereshestoodlikeastatueonaparkingisland,clutchingthehandbag.“I’msorry,”hesaidtoher.Heleanedovertheseatandopenedthepassengerdoor.“Ipanicked.”“It’sOK,”shesaid.“I’mpanickingallthetime.”

Theystruckadeal.Athirty-five-mileridetoTampafor$3,174.00.TheyleftBooks-a-Millionandmadeitback to the Kar Korral just as Rick was locking up the chain-link fence. He gave them a salute andusheredthemintohissalesoffice.TheysignedovertheCaravanforathousandbucksandStaceyfishedthe tagoutofherpurse.Rick raisedaneyebrowbutofferednocomment.When theypulledoutof theparkinglotinthewhiteCorvair,Theofeltasthoughhe’dbeenreborn.Theafternoonskywasadeeperblue.Thetreeswereacrispergreen.Intheseatnexttohim,Staceywasradiant,andhefeltbloodrushingeverywhereinhisbody.Everywhere.“Youaresosexyinthiscar,”hesaid.Shesmiled.“You’refullofshit,”shesaid.“Doesn’tthisthinggoanyfaster?”HedrovehersouthtoTampa,andthesundriftedslowlyloweruntiltheroadwasdim,andthendusk.

Shewasquiet,andherestedhishandonher thighfora littlewhileandthenreturnedit to thesteeringwheel.InTampa,hefollowedherdirectionsandpulledupinfrontofaneatlittlecinderblockmotelonthesouthsideofthecity.“Mymotherisstayinghere,”shesaid.“Butwe’releavingtonight.She’sgotacar.We’regoingbackto

Texas,wherewe’re from.”Shesighed, thensmiled.“Somegirls runawaywithPrinceCharming,”shesaid.“I’mrunningawaywithmymomma.”“YougoingtobeOK?”Theosaid.Hetouchedherface.“Hell,yes,”shesaid.“Peachy.”ShegotoutoftheCorvairandleanedintolookathimthroughthepassengerwindow.“Thecarisbeautiful,”shesaid.“Andyou’reagoodman,Theo.”Hestaredatherandhadnoideawhattosay.Shelaughed.“Nowwhat?”hesaid.“Here’swhereyougohome,Theo.Andhere’swhereIjustwalkaway,”shesaid.

“Walkaway?”“Yes,” she said. “Walk.Away.”And she did.Hewatchedher funnygait, short-steppingon the high

heels,thewayherbacksideprotrudedandherskirtstretchedtighterthancouldpossiblybecomfortableasshewalkeduptooneofthemotelroomsandknockedonthedoor.AtinywomanansweredthedoorandStaceyturnedaround,wavedtohim,andthendisappearedintotheroom.HepulledaU-turnintheparkinglotandfelttheCorvair’senginerumblingbehindhim,andthoughhe

knew itwas a flat-6, it felt like a locomotive.He flickedon the radio and foundanother rock station.Zeppelin.Gorgeous.Theskywasfulldarknow,andtheairhadcooled.Hecouldsmellthethick,tangyairoftheGulfofftothewest,andhepointedtheCorvairnortheast,headedbacktowardtheAtlantic,onlythethickfloatingpeninsulaofLaFloridalefttocross.HethoughtaboutpullingoveratapayphonetocallSherrill,thendecidedagainstit.Therewouldbehelltopaywhenhegothome.Butthedevilwasinthebackseat,keepingtimetothemusic,andhellwasalongwayuptheroad.

JESSWALTER

Mr.VoiceFROMTinHouseMOTHERWASASTUNNER.Shewassobeautiful,menwouldstopmidsteponthestreettowatchherwalkby.WhenIwaslittle,I’d

seethemoutofthecornerofmyeyeandturn,myhandstillinhers.SometimesI’dwonderiftheoglingman was my father. But I don’t think the men ever saw me. And my mother didn’t notice them, orpretendednottonotice,orhadstoppednoticing.She’dsimplypullmyhandtowardtheCrescent,ortheBon Marché, or the fountain at Newberry’s, wherever we were going then. “Come on, Tanya, nodawdling.”Thiscouldhavebeenmymother’smottoin1974:nodawdling.Iwasninethen,andMotherthirty-one.

Shehadfourorfiveboyfriendsatanygiventime—sheeliminatedthemlikemurdersuspects.WelivedinasmallapartmentaboveajewelrystorewhereMotherworkedasa“greeter.”Ithinktheowner’stheorywas thatmenwouldn’t dicker over caratswithmy tall, striking,miniskirtedmother lookingover theirshoulders.Sheseemedtohaveadatewhenevershewantedone,atleastthreeorfouraweek.Iknewthemby profession: “I’m seeing the pilot tonight,” she would say amid a cloud of hair spray, or, with adismissive roll of her eyes, “The lawyer’s taking me to Sea Galley.” Mother left me alone in theapartmentwhenshewentonthesedatesandIfedmyselfandputmyselftobed.ButshewasalwaystherewhenIwokeinthemorning,sometimeshurryingthepilotorthelawyeroutthedoor.Afteroneofthemenspentthenight,I’dwonderifhemightstickaroundforawhile,butthenextnighthewasgoneandinhisplacecameafiremanoranaccountant.Then,oneday,Motherstoppeddatingentirely.Sheannouncedthatshewasmarryingoneofthemen—a

guyshe’dbeenoutwithonly three timesbymycount—“Mr.Voice.”Hewasashort, intensemanwithbuggy eyes and graying hair that he wore long and mod, framed by two bushy gray sideburns and athinningswoopacrosshisbigforehead.“You’remarryinghim?”Iwasconfused.Motheralwayssaidthatonedaymyfatherwouldreturn,that

whattheyhadwas“differentthanotherpeople,”thattheseotherboyfriendswerejust“placeholders”untilhecameback.Ididn’tremembermyfather,andshedidn’ttalkabouthimmuch—wherehelivedorwhohewas—butshe’dget this faraway lookandsay thingsabouthimlike“We’llalwaysbe together”and“He’llcomeback.”Untilthen,shewasjustbidinghertime—orsoIthought—untilMr.Voicecamealong.“Whataboutmyfather?”Iasked.Wewerepackinguptheapartmentintogrocery-storeboxes.“Yourfather?”Shesmiledgently.“Yourfather’sgotnothingtodowithit.Thisisaboutmakingahouse,

andafamilyforus.”Wait.Shewasdoingthisforme?Ididn’twanthertomakeafamilyforus;Iwantedtowaitformyfather.Shesetdownthedishesshewaspackingandpushedthehairoutofmyeyes,bentdownclose.“Listen

tome,Tanya.You’re a very pretty girl.You’re going to be a beautifulwoman.This is something youwon’tunderstandforawhile,butyourlooksarelikeabankaccount.Youcansaveupyourwholelifeforsomething,butatsomepoint,you’llhavetospendthemoney.Doyouunderstand?”Itwas theonly timeIeverheardMother talkabouther looks thisway.Somethingabout itmademe

sick.IsaidIunderstood.ButIdidn’t.OrmaybeIdid.Mr.Voicewas fifty then, almost twentyyearsolder thanmymother.Althoughhis namewasClaude

Almond,everyoneknewhim—andImean,everyoneknewhim—asMr.Voice.Thiswasthenameonhisbusinesscards, thename in thephonebook, thenameon thebig signoutside the studioheowned, the

name people greeted him with on the street, mimicking his basso profundo:Hey, Mr. Voice. By thesummer of ’74,whenmymothermarried him, Claudewas on every radio station on the dial, on TVcommercials, at civic events, hosting variety shows. Mr. Voice narrated our daily life in Spokane,Washington.Looking for AM/FM-deluxe-turntable-8-track-stereo-speaker sound with psychedelic lights that

rocktothemusic?CometoWallofSoundWaterbedonEastSprague,nexttotheTwoSwabbies—StarlightStairwayispresentedonceagainthisweek,invividcolor,byBoyleFuel—ifyouneedcoal

oroil—callBoyle—Thisweekend,atSpokaneRacewayPark,we’vegot theWest’sbest funnycars—Kettleson’sMad-

DogDodgeDart,Kipp’sKiller-Cuda,andtheBurns’AquaVelvaWheelieTruck.Yourearsaregonnableeeed—ThatwasMr.Voice.IremembertheirweddingmoreclearlythanIremembereitherofmyown:Motherworealight-purple

minidress,andsheputmeinadressthatmatchedit—inhindsight,perhapsnotsomethinganine-year-oldshouldwear.“Ithinkpeoplecanseemyunderwear,”Isaid.“Atleastyou’rewearingsome,”shesaid,tuggingatherownskirt.Ourlongbrownhairwasfixedthe

sametoo,smoothasliquidbehindheadbandshighonourheads,bangsshinyandcombedstraight.Igottowearlipstickforthefirsttime:ashinylacqueredcoatofpinkthatmademylipslookliketwocandles.IwasMother’sonlybridesmaid.Claudehad fourchildren fromhis firstmarriage,butonlyhisyoungestson,Brian,whowasseventeen,stoodwithhim, inabrowntux thatmatchedhis father’s.Hehad thesesleepybrowneyesbehindbigblack-framedglassesandashockofbushyhair that looked likeawaveabouttocrash.Theyweremarriedattheendofthe1974world’sfairinSpokane—suchwasClaude’scelebritythat

the TV stations covered it and there was a picture in The Spokesman-Review: “Local Radio HostMarriedatExpo.”Theweddingwasinalittleoutdoortheater-in-the-roundonCanadaIsland,andajudgefriendofClaude’sperformedtheceremony.Whilewewaitedfor thebride toemerge,Claudestoodsmokingapipe inhisbrowntuxandruffled

whiteshirt.Hewastalkingtoacoupleofbusinessmeningraysuitswhenhesawme,walkedover,andlookeddownatmewith thosebuggyeyesofhis—“Listen,Tanya, Iknow thiscamefast foryou. I justwant you to know, I’mnot trying to replace anyone.Youdon’t have to callmeDad.You can callmeClaudeifyouwant.OrMr.Voice.”Thiswasthefirstrealconversationwe’deverhadanditwasconfusing—thatomnipresentradiovoice

tellingmeIdidn’thavetocallhimDad.ThenClaudekissedthetopofmyheadandreturnedtothemeninsuits.Behindme,someonespoke,mimickingClaude’sthunderingrumble.“Listen,whateveryournameis.”I

turned. ItwasClaude’sson,Brian,doingwhatmusthavebeenapracticed impersonationofhis father.“YoucancallmeDipshitifyouwant.OrDickheadDouchebag.”Thenherolledhiseyes.MomandClaudehadwrittentheirownvows,NewAgegibberishaboutbeing“mateandmuse”toeach

otherand“sharingsoulandsinew,”notuntildeathdothempart,but“aslongaswegrowandglow.”The judge pronounced themman andwife; they shared an uncomfortably long kiss and thenwalked

