A Ship Made of Paper

[17]

Daniel is learning how to live with one sighted eye, learning to cope with the peculiar flatness ofthe world, the odd augmentation of sound, the unnerving momentary losses ofbalance, the trepidation be-fore stairways, the sense ofplunging while merely stepping offa curb, and he is even learning to live with the pervasive feeling that there is something or someone just behind him, or just to the side ofhim, a threatening presence that is out ofrange ofhis reduced arc ofvision, and that this peripheral, punishing phantom is about to pounce, grab, push, stab, or shoot him.What he is still having particular trouble with is keep-ing the secret ofhis sudden infirmity.He wants to talk about it, he wants help, he wants a little credit for how well he’s coping;concealment is against his nature, and now he must add the arrival ofthis partial blind-ness to his stockpile ofsecrets.

Finally, however, Daniel submits to a series oftests, under the aegis of Bruce McFadden.First, Bruce conducts his own examinations, and then, finding nothing amiss, he sends Daniel toWindsor Imaging, for an MRI and then a CAT scan, and when all the results are in he sits with Daniel in his office to go over them.Among the other decorations in McFadden’s office—and it’s an eccentric old space, filled with angles and oddities—are framed black-and-white photographs ofsome ofhis favorite blind musicians:Ray Charles, StevieWonder, Roland Kirk, Al Hibler, Ivory Joe Hunter, BlindWillie McTell, the Five Blind Boys ofMississippiandthe Five Blind Boys ofAlabama, together in the same photo, which makes it an artifact ofunusual distinction, and the English jazz pianist George Shearing, the one white face in the lot.

“It’s the old joke,”Bruce says, tilted back in his Swedish orthopedic chair, with its childishly bright-blue upholstery and its brilliant chrome hardware,“the one that goes,‘I’ve got good news and bad news.’”His feet are on the desk, he has knit his fingers behind his neck.“But the good news is good enough, maybe you won’t even care about the bad.There’s nothing wrong with your eye, Daniel.The retina, the cornea, the optic nerve, everything’s shipshape.In fact, you’ve got the ocular vigor ofa teenager.You don’t even need glasses.”

“Except that I can’t see,”Daniel says.

”Yes, well, that’s the bad news,”Bruce says.“We’re going to have to explore the possibility that the origin ofyour difficulty is not physical.”

“Meaning?”Daniel asks, though an instant later the question answers itself.

“Your eye is fine.Your vision will most likely come back.After your life—”

“You think mylifehas made me blind?”

“I don’t know what’s made you blind, Daniel.All I can tell you is what the tests say.And they all say your eye is healthy.”

Daniel falls silent.He hears a sound, turns toward it.The branch ofa maple tree, its leaves large as hands, blows in the breeze, scraping against the outside ofthe window.

“Guilt’s a bitch,”Bruce says.He sits forward, folds his hands, he’s coming to the end ofthe time allotted.

“I don’t feel guilty.How could I? I’ve turned a blind eye to everything.”

Bruce smiles, he looks relieved.“It may turn out to be as simple as that,”he says.

“I’mjoking,Bruce.”Daniel’s chin juts forward, he widens his eyes.“Jesus.”

“I feel sorry for you, Daniel.I really do.You’re under a lot ofpressure.”

Daniel tries to smile, but then, failing that, he tries to compose himself into a sort ofmanly grimace, but even that will not hold.He feels his lips quiver and he feels the surge oftears.He takes a deep breath, covers his eyes.There are certain things he has not been able to say, not even to Iris.She, into whose consciousness he has wanted to pour himself since first meeting her, she turns out to be perhaps the last per-son to whom he can reveal the remorse he feels over Hampton, over Ruby, over Kate.She already has a broken man in her life.Every step he has taken into the light ofIris’s love seems to have ushered him along on an equal journey into, ifnot the heart ofdarkness, then, at least, the darkness ofthe heart.It is not what he had expected.What happened to the world opening wide, what happened to joy? How could the achieve-ment ofall that he has desired cast him into such withering isolation?

“I don’t think this needs to be said, Daniel,”Bruce says.“But nobody blames you.You realize that, don’t you?”

Daniel reaches across the desk and clasps Bruce’s hand.“Oh my God,”he says.“I can see! I can see!”

For a moment, Bruce looks confused, as ifhe is about to believe some kind ofmiracle has occurred.But then, he regains his composure.“Very funny,”he says.“Ha ha ha.”

Even with the appalling evidence ofHampton’s ruination an inch or two from her face, the reality ofwhat has befallen him, her, all ofthem, remains elusive to Iris.The waking dream ofeveryday life obscures his injury, there is so much else to do, so many people, so much work—dishes to be washed, clothes to be folded, tunes hummed, a minute goes by, ten, and the space in her mind labeled“Hampton”will, without her governance, be silently, unconsciously occupied by the familiar man to whom she once swore allegiance and then betrayed, that infuriating, belittling presence.

And the parade ofpeople who march in and out ofher house.It’s like Memorial Day.Here come the fire trucks, here comes the Little League, here come the Elks.Iris has kept a journal, meant at first to be a recepta-cle for her pain, for the remorse, the guilt she must share for what has happened to Hampton, and a place to map and describe the dark sea ofsex and happiness in which she is sometimes swimming, sometimes sailing, and sometimes sinking—but little ofthat ever makes it into the diary.It is crowded out, eclipsed, and then obliterated by a constantly expanding cast ofcharacters, the people who come in and out ofthe life ofthe house.

