A Ship Made of Paper

[11]

They continued to walk, hoping to find a clearing, a way out.Once, most of this land was pasture, grazed by cattle, but it hadn’t seen a plow in over a hundred years and left to its own had become a wild place.They climbed yet another hill—this might have been steeper because they both had to hold on to trees to pull them-selves up, or else they were getting tired.

And once they had scaled it, all they could see was more trees—except on one

side, where there was a sharp drop-off, leading to what looked like a large pond filled with black water.

“We came from that direction,”Hampton said uncertainly.He was pointing

down the hill upon which they stood, and off to the left.The night was gathering quickly, the darkness was rushing in like water through the hull of a ship, cover-ing everything.

Kate has prevailed upon Daniel to take a day and a night away from home, together, and he cannot decently refuse her.They leave Ruby with Carl and Julia, and then head out oftown on County Road100A, a curving blacktop that winds its way past Leyden’s two surviving com-mercial dairy farms—sagging wire fences, Delft-blue silos, black-and-white Holstein cows—until it runs into aT-junction, at which they turn onto the road to Massachusetts, where Kate has booked them a room—

their old room, their first room—at a huge ramshackle hotel in Stock-bridge called the Sleeping Giant Inn.

On the drive, Kate reads to Daniel from the article she has just written about the O.J.Simpson case.As Kate reads, Daniel is silent, his jaw set, his eyes hooded—she has never seen him pay such fanatical attention to highway conditions, even the shadows ofthe wind-rocked hemlocks make him brake, he is continually readjusting his side and rearview mir-rors, changing the tilt ofthe steering wheel, checking the gas and tem-perature gauges, anything to escape her two thousand words on O.J.

Kate realizes that bringing up the case is not the best way to begin their Saturday getaway, but, perversely, she is unable to refrain.She isn’t about to pretend that she has the slightest sympathy for a man who so wantonly committed murder and who is now trying to buy his way out ofit.And she cannot help but feel that ifshe can only find the right fact, the right tone, the right line oflogic, then Daniel himself will snap out ofhis ridiculous spell and see, as everyone else she knows and respects sees, that O.J.is as guilty as the Boston Strangler, or Richard Speck, or any of the other monsters.

“What do you think?”she asks.They are just turning offtheTaconic, onto the road to Stockbridge, where there is an old roadside diner, with a neon sign showing a vast, noble Indian.

“Inadmissible,”he says.

”Probably,”Kate answers.“It’s for a magazine.You know? For people sitting under hair dryers.”Yet she cannot let his legal point stand un-questioned.“But why couldn’t such information be used in court? Itis relevant that he’s been violent in the past, it helps establish a pattern of solving domestic issues in a completely brutal manner.”No, this is not what she wants them to be talking about, but she can’t give up the search for the right words, the verbal alchemy that would bring him around.

Even as she drills through layer after layer ofmurk, she keeps her hopes up for the ultimate strike, that surging thrilling gusher ofepiphanous recognition.

“I think ifI were accused ofsome terrible crime,”Daniel says slowly, seemingly as reluctant as Kate to discuss this case,“a lawyer or a writer could probably find some old girlfriend who’d be willing to trash me.”

“Well, I certainly never would.No matter what anybody said, I would always think you were a good man.”

He glances at her and colors.It looks for a moment as ifhe might even cry, and Kate thinks to herself:Good.One for my side.

The early afternoon train from Leyden pulls into Penn Station, and Iris, who has slept most ofthe ride and who nevertheless can barely keep her eyes open, stands up unsteadily and pulls her black nylon travel bag down from the overhead rack.She has packed one change ofclothes, a night-gown, a plastic zippered bag full oftoiletries (including her diaphragm), and a couple ofthick, heavy books—what Hampton calls, in his Johnny Carson voice,“weighty tomes”—she has been meaning to read for thesis research purposes, and which take up more room than everything else she has brought with her to NewYork.She has settled into a kind offugue-state ofemotional neutrality, allowing the two hours’silence and the rhythmic rocking ofthe train to lull her into a strange, sad peacefulness.

She realizes this time in the city alone with Hampton may well require ofher a degree ofwatchfulness, a certain deftness ofemotional ma-neuvering.

The arrangement is that she will taxi down to the apartment, and Hampton—who is meant to play squash at the DowntownAthletic Club with a Jamaican rum bottler—will meet her there no more than halfan hour later.But as soon as Iris steps offthe train, she sees Hampton wait-ing for her on the platform, craning his long neck and trying to pick her out ofthe stream ofarriving passengers.She knows this is meant to pleasantly surprise her, but the sight ofhim makes her spirits plummet.

He looks like a teacher striding down the rows ofdesks, passing out the questions to a surprise quiz.

