Discouraged, exhausted, Hampton sat on the fallen tree—and immediately sprang up again.He had sat upon the Roman candle in his back pocket and it had split in two.He quickly pulled it out, with frantic gestures, as if it might explode, and tossed the top half of the candy-striped cardboard tubing as far from him as he could.“Oh no,”he said.
Now his back pocket was filled with the Roman candle’s black powder, a mix-
ture of saltpeter, sulfur, arsenic, and strontium.If I kick him in the ass, he might explode, thought Daniel.He had a comic vision of Hampton blasting off, sailing high above the tree line, stars, pound signs, and exclamation points streaming out behind him.
It takes Daniel nearly halfan hour to drive the five miles between Eight Chimneys and Iris’s house on Juniper Street.Some roads are already closed, and on others the traffic barely crawls.He is listening to a mix tape he made—Don Covay, Marvin Gaye, Ray Charles, IrmaThomas.He curses the storm, the roads, the other drivers, and imagines himself making love to Iris.He thinks about her voice, the slightly spoiled, slightly shy, and always shifting quality ofit.He is envious ofnot only Hampton but her fellow students, the library staff, the7-Eleven clerks, the shopkeepers up and down Leyden’s miniature Broadway, a man named Timmy Krauss, who mows her lawn, the tellers at Leyden Savings Bank, even Nelson.
He pulls into the driveway behind Iris’s car.A branch from one ofthe four maples on her front lawn, as long and thick as a stallion’s hindquar-ters, has snapped offfrom the weight ofthe snow and it sticks like a spear into the ground.Daniel looks up.The downward rush ofthe snowflakes, unusually large, looks like the blur ofthe stars when a space-ship accelerates into warp speed.He hears the creaking wooden sound ofa window opening.
“Let yourselfin, okay?”It’s Iris from the second story.She has stuck her head out the window and her short black hair whitens instantly.“I’m up here with the kids.”Her voice rings out in the silent world.
He steps into her entrance hall and peels offhis gloves, feels the melting snow trickling down his back.There are raucous screams ofcrazy ex-citement coming from Ruby, who is beside herselfwith joy to be in Nelson’s house.He hears Iris moderating.
Because the pickups and deliveries ofRuby generally fall to Daniel, he has been to this house ten or fifteen times, but each time Iris has Ruby dressed and ready to go upon his arrival.Nevertheless, in those moments ofpolite exchange, he has breathed in the smells ofher domesticity—the aromas ofwhatever meal was being prepared, the smell ofa newly painted room, ofeucalyptus stalks stuck into a beaded glass vase that stood upon an end table in the living room, just visible from where he usually stood.He has taken in everything there was to see in the foyer it-self:the blue-and-silver-striped wallpaper, the illustrative hooked rug (streetlamp, horse and buggy),the tiger maple table near the door, with its resident wicker basket filled with junk mail, the occasional stray mit-ten, and the curling cash register tape from the supermarket.From this he learned that her purchases included such items as Playtex tampons, and Dry Idea deodorant, Marcal bathroom tissues, Sominex sleeping pills, Tom’s Natur-Mint mouthwash, Revlon emery boards, Tylenol PM.
Outside:the crack offalling trees.For a moment it seems the electric power will go out here, too.
Iris comes downstairs, beckons him in.She has taken offher shoes;
her socks are bright electric blue.She wears a loose-fitting yellow sweater, jeans.She is a woman at home, she has put the world behind her.
“Are the kids okay?”Daniel asks.
”Ruby’s amazing.She’s got such compassion and wisdom in her eyes.
I love looking at her.”
Daniel feels unaccountably moved by this.It seems somehow more tender and appreciative than anything Kate has ever said.Kate loves Ruby, ofcourse she does, but she has no patience for motherhood.Its unending quality confounds and irritates her.Kate longs for privacy, for uninterrupted mornings, for what she calls her DreamTime.
“Have you ever been to Ruby Falls?”Iris asks.
”No, where is it?”
“InTennessee, outside Chattanooga.It’s an underground waterfall, the biggest in the world, and it’s red.Well, they might just shine red lights on it to make it look that way.I was ten years old when my family went there.I mostly remember how hot it was outside and how cool it was in that cave, and that everyone on the tour was white, but they were super nice to us.”