There are the doctors, the nurses, the medical technicians, all with names, all with stories, one has a limp, one is diabetic, one lost three fin-gers to frostbite in the peacetime PolishArmy, one smokes clove ciga-rettes, one is a Sufi, one sang backup for PaulaAbdul, each and every one ofthem stakes a separate claim on her attention.

And then:family.There are pages and pages in her journal about the comings and goings ofher family, and Hampton’s family.They have all risen to the occasion.Iris’s sister Carol is a constant presence.Ofthe first ninety days ofHampton’s convalescence—though that perhaps is the wrong word for it, convalescence implies a process, an end point, and Hampton’s global aphasia is permanent—Carol was living with them more than halfthe time.But not counting Carol, the first to arrive was Hampton’s mother, who descended into the hell ofJuniper Street in her dark-blue suit and wavy silver hair, wearing orange lipstick and a large diamond ring, and seemed to think that ifshe taught Hampton to speak once she can do it again.Then came Hampton’s brother James, who for all his hippy ways, his bewildering openness to spiritual margi-nalia, could do nothing useful;he sobbed and wailed, in a frenzy until fi-nally it fell to Iris to comfort him.Then arrived Hampton’s oldest brother, Jordan, a Congregationalist minister in Bethesda, gaunt, wid-owed, and remote, who, when Iris asked ifhe was going to pray over Hampton, looked at her as ifshe had asked ifhe handled snakes or rolled on the floor speaking in tongues.Next came her two favorite brothers, Louis and Raymond, in business together back home, getting rich selling BMWs (LouRay Motors) and speculating in real estate (Davenport De-velopment, Inc.).Then her father arrived, a month after the accident, as ifwaiting for the smoke to clear so he could set matters straight, strolling into the ruination likeYojimbo, somehow carrying with him the medical authority ofthe entire Richmond Memorial Hospital, where he had been head ofFood Services for thirty-eight years.Then Hampton’s old friends, the Morrison-Rosemonts, up fromAtlanta, and then more brothers, more sisters, his parents again, her parents again.She is run-ning a bed-and-breakfast for the genuinely concerned, throwing in lunch and dinner, too.All ofthem have different ideas, different needs, differ-ent dietary requirements.Some are helpful, some are pains in the ass, and all ofthem, each and every one ofthem, wants, finally, to know the same thing:Who has done this thing to Hampton?

“Oh, the man I love, the man I will sneak out ofhere to see as soon as the coast is clear, as soon as I hear you snoring behind the guest room door,”is what Iris does not say.“A friend ofmine named Daniel, it was an accident,”she also doesn’t say.“Ifyou need someone to blame, then blame me,”is likewise on the list ofunuttered things.But she can’t re-main silent, she can’t refuse to answer their very reasonable question, she cannot drum her fingers on the side ofher head and say“Da da da.”And so she tells the story again and again, drawing it out so it can seem she is not stinting on the details, beginning with the party at Eight Chimneys, the trouble between the Richmonds, the disappearance ofMarieThorne, the storm-wrecked woods, the flares, and on and on, and no matter which way she spins it the end is always the same—her silence mixes with the silence ofher listener, and the two silences combine in the air and create a kind ofHoly Ghost ofthe Unspoken, and that spirit looks down upon them and whispers:a white man did this to him.

It’s late at night, one day or another, Wednesday, Thursday, it doesn’t re-ally matter anymore.Daniel has fallen asleep in front oftheTV set, with his hands folded in his lap and his feet up on the coffee table.It is a shabby threadbare sort ofsleep, mixed in with the sounds ofthe movie he has been watching—The Guns of Navarone—as well as the still unfamiliar ru-minations ofhis house.His dream life is thin and discontinuous, just im-ages, moments, nothing quite memorable, it’s like reading the spines of the books in a vast secondhand shop.Here he is decanting a bottle ofred wine, trying to push a mower through wet grass, being driven to court byAnthony Quinn, and then Ruby appears, she looks overheated, as if she’s been running, she opens her mouth and instead ofwords or any hu-man sound there comes the chime ofa doorbell,dingdong dingdong…

Daniel awakens, his heart racing.He tries to get up but his legs are gran-ite.He grabs his trousers, pulls one leg offthe table and then the other, it feels as ifhe’s been left for dead on the side ofthe road.The ringing of the doorbell is continuing.“Just a second!”he cries out.

He doesn’t have the presence ofmind or the sense ofselfpreservation to ask who it is, he simply drags himself through the living room, passes beneath the little oval archway to the foyer, and opens the door to find Iris on his porch, wearing a sweater that is much too large for her—Hampton’s?—and dark glasses, though it is eleven at night.The air smells ofnight-blooming flowers.

“I need to see you,”she says.

He reaches for her, pulls her to him, and as he embraces her he feels a sickening twist ofintuition:Hampton has died.She nuzzles her face into the crook ofhis neck.He pulls away to get a better look at her.

“Are you all right?”he whispers.

”I just had to get out ofthere.”

“What’s going on? Has anything happened?”

“Hampton’s mother is there, and his sister, with her daughter, Christine, this skinny ten-year-old nervous wreck, scared ofher own shadow, constantly bursting into tears.They’re all nervous wrecks, and between them and the nurse there’s no room for me.I can’t pee without some-one knocking on the bathroom door.”

“How’s Hampton?”

“The same.Every day, the same.Except stronger.He takes walks, he eats, but the speech thing, you know.He can’t leave the house because he cannot speak.He has one word.Da-da.Da-da, da-da.It means yes, it means no, it means I’m hungry, I’m cold, it means whatever he wants.

