Men from Boys

Part One

Hank West, womaniser, inveterate gambler and father of two, died as he had lived. On the edge. A razor passed so smoothly across his throat that he had no idea he’d been murdered.

He left behind a frayed wife, two adolescent sons and many debts. Jack, the elder son, had his father’s dark hair, deep-set eyes and carefree ways. Edward, a year younger, blond and fair, with little definition to his face, resembled no one in particular. Jack had been his father’s favorite. Edward seemed always in his mother’s protective custody.

Distraught, drawing her sons to her, Milly West said, ‘Who will take care of us?’

‘I will,’ Jack said.

Edward said, ‘I’ll help.’

They worked after-school jobs and their mother languished with the knowledge she would not last long. Jack came home late each evening from clearing tables at Lomazzo’s Restaurant, where the waitresses were youngish and married. With a peculiar hush about her, Milly West washed lipstick from his collars.

In private to Edward, she whispered, ‘You’re the younger, but it’s Jack I worry about. You’re the level-headed one. Are you listening, dear?’

Edward nodded, proud of the rating.

Later that evening, still carrying that peculiar hush, she spoke to Jack. ‘You mustn’t think of your father as any kind of hero. When he wasn’t welshing on bets, he was chasing women, breaking up marriages. Others paid for his shenanigans.’

‘Who killed him, Mom?’

‘Could’ve been anybody.’

‘But we should know.’

‘It won’t bring him back.’

Weather permitting, Milly West spent an hour each afternoon talking to her husband’s headstone. On the last afternoon, braving a stiff breeze, she said, ‘I’m not well, Hank. The boys don’t know. Edward suspects but doesn’t say anything. He’s afraid of the truth, and Jack is too much wrapped up in himself to see. He’s so much like you, Hank. That’s not meant as a criticism. It’s just the way you were and he is.’

She glanced away. Visitors to another grave were tidying up the site and lovingly positioning fresh flowers. She guessed they were father and daughter. When she returned her attention to the headstone, she was smiling. ‘Here you are, Hank, lying cold-stone dead in the ground, but in the phone book you’re quite alive and you still get mail. You never believed it, but see, there is life after death.’

The next day her breathing was bad. Feeling an unusual heaviness around her heart, she lay down on the couch, which was where Edward found her.

‘What’s the matter, Mom?’

She looked up at him with a smile so final Edward wanted to cry. She tried to raise her head but couldn’t. No longer able to pump air, she gasped. No longer able to think, she drifted. No longer conscious, she died.

The boys grieved, each in his own way. At the funeral home Jack went out of his way to share memories of his mother. Edward, receiving condolences, was a thin-lipped collection of formalities.

At evening’s end Edward leaned over the casket to give his mother a last look. Touching her chill hand told him the exact temperature of a grave. Jack, who played the piano by ear, could not take his eyes off his mother’s face, the stillness of which suggested a sustained note of music pitched too high for human hearing, though a hound howling wouldn’t have surprised him.

Later in the month Jack, a nonchalant student, graduated from Haverhill High. Edward, a fastidious one, had a year to go. They had no aunts or uncles and no grandparents. Their father had been an orphan and their maternal grandparents were long deceased.

With a hint of panic in his voice, Edward said, ‘We’re on our own.’

‘Sooner or later,’ Jack said, ‘everybody’s on his own. We’re just starting sooner.’

‘I don’t want to quit school.’

‘You don’t have to.’

Jack worked two jobs, at Lomazzo’s and at the Elite Bowling Alley, where he was the evening manager and a favorite among women bowlers, one of whom he had an affair with until her husband threatened him with bodily harm. Jack left Haverhill when Edward received a diploma, along with a scholarship to Bentley School of Accounting.

The brothers shook hands at the train station. Edward said, ‘What if you get killed?’

‘I won’t,’ Jack said and, smiling, boarded the train. ‘Take care, kid.’

Jack spent three years in the army. Truman, then Eisenhower, was in the White House, and American troops were in Korea. Jack, however, spent the bulk of his service in Germany, where his buddies were college-educated draftees who included him in their bull sessions. With them, he sharpened his sense of the ridiculous and agreed that in a very large way soldiering was silly.

To Edward he wrote, ‘No army camp is home, no bunk a bed, and my APO number is not an address. It’s merely where I’m reachable. My uniform is not a suit of clothes. It’s a body badge. It gives me certain privileges, some protection, but no rights.’

To a waitress at Lomazzo’s: ‘I still can’t get used to saluting an officer. It’s pretending the guy’s a god when the odds are he’s a horse’s ass.’

Again to Edward: ‘In the Bahnhof district every woman is available. The young ones are sweet and hard-working. The older ones have spooky eyes and look at you out of layers of makeup. They’re the ones who’ve lost husbands, children, whole families in the war, which to us is just a historical event. They see us as brats worth no more than the military money in our pockets.’