“How wonderfully civil ofthem,”Daniel says.
”I wasn’t really used to seeing white folks, not then.I was so nervous.”She sighs, closing the subject.Then:“I’m going to have some tea.
Do you want some?”
He remembers the appearance oftea on one ofher IGA receipts:Celestial SeasoningsAlmond Sunset and Celestial Seasonings Emperor’s Choice.
“Sure.”He is still in the foyer, stomping loose the snow that was jammed into the waffle sole ofhis shoes.“Tea would be great.Do you have like an almond tea or something?”
“As a matter offact, I do,”says Iris.
The dog comes in.Daniel crouches down to let Scarecrow sniffhis hand.She has no tail but moves her rump back and forth to signal her ac-ceptance ofhim.He strokes her lightly on the top ofher head and she makes a low groan ofpleasure.
“This dog is Jesus,”he says, glancing up at Iris.He turns back toward Scarecrow.“Are you Jesus?”
“Don’t answer that, Scarecrow,”Iris says.
It strikes him with the force ofrevelation that this is the most fun he has ever had, ever, in all his life, this is the pinnacle, the greatest happi-ness he has ever known, right there, asking the dog ifshe is Jesus, and Iris telling the dog not to answer.
They walk across the living room, with its bay windows, dark mahogany molding, a white marble mantel over the fireplace.On the north side ofthe room, French doors lead to the dining room;on the south, a newly hung door leads to the kitchen.Daniel stops at the rack ofcom-pact discs to see what music she listens to and feels a rush ofconfusion, disappointment as he reads:Fleetwood Mac, Tony Bennett, Boyz2Men, Aaron Copland.
“I can’t believe you like almond-flavored tea,”she says to Daniel as they enter her kitchen.“To me, it tastes like arsenic or something.What is it, a guy thing? It’s the only tea my husband will drink.”
Iris cannot bear chaos.Beyond the rituals and reassurances ofdaily life lies danger.Go offthe road—danger.Swim in the dark—tragedy.Those people in London all huddled in the subway stop while the bombs dropped? She would never have been able to do it.She’d hang herself first.Life without its presumption ofreasonable safety—intolerable.
She is aware ofa slow, engulfing terror growing within her.She has been holding her panic in check for a couple ofhours now, telling her-selfthat the storm and all those exploding trees are part ofNature, and she is fully capable oftaking it in stride.But she cannot take it in stride, she cannot evenstride,she feels trapped, waiting for something terrible to happen.And knowing that it’s all in her head doesn’t make it better; in fact, it makes matters worse—how do you hide from your own mind?
Night has come.It seems to be snowing harder now than it was an hour ago.The daytime sky was just running out ofsnow when the night sky rolled into place with a fresh supply.There is no fear that is not worse in the darkness.
Daniel.It astonishes her how closely he listens to her, how he leans toward her when she speaks and nods his head, yes, like the ladies in her grandmother’s church, theAmen choir, in front ofwhom you could sing, or cry, and never feel the slightest shame.He seems to remember every-thing she has ever said to him, starting with their first hello.Like most married people, she is used to being heard only by half, and has even got-ten used to being ignored.Daniel not only listens, he seems to possess, to embrace the things she says to him.Six months ago, she said she had de-cided her thesis dissertation would be on some aspect ofParchman Farm, and today, sitting in her kitchen, with the candles in their holders and a box ofOhio blue tips at the ready, she learns that Daniel has readWorse Than Slavery,one ofthe best books about Parchman.It initially gives her a guilty, embarrassed feeling because she’s moved on from Parchman, it just didn’t feel right—she might, in fact, have abandoned it later the same day she’d mentioned it to Daniel.She has been having a difficult time set-tling on a thesis;jumping from one possible topic to the next has been the source ofno small number ofnasty remarks from Hampton, who wants her to get her Ph.D.and move back to the city.But Daniel doesn’t mind when she softly confesses that she has left Parchman behind.
“I switched to the music,”she says.“I couldn’t read about all the beatings, it was ruining my life.”