He sees her.He raises his hand to signal her and she sees that—horrors—he is holding a long-stemmed rose.He has undoubtedly bought it from one ofthe vendors right here in Penn Station, but nevertheless he waves the flower at her, to signal her that this Saturday in Manhattan is meant to be one ofhigh romance.

“What happened to your squash game?”Iris says, as Hampton kisses her cheek, takes her bag offher shoulder and hefts it onto his.

“I wanted to meet you,”he says.

This leaves the question about his squash game unanswered.It isn’t like Hampton to put personal life over business—actually, Iris has always likedthis aspect ofhim—and she suspects he is here on the warm, smoky, stinking-of-diesel-fuel platform because his game has been cancelled.

She lags behind him as they make their way out.There’s an escalator, but Hampton always chooses the stairs, for the sake offitness.She ad-mires his body as she walks behind him.He is wearing his Saturday at-tire:khaki pants, a white polo shirt under a dark-green cashmere sweater, brown loafers.Even his casual clothes are carefully chosen, crisply ironed, but ofcourse there are no casual occasions for Hampton, not at the dinner table, not in bed, and certainly not out in public.

“Everything okay up in the country?”he asks.“How’s Nellie?”

She doesn’t bother to answer.He doesn’t really expect an answer, he’s just recording the fact that he’s asked.Yet when they reach the main hall ofthe station, Hampton surprises her and repeats the question.

“Everything cool with Nellie?”

The simple, truthful answer would be:No.Nelson has been agitated, clingy, explosive, nagging, and oppositional.He has been putting Band-Aids on his hands and knees without any physical reason for doing so.He has been cruel to Scarecrow to the point where the usually patient and forgiving old dog will leave the room when she hears Nelson’s footsteps.

Every night since the storm—except when Hampton has been home—Nelson has come into her bed between midnight and two and slept there until he woke both himself and his mother by peeing his pajamas.And when she has whispered to him,“Nelson, get up, let’s change your pj’s,”

he has screamed at her like some crazed motorist on the freeway after a fender-bender.This morning, when she was backing her car out ofthe driveway, he was straining to break free ofIris’s sister, who had driven her sporty little green Mazda up from Baltimore two days earlier to spend a little time with Iris before the weekend, and to give Nelson time to get used to her.Whatever level oftrust and comfort he had reached seemed to be obliterated by the sight ofIris actually leaving:he was not only kicking and howling but he was also trying to sink his teeth into his aunt’s restraining hand.

“He’s okay,”Iris says.“He was nervous about my leaving, but he loves Carol, so that made it a little easier.”

“He’ll be fine,”Hampton says.He dislikes Carol, thinks ofher as promiscuous, brassy, silly, unread;he cannot bear her prattling on about her real estate business.She is unmarried, her days are full ofoffice tasks and her nights are full ofboyfriends.Yet he cannot say anything critical ofCarol, not now.It was, after all, his idea that he and Iris spend the weekend alone in the city together, and it was, he supposed, up to her to choose who would mind Nelson.

He knows that the energy is down between them right now and he has a pretty clear idea what the trouble is:she feels neglected, the ro-mance oftheir life together has been subsumed by dailiness, it’s an old story, even the men he sees in business, with whom he almost never has a personal conversation, hint that their own clever wives grumble about the lack ofattention being paid to them, even ifthe wives themselves are in business, making deals, returning calls through the night.And Iris feels isolated, maybe even abandoned up there in Leyden—it cannot help but add to the mix ofIris’s difficulties that she is swimming in a white sea.

And so, without exactly planning it that way, Hampton escorts her on a black tour ofManhattan:lunch at a black-owned, mostly black-frequented restaurant in the theater district, a place oflarge comfortable booths andArt Deco mirrors, where gorgeous black women in black pants and black silk shirts serve them crab cakes and collard greens, and after lunch a cab ride up near Harlem, where Hampton shows Iris a block ofderelict brownstones a developer is in the process ofsnapping up.The developer is looking for investors and he has come to Hampton to help him put together an offering statement, but what Hampton wants to know is ifIris thinks it might make sense for they themselves to put in one hundred thousand dollars, that way they could make a little money and do a little good, it’s always nice when the two can be com-bined.FromAmsterdamAvenue, they go to a newly opened Black Cul-ture Museum, which was inaugurated with some fanfare onAdam Clayton Powell Boulevard a month ago, and which turns out to be not much more than a storefront but has a nice exhibition ofnineteenth-century photographs.The place is filled with people whom one does not normally see in a museum—church ladies dressed like birds ofparadise in their vermilion, chartreuse, and salmon dresses, and wrinkled old men in baggy suits.