downtheaisle,toapplause.Ituggedatmyskirtandfollowedwithmynewstepbrother,whogracefullyoffered his arm. I took it.Brian pursed his lips and covered hismouth. “Don’tmindme,” he said. “Ialwayspukeatweddings.”Claudehadabig, sprawlingnewrancheron thebackendofSpokane’sold-moneySouthHill,withanopenfloorplanandabuilt-inhi-fisystemtiedtointercomsineveryroom.Helovedthatintercomsystem.You could hear every word spoken in that thin-walled house, but Claude still insisted on using the

intercoms.I’dbereading,orplayingdolls,andtherewouldbeahissofstatic,andthen:“Tanya,haveyoufinishedyourlanguagearts?...Tanya,WildKingdomison...Tanya,dinner’sready,Londonbroil.”Weateinamauvekitchenoverlookingashag-carpetedsunkenlivingroom.Ontheotherendwasahallwaywiththreebedroomsliningit:MomandClaude’s,mine,and,everyotherweekend,Brian’s.IntheA-framecenterofthehouse,thewallsdidn’tgoall thewaytotheceiling—contributingtothe

openfeelofthehouse,andtosomeoftheworstmemoriesofmychildhood.SuchwasthecombinationofClaude’svocalpowerand1970shomeconstructionthatIcouldheareverysordidthingthathappenedinthemasterbedroomthefirstyearoftheirmarriage.Claude’svoicemusthavebeenkeytotheirforeplay,becausehenarratedtheirsexlifethewayhedidweekendstock-carraces.“Dancethoseripetomatoesoverhere...Ooh,let’sgetiton,baby...Mm,yeah,Mr.Voicedigshis

littlehippiegirl...”Claude apparently liked to role-play too, because sometimes I’d hear bits and pieces of various

bedroomdramas.Likepirate-and-wench:“Preparetobeboarded,m’lady.”OrsternBritishheadmaster:“Someonehasbeanabloodybadgirl.”He’dplayTomJonesorRobertGouletrecords—mimingthem,Ithink—andthenpretendMotherwasagroupie:“Hello,prettylady.How’dyouliketheconcerttonight?”Ineverheardmymother’svoiceduringthesesexgames,andbasedonhowquicklyClaudeemerged

fromtheirbedroominhis too-short silk robeafterward, thesex itselfwas less involved thanClaude’snarration leadingup to it.Sometimes Ihidunderapillow toblock theactualwords,but therewasnohidingfromtherumbleofhisvoiceinthathouse.Mr. Voice was everywhere then; in my tenth year I couldn’t escape him telling me there was

“strawberryshortcakeforwhoevercleanstheirplate,”orthatIshould“gitondowntoApplianceRoundUpfortherodeoofsavings,”orthatmymother“puttheheadin‘headcheerleader.’”OnenighttheywereplayingsomekindofEgyptianpharaohgame—“Takeitalloff,slavegirl”—when

mydoorflewopen.ThiswasClaude’scustodialweekendandinthedoorwaywasmystepbrotherBrian,lookingcrazed.Withoutaword,hetookmebythehand,pulledmeintohisbedroom,andsatmeonthefloorinfrontof

hisstereo.“Listen,”hesaid,“anytimeI’mnothereandthatshitstartsup,justcomeinmyroom,OK?”Thenheputhisblackstereoheadphonesonmyearsandcrankedthemusic:“WoodenShips”byCrosby,Stills&Nash.I closedmy eyes and playedwith the springy cordwhile I listened.Halfway through the song, two

thingshappened:“WoodenShips”became,inmymind,thestoryofBrianandme—Go,takeyoursisterthen,bythehand—andIfellinlovewithmystepbrother.I openedmy eyes. Brianwas sitting on his bed, cross-legged, filling some kind of little pipewith

brownish-greenmulchthatI intuitedmustbemarijuana.I tooktheheadphonesoff.Immediately,IcouldhearClaude’svoice,moredistantthanithadbeeninmyroom,butstillsonorousandrich.“Pluckagrapefrommymouth,slavegirl!”“Honestly,it’snotthesex,”Briansaid,stillworkingonhispipe.“It’stheactingthatoffendsme.”Thenhelookedupatmeandcockedhishead,smiledabit.“Youreallydolooklikeher,”hesaid.Backthen,IwouldsometimesstareatmyfaceinthemirrorandthinkofMother—didIreallylooklike

her?Wouldmy father recognizeme ifhe sawme?Would Ihave fiftyboyfriendsand thencashoutmylookslikeabankaccount?Whatmadesomeonebeautiful,anyway?MotherandIhadtwoeyes,eyebrows,anose,amouth—justlikeanyone.Beautiful?Ifeltchubbyandhadasprayoffrecklesacrossmynose.WouldIgettalllikeher?Wouldthespotsonmyfacegoaway?Wouldherfacebecomemine?Andwhatdiditevenmean,beautiful?But that day, Iwas never so happy to be told that I looked like her. I put the headphones back on,

smiled, and closedmy eyes to listen to the song—And it’s a fair wind blowin’ warm—I smelled potsmokeforthefirsttimethatafternoon,asClaudefinishedwithhisslavegirl.

Notlongafteritstarted,nomorethanayear,thesexpartseemedtoendforMotherandClaude,oratleasttheoveractingbeforethesexended.Iwonderedifmymotherhadjusthadenough.OrmaybeBrianhadsaidsomethingtothemaboutthethinwalls.Havingbeenmarriedtwicemyself inthefortyyearssincethat time,Inowknowthatamarriagecan

justsettleintoadomesticswamptoo,andmaybethat’swhathappenedwithMotherandMr.Voice.Still,Ican’trecallahappier,morepeacefultimethanthesecondyearofmymother’smarriagetoClaude.Unlikeouroldroutineintheapartmentdowntown,shewasaroundeverydaywhenIgothomefromschoolandeverynightwhenIwenttobed.Shequitherjewelrystorejobandembracedthedomesticlife,cooking,cleaning,doinglaundry;sheevendressedlikeamother,herskirtsmovingdownherthighsalmosttoherknees.OnedayIgotdressedforschoolandaskedwhathadhappenedtothejumperIwaswearing.Itwasstrangelystiff.“Oh,Iironedit,”Mothersaid.Ironing.Whoknew?Claudeseemedhappytoo,orat leastbusy.Hehadjuststartedabrand-newbusiness—“Mr.Voiceis

goingnational!”—inwhichhereadandrecordedbooks:Biblestoriesandthrillers,mostlyforlong-haultruckdrivers.“Everynewsemitruckhasacassettetapeplayer,”hesaid.“Andtheyallwantstories.”ClaudeworkedwithapartnernamedLowell, a lawyerwhose job itwas to secure the rights to the

books.IlovedClaude’snewjobbecauseitmeantInolongerheardhimontheradioorTVallthetime.HewasnotMr.Voiceanymore,butmystepfather,helpingwithmyhomeworkandpullingthelastofmylooseteeth.Idon’tknowif itwasthenewbusiness,butClaudeseemedtoagetenyearsintheyearhedevelopedMr.Voice’sStories onCassette—his swoopof hair disappeared completely;whatwas leftwaslongandgrayonthesidesandinback.Withtheroundglasseshe’dbegunwearing,Claudelookedlike a sick Benjamin Franklin. He and my mother began to look more like father and daughter thanhusbandandwife.Thatyear,Brianspentmore timeat thehouse too,whichI likedagreatdeal.He’dstartedoutbeing

prettycooltoMother,butshewasnothingifnotpersistentandnothingifnotcharmingandsheinstitutedacampaign to get him to like her, complimenting his clothes and his hair andmaking his favorite food,tacos, at least once a week. She called him “Bri-guy,” and ruffled his hair at the dinner table. Brianplayed guitar in a little two-man bandwith a high school buddy, a drummer namedClay, andMotherencouragedthemtosetupapracticespaceinthegarage.Claywastallanddark-haired,withanintensestare,andsomethingabouttheattentionthatMothershowedhimmademealittleuncomfortable.“Well,ifitisn’tClay,”she’dgush,or“YougethandsomereverytimeIseeyou,Clay.”That springMother set upguitar lessons forBrianwith a guy she knewnamedAllen,whowas the

guitaristinabiglocalbandcalledTreason.IrememberedAllenasoneofthemenshe’ddatedduringher“Nodawdling”phase—oneof themurdersuspects,as Iused to thinkof them—agreasyguywith longblondhairwhowouldcomepickupMotheronamotorcycleandtakehertosomedowntownclubcalledWashboardWillie’s.Buthemust’vebeenagreatguitar teacherbecauseBrianreallyimproved.I loveditwhenBriangot

more serious about the guitar. I’d sit on the floor of his bedroom while he played the beginning of“StairwaytoHeaven”ortheintroto“Layla.”Brian’svoicewas,ironically,thinandreedy,butIstillheldmy breath when he sang, and sometimes he’d sneak my name in there, in the chorus to the AllmanBrothers’“Melissa.”Butbackhomehe’llalwaysrun/TosweetTanya...Oneday, Iwas inmyroomdoinghomeworkwhenIheardMotherandBriancomein thedoor from

guitarlessons.Ihoppedoffmybedandrantowardthehalljustasthedoorslammed.Brianstompedpastmeandthrewhisguitarinhisbedroomcloset.Motherwentintothekitchenandlitacigarette.IlingeredoutsideBrian’sdoor,waitingtohearhimplaywhateversonghe’dworkedonthatdaywithAllenbuthejustsatonhisbedandopenedabook.Hesaidhewasdonewiththeguitar.