“The music?”Daniel says excitedly.
”People survived, they made songs, it’s very rich material.”
He gets up from his seat at her kitchen table, suddenly full ofanimation.“I’ve got just the thing for you! Do you have a tape player in here?”
She points to a boom box on the kitchen counter.
”I’ll be right back,”he says.He goes out to the car to retrieve a tape from the glove compartment.He is unjacketed;wet clumps ofsnow slither down his back as he paws through lumpy old maps and a dozen cassette boxes, most ofthem empty, until he finds what he is after, one oftheAlan Lomax Southern Journey compilations.It’s not the one he was hoping to find—he wanted the field recordings ofprison songs—but this one will have to do.“Sheep, Sheep, Don’tcha Know the Road.”
He shakes the box and hears the rattle ofthe tape within.Thank God.On his way back to the house, another limb snaps offthe maple tree in her front yard and it comes hurtling down, plunging into the ground not ten feet from him.Thanks again, God.
Inside, he plays her“You Got Dimples inYour Jaw,”sung by a man namedWillie Jones.Daniel stands near the tape player and does his best not to dance along with the music, knowing it will make him appear foolish, but the music is so sexy and good, it’s hard to stay still, with his arms folded professorially over his chest.The song is a paean to the beauty ofthe singer’s girlfriend, especially her dimples.“I love the way you walk, I’m crazy about the way you walk, I got my eyes on you.You got dimples in your jaw.You my babe.Got my eyes on you.”
When the song ends, Daniel pushes the stop button and releases a deep, satisfied sigh.“It gives you such insight, I think.It’s a love song to a woman whose physical being has been devalued by racism, slavery, poverty, and this guy’s saying to her:I see you, I notice every little thing about you, and it makes me so happy.It’s sexuality subverting the whole system ofslavery.”
“You think so?”
“John Lee Hooker made it a semi-pop hit, for this little outfit in Chicago calledVee-Jay records, in1950-something.”He knows that it was in1956,but he decides at the last instant to be imprecise, not want-ing to seem like one ofthose geeks who memorize music trivia.
“I’ve heard ofhim.My uncle Randall used to have his records.He used to wear a turban or something?A cape?”
She must be thinking of Screaming Jay Hawkins,Daniel thinks.“Maybe,”
he says, not wishing to embarrass her.“I’m not sure.”His fingers graze the controls ofthe boom box.“Do you want to hear another?There’s this fantastic version of‘The PrayerWheel,’by the Bring Light Quartet.”
“Well, the truth is, I’m not doing the music thing.I had to let that one go, too.”
He decides not to ask her why;surely she’s had enough questions about that.“Have you decided on a new topic?”he asks her.
“I’m not sure.American Studies, you know.Lot ofchoices.The thing is…”She stops, lowers her eyes.Daniel looks at her.He feels it would be permissible to reach across the table and touch her.
“The thing is,”says Iris, lifting her gaze.Her eyes are clear, with little flecks ofamber in them.“All my topics have beenAfrican-American, and I think that’s why I haven’t been able to stick with them.”She takes a deep breath.“I’m really gettingtiredofbeing African-American.Ial-ways thought ofmyselfas just me.I know that sounds sort ofweak, and when asistersays it, people think she’s trying to get out ofsomething, or she’s like a traitor or something.But that’s not it, not for me.I’m just ex-hausted by it, it’s so muchworkbeing black.And no days off, either.And the pay stinks.But what am I going to do? It’s my life.But I don’t think I want to make it my academic life, too.Maybe I’ll write about Eisen-hower orI Love Lucy,or something.Something white, or better yet some-thing that doesn’t even have a color, ifthere is anything like that.I wouldn’t mind being in school forever.I love learning.I realize it’s not the most highly regarded occupation in our society, I realize you’re noth-ing inAmerica unless you’re making money, but learning stuffmakes me really happy.It’s like being beautifully and luxuriously filled with all the knowledge there ever was.”
“They’ve got a lot ofold Lucy tapes at the video store, ifyou’re really interested.”
Outside, the trees continue to explode beneath the weight ofthe snow.It sounds like a long, nasty war is being fought.