Assigned to a supply depot and given responsibilities and a civilian assistant named Gretchen, Jack began dealing on the black market. Contraband included field jackets and overcoats, field phones and stopwatches, C rations and flashlights, tent stoves and electric pumps, wool blankets and sheets. Gretchen was his accomplice and, on his overnight passes, his bedmate.

To Edward: ‘She’s smart, university-educated, and she speaks five languages and better English than I do. She adored her father, who was captain of a U-boat that lies somewhere at the bottom of the North Sea. Her mother hasn’t been right since and Gretchen is sole support. I think I’m in love, kid.’

Edward wrote back that he had finished up early at Bentley and was working in the accounting department of the Haverhill National Bank. He did not mention that he was courting a co-worker named Marion, who some days seemed interested in him and other days not.

Marion was a year younger but seemed older. Her aloof bearing and the depth of her voice impressed people, Edward most of all. At times her reserve was impenetrable. Over spaghetti at Lomazzo’s, a basket of bread and rolls separating them, he proposed. Moments passed.

‘Did you hear me?’

‘Yes.’ She sprinkled grated cheese over her plate.

‘Well?’

‘My mother says to marry big or not at all.’

‘I plan to make money,’ he said with a sudden sense of himself. ‘A lot of money.’

She twirled spaghetti around her fork, no loose ends. ‘I’m a strong woman, Edward. Can you deal with that?’

‘My mother was strong.’

‘Really.’ She tore bread and buttered a piece. ‘Your brother used to work here, didn’t he?’

‘Yes. Did you know him?’

‘Heard about him. Are you anything like him?’

‘No.’

‘Are you a virgin, Edward?’

He blushed.

‘I thought so. I am too, more or less.’

He looked at her square in the face. ‘Marion, what are your feelings for me?’

‘I’m intrigued. You’re the only person I know whose father was murdered.’

‘That’s it? That’s all?’

‘There must be more. Has to be. Otherwise I’m sure I wouldn’t be here.’

‘Then will you marry me?’

‘I’ll give it thought, Edward.’

They finished their dinner, their dessert, their coffee. When the check arrived, Edward produced a wallet branded with his initials, a birthday gift all the way from Germany. He scrutinised the check and paid it. The tip was a pittance. The waitress gazed down at them.

Marion rose stiffly and walked ahead of him. On the street she spun round. ‘Don’t ever embarrass me again.’

Less than a month before Jack was to return to the United States, he and Gretchen spent a weekend on the Belgian coast. Under a fleet of low-lying clouds they stood on a spit of sand and watched detonating waves diminish the beach. Dropping to one knee, Gretchen clamped a seashell to her ear and claimed she could hear two drowned sailors in quiet conversation.

‘What are they talking about?’ Jack asked with a grin.

She was slow to rise. Her eyes, which had filled, looked newly blue. ‘What it would be like to live and breathe again.’

He guessed the image in her mind. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, taking her hand.

‘You lost yours too.’

‘Your father was a hero. Mine wasn’t.’

Hand in hand, they sauntered back to the hotel. In the small lobby, standing with a cane that twitched under his weight, an old man smiled at them and said something in French.

‘What did he say?’ Jack asked.

‘Ah, to be our age again.’

In their warm room they made love twice, the second time with almost painful tenderness. Then they lay apart but wedded as if by an invisible ampersand. Jack whispered, ‘Have you decided?’

‘I can’t leave my mother, you know that. But it’s good you’re going home. You take too many chances here.’

‘You’ll be all right? Financially?’

‘More than all right.’

‘I’ll come back. I’ll live here, Gretchen. We’ll get married.’

‘Every soldier says that.’

‘But I mean it.’

Nudity made her a pale ghost. ‘I love you, Jack.’

Sergeant stripes on his sleeves, Jack boarded the USS General Blatchford, which sailed out of Bremerhaven and docked eleven days later at Staten Island. Mustered out at Camp Kilmer, he flew from Idlewild to Logan, where he pumped hands with his waiting brother.

‘You’ve gained weight, kid.’

‘You haven’t,’ Edward said.

‘We got different bones.’

‘You got the better ones. Dad’s.’

On the drive to Haverhill Jack said, ‘What kind of car is this?’

‘Pre-war Buick. A-one condition.’

‘Radio work?’ Jack reached over and turned it on. The singer was Dean Martin, the song ‘That’s Amore’.

‘I’m doing good at the bank, Jack.’

‘Knew you would. Good experience for when you come to work for me.’

‘Yuh? What kind of work you talking about?’

‘Haven’t figured it out yet, but I got money. You banked it for me, didn’t you?’

Edward handed over a passbook. ‘Every cent.’