And believe me, everyone is meant to understand that this da-da means he wants a soft-boiled egg and that da-da means he wants a back rub.”

Her voice is level, slightly hard, but her eyes show the injury, the pity, and the fury ofliving with a man who has been ruined.

“It feels really strange,”Daniel says.“You know.That I’ve never seen him.”

“How can you?What would you do?Walk in? Pay him a visit?”

“I don’t know.But it just seems strange.I feel I should.After all…”

“Well, it just can’t happen.”She is startled by the harshness in her tone.“Maybe sometime,”she adds.“Just not now.”

“I need to take responsibility,”Daniel says.

”I’m taking responsibility,”Iris says.“Every day.And that’s enough.

He doesn’t even know exactly what happened to him.He certainly doesn’t think it had anything to do with you.I would have to draw him a series ofcartoons, and he still probably wouldn’t understand.Come on.Please.I don’t want to talk about it.I need a break from all that.”

Brusquely, even roughly—he forgives and even enjoys the bullying haste ofit—she leads him to the bedroom, pushes his shoulders.He falls onto the bed and she swoops onto him in a fury ofneed.He tries to speak against the sorrowful pressure ofher kisses and their teeth click against each other.

He feels that she isn’t ready yet, but she wants him inside ofher now.

Her sudden intake ofbreath whistles through her clenched teeth.Her eyelids flutter and she presses her fingers into his back, urgently.She whispers the details and the extent ofher pleasure into his ear, and even as he feels the joy ofbeing with and within her, a thought presents itself: Why,he wonders,didn’t she let me make her ready before I entered her?Why didn’t she let me touch her, why did she want me to push my way in?It is a thought ofsurpassing pettiness—how could the man who once had longed so fer-vently for the chance to kiss the instep ofher foot now quibble over the details oflubrication? But even as he continues to make love to her, even as he feels the sweat pouring offofhim, even as he times his movements so as to bring her pleasure, to hear that stunned, despairing, and unde-fended little yell she makes, even as her grip tightens and he feels himself drawn into the inevitable engulfing swoon ofcoming, even now he cannot repress the memory ofthat sharp little intake ofbreath.The conclusion is inescapable:the forceful penetration is what she is used to, that is what she once had with Hampton, and this is what her body craves, this is what she hungers for, and—right now—this is what she requires.

Yet somehow, through force ofwill, and by doggedly obeying the commands ofhis own desire, he is able to stay with her, and now they lie next to each other, panting and relieved.In the dim light ofhis bedroom-in-exile (he cannot imagine making his life in this house;he occupies it like a fugitive),Iris dozes off, her legs pressed together, her arms at her side, like a child miming sleep.A gentle snore hovers above her lips.

Daniel props himself up on his elbow and gazes down at her.Her breasts are nearly flat against her, the nipples elongated and with a slight droop from two years ofnursing Nelson.Her belly gently swells with each breath.What ifhis child were growing in there?

Not wanting to disturb her sleep, and not trusting himself to keep from touching her, Daniel slips out ofbed and walks as softly as he can into the front room.Naked, he sits on the sofa, finds the remote control under a cushion, and turns on theTV.The Guns of Navaroneis no longer playing, and he flips through the channels looking for something that can hold his interest for ten or fifteen minutes, after which time he feels he ought to wake Iris.He settles on one ofthe all-news cable channels, where a black lawyer named Reginald McTeer is holding forth about the O.J.Simpson case.Daniel has often seen McTeer’s endlessly smiling, media-friendly face onTV.The program must have sent a crew to McTeer’s office because he is seated at a grand desk, with shelves oflaw books framing a view ofmidtown Manhattan behind him.recorded earlier todayflashes on the bottom ofthe screen.McTeer is a stocky man in a dark suit and his signature ten-gallon cowboy hat, bright white with a red satin band.A picture ofhis light-skinned wife and their three fair children is on his desk, as well as photographs ofMcTeer enjoying his expensive hobbies and vacations—on safari, in the cockpit ofhis Mooney, on horseback, and with various well-knowns from the worlds ofpolitics and entertainment.He speaks like a man comfortable with the sound ofhis own voice, with the exhorting enthusiasm ofa preacher, or a Cadillac salesman.

“You know, Jim, all the media’s going crazy because Mr.O.J.Simpson got himself a team offirst-rate lawyers.Everyone’s going on about justice for sale.And I say:more power to him.This isAmerica, baby.

Everything’s for sale.You think the poor get the same medical care as the rich? Everything is for sale, top to bottom.What you’ve got to under-stand is that’s how the system works, that’s just what the man’s got to do.

InAmerica green trumps blackandwhite.”

McTeer smiles, and then suddenly theTV shows Jim Klein sitting in the cable station’s studio, watching McTeer on a large monitor.Klein, a silver-haired man in a blue blazer, once a newscaster for one ofthe net-works, and now nearing the end ofhis broadcast career, swivels in his chair and faces another large monitor.

It’s Kate, in Leyden, sitting on the sofa in the living room.Daniel stares at her image for several seconds, not even entirely believing it is actually her.She looks relaxed.Her legs are crossed, her delicate, patri-cian hands are folded onto her lap.She wears a white blouse, a strand of pearls.As she speaks, her name appears in writing on the bottom ofthe screen:kate ellisauthor and simpson expertnew york.