“Why?”Iasked.“Becauseguitarisforassholes,”hesaid,lookingupfromhisbookandglancingpastme,towardthe

kitchen.“WhataboutClay?”Iasked.“Whatabouttheband?”“Thereisnoband!”hesnapped.Ibackedoutofhisroom.ThatnightatdinnerBrianwouldn’t acknowledgeMotherandshe seemednervousaroundhim.They

bothstaredat theirplateswhileClauderambledonabout thestoryhe’dtapedthatday—someWesternnovel about a sheriffwho shoots anoutlawand endsup caring for thedeadman’s horse.Claudewasclueless aboutwhateverwas going on in the house that night.Meanwhile, Iwas furiouswithMother.Somethinghadclearlyhappened,andIsensedithadsomethingtodowithher.IfshedroveBrianaway,Iwouldneverforgiveher.Thenextafternoon,while Iwasatschool,MothersearchedBrian’s room,foundhismarijuanapipe,

andconfrontedClaudewithitwhenhegothomefromwork.Frommyroom,Icouldhearthemarguing.“Iwon’thavethisinmyhouse,”shesaid.“Whatifhe’ssmokingitaroundTanya?”“I’lltalktohim,”Claudesaid.“It’saconfusingtimeforyoungpeople.”“Confusing?”Motherscoffed.“Yoursonisadruggieandallyoucansayisthatit’sconfusing?Idon’t

wanthimaroundTanya.That’sfinal.”“Linda,bereasonable.”Theywentbackandforthlikethis.IwalkeddowntoBrian’sroom,ranmyhandoverhisguitar,puton

“WoodenShips,”andsettledunderhisheadphones.Sometimes your life changes in big, dramatic ways, as though you’ve been cast in a play you don’trememberauditioningfor.Momentshavethepowerofimportantscenes:beingparadedinatinypurpledressatawedding,someoneputtingheadphonesonyouandplayingarocksong.Butotherscenesseemtooccuroffstage;it’sasifyoujustawakeonemorningandunderstandthatacertainthingisnowsomethingelse.Thatwashowithappened,inthesummerof1976,justbeforemytwelfthbirthday,whenMotherranoff

withBrian’sguitarteacher,Allen.Idon’trecallanyonetellingmethatithappened,oranygreatargumentorfightbetweenherandClaude.I justrecallsuddenlyunderstandingwhyBrianhadquit theguitarandknowingthatTreasonwasgoingontheroadtoopenforalargerbandandknowingthatMotherwasgoingwiththeband.Iwasfuriouswithher,muchangrier—itseemstomenow—thanClaudewas.Butthere’safogginessI

feelfromthatperiodtoo,adisorientationthatmakesithardtorememberexactlyhowthingsplayedout.Maybeitwastheshockofwhatendeduphappening,ormaybeit’sjustthefogofadolescence.Sincethattime, Ihaveseen thisperiod inmyowndaughters—that intensedawningof self-awareness thatcausesteenagers to tuneout the rest of theworld.Achild’spowersofobservationmustbe strongest, I think,betweeneightandeleven;bythirteenwecan’tquiteseepastourselves.Whateverthecause,IjustremembersmoothlygoingfromlivingwithmymotherandClaudetoliving

alonewithClaude.Wedevelopedaquiet,easyrelationship.WeatedinnerandwatchedTVtogether.OnTuesdaynights,afterIfinishedmyhomework,Claudewouldmakepopcornandwe’dwatchHappyDaysandLaverneandShirley.WhenMarshallHarperaskedmeto“gowithhim”atschool,Claudeexplainedwhatthatmeantandgavemethewordstotellhimno,thankyou.Whenmyperiodarrived,Claudetookmetothestorefortamponsandexplainedthebasicsoffemalereproductionandhumansexualitytome,somethingMother had failed to do.Thankfully, in his sex talk, he didn’t say anything about pirates orslavesorRobertGoulet.Briancameoveralotthatyear.HewastakingclassesatSpokaneFallsCommunityCollege,andweall

haddinnertogetheratleasttwiceaweek.Iwasinmiddleschoolandcouldfeelmyselfcomingintomy

looks.Mylegsandbreastsseemedtogrowindependentlyoftherestofme,myshirtsbecomingtootight,cuffsofmypantsrisingoffthefloor.Mybreasts,especially,wereagreatmysteryandconcerntome.Iwould lockmy bedroomdoor and stand naked in front of themirror,wondering:Were they too high?Weren’ttheysupposedtohangmore?Werethenipplessupposedtopointoutlikethat?OhmyGod,mybreastsweredeformed,mynippleshorriblycockeyed!ItwasaroundthattimethatIalsobecameawareof boys and men watching me more attentively. I felt their heavy gazes first with surprise and withdiscomfortandthenwithakindoffamiliarity.Right.Thiswashowitfelttobeher,toalwaysbeonakindofstage,theeyesintheroomdrawnyourway.Irecalledhersmallmannerisms,thewayshemanagedallthatattention,thewayshe’dfeignindifference...orshootaglanceatsomeone...thistiltofthehead...thattossofthehair.Inaway,itwasallsonatural,soeasy.Whileboysbegantonoticeme,theoneboyImostwantedtonotice,Brian,seemedtoseemeonlyasa

littlekid.IthoughtofhimasIdressedinthemorning—wouldBrianlikethisskirt,thisblouse,thesetightjeans?Istartedwearingmakeupto lookolder.Tall, intenseClayhadstartedhangingaroundagain too,and ifBrian didn’t noticeme,Clay certainly did. “Man, someone’s growing up,” he’d say, andBrianwouldlookatmeasifnoticingforthefirsttime.Thenhe’dgruntwithsomeunknownmeaning:Yeah, Iguessso.OrYuck.And that’s how I started flirtingwithClay, I guess. Itwas another thing I’d seenmother do—work

towardthemanshewantedthroughhisfriend.I’dhearthemsettingupClay’sdrumkitinthegarageandI’dputonapairofshortshortsandgoouttothegarage,getonmybicycle,andpedalslowlyaway.“Bye,Brian.Bye,Clay.”Claywouldwatchme rideaway, smilingwith justhalfofhismouth,whileBrian tunedhisguitar. I

could sense the eyes moving, Clay’s to me, Brian’s to Clay, then Brian’s to me. I can’t say I wasintentionalinthis;itwasnotaplan,assuch.ButI’msuresomepartofmeknewinstinctually,intuitively,thatthewaytoBrianwasthroughjealousy,throughhisbestfriend.Ialsoknewitwasweirdtobeinlovewithyourownstepbrother,andIheldthesecretinside,ashamedandworriedthatitmeantsomethingwaswrongwithme.Iwasusuallyhomealoneforacoupleofhoursafterschool,andI’dsometimesgointoBrian’sroom

andlookthroughhisclothesorfingerthroughhisalbums,imagininghiminthere.Then,onedayIheardthedoorbell.Irantothefrontdoor,peeredthroughthewindow,andsawClay.“Hey, Tanya,” he said when I opened the door, his eyes traveling up and down me, like he was

watchingsomeoneyo-yo.“Brian’s not here,” I said. “He’s at hismom’s.” I tried to be cooler than usual, sinceBrianwasn’t

aroundtomakejealous.ButlaterIwouldwonder:DidItiltmyheadtoomuch,givetheslightestshifttomyhip?Wasitmyfault?“Oh,”Claysaid.Then,“Shit.”HeglancedbackathisblueNova,skulkinginourdriveway.“Soyou’re

herealone?”Istaredatmyshoes.“Um,yeah...ButClaudewillbehomefromworkprettysoon.”HeaskedifhecoulduseourphoneandwhenIsaidyes,hefollowedmeintothehouse,abittooclose,

itseemed,andwhenwegottothekitchen,Itookthephoneoffthewall,turned,andhandedittohim.Buthe hung the phone up. “I forgot the number.”Then hemoved closer tome, backingme up until Iwasagainstthewall.“Clay . . .” I put my hand on his chest, the way I rememberedMother doing—a way of touching

someonethatalsokeptabitofdistance,Ithought.Buthejustkeptcomingcloser,pressingmeagainstthewall.Hekissedme,notthewayboysmyage

hadkissedme,buthungrily,withhistongue,asifhewastryingtocrawlinsideme.Iclosedmyeyesandtriedto imagineIwaskissingBrian,but itwasn’tright.Ididn’t imagineBriankissinglikethis.Clay’shandsmovedoverme.

AndIthought:DoesheknowI’monlythirteen?Whatboywouldwanttodothiswithsomeonewhoisonlythirteen?Ipushedalittleharderonhischest.“Clay,”Isaid,“Idon’t...”Buthejustkissedmeharder,mashedmylipsagainstmyteeth.Hesuckedatmyneckandsaidintoit,

“Don’ttellmeyoudon’twantit.Thewayyoulook?”Thestructureofthesentencethrewmeforasecond.Don’ttell?Wantwhat?Lookhow?What?Later,ofcourse,youtortureyourself,asking,WasIallowingthis?DidIdosomething?Itwasallso

fast.Hishandswereinsistent,quick,aggressive.Itwaslikefightingawarontwofronts.Iwouldstophisrighthand frommashingmy left breast andhis left handwouldbemovingupmy right inner thigh, thewholetimehistonguewasstuckdeepinmymouth.Don’ttell...don’twant...wayyoulook.Hepulledmetothekitchenfloor,hisweightontopofme.Itriedtostoplongenoughtothink,butthereseemedtobenotimeforthoughtsatall,justthosehands,thebattleofthosehands:Istoppedtherightandtheleftundidmy bra; I stopped the left and the right jammed itself down the front ofmy jeans. I gripped his rightforearmbuthisfingersmovedovermybarepelvis.Igasped.Noonehadevertouchedmethere.Itwaslikebeingjoltedwithclammyelectricity,hisstronghandtryingtomoveupandinsideme.Thankfullymyjeanswereverytight,andIsqueezedmylegstogetherandthat’swhenaclearthoughtformed,IdoNOTwantthis,butthedistancebetweenmymindandmymouthsuddenlyseemeddauntingandhistonguewaskeepingmefromtalkingandIfeltapanicgothroughme,thathewouldchokemewiththatthicktongue,andthat’sexactlywhenIheardthevoiceofGoddescendfromheavenandraindownlikefireuponthecarpetedfloorofthat1970smauvekitchen.“You little goddamn shithead creep!” Inmymemory, the dishes rattled and thewindows shook and

birdsscatteredattheverymomentClaudecamehomefromwork,openedthedoorfromthegaragetothekitchen, and sawClaywrestlingwith his stepdaughter on the floor.Clay recoiled from the thunderingboomofMr.Voice,hiswrist catchingonmyzipper asheyankedhishandoutofmypants: “Getyourhandsoffofher!She’sthirteen,forGod’ssake!”Therewasmuchscrambling,oneswiftkick(Claude’s)andagreatdealofapologizing(Clay’s)anda

bitofcrying(mine)andthenClaudegrabbedClaybytheneckandpushedhimoutthedoor.“Don’tyouevercometothishouseagain!”I went to my room and curled up on the bed as the Nova rumbled to life and backed out of our

driveway.Iwasinthereforalongmomentalone;IthinkClaudehadastiffdrinktofortifyhimself—Icouldsmell

itonhimwhenheappearedinmydoorway.“AreyouOK?”Inodded.“Look,Ididn’t...Idon’tknowif...”Helookedpained.“Ihavetoask...isitsomething...you

wantedtohappen?”“Idon’tknow.”Istartedcrying.“Idon’tthinkso.”Henodded.“Youdoknow...youdon’teverhavetodowhatyoudon’twanttodo.Withaboy.They

canbe...insistent.Youjustkeepsaying‘No,’pushinghimaway.Hedoesn’thavetherightto—”Butbeforehecouldfinish,Istartedcryingagain.“Itwasconfusing.Hesaid...Iwantedit.ThewayI

looked.”Iweptintomyhands.Claudecameinandsatonthebed.“He’swrong.Youknowthat,don’tyou?”Inodded,butIcouldn’tstopcrying.“Doyouwant toknowwhatyou look like?Tome?”Claude liftedmychin.He ranhis index finger

aroundthelengthofmyhead.“YoulooklikeTanya.ThisisTanya’sface.Understand?Itdoesn’tbelongtosomeboy.Andlistentome:it’snotherfaceeither.”Webothknewwhohemeantbyher.“ThisisTanya’sface.”