“It breaks my heart to listen to all those dying trees,”Iris says.
”It’s a nightmare,”he says softly.
”Ifonly the snow had waited.I love the snow.But the leaves…”
“Ifit wasn’t for the leaves, the snow would just fall right through the branches and not touch a thing.”
“Everything’s timing,”she says.“The most wonderful thing at the wrong time? Disaster.”
“But you never know,”he says.
”Until it’s too late,”Iris says.“I’m afraid ofthings that can’t be taken back.That’s another reason I keep changing my thesis.I just don’t want to create a document that says, This is what I know, this is who I am.I re-ally admire your…whatdoyouliketocall her?Your…”She smiles.
”Lady?”
“Kate.”
“Well, I really admire Kate for just writing it down, sending it out, and getting on with it.”
“The thing she most cares about—her novel—she can’t write that.”
He feels his stomach turn over.“I better call her, actually.She’ll be won-dering where Ruby is.”
Iris brings him the phone.She can hear Kate’s hello clear across the kitchen, powerful voice, formidable, not someone you’d want to cross.
“Ruby and I are at Nelson’s house,”Daniel says.Oh, Iris thinks,Nel-
son’shouse.She turns slightly in her chair, not wanting to see what he looks like when he’s being so devious and clever.“I think we better let things settle down before we try to make it home.”
“I don’t think the snow everwillstop,”says Kate.She is in her study, facing her desk, where there sits an old Smith Corona manual typewriter and a dozen candles ofdifferent sizes, their flames dancing in the draft, an ecclesiastical whiffofparaffin in the air.“And when it does, it’s going to take a lot more than the little men in their trucks to get things going again.The trees!They’re everywhere and each one ofthem is going to have to be sawed up and dragged away.How about where you are?”
“It’s pretty bad.”
“Do they have electricity?”
“Yes, for the time being.”
“Oh, you’re lucky.That means you have heat, too.And water.”
“For now.”
“I don’t blame you for wanting to stay there.Is the husband there?”
But before he can answer, she blows right past it.“You know what I wish? That there was a radio in this place I could listen to.”
“The one in Ruby’s room runs on batteries,”Daniel says.
”Ruby’s room? She has a radio in there?”
“Yes, the red one.My First Sony, or something like that.You’ll see it.”
“I just want a way to tune in some news and keep track ofthe storm.”
“I put fresh batteries in it a couple days ago,”Daniel says.
”Oh, you’re so good,”says Kate.A little lurch in her voice.And then something being poured.He realizes she’s getting loaded.Hard to re-member, but there was a time when he liked her drinking, liked the free-wheeling, southern bad girl aspect ofher, the nocturnal romance ofit.
Those drunken nights were the occasions oftheir most uninhibited sex.
Sweaty, a little mean.It was like screwing an escapee.The concentration was all on Kate.What would she like, what could she take? Her body arching and jerking as ifshe were being electrocuted.Enthralling, those nights, some strange combination ofhoneymoon and porn flick.Nasty and private and never spoken ofafterward.But even then he felt those moments weren’t quite valid, like those sports statistics that go into the record book with little asterisks after them, indicating a shortened sea-son or a muddy track.
“Kate’s out ofher mind with happiness,”he says to Iris, giving the phone back to her.
Another tree explodes, this one, from the sound ofit, just a few feet from the house.
“Every tree that’s falling took so long to grow,”Iris says.There will be no more talk ofKate.“Some ofthem a hundred years.”
“Maybe even more.”
“I can’t stand to hear them dying like this.It’s like witnessing hunters shooting a herd ofelephants.”
“That’s what I was thinking,”says Daniel.“The elephants.It’s what I was going to say.But don’t worry.It’ll be all right.”
“You’re the type who thinkseverything’sgoing to turn out all fine anddandy.”
“How do you know that?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Maybe I’m a bit ofan optimist.”
“I think you are.”
“Could be that it’s sort of…awhite thing?”Daniel asks.
”Well, it sure ain’t no black thing, honey child.”Iris laughs, a little surprised at herself.
“Do you miss being around black people?”he asks her—much to his own surprise.
“What makes you think I’m not around black people?”