“You know, Jim, it’s very interesting,”Kate is saying,“and not without significance, that, for all his talk about the law and justice, and about the green and the white and the black, Mr.McTeer fails to mention that he was himself part ofthe original team oflawyers put together for Simpson’s defense.”As soon as she says this, the broadcast goes to a split-screen format and McTeer can be seen shaking his head, and waving his hand dismissively at the camera, clearly indicating that Kate’s comments are beneath contempt.

But Kate cannot see McTeer and she continues, undaunted, her cultured voice brimming with self-confidence.Daniel leans forward, his hands resting on his square, bare knees.She seems entirely herself, yet at the same time somehow perfect for television.It’s been months since he has seen her looking so relaxed.“Mr.McTeer was asked to be a part of O.J.’s DreamTeam and he declined.Why?Well, a statement Mr.McTeer made to the press last year should put his actions in a clear light.He said…”Kateglances at a little notebook she has left next to her on the sofa.With a lurch, Daniel recognizes it—it’s a little spiral notebook with a picture ofa whale on the cover, which he bought for her two summers ago on a weekend trip to Nantucket.“‘Life is too short, and life is too precious, and there are still things on earth that money can’t buy.’”

“With all due respect, Ms.Ellis, you can’t believe everything you read in the press,”McTeer says.“There are more writers out there than you can shake a stick at, and some ofthem are putting groceries on the table by writing a lot ofdamn foolishness about O.J.Simpson.”

“Okay,”Jim Klein says.“Let me ask you something, Kate Ellis.You’ve been perceived by some as O.J.Simpson’s most potent enemy in the press, and there have been a few—and I’m sure you’ve heard this, so I’m not saying anything you haven’t dealt with, and I’m certainly not trying to imply any agreement with this statement—but some have said that your articles about the case…”Klein picks up a thick, glossy magazine and holds it up to the camera:the cover is a portrait ofO.J.,his skin sev-eral shades darker than its actual color, posed on a dark street, grinning, holding a pair ofleather gloves in one hand, with the other hand hidden behind his back.“Show a certain insensitivity to the racial implications of the case against Mr.Simpson.”

“There are no racial implications, Jim.None that matter, anyhow.”

“Mighty easy for you to say, Miss Ellis,”McTeer says with a laugh.

”This is a murder case, Mr.McTeer,”Kate says.“Not a debate about civil rights.”

“Are you a lawyer in your spare time, Miss Ellis?”McTeer asks.

”No.But, ifit matters, I happen to live with a lawyer, and a very fine lawyer…”

Instinctively, Daniel grabs the remote control, but then is unsure whether he wants to turn the volume up or down.He points it toward the set without pressing any buttons.Behind Kate, not quite in focus, is the fireplace, the mantel covered with framed snapshots ofthe three ofthem.

“I fell asleep.”

Startled, abashed, as ifcaught with pornography, Daniel looks at Iris.

She, too, is naked, with one hand massaging her eyes and the other fig-leafed over her middle.

“A woman has been brutally murdered,”Kate is saying,“and there is at this point a good chance that the man who is clearly responsible for her death is going to go free.All the talk about racist cops…”

“What is this?”Iris asks, sitting next to Daniel, draping her leg over him.

”TV,”says Daniel.

”Who is she talking about?”

“O.J.Simpson.Who else?”

“I don’t know.”

“That this man has become some sort ofrebel-hero to theAfricanAmerican community,”Kate is saying,“is completely ludicrous, and of-fensive.That rappers and other prominent blacks are wearing‘Free O.J.’ T-shirts is also ludicrous and offensive.We have to ask ourselves:Are we a nation oflaws, or aren’t we?”

“We are a nation oflaws,”McTeer says.

”Who’s that freak?”Iris asks.

”Reginald McTeer, a lawyer.”

“And the foundation ofour legal system,”McTeer continues,“is a man or a woman is presumed innocent until proven guilty.Without that presumption, there is no justice.And without justice there is no peace.”

Kate rolls her eyes.“I don’t know anyone who doesn’t believe that O.J.Simpson murdered Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman.”

“I know plenty ofpeople who have grave doubts about that, Miss Ellis,”McTeer says.“You should get out more.The whole world isn’t in the editorial offices ofsome fancy magazine.Go into the kitchen in some of the lavish restaurants where you eat and ask the people who have been cooking your food, ask them what they think, or ask the woman who cleans your house.”

“I’m the woman who cleans my house, Mr.McTeer, and I say he’sguilty.”

“She’s in your house,”Iris says.

”I know.”

“Look at the windows.It’s light out.When was this?”

Daniel puts up a hand to silence her.“Wait.”He has surprised himself.A few months ago he would have gone to practically any lengths to hear the sound ofIris’s voice and now he is shushing her.“I just want to hear this,”he adds softly.Then, still nervous that he may have hurt her feelings, he further adds,“It was videotaped earlier today.”He pats her knee reassuringly.

Iris grabs his hand, ferocious yet playful.She kisses the back ofit, turns it over and kisses his palm, and then puts first one finger and then a second into her mouth, and sucks on them, and then, when he lets out a little involuntary whimper ofpleasure, she slides offthe sofa, positions herselfbetween his legs, forces his knees apart—not that he resists her in any but the most perfunctory way—and buries her face in his lap, kiss-ing his cock until it rises, at which time she moves her head back a little and accepts him into her mouth.

“We have witnessed a travesty ofjustice,”Kate is saying.

Daniel, his eyes closed now, gropes for the remote control and turns offthe set.