I stared up into his bulging eyes, veins running up his balding forehead, gray hairwiring off in alldirections.“Claude?”“Yes?”“DowehavetotellBrian?”Iaskedquietly.“Brian?What’s—”Hecockedhishead,lookedatme,and,notforthefirsttime,IcouldseethatMr.

Voiceknewalotmorethanheeverleton.“Oh,”hesaid.“Oh.Brian.”“Idon’twanthimtothinkIdidsomethingwrong.”Hesmiled,andifhethoughtIwasacreepforhavingacrushonmystepbrother,Claudecertainlydidn’t

showit.“Youdidn’tdoanythingwrong.Anddon’tworryaboutBrian.”Of course, it wasn’t long after that day that I came to realize something else, again without much

fanfare:Brianwasgay.Claudemust’vealreadyknown.Hewasmuchmoreopen-mindedthanmanyofthemenofhisage:heacceptedthisfactaseasilyashehadonceacceptedthatBrianwouldlikegirls.Andso,whenBrianstartedbringingboyfriendsaroundthehouse,Claudewelcomedthemwithoutsomuchasahitchinthatdeepvoice.“MoreLondonbroil,Kevin?”We talked about this quality the other day, Brian and I, at Claude’s funeral, how Mr. Voice was

constantlysurprisingyou,howhisgoofylooksandoddmannercouldcauseyoutomisswhatagoodmanhewas.Therewasanobituaryinthenewspaperabouthisdeath,notasbigasthestoryofhiswedding,butstillnice,talkingabouttheperiodwhenhewasknownasthevoiceofSpokane.Claude’sbooks-on-tapebusinessturnedouttobeabigfailure,mostlybecausehislawyerpartnerhadn’tactuallysecuredtherights to thebooks thathe read.Claude settled the lawsuits and spent thenext twenty-fiveyearsdoingvoicework,buthisheydaywasclearlybehindhim.Hegotremarriedlateinlife,longafterIwasgone(college, Denver, two marriages, a career) to a nice woman named Karen, who always talked in awhisper,butwhosobbedloudlythroughoutthefuneral.TherewasareceptionaftertheserviceforClaude,andIsatwithBrianandhishusband,atall,quiet

mannamedJoey,andtheirtwoadoptedkids.Mysecondhusband,Everett,couldn’tmakeittothefuneralandmyolderdaughter,Brittany,wasawayatcollegesoIbroughtMeaghan,whowasseventeen,andwhodidmethefavoroftakingouthervariousfacialpiercingsandwearingadressthatcoveredmostofhertattoos.“Whatabeautifulgirlyouare,”JoeysaidtoMeaghan.“Likeyourmother.”I lookedatBrianandwesmiledateachother.IwasfilledwithnostalgiaandwarmthforBrian,my

firstlove.IthoughttooofhowmanytimesI’dheardthatmyselfgrowingup—youlooklikeyourmother—andhowitsuddenlystopped.It’sanotherofthosethingsthatIbarelyrecall.Iwasfourteenanditwasnotlongaftertheincidentwith

Clay.IrememberClaudepickingmeupfromschoolandtakingmehomeinhisLincolnContinental,butateacherormyprincipalmust’vealreadybrokenthenewstomebecauseIseemedtoknowwhenIgotinthe car; all I remember is him tellingmehow it happened. She’d been gone two years by then.We’dtalked on the phone a few times, and therewas some discussion ofmy going to LosAngeles for thesummers,butTreasonwasdoingwellinSouthernCaliforniaanditwasclearthatMotherwasn’tcomingbacktoSpokaneanytimesoon,andtheroadwasnoplaceforagirl.Allenwasn’tdriving.Claudethoughtmaybeitwasthedrummerwhofellasleepatthewheel.Whoever

wasatfault,theTreasontourvancrossedthecenterlineandhitanothercaronthehighwayoutsidesometowncalledVictorville.Iusedtosaythetown’snameinmyhead,likeanincantation:Victorville.Threepeopledied,thedriveroftheothercar,thebassplayer,andmymother.“Shewaskilledinstantly,”Claudesaid,which,Icouldtellbythewayhesaidit,wassupposedtobegoodnews.She was cremated.We had a small service in Spokane. Mother’s two cruel sisters came up from

Oregon.I’dmetthemonlyafewtimes;theyhadn’tbotheredtocomeforthewedding.Theycluckedanddisapprovedandsaid,“Lindaneverhadhershit together.”Theystaredatmeandsaid,“It’scrazyhow

muchyoulooklikeher,”and“You’rethespittin’image,”asifthismeantIwasdestinedfortroubletoo.Theyofferedtoletmecomelivewiththem.IaskedClaudeifIhadto.“Ofcoursenot,”hesaid.“Tellthemyouhaveahome.”There’snotmuchelse,atleastnottoMother’sstory.Myownstoryisn’thers,justlikemydaughters’

stories aren’tmine, just like—asClaude said all those years ago—my face isn’t hers, and their facesaren’tmine.Youmakealifeforyourselfandminehasbeenagoodone—Ibecameaspecial-edteacher,thenassistantprincipal,andnowamprincipalofamiddleschool. Ihadonegoodhusband,onenotsogood,lotsoffriends,goodhealth—whatcanyousayaboutadecentlife?Mother’slossaffectedmelessandlessastheyearswentonandIprobablythoughtofhermostwhenmyowndaughtersgotolderandcame into the family looks—that same thickbrownhair, samesharpcheeks, samearchedbrows, samestaresfrommen.IvowednevertosayanythinglikewhatMotherhadsaidtome,abouttheirlooksbeingabankaccount,especiallynot toMeaghan,whohas theother thingMotherhad,adanger,asmokiness,aqualitythatcausesmentostopintheirtracks.WhenMeaghangotthetattoosandpiercings,Iwasangryatfirst—Ihadtobe,it’samother’sjob—butI

can’tsaythatIblamedher.Ialwayswantedmygirlstobetheirownpeople,nottothinktheirfatewastiedtobonestructure,ortolookingliketheirmother,ortowaitingforsomeman.Nobodygetstotellyouwhatyoulooklike,orwhoyouare.Butbackthen,backwhenIwasfourteen,Istillwasn’tsure.Isawherfaceinmysleepatnight.And

then,afewweeksaftershedied,AllenbroughtMother’sthingsovertoClaude’shouse—someclothes,jewelry, a purse, some pictures, a makeup bag. It wasn’t much. Allen was wearing a cast with pinsthroughhisarmandshoulder,jeans,andadenimvest.Oneofhiseyeswasmessedupfromthewreck,allredandbleary.Hekeptpushinghisshaggy,dirtyblondhairoutofhiseyesandstaringatme.“Goddamn,youlooklikeher,”hesaid.“Freaksmeouthowmuch.There’smaybealittlebitameinthere,butnotasmuchasshealwayssaid.”Andthatwasit.Somehow,itdidn’treallymatter,findingout.Twoyearsearlier,itwouldhavechanged

mylife.Butonthatday,IsupposetheonlythingIfeltwassomesmallmeasureofcontentmentforher:thathe had, indeed, come back for her, just like she always said hewould. Theyweredifferent after all,destinedtobetogether.IthankedAllenforbringingherthings,watchedhimrideawayonhismotorcycle,andwentinsidetohavedinnerwithmyfather.

Contributors’Notes

MEGAN MAYHEW BERGMAN was raised in North Carolina and now lives in Vermont. She studiedanthropology at Wake Forest University and completed graduate degrees at Duke University andBennington College. She is the author ofBirds of a Lesser Paradise,Almost FamousWomen, and aforthcoming novel. In 2015, shewas awarded the Southern Fellowship ofWriters’GarrettAward forFictionandafellowshipattheAmericanLibraryinParis.•I’vealwaysbeeninterestedinunusualwomenwithpower,andwhenIfirstreadaboutJoeCarstairs,I

couldn’tstopthinkingabouther:herearlydaysasanambulancedriverandcompanionofDollyWilde,and then her later days as commander in chief of a small island in the Bahamas. I admire islands assettings—theyhave theirownpeculiar,highlyspecificpressuresandcan functionasacharacter in thenarrative. While writing the story, I became obsessed with researching Whale Cay, through KateSummerscale’sexcellentbiographyofJoe(TheQueenofWhaleCay),andthroughmapsandrealestatesites.Iwanteditsmostlyunspoiledandwildcharactertoenvelopthereaderandprovidealushbackdropfortheanticsofthepassionatewomenwholivedthere.When thinking about Joe Carstairs, an independently wealthy woman who loved to race boats and

controlothers,Iwantedtoimaginethelifeofsomeoneinherorbit.I’mfascinatedbythewaywetreatothers, and how power dynamics reveal so much about characters and values. I came up with thecharacterofGeorgie,agirlfromthesmall-townSouthwhoendedupasoneofJoe’smanygirlfriendsonWhaleCay.ThereareislandersinthestorywhoarealsoatJoe’smercy;itwasimportanttomenottoromanticizeheractions.Shewasinteresting,butshewasalsoflawed.AfterIwrotethefirstdraftofthestory,Iknewithadmanysuccessfulelements,butittookthreeyears

ofrevising,andafinalrigorouspasswiththeeditorsofTheKenyonReview,tocometothebestdraft.JUSTINBIGOSwasborninNewHavenandraisedinBridgeport,Connecticut.HisstorieshaveappearedinMcSweeney’s Quarterly, Ninth Letter, andMemorious, and his novella, 1982, appears in SeattleReview.He is theauthorof thepoetrychapbookTwentyThousandPigeons (2014).HecofoundedandcoeditstheliteraryjournalWaxwingandteachescreativewritingatNorthernArizonaUniversity.•“Fingerprints”beganasamemoir.IwasfinishingmyfirstsemesterasafictionstudentattheMFA

program at Warren Wilson College (I dropped out the next semester, then eventually went back andfinishedinpoetry).Myadviser,ElizabethStrout,waswillingtolookatthis“memoir,”andIrememberhere-mailingmeatnighttotellmethatitwasthebestthingI’dwrittenallsemester,andthatwhateveritwas,fiction,memoir,essay,Ineededtokeepwritingit,nomatterwhat.So,ofcourse,terrified,Iputitaway, for about ten years.Duringmy two years of doctoral study (I’m really good at dropping out ofvarious levels of higher ed.), I had to take a workshop outside my main focus, which was poetry. Ienrolledinafictionworkshop.AndIstruggled,sinceIhadn’twrittenshortstoriesforsolong.Idugout“Fingerprints,”andIlookedatit.Withnothingmuchtoloseatthispoint,Ishatteredit,thenputitbacktogether,addingnewsectionsand,ultimately,deletingmostoftheoriginal.Iwantedtowriteastoryaboutstories,Isuppose.Thoughthisstoryisstill,toalargeextent,aseriesofmemoriesofmyfather,aswellasmystepfatherandmotherandthecityIgrewupin,Iwantedthestorytobeaboutstorytelling—howwetellthestoriesofourselvesand,especially,ofthepeoplewhotortureuswiththeirtaintedlove.AtsomepointIthoughtImightaswellsendthestorytosomemagazines,evenifIwasreallyapoet.