After, Iris and Hampton take a taxi all the way down to Jane Street, through crawling, seething, honking Saturday traffic.Hampton, to keep himself from staring at the taxi’s meter, and to make the most ofhis time with Iris, does something that is not exactly his style:he begins to kiss her, right there in the cab, with the Chinese driver undoubtedly spying on them.Iris has always been the one pushing them to be a little cozier with each other in public, the one sort ofthing that struck Hampton as exhibitionist, distasteful, and, frankly, unsafe—you never knew who would be triggered by the sight oftwoAfrican-Americans kissing.And now, when he is not exactly in the mood for public display but never-theless feeling that a little conjugal vulgarity might be just what the doc-tor ordered, he discovers that he has, alas, been successful in training Iris away from kissing in cabs:her lips barely respond to his, and when he presses them more forcefully against her, she gently shoves him away and looks at him as ifhe were a naughty little boy, or a fool.“I feel a little sick from that lunch,”she says apologetically.“I think the crab might have been a little off.”And then, as ifshe were systematically obliterating the day, like someone knocking the heads offflowers with a walking stick, she says,“I don’t think we should be investing in those apartment houses, Hampton, I really don’t.I think they’re depressing, and all those devel-

opers are going to do is make them suitable for some gullible buppies and I don’t want to be a part ofthat.”

Back at the apartment, Iris looks at the eastern sky;a few clouds are tinged with the reflected red glow ofthe setting sun.The windows ofthe Sheridan Square buildings and, further east, FifthAvenue, blaze irides-cent orange.Below, the cars are suddenly turning on their headlights, the light streaming from them as cool as the moon.Hampton is in the bath-room and has been for several minutes.He has never gone into a bath-room without taking an inordinate amount oftime.She has never asked him what takes him so long, she doesn’t know and has never wanted to know.Maybe he has some disorder he is keeping secret from her.Maybe he just needs to be by himself for fifteen minutes a few times a day.Right now, she is glad for the privacy;she cannot shake that sense ofbeing un-prepared for an examination, or perhaps a cross-examination.

She sees Hampton’s reflection in the window, coming at her, superimposed over the skyline, floating like a ghost.He has taken offhis sweater and hisT-shirt and, unless she is mistaken, he seems to be shim-mying toward her, in a kind ofCalypso rhythm.Iris understands that Hampton, when he needs her, feels vulnerable and somehow trapped be-neath the ice ofhis dignity.Often, he will cover his own desire with a protective irony.She has in the past found it endearing, but now his lit-tle dance seems ludicrous, and a little demeaning.He visits the pleasures ofher body like a tourist who behaves on vacation in a way he never would dream ofat home.And like the tourist who raves about the island hospitality, there is, in Hampton’s adoration ofher, a bit ofcolonial con-descension.She is his refuge from the hard realities oflife.He has de-cided that she is more natural than he, more in tune with the primordial—motherhood, cooking, listening, fellatio, that sort ofthing.

She goes to bed with him;to refuse him this afternoon would be unwise, unthinkable.She feels he is trying to impress her, to renew his claim on her, and, even as it breaks her heart and makes her feel she is the most unfaithful, unworthy woman who ever drew breath, all ofHampton’s exertions cannot dislodge her mind from its secret orbit around her memories ofDaniel.

Each ofHampton’s kisses is not only what it is but what it is not.

She puts one hand on Hampton’s chest, grabs his hip with the other.

She shrinks back from him until he is dislodged and then she turns over, presses her forehead to the mattress, puts her arms out over her head, raises up on her knees.He is covered in perspiration.He is behind her, she is beginning to pick up his personal scent making its way through the layers ofIrish soap and Italian cologne.He is saying her name, low, gut-tural.Then there is a moment’s silence as he aligns himself with her and then she feels him going back into her.She squeezes herselfaway from him, grabs his cock, and then, rocking back, presses the head ofit against her anus.She is relatively dry, but he is slick, oily.His breath catches when he realizes what she is proposing.

“Are you sure?”he whispers.

”Yes.Do it.Just do it.”

He sprawls across her, his weight is crushing.He opens the drawer of his night table and takes out a jar ofsome sort ofcoconut-scented cream.

Her eyes are closed now, she doesn’t want to get involved in the practi-calities.She hears the plastic whisper ofthe lid being unscrewed, and then hears Hampton’s suddenly belabored, overly excited breathing.He scoops some ofthe cream up and then throws the jar onto the floor.He slaps the cream onto her, gruffand impersonal.She can feel the warmth ofhis fingers behind the slimy chill ofthe cream.And then he is astride her again.Whenever they have done this she has imagined her mother walking in.He is finished in moments.

He falls to his side ofthe bed, covers his eyes with his forearm.

”Did I hurt you?”he whispers, not looking at her.

”No.A little.I’m fine.”She is wondering what she will say when he asks her ifshe wants to come, too.But he is not his usual obliging self.

“I feel afraid oflosing you, Iris.”

She is silent.The room has gotten suddenly darker, colder.She scrambles to get under the covers.The weight ofHampton’s body presses the sheet and blankets down on her.