Iris leaves shortly after.Daniel returns to his bed, which is full ofthe warmth and aromas ofsex.He tries to sink into it, but sleep seems to have turned its back on him, and he gets dressed and drives into the vil-lage for a drink or two (or three or four—who cares?) at theWindsor Bistro, though it is after midnight.As he nears the Bistro and sees that its dark-red neon sign is still lit, bleeding its deep, pleasantly lurid colors into the black air, he feels a little swoon ofpure gratitude for the place and everyone who makes it run:how monstrous the night can be with-out a place to go.

It’s crowded at the Bistro, more crowded than he’s ever seen it.Is the entire town wracked with desire, unable to sleep? Daniel stands near the entrance, next to the coatroom, which, now that it’s summer, is filled with elaborate arrangements offlowers.He looks in on tonight’s crowd, he is not quite ready to venture further in.It’s not as ifthe people here tonight are strangers to him—everyone in Leyden is familiar, to a cer-tain extent—but they are not people he really knows, not people he can confidently call by name.They’re a boisterous bunch, gathered together in groups ofsix, seven, or eight, with wild laughter being the order of the night.Tonight’s customers are acting as ifthey were having their last manic round ofgrog on a sinking ship.The owner’s normally saturnine boyfriend, rather than playing from his usual repertoire offolk-rock torch songs, is leading some ofthe customers in“Rainy DayWomen.”

And I would not feel so all alone / Everybody must get stoned.

Daniel thinks ofhimself as one ofthe original customers ofthe Bistro, one ofits founding fathers, but whatever favoritism Doris Snyder, the Bistro’s owner, used to show him is not available tonight.She works feverishly behind the bar, mixing margaritas with one hand and filling bowls ofpretzels with the other, and when Daniel makes a little implor-ing gesture in her direction her eyes are as expressive as thumbtacks.

He finds a small, empty table in a distant corner and sits down, resigned to a long wait before he is served.He scans the room, looking for Deirdre, Johnnie Day, Calliope, or any ofthe other college-aged girls who have not yet managed their way out ofLeyden, and who supple-ment their lives ofpottery, yoga classes, organic garden design, and whole foods catering with employment at the Bistro.However, the first person with whom he makes eye contact is Susan Richmond, who is holding a beer mug and swaying to the music, like a shy person all alone who wants to appear to be enjoying herself.

An hour ago, she was back at Eight Chimneys, lying in her own bed, unable to sleep, and her mind in that vulnerable state had been seized with a desire to see her husband—it was as ifwakefulness had compro-mised her mind’s autoimmune system, made it easy prey to resentment and longing.The jealousy was like rabies, it commanded her, the infection ofit made her want to sink her teeth into something.She felt helpless against its power.She paced through the vast gloom ofher sighing, creak-ing house, turning on lamps, going into rooms she hadn’t visited in months, surprising the visiting Bulgarian folk dancers who were drinking gin and poring over old maps in the library, and then coming in on the busy chipmunks in the ballroom, the circling bats in the kitchen, and even braving a peek into Marie’s little cell.

Susan has agreed to let Marie stay on at Eight Chimneys.It seems less humiliating that way.The girl can stay but whatever happens between Ferguson and his blind whore must remain private, not only from Susan herselfbut from the outside world—particularly that, particularly the outside world.Yet despite the agreement, Susan knows that sometimes Ferguson and Marie slip offthe property, and the Bistro is one ofthe places they go.Susan has come here to find them, and has not, though she has remained here for over an hour, partly to prolong the charade that she is simply out for a bit ofnight air and a couple ofdrinks, and partly because those drinks have made her drunk.

Her face lights up at the sight ofDaniel.She has never held any particular fondness for him—in fact, his association with Ferguson and Marie, and then his so catastrophically injuring Hampton on her land, withherRoman candle, has put him in her“bad news”category.But tonight she responds to the sight ofhis familiar face with a wave and a broad smile ofrelief, because for her entire time in the Bistro she has not seen anyone she knows.

“Hello, there,”she says, seating herselfheavily at his table.The scent ofalcohol wafts offher skin.“What a crazy place!”

“Hello, Susan,”Daniel says, giving her name particular emphasis.He likes to use her name frequently when they happen to meet, largely be-cause he is sure she is having trouble remembering his.“I must admit, Su-san, I’m a little surprised to see you here.”

“Why do you keep saying my name? My God, it’s annoying.”

“I’m sorry.Annoying Susan Richmond is surely the last thing I want to do.”

“Is it because you think I don’t remember you? I know exactly who you are.You’re Daniel Emerson and you ditched your perfectly lovely, smart-as-a-whip wife.You’re one ofthe boys.”She fixes her large, bleary eyes on him, and then raises her mug in mock salute.

Daniel wonders how to respond to this—should he just take it in stride, pretend it’s nothing more than a little rough kidding—or should he strike back at her?A waitress comes to their table.Susan orders an-other beer, though her mug is far from empty, and Daniel asks for a co-gnac, and decides on the path ofleast resistance:he’ll pretend she means no harm.

But before he can say anything, Susan breathes up a bitter snort of laughter and wags her finger in his face.“When do people around here start living up to their responsibilities?You’d think that almost killing a man would have brought you up short, but from what I hear you and Iris are still going at it hot and heavy.”

“Hot and heavy?”Daniel is reduced to this, pointing out little excesses in diction.

“Yes.It’s curious, isn’t it? On the face ofit, you and Ferguson couldn’t be less alike.He comes from all this historical tradition, and you come from nowhere.He’s all about contemplation and you’re all about work.But beneath it all, you’re both men, or aging boys, that’s more like it, and you’re carrying on in exactly the same revolting way.What my un-cle Peter used to call‘Letting the little head think for the big head.’May I ask you a question?”