“There’s not many around, not here.”
“True.And here is where I am.I like it here, and, frankly, it’s hard to find a really nice place that also has a lot ofAfrican-American families.I like to ski, and sail, and take walks in the woods.I like having a garden and I’m in a really good program at Marlowe.Anyhow, I’ve come a long way from that cave at Ruby Falls.I’m used to being in a white world.”
Scarecrow totters into the kitchen and goes straight to Daniel’s side, leans against him and groans softly, with deep canine contentment.
“What do you want, Scarecrow?”Daniel says.“Why are you looking at me? Because I said you look like Jesus?”
“Let me ask you something,”Iris says.“Why did you say that?”
“About the dog being Jesus? I don’t know.She seems very deep.Did it offend you?”
“I had the same thought.Just yesterday.It seemed sort ofnutty and now you’re saying the same thing today.”
“That is strange.Is Jesus a big thing in your life?”
“Not too big.I think we’re alone.There’s no one to forgive us or punish us or help us in our hour ofneed, and I think nearly everybody deep down knows that.When I was an undergraduate, I took a course called ‘Death and Dying.’”
“You did?”
“Oh yes, I’ve always been very interested in death.Anyhow, as part of my course work I volunteered in a hospice and I got to know quite a few people who were dying, mostly ofcancer.My supervisor told me we weren’t supposed to push any sort ofreligious ideas on the people we talked to, but it was all right to subtly, in some general way, offer them the comfort offaith, maybe mentioning heaven and meeting up with loved ones, that kind ofthing.But you know what I noticed?The closer dying people got to the end, the more they knew that there was nothing next.
The knowledge was in their bodies, they knew that was all, there was no heaven, no God, just blood and bones and pain and then silence.You could see this knowledge in their eyes.Even the ones who had been religious all their lives, and the ones who just were so scared they were willing to be-lieve in heaven at the last minute, desperate for something to hold on to, to ward offthe fear, you could even see it in their eyes—God was an idea, it was something out there, far far away, it was a story people told, a beau-tiful story, or a dumb story, but it was in the province ofthe living, and these dying bodies didn’t have time for it anymore, they were too busy dying, the work ofit.Even ifthey were praying out loud, holding on to the rosaries, calling on Jesus, be with me, Jesus, be with me, their bodies knew, there was a final knowledge right in their cells that it was all over.”
“I saw you going to church in July.I was driving past St.Christopher’s and I saw your car turning in.”
“I go to church three times a year, on Christmas and Easter, and in July, around the Fourth.My baby brother, Leonard, drowned on the Fourth ofJuly when he was six years old.I light a candle for him and I pray and I cry, but I don’t even know why I do it.”
“There’s not too many places where you can go and have those feelings.”
“Do you have a place?”
“The movies.Sometimes I cut out ofwork and go across the river to one ofthe mall movies.I sit there in the middle ofthe afternoon with a box ofpopcorn and some M&Ms, and kind ofcry a little.It’s totally pa-thetic and what’s really pathetic is you’re not even the first person I’ve told this to.I tell it to everyone.”
“Maybe you want people to know you’re lonely.”
“You think that’s what it is?”
“It must be strange for people to think ofyou that way, lonely.”
“I know, I know.Because I’m such a cheerful presence.”
“Well, you are.And—”
“I know,”Daniel says.“Everybody likes me.”
“It’s good that people like you.I like you.”
“Good.I like you, too.”
“I know.”
“Well, that’s settled, anyhow.”
“Can we be honest here?”
“We can try.It’s not that easy.”
“I just think we can be honest, that’s all, I mean:why not? Maybe this is Armageddon.”
“The snowstorm?”
“It’s something,”says Iris.“It’s an occasion.We hardly ever get to say what we mean to say.That’s why people who have crises in their lives, real ones, huge ones, they turn out to be more honest.”
“Okay, some people have the Battle ofAlgiers, we’ve got the snowstorm.Anyhow, I think I know what you’re going to say.”
“What am I going to say?”
“You’re going to say,‘I know you like me and I also have become increasingly aware that you stare at me and you seem unduly excited whenever we happen to meet.’”