“Should I be?”he asks.He raises himself up on his elbows, looks at her through the corners ofhis eyes.She feels his keen, predatory intelligence.

He ought to have been a lawyer, he loves to come after you with ques-tions.“Is there any reason I should feel as worried as I do?”

“What are you asking me, Hampton?”she manages to say.She has history on her side;he has been suspicious and jealous for the entirety of their marriage, and even before.“Is this why you asked me to come to the city?To ask me thesequestions?”

He is silent.She can feel him retreating, but it doesn’t feel like he’s going veryfar.

The Sleeping Giant is a huge white clapboard hotel, with shuttered win-dows and rickety iron fire escapes.The first time they arrived, just a few weeks into their relationship, it was on one ofthose dark-blue autumn evenings, when the last ofthe sunset outlines every hill.But today, the sky is cement, there will be no sunset, and their original room, which Kate has requested, is not as they remember it.Daniel and Kate stand there, looking at the four-poster bed, which looks noisy and uncomfort-able, and which takes up more than halfthe room’s space, and at the lit-tle secretary desk, and the grim little GE television set on a metal rolling table, and the beige wallpaper with its pattern ofoverly vivid, practically rapacious peonies.Daniel sees the disappointment on Kate’s face.“I think there’s something sort ofnice about this room,”he says.

“It’s changed,”says Kate.

”Well, we’ve all changed.The room’s probably having a hard time recognizingus.”

She feels the generosity ofwhat he is saying and for a moment it draws her to him, but quickly it crosses her mind:he canaffordto be gen-erous, he is that happy, that full oflife.

Now, at the Sleeping Giant, they leave their room, first for the main desk, where Kate uses the fax machine to send her article in to Lorraine, and then on to the Dragon’s Lair, one ofthe hotel’s two bars.It’s a dark room, with old scarred tables and poster-sized photos oftheThree Stooges on the wall.The free happy-hour snacks have a contemporary flair—little chunks ofsesame chicken and fried plantain simmer in the aluminum warming trays—and the music is supplied by a heavy, open-faced young man in a turtleneck sweater singing songs by U2and REM and accompanying himself on the guitar.

“Sit, sit,”Kate says, pointing Daniel toward an empty table.“I’ll get us some drinks.What do you want?A Heineken?”She barely waits for an an-swer.As she hurries toward the bar, she calls to him over her shoulder,“Score us some apps.”She cringes at the sound ofher voice—she sounds to herself like some office flirt.Still, she is glad she is the one talking to the bartender; she doesn’t want Daniel involved in how much she will be drinking.

TheTV above the bar is tuned to a Saturday afternoon football game being played in Florida.The male cheerleaders are tossing the women high into the dark-blue air.The bartender is a man in his sixties, tall and stately, with delicate broken veins in his hollow cheeks and thick author-itative eyebrows.He looks like a New England Protestant patriarch, he should be a county judge, and Kate wonders what wrong turns have brought him to this place, standing behind a noisy bar wearing a red cut-away jacket and a black bow tie.

“I’d like a largeTanqueray martini, no olives, no ice, very dry, and a Heineken,”Kate says.

The bartender narrows his vaporous blue eyes, while his trembling hands, dappled like the hide ofa fawn, worry the silver tops ofthe mix-ers slotted into the inside ofthe bar.“I’m going to have to see some sort ofID,”he says pleasantly.

“Are you serious?”

“A driver’s license, preferably.”

“You’re making my day.”She waits, but the bartender doesn’t move.

“What’s the drinking age in Massachusetts?”she asks.“Forty?”

When Kate gets back to the table, she finds Daniel has struck up a conversation with a couple at an adjoining table.The man, who appears to be about fifty, wears a heavy blue fisherman’s sweater;his short hair is the color ofpewter, and his skin is richly, intensely black.The woman with him, who, as Kate approaches, has reared her head to let out peals ofshrill laughter, is young and white.She wears a short, spangled skirt that Kate thinks would be risky even for a woman with long, slim legs.

Kate simply cannot help thinking this, that the black man might very well be blinded by the woman’s whiteness as well as her youth, and has not yet noticed her stockiness.

“Kate!”Daniel says, with an odd excess ofenthusiasm, the way men do when they’ve been caught at something and are trying to pretend everything is just great.

Kate sits and Daniel makes the introductions.The man’s name is Erick Ayinde;his accent is a mixture ofBritish and something else far more ex-otic, which Kate guesses isAfrican.The woman’s name is Christine Kirk; she speaks softly, carefully, as ifin vigilance against her real voice.

“Erick’s a private detective,”Daniel announces.

”Really,”says Kate.“Imagine.”

“Daniel tells us you’re a writer,”Erick says.

”I wish I had more time to read,”Christine says.“I love books.Do you think you might have written something I’ve read?”