“Look, Susan, this isn’t—”

“What gives you the right, that’s what I can’t understand.What gives you the right to cause so much damage, and to hurt people?To really, re-ally hurt people.And it’s the worst kind ofpain, worse than slapping someone in the face, or stabbing them.Because what are you doing, when you get right down to it?You’re making a fool ofsomeone.”

“Are you calling Kate a fool?That would be making a big mistake.”

“What would you think ifright now your wife was home and feeling so brokenhearted that she decided to drink poison? How would that make you feel?”

“Are you thinking ofpoisoning yourself, Susan?”

“Me? I should say not.”

“Then what makes you think Kate is?”

“Some people do just that.”

“Most don’t.”

“I just think that what you’re doing is very dishonorable, that’s all I’m saying.The whole thing is shabby.”

The waitress returns with their drinks and places them on the table.

“Doris sends these over with her compliments,”she says.

Daniel realizes that Doris is making up for the empty stare she dealt him when he first walked in, and then, quite without meaning to, he wonders ifshe would be making these liquid reparations ifhe were sit-ting with Iris instead ofthis bulky, somewhat ridiculous woman, with her blotchy white skin and fierce, entitled eyes.Iris has already given him the tour ofLeyden and pointed out the various shops in which she is rou-tinely treated like a thief, either physically trailed by an employee or con-stantly scrutinized by whoever is working the cash register.All the once benign spots ofhis youth.

The tour came last Saturday, when he dared to accompany her on an errand to theWindsor Pharmacy, where, in fact, the clerk treated her with friendliness and respect—since Hampton’s convalescence, she was a regular there and they’d come to know her.After she bought surgical gloves and a sheepskin mattress cover, they chanced a stroll down Broadway, with Daniel carrying her packages as ifthey were her books and he were walking her home from school.She would in all probability never have mentioned her run-ins with Leyden’s commercial class ifDaniel hadn’t sighed and gestured to all the little shops and said,“Such a sweet little place, isn’tit?”

“Depends who you are,”she said softly, because it depressed her to have to talk about all ofthe instances ofprejudice, the sheer rudeness that entered into practically every day ofher life.Iris did not care to dis-cuss the details ofher life as part ofthe long and terrible story ofRace inAmerica—she thought she deserved both more and less than to be counted among the victims ofracism.Yet there was something in Daniel’s voice when he called Leyden“sweet”that made her want to bring him up short.She wanted Daniel to know thathereis where she was forced to sit for fifteen minutes before anyone came to take her or-der, andhereis where she had to show three pieces ofidentification be-fore they’d take her seventeen-dollar check, andhereis where she would never buy a Danish backpack ifher life depended upon it because the bitch who owned the store had rubbed the top ofNelson’s head, and then whispered to a friend,It’s supposed to be good luck.

Daniel has not been paying attention to what Susan is saying, and when he forces himself to focus on her, widening his eyes in an approx-imation ofinterest, his attention is seized by the sight ofKate winding her way through the Bistro on her way to his table.Her friend and edi-tor Lorraine DelVecchio follows behind her.Both women wear sum-mery black dresses, with spaghetti straps, and both women carry snifters ofcognac.Without any fanfare, Kate sits in the empty chair closest to Daniel, letting her breath out with a little sigh and allowing her shoulder to graze his for a moment.Lorraine, however, is left standing.

Nervously, his voice booming, Daniel introduces Lorraine and Susan, but Susan’s energy is turned onto Kate.“I was just giving your stupid man here a piece ofmy mind,”Susan says.

“Well, you have to be careful,”Kate says.“Daniel’s already oftwo minds about most things, and now ifyou’ve given him a piece ofyours, that might be more mind than he can handle.”

Daniel feels a nostalgic twinge ofgratitude toward Kate, for coming to his defense without seeming to, and for being so quick offthe dime: her playful caste ofmind, which was sometimes, during their time to-gether, numbing and de-eroticizing, turns out to be one ofthe things he misses most about her.

“I saw you onTV,”Daniel says.

Kate makes a little yelp ofdismay, covers her face, but spreads her fingers so she can peek out at him.

“Wasn’t shefabulous?”Lorraine says, pronouncing it so as to leave little doubt that she isn’t the sort ofperson who normally says“fabulous.”

“You were great,”Daniel says.“I loved the crack about cleaning your house.”

“That show goes on so late, I was sort ofhoping no one would see it.”

“And she lookedfantastic,”Lorraine says, again with comic, distancing emphasis.

“You really thought I was okay?”Kate says to Daniel.“That means a lot, coming from you.”She reaches for his hand, pats it as ifcomforting him.Her touch is as warm as breath.Her perfume is a mixture ofmusk and orange.The lines around her eyes have deepened.She is wearing a delicate little cross that has halfdisappeared into her cleavage.“I didn’t even want to be home when they aired it.Lorraine’s here to distract me.”

Lorraine notices an empty chair at a nearby table, but as soon as she makes a move to retrieve it the doors to the Bistro fly open and three men, or boys, charge in, one ofthem holding a handgun and the other two carrying rifles.Their faces are covered by rubber Halloween masks: Frankenstein, Dracula, and Mickey Mouse.Frankenstein, who has the handgun, leaps onto the little stage behind the bar and holds a gun to the singer’s head.Dracula and Mickey Mouse push their way into the room, waving their rifles back and forth, shouting,“On the floor, on the floor, get your sorry asses on the motherfucking floor.”And even though the Bistro’s customers are plunged into a collective terror, it takes several long moments for any ofthem to comply.