WhenMcSweeney’stookthestory,overayearafterI’dsentit,I’dkindofforgottenitwasstilloutthere,as ithadbeenrejected fromthedozenorsootherplaces I’dsent it. Iwasprettyshocked.ThenIwas

thrilled,especiallysinceeditorDanielGumbinerwantedtochatonthephoneaboutrevisionsandedits,andwewentbackandforthovere-mailaboutwaysIcouldmakethestoryevenbetter.Dan’sinsightsandsuggestionswereessentialtothefinalversionof“Fingerprints.”I’mgratefultohimandMcSweeney’sfortakingachanceonanobody.“Fingerprints”wasmyfirstpublishedstory. Idoubt Iwouldnowstillbewritingfiction ifnot for theeditorsofMcSweeney’s,whogavemeanewconfidence inmywriting.Ayearlater,Inowhaveacollection-in-progressofstories,essays,andanovella,overahundredpagesandgrowing,titled(yup)Fingerprints.ElizabethStrout:thisstoryisdedicatedtoyou.

KEVINCANTY’sseventhbook,anovelcalledEverything,waspublishedin2010.Heisalsotheauthorofthreepreviouscollectionsofshortstories(WheretheMoneyWent,Honeymoon,andAStrangerinThisWorld)andthreenovels(NineBelowZero,IntotheGreatWideOpen,andWinslowinLove).HisshortstorieshaveappearedinTheNewYorker,Granta,Esquire,TinHouse,GQ,GlimmerTrain,Story,NewEnglandReview,andelsewhere;essaysandarticlesinVogue,Details,Playboy,theNewYorkTimes,andOxfordAmerican,amongmanyothers.HisworkhasbeentranslatedintoFrench,Dutch,Spanish,German,Polish,Italian,andEnglish.HelivesandwritesinMissoula,Montana.•Thisstoryaroseoutofatimeinmylifewhenalotofthingsthathadbeenfixedinplacestartedto

comelooseandrattlearound. I foundmyselfsingle for thefirst timesince theFordadministration, forinstance.Myfatherhaddied.MydaughterwenttocollegeinOregon,andmysonandhisgirlfriendstruckoutforCalifornia.Ifoundmyselflargelyaloneforthefirsttimeinalongtime,andwithoutanybodytotakecareof.ThisfeltdifficultinthewayIrememberedadolescenceasdifficult:noclearpathforward,notevensurewhatIwassupposedtowant.ThiswasamomentIrecognizedashavingalotofpotentialformovement,forchange,thethingsthatstoriesaremadeoutof.Intothiscomplexandvolatilemixtureofemotionswasinjectedascandalousbarroomanecdote,and

thestoryprecipitatedoutprettyquicklyfromthere.DIANECOOK is the author of the story collectionMan v. Nature. Her fiction has been published inHarper’sMagazine,Granta,TinHouse,OneStory,Zoetrope:All-Story,Guernica,andelsewhere.HernonfictionhasappearedintheNewYorkTimesMagazineandonThisAmericanLife,wheresheworkedas a radio producer for six years. Shewon the 2012Calvino Prize for fabulist fiction, and her storycollectionwasafinalistfortheLosAngelesTimesArtSeidenbaumAwardforFirstFictionandreceivedanhonorablementionforthePEN/HemingwayAward.ShelivesinOakland,California.•WhenIsatdowntowritethefirstdraftof“MovingOn”Iwasthinkingaboutalotofthings.Iwas

thinkingaboutbeingleftbehind.Iwasthinkingaboutalltheriskswetakewhenwelovesomeoneandallthewayswemighttrytoprotectourselves.Iwasthinkingaboutmydad,whowastryingtomoveonaftermymomdied.IworrieditwastooquickandIwishedhe’dtakemoretimetogrieve.IwasthinkingabouthowIwasdrowninginmyowngriefandwishingIcouldmoveon.Iwasthinkingaboutakindofe-mailIusedtogetwhenIlivedinBrooklyn.Masse-mailsfromfriends

saying something like“Myelderlyneighborhas justdiedand leftbehind this sweet toypoodlenamedAngel.Doyouknowanyonewhomightwant toadoptAngelsoshedoesn’tgetsent toashelterorputdown?” Iwas thinking about howconfused that poor poodlemust feel to haveherwhole life altered,possiblyended,andprobablynotunderstandwhy.AndIwasthinkingaboutthepeoplethishappensto.Eitherbecausetheyareremovedfromtheonlylifetheyknow,orbecausethelife theyknowisforeverchangedbytheabsenceofthepersonwhoisgone.Theirlossisdoubledinaway.Allof this thinking led toaveryshortdraft.Really justasetup. Ihad thesituation, thenarrator,her

loss, the shelter, thewomenon the floor, themanual.But itwas just aplacepopulatedby shadowsofpeople. Through revision, more elements came to light. The window friend appeared.Women began

running.Bingowas played. These thingsmade the shelter and its inhabitants come alive. It became aplacewherepeoplewereeithertryingtomakethebestofabadsituationorfleeingfromit.Bothwereattempts tosurvive,andsurvivalhasalwaysbeensomethingIconnectback tohope.Butstill, itdidn’tfeellikeastory.Thenthenarratorbeganwritingtheletterthatfiguresinthelastthirdofthepiece.Andfinally I felt like I knew her. She wanted something, even though she knew she couldn’t have it, thehallmarkofgrief.Itamazedmethatformonthsallthesewordshadexistedtogetherwithoutbeingabletoaccomplishmuch,andthattheadditionofjustoneelementcouldbindallthismaterialintoastory.JULIA ELLIOTT’s fiction has appeared in Tin House, Georgia Review, Conjunctions, and otherpublications.ShehaswonaPushcartPrizeandaRonaJaffeWriter’sAward.Herdebutstorycollection,TheWilds,waschosenbyKirkus,PublishersWeekly,BuzzFeed,andBookRiotasoneoftheBestBooksof 2014 and was a New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice. Her first novel, The New andImprovedRomieFutch,willappearinOctober2015.SheteachesattheUniversityofSouthCarolinainColumbia.Sheandherhusband,JohnDennis,arefoundingmembersofthemusiccollectiveGreyEgg.•WhenIwasingradschool,Ibecamefascinatedbymedievalfemalemystics,particularlythosewho,

likeMargeryKempe,wroteabouttheirexperiences.Myfirstattemptatamysticstorywastoocomicandoutlandish, incorporating not only an obsessionwith the “holy prepuce,” or foreskin, one of themoreeccentricrelicsthatsupposedlyderivedfromthebodyofJesusChrist,butalsotheobscuretraditionofthe“lactatingChrist”inlatemedievalreligiousiconography.AfterIabandonedthatstory,femalemysticspoppedup in thedissertationsof at least twoofmy fictional characters. Inone story,which remainedunpublished,themystic’sfeverishvisionsappearedinbigitalicizedchunks.Inamoresuccessfulstory,unnamed mystics from the narrator’s scholarly research hovered in the background of the narrative,occasionally appearing in brief images or lines of dialogue. When I heard about the Conjunctions“SpeakingVolumes” theme, Idecided to rewritemymystic story,highlighting themedievalpracticeofmass-producingvolumesinscriptoria.“Bride”alsochroniclestheprivatewritingsandobsessionsofafemalescribewhorecordsher“visions”onstolensheetsof“uterinevellum,”fineparchmentmadefromtheskinsofunborncalves.LOUISEERDRICHownsasmallindependentbookstore,BirchbarkBooks,inMinneapolis.Herlatestnovel,TheRoundHouse,won theNationalBookAward.Hernextshort storycollection,Python’sKiss, willinclude“TheBigCat.”•AlthoughItriedtoimprovetherelationshipinthisstory,thingsjustkeptgettingworse.AtlastIletgo

ofanyhopeofredemptionandallowedElida’smalevolencetoemergeinherhusband’sdream.PeopleinMinnesotawillusuallycommentonabookorstory,butwhenmentioningthisonenobodyknewwhattosay. “I sawyour story.”Mouthswouldopen, hands flap, an odd laugh.Perhaps as a consequence thisbecameafavoritestoryofmine—itseemstomakepeopleuncomfortable.BENFOWLKESisasportswriterwhocoversprofessionalfightingforUSATodayanditsdedicatedmixedmartialartssite,MMAJunkie.com.Hehascoveredthesportprofessionallysince2006formediaoutletsincludingSports Illustrated,AOLSports,CBSSports, andothers.HehasanMFA increativewritingfromtheUniversityofMontana,andhisfictionhasappearedinCrazyhorse,GlimmerTrain,CrabCreekReview,andPindeldyboz.HelivesinMissoula,Montana,withhiswifeandtwodaughters.•FormostofthefightersIknow,theperiodfollowingalossisitsownlittleidentitycrisis.Ifyou’re

thewinner,thefightdoesn’ttellyouanythingyoudidn’talreadyknow,whichisthatyou’reagreatfighter,afighterofdestiny,possiblythebestever.Theloserhastochoosebetweenfindingsomewaytocontinuebelievingthosethings,orelseconfrontingarealitywherethosethingsarenotandneverwillbetrue.Thisisachoicethatcanbeputoffindefinitely,inonewayoranother.