“I’m not sure,”Kate says.“Tell me what you’ve read.”

Daniel has heard this reply before and knows he must laugh to cover the aggression ofit.

“And what about you, Christine?”Kate says.She takes a long drink ofher martini.Too muchvermouth, it tastes slimy.“Are you a detec-tive, too?”

“Yes, I am, an investigator,”Christine says, with a small, satisfied smile.She knows she has been underestimated.“Erick and I were in busi-ness together, but it gotwaytoo incestuous.”

“What kind ofdetective work do you mostly do?”Kate asks.

“Matrimonial?”

“Not so much ofthat,”Christine says.

”Mostly business and industrial,”Erick says.

”And missing persons,”says Christine.“Which I prefer.”

“Do you mind ifI ask you something a little on the personal side,”

Daniel suddenly says.

“The personal side is our bread and butter,”Erick says, smiling.He tilts back in his chair, drapes his arm around Christine.

“I take it you two are married?”

“Correct,”says Erick.

”Do you get a lot ofhassle, being an interracial couple?”

Kate cannot believe he has asked this question.It is not so much its considerable impertinence, but that it reveals what is really on Daniel’s mind.

“Do you want to handle this?”Erick says to Christine.

”No, it’s okay.You go ahead.”

“Well, first ofall, thank you for your question.Actually, Chrissy and I wonder why more people don’t ask us about this.Even our friends fail to ask us what it feels like to be going through this experience.”

Here, Christine interrupts.“Short answer? It’s extremely trying.

We’re always being looked at.”

“Or pointedly ignored,”adds Erick.“We live in Beacon Hill, in an upscale neighborhood.So, in a way, we’re sheltered from some ofthe more virulent forms ofracism.We live in a cocoon.Where we shop, where we eat, it’s not a problem.”

“I see things Erick doesn’t,”Christine says.“I see it in their eyes.”

“I can live with what’s in their eyes,”says Erick.

This is a fucking nightmare,Kate thinks.Our evening is being hijacked by

these people.And I have to sit here while Daniel fantasizes about Iris by proxy.

“But how does it affect your relationship?”Daniel asks.He has always had this earnest wide-eyed aspect to his personality, but it has never seemed so infantile and jejune to Kate before.She feels like dragging him from the bar by his hair.“It seems to me that it would either tear you apart or cement you together.”

“Oh, we circle the wagons, ifthat’s what you mean,”says Erick.“No question but that sharing the antipathy ofsmall-minded people bonds us.

But that’s not our marriage’s source ofstrength.”

“Then what is?”asks Daniel.

His behavior reminds Kate ofsomething her English publisher once said aboutAmericans, how they can say more to a stranger on an airplane than an Englishman generally says to his closest friend.

“Well, what binds us is what people said would drive us apart—our differences,”Erick says.“The terrible trap married people fall into is be-lieving that their spouse is actually a version ofthemselves, and that they will act as they act, want what they want, believe what they believe.

When the spouse fails to do this, when, let’s say for argument’s sake, the husband acts in some contrary way, the wife cannot help herselffrom be-lieving he is doing so just to annoy her, or out ofdisrespect, whereas he may very well be acting in accordance with how he was raised, his own particular psychological dynamic, but she can’t see this clearly because she feels that fundamentally they are the same, two sides ofthe same coin, as much brother and sister as husband and wife.”

Kate looks in wonder at Daniel, who is rapt, as ifthis blowhard were some sort offucking oracle.She casts wildly about in her mind, trying to come up with a gesture or phrase that could instantly extricate them, move them on to dinner or, better yet, back up to their room, their dear, old, immemorial room, where, Kate thinks, they can screw their way back into each other’s good graces.

“But with Chrissy and me,”Erick continues,“our differences are obvious and undeniable.I was born in Nairobi, educated inWales and Mon-treal, and then PaloAlto, and she comes fromWorcester, Massachusetts, her father was a policeman;and we bear this in mind, all ofit, the whole curious burden ofhistory.Our life together is a constant struggle to un-derstand.We have no assumptions, and few expectations.It’s a journey, do you see?”

“I do,”says Daniel.“I see what you mean.”

“How’d you two happen to meet?”Kate asks.“I’m curious.”

“Erick was one ofmy professors at Boston College,”Christine says.

“‘Controversies inTwentieth-Century Criminology.’”

Kate smiles.“Really,”she says,“I thought universities sort offrowned on things like that.”

“Kate!”Daniel says, admonishing her, but in a somehow teasing way, as ifshe were merely being irascible and eccentric.

IfErick and Christine feel insulted by Kate’s remark, they nevertheless remain serene.“How about you?”Erick asks.“How did you two hap-pen to meet?”

Kate notices a familiar face on theTV above the bar—it’s a flushed, balding, stocky man who looks like a sinister presence in a German Ex-pressionist painting.His name is Otto Fisher and he is one ofthe net-works’main correspondents at the Simpson trial.What’s he doing onTV on a Saturday?