Jack checked the balance. ‘I’m in business, kid. Only time will tell how big.’

Edward drove past Woolworths in downtown Haverhill and cruised up the hill past the Paramount Theater, the courthouse, the high school, with Jack gazing out at each.

‘Good to be back. I missed you, kid.’

‘You seemed to have had a good time over there.’

‘I did.’

‘What about that girl you told me about?’

‘Gretchen? She’s all woman. She’ll keep.’

Edward drove past churches at Monument Square, hooked a left, then a right, and soon pulled up at the tenement house where, ground level, they had lived since boyhood. A light was on in the front window and someone was looking out.

‘Who’s that?’

‘I’ve been waiting to tell you,’ Edward said.

‘So tell me.’

‘I’m married.’

Jack laughed. ‘Now tell me you’re kidding.’

‘Her name’s Marion.’

Jack frowned. ‘You do something like that not even asking me first? I can’t believe it.’

Edward was silent.

Jack’s frown vanished as if never there and his laugh was loud. ‘Congratulations!’

Jack moved back into his old room, which was as he had left it, although Marion may have tidied it a little. The newlyweds had appropriated the marriage bed of Hank and Milly West. Edward, his bedroom converted into an office, supplemented his salary preparing tax returns.

From the start Jack aggravated Marion. When introduced, he had kissed her square on the mouth, a presumption she felt robbed her of rank. He exasperated her when he left his clothes around, and he infuriated her when he knocked on the bathroom door and asked how long she’d be.

In bed with Edward, she said, ‘I don’t like it when he walks around in his skivvies. That’s disrespectful to me.’

‘I’ll speak to him.’

‘You might as well know, I don’t like the way he looks at me. That’s disrespectful to you.’

‘That’s just Jack. He’d never do anything.’

‘Don’t be so sure. Another thing, I hate it when he calls you “kid”. It belittles you.’

‘He’s being affectionate.’

‘I’d call it condescending.’

The following evening she said to Jack, ‘I’m sick of taking phone calls from women. I’m not your messenger.’

Jack, his dark hair slicked back, was dressed to go out. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said with a grin. ‘Jealous?’

She stiffened and glared. ‘You think you’re God’s gift, don’t you?’

‘No, but I’m one hell of a guy. Obviously you’ve noticed.’

A deep whisper. ‘You prick.’

‘Ah, there’s the real Marion,’ he said. ‘Has Edward met her yet?’

A few days later Edward said to Jack, ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Don’t say another word. I’m moving out tomorrow.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘I already have another place. Not to worry, kid. I still love you.’

He moved to Haverhill’s Bradford section, into a furnished flat on the first floor of the Bradford Manor. A nice neighborhood. A great address for his business card, his business unspecified, for he was still looking for one.

Evenings, when he wasn’t with a woman, he was drinking at the bar in the Hotel Whittier, where the regulars were World War Two veterans with past glories and limited futures. Some had known his father. Chuckie, whose face showed the clawmarks of time, said, ‘You’re the spit’n’ image of him. Shame what happened to him.’

Jack, tasting his bourbon, said nothing.

‘He’s in a better place,’ Chuckie pronounced, and others agreed.

Jack lit a cigarette. ‘What makes you think so?’

‘I figure he bluffed his way into heaven and right away asked for the best accommodations.’

‘Here, here!’ someone shouted from the end of the bar.

‘Who killed him, Chuckie?’

‘I could name a dozen guys might’ve. Who’s to say?’ Chuckie downed a shot of rye. ‘Make sure what happened to him, Jack, doesn’t happen to you.’

The Whittier was kitty-corner from the post office, where Jack posted his letters to Gretchen. In a hurried hand he told her he missed her mightily and hungered to be with her again, without giving any indication when that might be. He asked about the condition of Billie Holiday records he had left behind and in a postscript told her he was putting money into real estate.

Gretchen wrote unhurried letters without mentioning the stress from his departure and her sense of disconnection from much that was around her, especially at the supply depot. She merely mentioned that her ear for languages had landed her a job with her own government. She and her mother were moving to Bonn. Her letters ended with ‘X’s for kisses.

A year passed before she scheduled a transatlantic call to him. The time difference made her evening his afternoon. She said, ‘I miss you, Jack.’

‘I miss you, too.’

She hesitated. ‘Have you met someone?’

He had met many women, none who counted. He said, ‘No.’

Again she hesitated. ‘Should I wait?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

His business card now listed him as a real-estate manager, though his sister-in-law called him a slumlord, for his rental properties were three-deckers verging on disrepair. His brother, who kept his books, defended him, but Marion would have none of it.

‘Slumlord is what I said and slumlord is what I meant.’ The three of them were eating at Lomazzo’s. Her eyes went from Edward to Jack. ‘You’ve had code violations. It was in the paper.’