There’sanaddedlayerofdifficultyforfighterswho’vebeenknockedout.Theyoftendon’trememberhowthefightended.Sometimesthewholefight—eventhatwholeday—iswipedfromtheirmemory.It’sachunkoftimethatisincrediblyimportant,thatexistsforeveryoneelsewhosawitandwhowilltreatthem with the appropriate amount of sympathy or pity or contempt, and yet for them it’s gone, liftedstraightoutoftheirbrains,retrievableonlyviavideoreplay.Particularlywhenit’sonesingleblowthatdoesit,apartofthemfeelslikeitdidn’treallyhappen.There’sthissenseofinjustice.Theyknowthisisn’ttherightresult.Itcan’tbe.For this story, I started with that character in mind—a fighter on the downslope of his career,

confrontingachangingreality,achangingbody,alifewherealotofdoorshavebeenclosedthatcan’tbereopened.FromthereIaddedthefamiliarmixofself-pityandself-medication,followedbyasituationthat almost invites violence. The awful thing for fighters is that they’re so adept at and familiarwithviolence,theyrecognizehowunfairitisforthemtouseitonregularpeople.It’slikebeingawizard,butbeingforbiddentouseyourpowerstoresolveyourpersonalproblems.It’sterrible,really.Forsomeonealreadyatacertainpoint,itmightfeellikethere’snothingworse.ARNA BONTEMPS HEMENWAY is the author of Elegy on Kinderklavier, winner of the 2015PEN/HemingwayAward and finalist for theBarnes andNobleDiscoverAward.His short fiction hasappearedinAPublicSpace,Ecotone,FiveChapters,andMissouriReview,amongothervenues.He’sbeentherecipientofscholarshipsandfellowshipsfromtheBreadLoafWriters’Conference,theSewaneeWriters’Conference, and theTrumanCapoteLiteraryTrust.Heholds anMFA from the IowaWriters’WorkshopandiscurrentlyassistantprofessorofEnglishincreativewritingatBaylorUniversity.•IamalittleembarrassedtoadmitthatIdon’trememberactuallywritingthisstory.Duringthemild

andrainyOctoberof2011,mydaughter,Bluma,wasborn.Forthefirstmonthofherlifeshehadextremedifficultyeating,andIhadtowakeupeveryhourandforty-fiveminutestofeedherwithasyringe.Theensuing sleep deprivation was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I remember being incapable ofcontiguous thought. I remember feeling like,once theborderbetweensleepandwakinghaddissolved,time was collapsing into itself, until I was somehow inhabiting the past and the present at once.Somewhereinthere,IknewIhadastoryduetomygraduateworkshop,orIriskedfailing.At the time, I was doing intensive primary-source research into the IraqWar (and specifically, the

experiences of those soldiers allegedly involved in atrocities). In the dissociated hallucinations ofmysleepless state, my research, my memories, dreams, and present reality became somewhatindistinguishablefromoneanother.ItwasjustthenthatIlearnedabouttheU.S.military’sstrategyofre-creatingwholeIraqivillagesintheMojaveandelsewhere,andhiringrealIraqiexpatriatestoplayoutcomplexpsycho-behavioralprofilesfakedbyvarious intelligence trainingunits. Istartedgoingon longwalks, even as Iwatched a soldier explain that hismemory of theAfterActionReport had somehowreplacedhismemoryof the actual events, even as Iwas trying to getmydaughter to take the syringe.Somewhereinthere,Imust’vebeenwritingtoo,becauseonthedayitwasdue,Ishoweduptoclasswiththisstory,moreorlessinitscurrentform,inhand.Butthedeepertruthisthatthisstoryexistspurelyviathesuperhumangraceofmywife,theloveofmy

life,Marissa.Therealwonderhere isofcourseher,whomanagedto juggleanewbornandahusbandwhowasslowlylosinghismind,withenoughstrengthleftovertosomehow,somehow,inthemidstofallthis,pointtomyofficeandsay,I’llstayup,Iknowyoucandoit,Ibelieveinyou:nowgettowork.DENIS JOHNSON is the author of several novels and plays, aswell as a volume of stories and one ofnonfictionarticlesandtwobooksofverse.HelivesinNorthIdaho.•Iranacrossthephrase“thelargesseoftheseamaiden”inanEnglishtranslationofaPersianfolktale

someyearsback.Thewordsseemedmysteriouslylinkedtoamomentfrommyyouth,whenawomansang

asongtome—justme—inabarinSeattle.In2007IaskedaclassIwasteachingtowriteastoryintwopages or less, and the first section of this tale wasmy own attempt at the assignment. Over the nextseveralyearsItinkeredwithothersuchvignettes,andonedaytheycametogetherinasortofarrangement.SARAH KOKERNOT was born and raised in Kentucky. Her fiction has appeared inCrazyhorse, FrontPorch,West Branch,LadyChurchill’s RosebudWristlet, decomPmagazinE, andPANK. She lives inChicagowithherhusband, thewriterJuanMartinez,andtheirson.Sarahis theprogramcoordinatorat826CHI,anonprofitwritingandtutoringcenter.Sheiscurrentlyatworkonanovel.• Iwas living in rural Pennsylvania, reading a lot of lateChekhov, and Iwanted to trymy hand at

somethingtenderandsubtle.Iwasconcernedwiththeunpredictableandevendarklycomicalsituationsthatcanarisefrompasttrauma.Butthestorydidn’tbeginthere.Itbeganwiththeending—amanpickingup awoman’s dress shoes as he followed her into thewoods at the edge of a field. Iwrotemywaybackward from thosewoods.Also, ever sincemeeting Izzy thecamel inWaitsburg,Washington, Iwasdeterminedtoincludeacamelinastory.VICTORLODATOistheauthorofthenovelMathildaSavitch(2010),whichwonthePENUSAAwardforFiction and theBarnes&NobleDiscoverAward.His stories and poems have appeared inThe NewYorker,VirginiaQuarterlyReview, andSouthernReview. He is the recipient of fellowships from theGuggenheimFoundationand theNationalEndowment for theArts.Hisnewnovel,EdgarandLucy, isforthcoming.•“Jack,July”startedwithbodylanguageasmuchaswithvoice.IcouldabsolutelypictureJack’sway

ofmovingdownthestreet—andI realizedprettyquickly that Iwasdealingwithapersonreelingfromsome kind of intoxicant. In Tucson,where I lived formany years, you’ll often see someonemarchingdown the road or standing at a bus stop with this very odd, twitchy behavior. Of course, meth iseverywhereinArizona.TheneighborhoodinwhichIlivedslidquicklyfromworkingclasstosomethinga little more provisional. Coming from a working-class family, I findmyself drawn to these sorts ofcharacters:characterswhoappear tohave lessarmorandartifice.Somehow theirexhaustionseems tounmaskthem.I never knowwhere I’m going when I begin a piece, and in this story, since I’d stumbled upon a

characterwho also had no ideawhere hewas going, both physically andmentally, his state perfectlymirroredmyown.BecauseofJack’sheightenedstateofmind,Ifeltfreetogoalittlecrazy,toeditmyselflessasIwrote—andindoingso,Iendedupinsomeunlikelyplaces.Thebeginningof thispieceridesonanabsurd,almostcomicwave.Thenthepastenters thepicture,

andthestoryopenstoitstrueintentions.Jack’sintoxicationandeventualcrashmirrorthestory’sjourneyfromakindofachingzaninesstoadeeperheartbreak.Ialwaysknewthatsomethingunhappywasnear,butlikeJack,Icircledit,hoveredaboveitforaslongasIcould,untiltheweightofithadtointrude.COLUMMcCANN is theauthorofsixnovelsandthreecollectionsofstories.Hewasawardedthe2009NationalBookAwardforhisnovelLettheGreatWorldSpin.“Sh’khol”isfeaturedinhisnewcollection,ThirteenWaysofLooking.•Wesometimesforgetthattheconstructionofahouse,oracottage,orahut,orevenacathedral,begins

withthesmashingupofrocks.There’ssomuchbetweentheoriginalsledgeblowandtheplacementofthevery last brick. It’s the samewith stories, of course.Now that “Sh’khol” is in place, I find it hard torememberwhenIfirststartedswingingthehammer.Onecanfindbeginningsinnumerousplaces,ofcourse,butIrecallbeingatareadingin2010anda

womanintheaudienceaskingmewhyIwassoobsessedwithparentslosingtheirchildren.Ihadnogoodanswerforher.Ihaveneverlostachildand,atthatstage,neverevenlostaparent.Butitstruckmethat

thelanguageofmyattemptedreplywashamperedbythefactthattherewasnosinglewordforaparentwhohadlostachild.Odd,giventhattheEnglishlanguagehas(dependingonhowyouclassifyaword)anywhere from a quarter-million to a million words, and the fact of losing a child is such a deeplytraumaticevent.Dowenothavea specificwordpreciselybecause it is soharrowing?This lackofaproperwordseemedlikeanalmosthymn-singingabsence.Ibegantoaskpeopleiftheyknewofanexactwordthatmightwork.Mostlanguagesfailed.Therewas

aphraseinSanskritandIlearnedlaterthattherewerewordsinArabicaswell,butIthoughttheHebrewwordsh’kholwastheclosest.Itwassodeeplyonomatopoeicaswell,withtheshimplyingsilenceandthekholhavingadistressingsharpness.Ihungeredtobuildastoryaroundit.There were other things I wanted to explore as well. I have long wanted to write about Ireland’s

dwindlingJewishcommunity,especiallyinthecontextofthecollapseoftheeconomythere.Also,Ihadbeguntohearalotofstoriesaboutautisticchildrenandthedifficultiesparentswerehavingwithadoptedchildren. What fascinated me was the unknown history: how whole lives get absorbed into newlandscapesandindeednewmythologies.Ialsowantedtosneakinafewreferencestoothercountries,sowhilethestorywastounfoldintheWestofIreland,italsotakesplaceinRussiaandtheMiddleEast,allstoriesfunnelingthemselvesintoonestory.So,allofthesethingsbecameacollisionofobsessions.Still, the troublewith fiction is that it oftenmakes toomuch sense, andweallowourobsessions to

narrowthemselves.Characterswiththeirconsciousactions,plotlinesunrollingthemselvesininexorablystableways,everythingneat,ordered,controlled.Youalwayswanttokeepthecriticalheckleraliveinyourself. I foundmyself wanting to write a story that would be grounded in action, but still elusive,tenebrous,andcertainlyunfilmable.Nothingisever,eventually,foundout.FunnilyenoughIthinkit’soneofthefirsttimesI’veputamobilephoneinastory.Iwantedtoseehow

Icouldgetridofthefurnitureofthemodernworld.ELIZABETHMcCRACKEN is theauthorof fivebooks, themost recentofwhich,Thunderstruck&OtherStories,wonthe2014StoryPrize.SheteachesattheUniversityofTexas,Austin.•Yearsago,Iwasnoodlingaroundonanovelaboutawomanwhodisappearedfromasuburbanstreet,

and I wondered where she might have gone to. This was the kind of idle wondering that is reallyprocrastination:maybe I’ll come upwith somethingmore interesting than the book I’mworking onnow.Oneofthepossibilities:acultinCanada,centeredaroundagirlwho’dsustainedatraumaticbraininjury,whosemotherdeclaredherasaint.Thatideastayedinmyhead,faintbutpersistent,asongIcouldn’tquiteremember.Morethantenyears

later,Iwasonleavefrommyteachingjob,tryingtofinishacollectionofstories.Iwaswritingatagreatrate,storyafterstory.NotsinceI’dbeeningraduateschoolhadIhadthethoughtNeed toworkon thenextthing,butwhat,what?Towardtheendofthesemester,Irememberedthebrain-injuredgirl,butnow—havingbecomeaparentmyselfintheyearsthathadpassed—Iwasinterestedintheparents.GenerallyIknowtheshapeofastorywhenIbeginit,butthisoneIdidn’t,whichispossiblywhyit’ssolong.ItwasthelaststoryIwroteinthecollection.Also,IoncehadaFrenchpersonaltrainernamedDidierwhodidtakeaninexplicabledisliketome,

andIamdelightedtohavemyrevengeinthesepages.THOMASMcGUANE isamemberof theAmericanAcademyofArtsandletters,aNationalBookAwardfinalist,andtherecipientofnumerouswritingawards.HisstoriesandessayshaveappearedinTheBestAmericanShortStories,TheBestAmericanEssays,andTheBestAmericanSportsWriting.Theauthoroffifteenbooks,heliveswithhisfamilyonaranchinMontana.