“Shhh,”Kate says to Daniel, Erick, and Christine.They look at theTV and Christine lets out a little groan ofdispleasure.“Bartender?”Kate calls out.“Would you turn the volume up? Please.”

Otto Fisher is standing in front ofthe courthouse in LosAngeles, looking hot and displaced in his dark suit with the bright-blue sky behind him.He has gotten word that one ofthe lawyers defending Simpson is threatening to quit the so-called DreamTeam because he is objecting to the strategy ofplaying the so-called Race Card.The lawyer is quoted as saying,“As this trial has proceeded, it has become more and more about politics—especially the politics ofrace—and less and less about the let-ter ofthe law.I believe in Mr.Simpson’s innocence, but I also believe in the law…”

“That motherfucker,”Kate says, shaking her head.“He believes in the law like he believes in the tooth fairy.”She picks up her martini, discovers it empty.“He spends months helping to drag prosecution witnesses through the slime, and then suddenly he’s too delicate to stay on the case?”

“I’ve never seen such a fuss made over a trial in all my life,”Erick says.

”That glorified ambulance chaser is leaving because he knows O.J.’s going to be found guilty,”says Kate.“Mark my words.He’s covering his own fat ass.And he hates the new DNA guy, there’s total conflict be-tween them.”

“You seem to know a great deal about the personalities involved,”

Erick says.

“Oh, forget it.I’m totally addicted to this trial.”

“I wonder why.”

“You wonder why?”Kate says.“The man killed his wife.”

“Probably, but who knows?”

“He killed his wife.”

“Well, surely he’s not the first man in history to commit such a crime.Why all the attention this time?”Erick says.

“Yes, I wonder,”says Christine.

”That’s ridiculous,”says Kate.“He’s rich, he’s famous, he’s greatlooking, and he killed his wife.Why wouldn’t the world pay attention?”

“You don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that he’s a man of color married to a white woman?”asks Erick.

“You know,”Kate says,“ifmen ofcolor murder their white wives, it’s still against the law.”

Erick is about to say something but stops himself and instead emits a breathy, contemptuous laugh.

“What about you, Daniel?”Christine asks.“Didn’t you say you were a lawyer?”

“I’m glad I’m not on the jury,”Daniel says.“I find myselfthinking one thing one day and another the next.I was a huge fan ofO.J.’s when he was playing ball.”

“No, you weren’t,”says Kate.This is mutiny, out-and-out betrayal.

Daniel seems to her to be actually making things up.“You don’t give a shit about sports.”

Erick places a twenty-dollar bill on his check and then stands up so abruptly he almost tips his table over.“I think it’s time for dinner, Chrissy,”he says in a tight, enraged voice.He makes a brisk Prussian nod in Daniel’s direction and says,“Good evening, Daniel.”

Daniel starts to stand up, but Erick gestures for him to remain seated.Christine gathers her purse and her angora shawl and in a few moments the two ofthem are gone.

“My God,”Daniel says, shaking his head.He is visibly upset.“How did that happen?”

“I will quote Czeslaw Milosz,”Kate says.“‘In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy ofsilence, one word oftruth sounds like a pistol shot.’”

“Is that what that was?The overwhelming sound oftruth?”

His eyes look reptilian and blank as he says this, and Kate thinks,I

have my work cut out for me.

They leave the bar with the vague thought ofgoing on to dinner, not because either ofthem is hungry but because it is dark now and it just seems time.As they make their way toward the dining room, Kate takes Daniel’s arm and says, in a kind ofhaunted-house scared voice,“What if they’rehaving dinner now, too?”What she hopes for is that Daniel will shudder, too, and they’ll be bonded by their wish to see no more ofEr-ick and Christine, and that, further along, the story ofthe old black de-tective and his dumpy young white wife will become a part oftheir own lovers’folklore, taking its place in that shared history ofmishaps and faux pas that constitute the fabric ofall enduring relationships.

But Daniel is not amused.He stops short and then says,“You’re right, we can’t go in there.So?What do you propose?”

What she proposes is they go back to their room.“It’s too early to eat,”she says.“In the old days we never had dinner before nine o’clock, sometimes we’d eat at midnight.”

“That was in NewYork.Ifwe wait too long out here, we’re going to end up with a bag ofchips from some Seven-Eleven.”

“Well, at least let’s wait until nine, or even eight-thirty.”She wants to get him into their room.It’s time for her to be abject, it’s time for her to worship him, to go through all the phallocentric rituals.She tugs at him, she hopes it feels playful to him but she wonders ifperhaps she’s pulling a little too hard.Everything’s a notch or two off, he’s really mak-ing her work for this, he’s putting her through the mill, and once she wins him back he will have to be punished for this, not severely, not even so he will know he is being punished, but he will suffer nevertheless.As God is my witness, I will never be humble again.