Daniel and his party lie upon the floor.He and Kate both lie facedown, chins resting on left forearms to keep mouth and nose offthe boozy grime, and their right arms reaching toward each other, until their fingers touch.

“Don’t worry,”Daniel whispers.

Kate doesn’t make a sound, but she mimes the word“fuck.”

What was once a raucous crowd ofnightlife revelers is now fifty-eight extremely quiet men and women, all ofthem on the sticky floor, except for Doris, who remains standing behind the bar.Her boyfriend is wide-eyed, his face drained ofcolor, he is a corpse with a guitar.He remains in his folding chair, with a gun to his head, held by a robber disguised as Frankenstein.Sometime during the transition ofthis being a room full of drinkers to this being a room full ofpeople lying flat on the ground, someone has told Doris to open up the cash register and now she is hand-ing its contents to Frankenstein, who looks weirdly attenuated and grace-ful, reaching toward her to receive his bounty while keeping his gun pressed against her boyfriend’s temple.When he has the money, Dracula comes over and takes it from him, and drops it in a mesh laundry bag, at which point Frankenstein yanks the wires ofthe bar phone out ofthe wall.He grabs the singer by the back ofthe shirt, lifts him out ofthe chair.

Mickey and Dracula go from person to person, collecting cash, credit cards, cell phones, keys, watches, and jewelry.Mickey Mouse stands over them, crouching, to collect their worldly goods;Daniel, despite having told himself to do nothing to antagonize him, cannot resist the impulse to peer through the eyeholes in the masks, to somehow make contact with the human eyes within:shiny brown eyes, young, arrogant, glitter-ing with energy.He drops his wallet and forty dollars in cash into the laundry bag, which tops it off.Mickey pulls the drawstring, ties it in a knot, and then slides the unshapely sack across the floor, toward the bar, where Frankenstein picks it up.Dracula has another laundry bag under his shirt, he pulls it out and holds it open in front ofKate.She is slow to empty her purse into it, and he prods her with the greasy barrel ofhis rifle—it stencils a little broken O on her skin, and she utters a sound of distress, more from surprise than anything else.

“All right,”Daniel says, in a level, almost paternal voice.“We’re all going to be real, real careful here.Okay?”He doesn’t want to make a re-assuring gesture with his hand, or any gesture, but he slightly widens his eyes, as ifto say,Listen to me, I know what you’re going through.

“Fuck you,”Dracula replies, his voice muffled behind rubber.Eventually, with everything ofvalue collected—even tie pins, cufflinks, and ciga-rette lighters—the three masked men leave.No one has tried to be heroic.

Even as those who have been told to lie down begin to get to their feet, the Bistro remains fearfully silent, except for the sounds offeet and furniture scraping on the floor.Kate has put her arm around Lorraine, who is sobbing softly, and Daniel, who now that the crisis has passed feels light-headed, al-most giddy with relief, stands next to Kate, pats her shoulder reassuringly.

“It was those boys, wasn’t it,”Susan Ferguson says.“The ones who ran away during the storm.I heard they were still in the area, taking things, camping in the woods, or in empty houses.It was them.”

Kate nods slowly, her lips pursed.“I think you’re exactly right,”she says.

”Oh, we don’t know that,”Daniel says.“We don’t know anything.”

His voice is completely wrong, he sounds like he is trying to jolly them out oftheir thoughts.

Marcia Harnack, a lawyer who specializes in real estate, is standing nearby and has heard their conversation.“That’s what I was thinking, all through it,”she says.She is a woman with the body ofa strong man and the voice ofa shy little girl;she clasps her hands when she speaks, as if asking for forgiveness for being too large.“Star ofBethlehem.It’s what I thought when they first came in.”

“Why did you think that?”Daniel asks.

”They were definitely black,”says George Schwab, short, hard, and hairless, a little seersucker bomb in his blue-and-white suit.He has been selling offfive-acre parcels ofhis family’s old orchards, and Marcia has been helping him structure the deals.

“And how’d you figure that?”asks Daniel.

”I saw their skin, that’s how,”says George.He rises up on the toes of his tasseled loafers and clenches his small fists, as ifa lightning bolt of fury has just gone through him.“We were almost slaughtered like a bunch ofcattle in here.”

“You didn’t see their skin, George,”Daniel says.“No one did.”

“Don’t tell me what I saw and didn’t see,”George says, his voice getting higher, as ifit, too, had toes to rise upon.“You’ve got your own agenda.”

By this he clearly means Iris, and Daniel’s attachment to her, but Daniel has no choice but to ignore it.By now, two ofthe customers whose cell phones have been overlooked are calling the police;others join in the speculation and argument.

“They’re the ones who robbed the Goulianos house,”Fortune Pryor says.

”They completely trashed that sweet little house where Esther Rothschild used to live,”LibbyYoung says.

“This is really fucked up,”Daniel says.He feels like standing on a chair and exhorting the lot ofthem.His neighbors have become a dangerous collective, drunk on its own bad ideas.“This is really really really fucked up,”he says, louder now.He feels Kate’s wifely, cautioning touch on his elbow.“They could have been Chinese,”Daniel shouts out.“They could have been Mexican, Polish, they could have been kids right from here.”

“Shut up, Emerson,”someone bellows from the front ofthe bar.

There is a scattering ofapplause, murmurs ofagreement.

“No one saw their skin,”Daniel says, as forcefully as he can.

”I did.”This is shouted by George.