•Istartedoutwithsomevagueideasabout theenergyindustry,aboutamorepastoralversionof theWest, and about the skills learned through agriculture, and how theywould finally clash. Thiswas indanger of remaining pretty abstract, pretty ideological, not to mention uninteresting until occupied byhumanbeings,charactersIhadonhand;andmyfeelingfor thecountryIwas talkingabout.Theenergyindustryanditstaxationontheearthisconcentratedinspecificplaces.TheextractionofoilfromshalethroughfrackinghasbefallenpartsofNorthDakotaandMontana.Itsprofitsareastronomical.Fewdaretostandup in the faceof this tidalwaveofmoney.Thearrivalofhookers,druggangs,andgunmen inguilelessprairie townsandtheircredulousboostershasbeenunspeakable.Youneedtoseesuchbroadthingsthroughtheeyesofindividualsinordertomakeplausiblefiction.Asusual,thisoftencallsuponawriter’scapacityforfindingvoicesforthevoiceless.Nothingnewaboutthat,butitcanbeachallengewhen,as in thecaseof“Motherlode,” there is suchextraordinarydistancebetween these livesand theforcesthatrulethem.MAILEMELOY is the author of two novels, two story collections, and a young adult trilogy.Her storycollectionBothWaysIstheOnlyWayIWantItwasoneoftheNewYorkTimesBookReview’sTenBestBooksoftheyear.ShehasreceivedthePEN/MalamudAward,theE.B.WhiteAward,andaGuggenheimFellowship,andshewasnamedoneofGranta’sBestYoungAmericanNovelists.HerstorieshavebeenpublishedinTheNewYorker,Zoetrope:All-Story,andParisReview.ShegrewupinHelena,Montana,andlivesinLosAngeles.•TherearesometimeselementsfloatinginthebackofmymindthatIwanttouse,longbeforeIever

figureouthowtodoit.Thestoryfromthepastin“MadameLazarus”wasoneofthose:IwantedtowriteaboutthestrangenessoflifeinpostwarFrance,wherethosewhosurvived,whethertheyhadresistedtheGermanoccupiersorcollaborated, stayedoutof thewayorhunted the resistersdown,wereall livingalongsideoneanother.But Ihadn’t foundawayin; itwas toobiganduncontrollableasubject.ThenIstartedwriting thestoryofaman trying to resuscitateasmalldog,and I realized that therewasspaceinsideitfortheotherstory,andtheyeachmadetheotherpossible.Ialsolearnthingsaboutstoriesafterthey’refinished.Assoonas“MadameLazarus”waspublished,I

startedgettinglettersande-mailsfromfriendsandstrangersaboutthedeathsofbeloveddogs.Theywerebeautiful,heartbreakingstories,andIhadn’texpectedthem.I thoughtthestorywasabouthumanillnessandaging,thebreakdownandbetrayalofthebody(and,inthepast,ofacountry).Ithoughtthosewerethethingspeoplewouldrespondto,butIwaswrong.Intheoutpouringofgrief,Irealizedthatpeople’slovefortheirdogsisverypure,whenthere’slittleinlovethatispure.Theresponsibilityforadogistotal,andthe sense of failurewhen theydie is enormous.Other loves are guarded—the character’s love for hischildren,hisex-wife,hispartner,theboyinthepast,thehousekeeper—buttheloveforthedogisn’t,andhisinabilitytosavethatonepurethingisattheheartofthestory.ReadersknewitwhenIdidn’t.SHOBHARAOistheauthoroftheforthcomingcollectionofshortstoriesAnUnrestoredWoman.HerworkhasappearedinNimrodInternationalJournal,Water~StoneReview,PoemMemoirStory,andelsewhere.ShehasbeenawardedaresidencyatHedgebrookandisthewinneroftheKatherineAnnePorterPrizeinFiction,aswellasagrantfromtheElizabethGeorgeFoundation.ShelivesinSanFrancisco.• This story is part of a collection that focuses on the Partition of India and Pakistan. I had been

workingon thecollectionforsome timewhenIwasawardeda residencyatHedgebrook,onWhidbeyIslandinPugetSound.Whilethere—housedinalovelycabinoverlookingUselessBay—IknewIwantedtoexploreamomentofterrifyingconflict,andthechoicesweareforcedtomakeduringsuchmoments.IalsoknewIwantedtowriteitintheguiseofarelationshipbetweenamiddle-agedwomanandayoungboy.Iwantedtherelationshipbetweenthemtobeplatonic,yetintense.WhilewalkingalongtheshoresofUselessBay,thesentence“Iwaswidowedlongago”occurredtome.I’mnotsurewhy,orhow,perhaps

thewind,theshimmeringwater,thecloudedglimpsesofafarawayisland.Still,itstayedwithme,andIthoughtofallthemarriagesIhaveknown,andofhow,insomanyofthem,widowhoodcomeslongbeforeadeath.Itdidn’tseemsadtome,certainlynottragic:wemournthepeoplewehavebeen,wemournthepeoplewearewith,wemournwhattheyearshavemadeus.It islife;it isthebasicmachineryoflife.Oncethataspectwasdecided,toputthewomanandtheboyonatrain,tohavethattrainattacked,tohavethewomanchoose theboyover thehusband,and then tohave the trainburned to theground,all camerelativelyquickly.Violence,afterall,isnotdifficult.Humanizingthatviolenceiswhatisdifficult.JOANSILBER is theauthorof sevenbooksof fiction, includingFools, longlisted for theNationalBookAwardandfinalistforthePEN/FaulknerAward;TheSizeoftheWorld,finalistfortheLosAngelesTimesBookPrize inFiction;and IdeasofHeaven, finalist for theNationalBookAwardand theStoryPrize.She’salsotheauthorofTheArtofTimeinFiction.ShelivesinNewYorkandteachesatSarahLawrenceCollegeandintheWarrenWilsonCollegeMFAProgram.•WhenHurricaneSandyhitNewYorkin2012,Iheardaradioreportaboutolderresidentsofhousing

projects who impressed volunteers with how well they managed without electricity or water. (Myneighborhood,theLowerEastSide,wasinthedarkzone,soIknewwhattheydealtwith.)Ibegantothinkabout self-reliance and the situations that call it forth, and the character ofKiki started to form. I hadwantedforawhiletogetTurkey—aplaceI’vehappilyvisitedafewtimes—intoastory.AndIwantedKikiviewedbyayoungerfemalecharacter,withherownideasaboutriskandfrontiers.OnceI’dgivenReynaaboyfriendatRikersIsland,Isawthestoryheightening.Iwantedthetwowomentounderstandeachotherjustfinebutvieweachotheracrossagreatdivide,whereneitherenviestheother.Iassumed“AboutMyAunt”wasdonewhenIfinishedit,butithasbecomethefirstchapterofanovel.ARIABETHSLOSSistheauthorofAutobiographyofUs,anovel.HershortfictionhasbeenpublishedinGlimmerTrain,FiveChapters,HarvardReview,andOneStory,andsheistherecipientoffellowshipsfrom the IowaArts Foundation, theYaddoCorporation, and theVermont StudioCenter.A graduate ofYaleUniversityandtheIowaWriters’Workshop,shelivesinNewYorkCity.•Iamnotanaturalstoryteller.BywhichImeannarrative—thespinearoundwhichastoryisbuilt—

doesnotcomeeasilytome.Constructionisslow,laborious,feasibleonlyafterI’vescoredsomeimageorscrapofdialoguewithathousandtinylines,tryingtoseeifitwillbleed.Inthiscase,Igotlucky.Afewweeksaftermydaughterwasborn,IpickedupAlecWilkinson’sTheIce

Balloon,anaccountofthenineteenth-centuryinventorS.A.Andrée’sill-fatedattempttoreachtheNorthPoleviahotairballoon.Iwasbone-tired,half-drunkonhormonesandjoy.Inotherwords,primed.Fordays,thatimagedoggedme:aballoonfueledbyambition,sailingoverArctictundra.Notlongafter,myhusbandwentbacktowork.Mydaysretainedtheirstrangenewsoftness,thebaggy

shape of time delineated by feeding, washing, and soothing. Men leave, I told a friend, incredulous.Womencan’t.Patentlyfalse,butIhadmyblood.Notlongafter,Isatdownandbegantowrite.LAURA LEE SMITH is the author of the novelHeart of Palm. Her short fiction has appeared in theanthologyNewStories fromtheSouth:TheYear’sBest, aswell asNewEnglandReview, theFloridaReview,NaturalBridge,Bayou, and other journals. She lives in Florida andworks as an advertisingcopywriter.• I really likecars. Idon’tknowmuchabout them,but Igrewup inafamilywheremostof themen

lovedandworkedoncars,andImarriedamanwhosharesthatpassion.Iwantedtowriteastoryaboutacar,andIrememberedthatwhenIwasmuchyounger—twenty-one?twenty-two?—IalmostboughtausedCorvair.Ihadmoneydownonitandeverything,butmyfathertalkedmeoutofit,citingtheinstabilityofthe car’s rear-engine design.We argued about it. It was a beautiful old car, white with a red-leather

interior,andIwantediteventhoughIknewitmightbeunsafe.IntheendIlosttheargument,andthekindladywhohadtakenmydepositgavemebackmy$200.IendedupbuyingaDodgeChallenger(whataname!—another car storyoneday,perhaps), but I never forgot thatCorvair.Sowhen I startedplayingwithideasforacarstoryIdecidedtogivethat latentdesireforaCorvair toacharacterandseewhatwouldhappen.OnceIhadTheoontheroad,movingsouthwardthroughtheFloridaheatonaquestforthiscar thatheunreasonably, irrationallywants, thestorystarted to tell itself. Inreadinguponsomeof thecar’sdetails,IstumbledacrosstheinfamousRalphNaderjudgmentthattheCorvairwas“unsafeatanyspeed.”Ithoughtitwouldmakeagreattitle.JESSWALTER is the author of eight books, most recently the novelsBeautiful Ruins (2012) and TheFinancialLivesofthePoets(2009)andthestorycollectionWeLiveinWater(2013).HewasaNationalBookAwardfinalistforTheZero(2006)andwontheEdgarAllanPoeAwardforCitizenVince(2005).His fiction has appeared inThe Best American Short Stories 2012, The Best AmericanNonrequiredReading,Harper’sMagazine, TinHouse,McSweeney’s, Esquire, andmany others.He liveswith hisfamilyinSpokane,Washington.•“Mr.Voice”grewoutofthatfirstline:Motherwasastunner.Sometimesalinejustpopsintoyour

head,likeasonglyric.Youknowit’sright,soforonceinyourlife,youdon’ttinkerwithit.Youstareatit, trydifferentsecondlines,walkaroundwondering,Whosaidthat?Thenthecharactersstarttocomeintofocus:agirl,herbeautifulmom,Claude.I’dwantedtowriteastoryforawhilesetintheearlytomid’70s:homeintercoms,WildKingdom,waterbedstores,andthe1974SpokaneWorld’sFair.ItwasoneofthosestoriesthatkeptsurprisingmeasIdiscoveredabitmoreofiteveryday—Oh,sosheturnsouttobe...Ah,thenheis...Right,sotheyare...IhavetwodaughtersandwhenIgottotheendofthefirstdraftandwroteTanya’sline(“Nobodygets totellyouwhatyoulooklike,orwhoyouare”)Irealizedthat’swhatIwantedtotellmyowndaughtersand,sentimentalgoofthatIam,Istartedcrying.