“That’s right,”says Iris.“Except for‘unduly.’I wasn’t going to use that word.”
“So you don’t think it’s unduly.”
“Maybe it is.I wasn’t going to put it like that.”
“How were you going to put it?”
“I was going to say you’ve been looking at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable.”
“I’m sorry.I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“Itusedto make me uncomfortable.Now it doesn’t.Now I like it.”
“I think I might be having a heart attack.”
“Look, please, don’t make more out ofthis than what it’s meant to be.I shouldn’t have said anything.I’m indulging myself.Taking a little time offfrom reality.”
“This is reality.”
“It’s just that the past couple months, since Nelson and Ruby have gotten to be such buddies, and you and I cross paths fairly frequently, it’s been this little secret pleasure in my life.It’s like a river under the road.
Let’s talk about something else.”
“Do you have anything to drink?”
“More tea?”
“The tea is not good.The tea was a mistake.Something stronger?”
“Bourbon okay? I’ll have one, too.”
At home, Daniel is the designated driver, with or without an automobile.He has made it his job to not drink and through his example to some-how discourage drinking.This course ofaction, or inaction, has never met with the slightest success, but he cleaves to it nevertheless, limiting his consumption ofalcohol to a glass or two ofwine with dinner once or twice a week.Now, he sits in Iris’s kitchen, watching her reach up to a high cabinet to retrieve a bottle ofJack Daniel’s, watching her muscles move beneath her clothes—and he thinks:What if this were really my life? What if I could spend a part of every day watching her?What if it were easy?What if I come behind her, put my arms around her, kiss her long bare neck, cup my handsover her breasts, push my groin against her awe-inspiring ass? Could I tol-erate living with such happiness?
She pours their drinks, they hold their glasses up and then move them very slowly together until they touch.
Iris is hoping a drink will soothe her nerves—the intense labor ofappearing calm is wearing her out.And a drink might loosen up both of them, could even throw up a little makeshift bridge between them.Ear-lier, with Ruby in tow, knowing that Daniel would be coming to her house, Iris had felt that here, now, was the logical and perfect time to fi-nally make something out ofthose months offlirtatious glances.It seemed, then, that all she had to do was to let him know she had seen them all, felt his eyes on her, heard what he did not say.All she had to tell him was that she is caught up in a marriage that has turned out to be a mistake.It would be simple, a simple thing to do.She does not worry about being attractive to him.He has already made all ofthat clear:she has never felt so desired.
But now she realizes that it will not be that easy, will not be easy atall.
Yet the giddiness ofall this cannot altogether obscure her prescient view ofthe misery she would cause ifshe reached across the table and touched Daniel’s soft, lank hair.It finally takes so little, a kiss, and now she’s thinking about it, imagining it.
There’s music from the second floor.The kids are listening to theVillage People singing“YMCA.”
“Nelson!”Iris turns, looks up at the ceiling.“Turn it down.”
“How did that ever become a children’s song?”Daniel asks.He’s still making small talk, wanting only to keep her attention and to make sure there are no silences.“It’s so completelyWestVillage, cruising Christo-pher Street,1978.It’s strange the way the culture absorbs things and makes whatever use ofthem.”
She refills their glasses, very judiciously, as ifthis were a familiar ritual.
Suddenly, there’s a thud right above them, unnerving in its suddenness and force.Daniel’s response is instant.Out ofhis seat, out ofthe kitchen, up the stairs, taking them two at a time.Iris follows.They both hear Ruby’s plaintive little cry.Iris has a sinking feeling.
They reach the children.Daniel, wisely, has slowed himself down, trying not to add his alarm to the volatile mix.Ruby is just picking her-selfup.Her swollen blue eyes glitter with unshed tears and her face is scarlet.Without a word, she stretches her arms out toward Daniel.He lifts her up;her knees grip his rib cage, she wraps her arms around him, notches her head into the space between his neck and shoulder.Iris real-izes her hands are clenched into fists;she forces herselfto relax them.
“What’s wrong, Ruby?”Daniel asks.
Nelson is simply standing there, his arms folded over his chest, his body rigid beneath his cargo pants and sweatshirt, a look ofstony defi-ance on his face.