”I did, too.”

“I did, too.”

“I did, too.”

The more opposition Daniel meets, the more righteous indignation he feels.His eyes burn in their sockets, fury courses through him, his legs tremble.“I’m ashamed ofthis town,”Daniel cries.

Now Kate’s gentle touch has become an urgent tug.She pulls him toward her and says into his ear,“Daniel.Please.We’ve all heard you.”

“Can you believe this shit?”

“They just think you’re going on like this because you’re with Iris.”

She says it with extraordinary kindness.Her eyes are soft with sympathy, she shakes her head.

“Let’s just get out ofhere?”Lorraine says.“Can we please?”

Derek Pabst and another Leyden cop are the first ofthe police to arrive, followed shortly by four members ofthe state police.It takes nearly two hours for statements to be taken and reports to be written up, and when the Bistro’s customers are finally able to leave it is nearly three in the morning.No cars have been stolen, but since all the keys have been taken, the customers must either call for a ride home or walk.It is Daniel’s habit, however, to leave his keys in his car and he leads Kate and Lorraine through the cool night rain to his car, two blocksaway.

As he drives them back to what was once his house, Lorraine, in the backseat, exclaims,“I just don’t get it.You left your keysinyour car? I just don’t understand why you’d do that.”

“He always leaves them in the ignition,”Kate says.They are already a mile out ofthe village, driving through the wet, luminous night.

“It doesn’t make sense,”Lorraine says.

It strikes Daniel that perhaps she means to suggest some foreknowledge on his part, or even a degree ofcollusion with the robbers.And though confronting Lorraine is as far from Daniel’s temperament as reaching over the backseat and giving her a smack across the face, he can-not resist asking her,“What are you suggesting, Lorraine?”

“Everyone in the whole place seemed to know who those guys were,”she says.“And you were jumping through hoops to make them think otherwise.”

“And?”

“It’s just weird, that’s all.”Lorraine is slumped down, the back ofher hand is pressed against her forehead.

“Our nerves are shot,”says Kate.“All ofus.I’ve never been robbed before.”She clutches her chest, trying to make light ofit.“Oh my God.

I’m a crime statistic.”

“They didn’t rob you the first time they came to your house?”Lorraine says.

“No, not really.I told you.They wanted to use the facilities.”

“Gross.”Lorraine shudders.“But you were right next to them.Were they the same ones who just held us up?”

“How can she know that?”Daniel says.

”It’s important,”Lorraine says.“They should catch those fucking kids and feed them to the wolves.”

“I agree,”says Daniel.“Or maybe a lynching.”

“Our nerves are shot,”Kate repeats.She pats Daniel’s knee, and then leaves her hand resting on it.

“They took two hundred and thirty dollars offme,”Lorraine says.

“And my wallet, my address book, my Filofax, all my credit cards.Mylife was in that bag.”

“That could be the problem right there,”Daniel says.

”Fuck yourself,”Lorraine says.

They arrive at Kate’s house.The windows blaze with light.A weather-worn old Ford is in the driveway.Kate sees Daniel react to the unfamiliar car and tells him,“That’s the baby-sitter’s.”He nods, surprised by the little trickle ofgratitude that goes through him.Lorraine climbs out ofthe back door, waits for Kate with her back to them both.Kate powers down her window and says to Lorraine,“I’ll be right in.I just want to talk to Daniel.For a minute.”Lorraine shrugs without turning around and trods offto the house.

Kate waits for Lorraine to let herselfin, and then she turns to Daniel.

“I miss you.What do you think about that? Do you miss me?”

“Derek was acting so strange toward you in there.Did you notice that? It was as ifhe was furious with you.”

“It’s fine.We had a communication problem, and it’s all ironed out.

Can you answer my question? Do you miss me?”

“Ofcourse I do.And Ruby.How is she?”

“Fine, we’re both fine, we’d like you to come home.”The ping ofthat little hammer blow ofconfession breaks her voice.

“Kate…”

“You know what?”she says.“I never told you, I mean I never actually said the words‘I love you.’But I do.I love you.”Her eyes glitter, the color rises in her face.She seems moved, even inspired by her own words.Hav-ing said what was for so long unutterable, she now feels capable ofsaying anything.“I love you.You’re my guy, you’re my sweet man.I just assumed you knew, but now I see that sometimes it needs to be said.”

“This is so painful, Kate.”

“You’re involved in something with her that’s simply never ever ever ever ever going to work out, and I want to give you the chance to get out ofit, and come back.You deserve that chance, Daniel.You really do.Peo-ple get stuck in their bad decisions and they think nothing can undo them.Can I be honest with you?You look like you’re about to pass out.

But I know what’s going on in that house ofhers.That man’s not going to suddenly get better.She’s going to be looking after him for a long, long time.And that’s the best-case scenario.We don’t even want to talk about worst-case.But the fact is, you did this to him.For whatever rea-son, it was you.”

“Whatever reason? It was an accident!”

“Maybe you’ve been looking to even the score ever since those black guys kicked you down the stairs.”

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard.”

“Blacks and whites don’t get along,”she says.“Too much has happened.It’s ruined.Ifsomething doesn’t begin well, how can it end well?”

Daniel is silent, trying to think ofsomething to say, some way ofending the conversation without enraging her, a way ofsending her into the house that won’t be humiliating.But Kate interprets his silence as Daniel’s somehow being swayed, or evenmovedby what she is saying, and she puts her hand on his chest in a familiar, nostalgic way, and then quickly leans in to him with a deep, possessive kiss.