OtherDistinguishedStoriesof2014

ACEVEDO,CHANTELStrangeandLovely.Ecotone,no.17

ACKERMAN,ELLIOTAHuntingTrip.Salamander,no.39

AHMAD,AAMINAPunjab:TheLandofFiveRivers.NormalSchool,vol.7,issue2

BASSINGTHWAITE,IAN

Reichelt’sParachute.TheCommon,issue8BAXTER,CHARLES

Sloth.NewEnglandReview,vol.34,nos.3–4BAZZETT,LESLIE

StudiesinComposition.NewEnglandReview,vol.34,nos.3–4BELLOWS,SIERRA

BuffaloCactus.GulfCoast,issue2BERGMAN,MEGANMAYHEW

RomaineRemains.Agni,issue79BRAZAITIS,MARK

TheRinkGirl.Ploughshares,vol.40,no.1BROCKMEIER,KEVIN

TheInventionofSeparatePeople.UnstuckBROOKS,KIM

Hialeah.GlimmerTrain,issue91BRUNT,CHRISTOPHER

NextYearinJuarez.Ploughshares,vol.40,no.4BYERS,MICHAEL

Boarders.AmericanShortFiction,vol.17,issue58CARLSON,RON

OneQuarrel.zyzzyva,no.100CASTELLANI,CHRISTOPHER

TheLiving.Ploughshares:SolosOmnibusCHAON,DAN

WhatHappenedtoUs?Ploughshares,vol.40,no.1CLARE,OLIVIA

Quiet!Quiet!YaleReview,vol.102,no.4CROSS,EUGENE

MissMeForever.GlimmerTrain,issue91DIAMOND,JULIE

Debt.narrativeDOBOZY,TAMAS

TheTireSwingofDeath.AbleMuse,no.18DUPREE,ANDREA

NewBrother.Ploughshares,vol.40,nos.2&3DURDEN,EA

TheOrangeParka.GlimmerTrain,issue91EVENSON,BRIAN

Maternity.Ploughshares,vol.40,nos.2&3FREEMAN,RU

TheIrishGirl.StoryQuarterly,46/47FRIED,SETH

HelloAgain.TinHouse,vol.15,no.3GILBERT,DAVID

Here’stheStory.TheNewYorker,June9&16GOODMAN,ALLEGRA

AppleCake.TheNewYorker,July7&14GORDON,MARY

TheFall.YaleReview,vol.102,no.3GORDON,MARY

WhatRemains.Ploughshares,vol.40,no.4GREENFELD,KARLTARO

ZoneofMutuality.AmericanShortFiction,vol.17,issue57GRONER,ANYA

Buster.Meridian,no.33GUTHRIE,ROBERT

WhatIThinkAboutWhenItSwingsMeLow.PembrokeMagazine,no.46GYASI,YAA

ManySons.Callaloo,vol.37,no.2HAIGH,JENNIFER

Sublimation.Ploughshares,vol.40,no.1HALE,BABETTEFRASER

Drouth.SouthwestReview,vol.99,no.3HEINY,KATHERINE

TheRhettButlers.TheAtlantic,OctoberHITZ,MARK

Shadehill.GlimmerTrain,issue92HOUCK,GABRIEL

WhentheTimeCame.ThePinch,vol.34,issue2HUYNH,PHILIP

TheFigTreeofKnightStreet.Event,vol.43,no.2JACKS,JORDON

Don’tBeCruel.YaleReview,vol.102,no.2JACKSON,GREG

WagnerintheDesert.TheNewYorker,July21JOHNSTON,BRETANTHONY

YoungLife.SouthamptonReview,vol.8,no.2KAMMIN,BRADFORD

ErnestWalthamSellsHisLastRemainingHolstein.CimarronReview,no.188KING,OWEN

TheCurator.LadyChurchill’sRosebudWristlet,no.31KLAY,PHIL

WarStories.Consequence,vol.6KOHLER,SHEILA

Leopard.AntiochReview,vol.72,no.3LABOWSKIE,MARK

Friendship.Sou’Wester,vol.42,no.2LAFARGE,PAUL

Rosendale.TheNewYorker,September29LANCELOTTA,VICTORIA

Dinosaurs.MichiganQuarterlyReview,vol.53,no.3LARSON,SONYA

Scoots.WestBranch,no.76LETHEM,JONATHAN

PendingVegan.TheNewYorker,April7LEVINE,PETER

Prospect.SouthernReview,vol.50,no.2LOREDO,LUCAS

AsWeSink.SouthwestReview,vol.99,no.4MAKKAI,REBECCA

K-I-S-S-I-N-G.TinHouse,vol.16,no.2MARTIN,VALERIE

TheIncidentatVilledeau.MassachusettsReview,vol.55,no.1McCARTHY,SEANPADRAIC

BetterMan.December,vol.25,no2McCRACKEN,ELIZABETH

PeterElroy:ADocumentarybyIanCasey.VirginiaQuarterlyReview,vol.90,no.2MOGELSON,LUKE

TotheLake.ParisReview,no.208MOORE,LORRIE

SubjecttoSearch.Harper’sMagazine,JanuaryMOUNTFORD,PETER

LaBocadelLobo.SouthernReview,vol.50,no.3NELSON,ANTONYA

FirstHusband.TheNewYorker,January6NELSON,ANTONYA

PrimumNonNocere.TheNewYorker,November10

NELSON,KENTTheBeautifulLight.SouthernReview,vol.50,no.2

NELSON,KENTFog.AntiochReview,vol.72,no.3

NUILA,RICARDOAttheBedside.NewEnglandReview,vol.35,no.1

NULL,MATTHEWNEILLTheIslandintheGorgeoftheGreatRiver.Ecotone,no.17

O’CONNOR,SCOTT

HoldOn.zyzzyva,no.100O’CONNOR,STEPHEN

Con.TheCommon,issue7PARRY,LESLIE

Answer,Mermaid.Isthmus,no.1PEARLMAN,EDITH

Fishwater.Ploughshares,vol.40,nos.2&3PEARLMAN,EDITH

Sonny.FifthWednesday,no.14PEARSON,JOANNA

Changeling.Blackbird,vol.13,no.2PECK,DALE

ParableoftheManLostintheSnow.TinHouse,vol.15,no.3PEERY,JANET

NoBoyatAll.StoryQuarterly,46/47PIERCE,THOMAS

BaBaboon.TheNewYorker,June2POLLACK,EILEEN

Women’sTissues.HarvardReview,no.45PORTER,EDWARD

WhyWait?WhyBother?HudsonReview,vol.67,no.3QUADE,KIRSTINVALDEZ

TheManzanos.narrativeROENSCH,ROB

TheZooandtheWorld.AmericanShortFiction,vol.17,no.57RUSSELL,KAREN

TheBadGraft.TheNewYorker,June9&16SACHS,KATHLEEN

TheOppositeofDenim.MississippiReview,vol.41,no.3SCHMEIDLER,LYNN

BeingStevie.GeorgiaReview,vol.68,no.4SHAPIRO,ELENAMAULI

BankReposforSale.zyzzyva,no.101

SHEEHAN,AURELIEWolfintheBasement.MississippiReview,vol.41,no.3

SNEED,CHRISTINEClearConscience.NewEnglandReview,vol.35,no.3

SOLWITZ,SHARONImposter.AlaskaQuarterlyReview,vol.31,nos.3&4

SPENCER,DARRELLCutLipRoad.Epoch,vol.63,no.2

TALLENT,ELIZABETH

MendocinoFire.zyzzyva,no.100TOUTONGHI,PAULS

TheDiplomat’sWife.Epoch,vol.63,no.2TRUMP,DONNA

Seizure.Ploughshares,vol.40,no.1VALLIANATOS,CORINNA

ANeighboringState.NormalSchool,vol.7,issue2VANDENBERG,LAURA

Havana.Conjunctions,no.62VANREET,BRIAN

EattheSpoil.MissouriReview,vol.37,no.1VAPNYAR,LARA

VirtualGrave.VirginiaQuarterlyReview,vol.90,no.1VILLAREAL-MOURA,URSULA

IdiotsinSpain.newsouth,vol.7,issue2VOLLMER,MATTHEW

TheNewYou.SonoraReview,nos.64&65WATSON,BRAD

Eykelboom.TheNewYorker,November24WILLIAMS,JOY

TheCountry.TinHouse,vol.15,no.3WINK,CALLAN

Exotics.Granta,no.128YARBROUGH,STEVE

TheOrangeLine.SouthernReview,vol.50,no.1

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AmericanReader779RiversideDriveNewYork,NY10032$54.99,JacMullenAmericanShortFictionP.O.Box302678Austin,TX78703$25,RebeccaMarkovitsAmoskeagSouthernNewHampshireUniversity2500NorthRiverRoadManchester,NH03106$7,MichaelJ.BrienAntiochReviewAntiochUniversityP.O.Box148YellowSprings,OH45387$40,RobertS.FogertyApalacheeReviewP.O.Box10469Tallahassee,FL32302$15,MichaelTrammellAppalachianHeritagewww.appalachianheritage.submittable.com$30,JasonHowardAppleValleyReview88South3rdStreet,Suite336SanJose,CA95113Arcadia9616NicholsRoadOklahomaCity,OK73120$13,BenjaminReedArkansasReviewP.O.Box1890ArkansasStateUniversityStateUniversity,AR72467$20,JanelleCollinsArmchair/Shotgun

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AbouttheEditors

T.C.BOYLE,guesteditor,haspublishedfifteennovelsand tencollectionsofshortstories.HewonthePEN/FaulknerAwardin1988forhisnovelWorld’sEndandthePrixMedicisEtrangerforTheTortillaCurtain in1995,aswellas the2014HenryDavidThoreauPrizeforexcellence innaturewriting.HismostrecentbookisthenovelTheHarderTheyCome.

HEIDIPITLOR,serieseditor,isaformersenioreditoratHoughtonMifflinHarcourt.SheistheauthorofthenovelsTheBirthdaysandTheDaylightMarriage.