“She’s all right,”he says insistently.“She’s not hurt.”
The room in which they’ve been playing has a wide plank floor and a large circular orange-and-blue rug.The walls are decorated with travel posters from Bermuda and Denmark.The ceiling is slanted, the windows small, low—an adult would have to get down on her knees to see out of them.The sense oforder in that room is fierce.The shelves and cubbies are filled with action figures, cars and trucks, books, tapes, CDs, dolls, paints, blocks, and Legos, all neatly kept.
“Nelson pushed me down,”Ruby whispers.
”Oh Nelson, Nelson,”Iris says.“Why do you do these things?”She tries to take his arm but he yanks it out ofher reach.“Is she all right?”
Iris asks Daniel.
“She’s fine,”he says.“Aren’t you, honey?”
Ruby presses her face harder against Daniel and vehemently shakes her head no.
“What happened here, Nelson?”Iris says.She reaches for him and this time he cannot escape.
“Nothing.”His eyes are mutinous and self-righteous.
”How did it happen that Ruby fell down?”Iris says.
”Kids fall all the time,”Daniel says, stroking Ruby’s head.
”I’m waiting for an answer, Nelson,”Iris says.“How did she fall down?
Did you push her?”
Nelson continues to glare at his mother, and Iris suddenly turns her attention toward Ruby.“Are you all right, Ruby?”
“I’m fine,”Ruby says.She starts to squirm and Daniel sets her down.
Her face is no longer flushed, and now without its wrapping ofcolor they can see a pale little lump on her forehead.
“Oh Nelson,”says Iris.
”I didn’t do anything!”Nelson cries.“She was trying to kiss me!”
“I was not!”Ruby practically bellows.
”Ruby is a guest in our home, Nelson.You know what the tradition is.”
Nelson lowers his eyes.
”Are you two going to be okay?”Daniel says.“Or are you going to continue acting like children?”
He wants peace, at any price.He wants Iris to be put at ease, and he wants to be able to go back to the kitchen with her.He signals for them to leave—a little flick ofthe eyes, they are that much in synch—and they both back out ofthe playroom.
In the kitchen, they take their places at the table again.Outside:the crack offalling trees.Again, it seems they are going to lose electric power.Darkness stutters but does not yet pronounce itself.
“Nelson can sometimes be a little rough,”Iris says.
”Really? He always seems so mild and considerate.”
“He is, I really believe he is.But there are times…His father is teaching him how to box, it’s the worst thing he could do.As soon as he gets offthe train Friday night Nelson comes running up to him and Hamp gets into a crouch, like it’s round one.That can’t be good.Nelson needs to be gentled down, not…”
But wherever this line ofconversation is heading, it’s stopped by the huge groaning snap ofanother falling tree and then the flickering ofthe lights.
Iris whimpers, covers her eyes.
”Are you all right?”Daniel asks.
”It kills me.It’s like watching your relatives die.”
He looks at her, amazed.Everything she says makes her more imperative.“I better get Ruby ready and get out ofhere,”he says.“While we still can.”
“You really think it’s safe?”Iris says, her voice showing alarm.
”Then what am I going to do?”he says.
”What can you do?”
Iris takes a small sip ofthe bourbon.It tastes suddenly chemical.And she doesn’t want to get drunk.But shecoulduse a little pat on the be-hind, like the in-flight trainers give the paratroopers.She is amazed by her own rectitude.Frankness is one ofher qualities.Orwas.Six years of Hampton have worn down her confidence.The peculiar degradation of living with a man who won’t say so but whothinksshe is not smart enough for him.It used to be easy with men—just something she could do, like swimming, or being able to sing.It had little to do with beauty, or even sex, it was an affinity, an unconscious knowledge ofwhat they were thinking, what they wanted.She was raised with four brothers, and their fifty friends.Yet here, with Daniel, she cannot get it started.She takes a deep breath, pushes herselfforward.
“I liked the way you jumped up when you heard your kid fall,”
shesays.
“Jumping up when I hear a loud noise is one ofmy talents.”