Room301.Now that they are back in their old room, it occurs to Kate that this four-poster bed with its dourYankee spread and foam rub-ber pillows is hardly a monument to ecstasy.That first night together had been awkward, tense, a bit ofa botch.We accomplished it but we weren’t very accomplishedis how she described it to a friend.There’s a lot to be said for establishing a friendship before sex, there’s a sweetness to it and even a possible synergy, but in their particular case all ofthose hours ofcon-versation and chastity were not so much a prelude to sex as an alterna-tive.She and Daniel had already established routines that had nothing to do with sex, they had learned to be relaxed with each other, they had de-veloped a sense ofsafety, and as wonderful as those things were, they had very little to do with the fierceness and desire, the mindlessness and abandon oferotic joy.Their friendship cast a pall over their lovemaking.

The friendship needed not only to be overcome but jeopardized, re-nounced.

“Remember our first night here?”Kate says, sitting on the edge ofthe bed, patting the mattress and inviting him to join her.“We were so shy.”

“Yes,”Daniel says.“I remember it well.”His back is to her, he is standing at the window, looking out at the town’s main street.A truck is go-ing by, the sound ofits grinding gears like the roar ofa lion.Workmen have set up ladders and they are braiding Christmas lights around the poles ofthe streetlights and through the branches ofthe maple trees.

“Don’t you want to sit next to me?”Kate says.She means for this to sound teasing, and that slightly pleading tone ofvoice is meant as a kind ofsend-up ofthe whole notion ofa woman trying to get a man’s atten-tion, but the satire is leaden.It’s too true to be amusing.

“You were really weird with the people down there,”Daniel says.

”I know, it’s fine.They’re offsomewhere circling the wagons.”

“I don’t know why you did that,”Daniel says, shaking his head.

”Why were you so interested in them?”Kate asks.She can’t help her-

self, the self-righteousness in his voice offends her.“Because they’re an interracialcouple?”

“My God, listen to you,”Daniel says.The dull sheen seems to be lifting from his eyes, he is coming alive suddenly.“You really have a prob-lem with it.You feeling a little racist in your old age?”

“My old age? How fucking dare you.”

“You see?You’re more worried about your age than you are about being called racist.”

“Well, my dear, the fact is that Iamgetting older, so I’m sensitive to it.And the fact also is that I amnotracist, so I’m not sensitive to that.

Okay?”

“You’re obsessed with the Simpson case, and the Star ofBethlehemkids—”

“Those black delinquents were in our house and it seems like you’re ontheirside.”

“I’m not on their side.But the fact is, halfthe kids in that place are locked up because they’re black.You know it, I know it, everybody knows it.”

“They were in our house,”says Kate, her voice rising.“How did I know what they were going to do?They could have easily killed me, or raped me, or both.I was alone, I was completely alone.”She is standing now.She walks toward Daniel, stops.They are facing each other, less than a foot apart.“While you were all cozy and warm at Iris Davenport’s house.”

“I know, I know,”says Daniel softly.“It must have been frightening.

I’m sorry.”

“What was really going on at that house, Daniel?”Kate says.She reaches for him, but he moves away.

“Let’s not do this, Kate.”

“It’s too late for that, Daniel.I want to know what was really going on in that house.”

“We were snowed in, just like everybody else.”

“I know you were snowed in.That’s not what I’m asking.”

Daniel shrugs, as ifunable to imagine what more she could want.

”What I’m asking is did you sleep with her?”As soon as the words are out, she regrets them.And in the ensuing silence she casts frantically about for some way to turn this conversation around, or off.Is it pos-sible to simply throw her arms around him and say,Never mind, I don’t wanttoknow? It seems she could go for decades not knowing, but ifthe knowledge is there it will pierce her, it will shoot its poison into her, and then she will have to save herselffrom it.

“Well?”she says.“You’re very quiet.”

He backs up a little, he seems to be shaking.He seems to have an appetite but no talent for treachery.“What do you want me to say, Kate? I don’t know what to do here.”

“What kind ofquestion is that?You want my fucking guidance, for Christ’s sake? Just tell me, get it over with.Did you sleep with her?”

“Yes.I’m sorry.I did.”

For a moment, she doesn’t believe him.He’s just throwing it in her face, giving her a taste ofwhat it would be like, trying to shock her into shutting up.And then the moment passes, and she still does not believe him, yet at the same time, she knew it all along.

“Did you really?”she says, sitting on the bed again.

”I’m sorry, Kate.It kills me to think ofhurting you.”

Kate laughs, but she can see by his expression that laughter, or any other sign ofinstability, will be playing right into his hand.He would like nothing more than to withdraw into the relative safety ofdeciding she’s a little crazy right now.