“I’m serious.Last summer, Nelson was in the backyard playing with his tricycle.He had it upside down and he was spinning the front wheel around and around and throwing little stones into the spokes.He said it was his popcorn machine.”
“I used to do that, the exact same thing.”
“Then somehow he got his fingers caught in the spokes.He was fine, but it hurt and he let out a yell.Hampton was just getting out ofa bath, he’s got this Saturday ritual.”
Daniel envisions him, prone in the tub, his head tilted back and resting on a terry cloth square that had been folded with Japanese precision, his eyes closed, his cock floating on the soapy surface ofthe water, push-ing through the bubbles like a crocodile through lily pads.
“And he just stood there,”Iris is saying.“He heard Nellie screaming.I was in bed, I was sick, and I was calling out to him.He started down the stairs, but when he was halfway down he stopped, turned around, went backto the bathroom, and got his robe.His kid was screaming and he went back for his robe.”
Daniel doesn’t know what he can possibly say.She is comparing Hampton unfavorably to him, she is offering herselfto him, she is saying she is unhappy.
“It just seems to me,”Iris says,“that with your kid screaming the first thing you do is get to the kid, not run in the opposite direction.I got out ofbed—”
“With your robe on?”
“Are you trying to annoy me?”
“No, amuse.”
“It really appalled me.I felt something…”She is going to say either
“close”or“die,”but she says neither.Instead, she asks Daniel,“You wouldn’t have done that, would you? Stopped for your robe with Ruby crying out in the yard.”
He shakes his head No.Then, smiling,“But I’m sort ofan exhibitionist.”
She usually laughs when Daniel jokes, now it seems as ifhe is scrambling to put some distance between them, backing out ofthe whole thing.Chicken,she thinks.She only wants to go forward.And ifhe takes another step back, then she will have to take another step forward.
“You’d think Hampton would be an exhibitionist, too.He’s so proud ofwhohe is.Family and all that terrible stuff.”
“I’m not really an exhibitionist,”Daniel says.
”I know.”
“And I don’t have much ofa family.Two parents who were too old for the job and sort ofgave up on it, no brothers or sisters.”
“Well, to Hampton, family’s everything.His family, that is.You got a taste ofthat, didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t so bad.”
“It wears on you.Those people, maybe you have to be black to really be angry with them.But it’s that bunch ofNeee-groes who look down on everyone else in the community.”She points to herself.
“You?”
“First ofall,”she explains,“too dark.Second, bad hair.”
“You have wonderful hair,”Daniel says.
”You don’t know anything about my hair,”she says, laughing.“I can’t stand when people talk about my hair, especially…Anyhow, myfam-ily wasn’t part oftheir crowd.Hampton’s people are really amazingly provincial.They’re all intertwined with each other, mixed up in each other’s business.My folks had enough money, that wasn’t really a prob-lem.I mean I wasn’t from the projects or anything.My father’s a hospi-tal administrator, my mother taught kindergarten, before arthritis hit her.But I didn’t belong to any ofthe right clubs.I wasnota Girl Friend or a Jack and Jill.I didn’t know shit about Oak Bluffs or Sag Harbor.I think one ofthe things Hamp liked about me was I wasn’t perfect in the eyes ofhis family.I was his little rebellion.A dark-skinned girl, with rude politics.But…youknow.The rebellion runs its little course and slowly but surely he turns into all those people who he swore he’d never be like.He really and truly wishes I was lighter, and I think he feels the same way about Nelson.And the really strange part ofit is Hampton is obsessed with being black, he’s black twenty-four hours a day, it’s all he thinks about.He sort ofdislikes white people, but at the same time he’s like most ofus:He really wants white people to likehim.And that, by the way, is the dirty little secret oftheAfricans inAmerica.We really want y’all to like us.”
The electricity cuts out for about the time ofa long blink, the world disappears, then shakes itselfback into existence.When the lights come back, the digital clock on the stove flashes12:00over and over.Daniel and Iris sit across from each other, silent, waiting to see what will hap-pen next.And then a few moments later, the lights go out, and this time they don’t come back on.This time it’s for good, they both can feel it.
The children cry out upstairs, with more delight than alarm.
“I love you,”Daniel says in the darkness.