“I think we should leave,”he says.

”Really?Any place in particular? Do you have a hot date or something?”

“No,”he says quietly.

”Do you mind ifI ask you a question?”she asks.“Would that be all right?”

He shrugs.His eyes are suddenly bright red, as ifthe sight ofher is like knives going into them.

“Are you in love with her?”

He is trying to say something, but his lips are trembling, he will not allow himself to cry, he will not try to elicit her sympathy.He nods his head.

“Is that a yes I see?”The handle toward my hand.Come let me clutch thee.

He covers his face.It seems suddenly important to Kate, a matter of life and death, that he not do that.She springs from the bed, grabs his hands, and pulls them down.His face is soaked with self-pity.

“Get out ofhere!”she screams.“Just get out ofhere!”

He backs away, gives her a wary look, somehow implying that the problem between them is her mental health.He seems to like the idea of just getting out ofthere.His hand is on the door, but he keeps his eyes on her, as ifshe might attack him.Is he going to take the car? Drive back to Leyden, go right to Iris’s house?I told her, she knows,he’ll say.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.You said…”

“No, don’t go.We’re going to work this out, okay?”

“Kate.”

“Get another room, but you’re not leaving me here.You can sleep in another room, you can dream ofyour little sweetheart in peace.But you’re not taking the car and abandoning me.We’re going to work this out in the morning, or whenever.But I’m not letting you do this, you understand me?You’re not doing this to Ruby, or to yourself, or me.”

“Kate, I think we just have to move on.”

“Move on?What kind oftalk is that? Move on.What are we? Cowboys?You get another room and we’ll talk in the morning.”

He stands there.He is silent.He closes his eyes.Is this an act ofcontrition, or is he weighing his options?

“All right,”he says.

Her heart floods with relief.His agreeing to get another room gives her a sense ofdirection and triumph.She has come up with a plan and he has agreed to it.She stands there as he goes to their overnight bag and takes out what he needs.

And then he does something intolerable.He flips his toiletries kit up in the air—a light-brown leather bag that she gave him a couple ofbirth-days ago—and catches it.She feels the blood in her face.Her muscles tighten so swiftly it feels like she’s growing taller.

“Call Ruby,”she says, as he is about to let himself out.“Let her know what you think is important.”

Their eyes meet, and she feels what she believes to be the miracle of her own strength, her own survival.Thoughts come to her like the drip ofanesthetic.He has not destroyed her, and he has not destroyedthem.

The bomb has exploded but the hole is not big enough for him to crawl through.And just look at him, he knows it, too, he’s not going anywhere.

Let him have this night, let him weep and tear out his hair.Tomorrow in the cool morning she will appear freshly bathed and combed, she will be wearing faded jeans and a black cashmere sweater, a little bit ofmakeup, theArts and Leisure and the Book Review sections ofthe Sunday paper tucked under her arm, the car keys in her hand, and a bag full ofbreak-fast goodies for the road.Then, once they are rolling, she will say the words that will end this insanity:she will forgive him.

Carol Davenport has spent the past two hours reading to her nephew, who lay in his little bed, staring up at her with his dark obdurate eyes—even as he yawned, he refused to close them.After going through a dozen ofNelson’s books, Carol was feeling frantic with boredom and exhaus-tion.Ifshe had to keep reading to put the kid to sleep, she could not bear to read any more about headstrong bunnies and brave little toasters, so she read to him from the novel she herselfwas reading—a Barbara King-solver book chosen by her reading group back home in Baltimore—and that, in fact, did the trick.Now, she stands in the darkened second-story hall ofher sister’s house, listening anxiously for any signs ofwakefulness from Nelson’s room.

Hearing none, she goes downstairs, wondering ifshe is tired enough herselfto go to bed.She has forgotten her book back in Nelson’s room, but she doesn’t dare risk waking him by going back to retrieve it.She sits on the sofa, picks theTV remote control up offthe coffee table.Sud-denly, the phone rings and she lunges for it, afraid that the high elec-tronic twitter ofit will awaken Nelson, who has been so stubborn and confrontational and whom she fears she will throttle ifhe says another word to her before morning.

“Hello?”she whispers into the phone.

”Oh, thank God it’s you,”a man’s voice says on the other end.“I know you can’t talk.Can you?Are you alone?”

Carol is so startled by the urgency—and the whiteness—ofthis voice that she is momentarily speechless.She feels exposed, out there in the middle ofnowhere, with only white people, whites in cars, whites in their houses, whites in the police station and the hospital, she feels fan-tastically and perilously alone.

“I told Kate, she knows,”the man says.“I just wanted you to know.

And this too, this too.I love you.When can I see you?”

Carol summons her courage.She grips the phone tightly and brings it close to her mouth, so that this man can feel the heat ofher scorn.

”Who the fuck is this?”she says.