‘He’s taken care of it,’ Edward said.

With a smile, Jack said, ‘You don’t like me, do you, Marion?’

‘I don’t like your ways.’

Edward said, ‘We’re all family. So let’s enjoy the meal.’

‘Pass the Parmesan,’ Jack said, and Marion did so with a grimace. He winked at her. ‘You oughta loosen up.’

‘Don’t tell me what I ought to do.’

‘Let’s not fight,’ Edward said.

Jack kept his eyes on her. ‘How long you been married?’

She raised her chin. ‘Figure it out yourself.’

‘Time you got pregnant, isn’t it?’

She started to speak, stopped and placed her napkin beside her plate. Rising stiffly, she peered down at her husband. ‘I’ll wait for you in the car.’ Then she was gone.

‘Jesus, Jack, that’s a sore subject.’

‘Sorry, kid. I didn’t know.’

‘I can’t stay.’

Jack watched Edward stumble away and then returned to his dinner. A warm feeling came over him when a married waitress from the old days paused to chat, a hand high on her hip, the honest smell from her underarm endearing to him.

Edward joined his wife in the car. He spoke, but Marion did not respond until they were halfway home. Staring straight ahead, she said, ‘Don’t ever take his side against me again.’

‘I didn’t know I did.’

She stiffened into another silence, which lasted until they were home and slipping into bed, where Edward kept his distance, his eyes wide open in the dark. ‘Do you have anything to say?’ she asked.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘He’s your brother, but it’s not like you owe him anything.’

‘He pays me well for the work I do for him.’

‘He should, you’re a good accountant. You have a future. He’s never going to be anything but a slumlord.’

‘You don’t know Jack,’ he wanted to say but kept quiet. He knew the Jack she didn’t, the Jack who had looked out for him and never let anyone bully him. Now he was out of Jack’s hands and in Marion’s.

Marion said, ‘What day is this?’

‘Thursday.’

‘If you want intercourse, I don’t mind.’

Among Hungarian refugees trickling into Haverhill and occupying tenements owned by Jack were a plumber, an electrician and a clever handyman, each a godsend. Jack hired them at rates advantageous to him, paid them under the table and began buying more properties. The bank liked the way he did business and readily financed him. At the same time he began investing in electronics companies, especially those started along Route 128 by MIT grads.

At the Whittier bar Chuckie said, ‘Whatcha doin’, Jacko, buying up all of Haverhill?’

Someone else said, ‘What d’you think of the Russkies flyin’ Sputniks over our heads? Ike should shoot ’em down.’

‘We do that,’ Jack said, ‘you guys might be fighting World War Two all over again.’

‘Hey, I’d do it, they raised me in rank.’

Chuckie said, ‘You still got a gal in Germany waitin’ for you, Jacko?’

‘I guess you could say that,’ Jack said. ‘She’s on hold.’

His letters to Gretchen were fragments and hers were less frequent. At the start of the new year she wrote, ‘I feel naked. Writing is so personal, the mind exposing its wiring. How long have you been gone, Jack? Long enough to be a ghost?’

‘I’m not a ghost,’ he wrote back. ‘Give me a little more time.’

In April she wrote, ‘Time mocks us. The Swiss knew that when they added a cuckoo to the clock.’ He chose to read little into that. Elsewhere in the letter she wrote, ‘We desperately want to believe in the Cartesian split. It doubles our value.’ He didn’t know what the hell she was talking about and didn’t ask.

He almost skipped the postscript, then glanced at it. ‘How much of the world is womb? All of it, do you suppose?’ He wondered whether she was herself.

He did not hear from her again until late August. ‘My mother died Tuesday. The funeral was yesterday. Seeing her off, I realised death is the ultimate privacy. There was no way I could talk to her. I wonder, Jack, do the dead know they’re gone?’

He immediately arranged for a transatlantic call. Two hours later he heard her voice and said, ‘Why didn’t you call me? I’d have flown right over.’

‘I didn’t see the need. I knew a long time ago you were never coming back.’

‘Come here,’ he said after a moment. ‘Come to the States. Please, Gretchen.’

‘I think it’s too late for anything like that, don’t you?’

‘It doesn’t have to be. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘What would that be, Jack?’

‘I don’t know.’ He was frustrated. ‘What’s the problem?’

She was silent for so long he was uncertain she was still on the line. Then she spoke. ‘Me, Jack. I’m the problem.’

He didn’t understand and wasn’t sure he wanted to. He told her he’d get back to her and he meant to. But he never did.

Jack joined the Rotary Club, lunched at Lomazzo’s with people from city hall and accompanied a Haverhill delegation to Boston to shake hands with presidential candidate John F. Kennedy. He bet his brother, a Nixon supporter, fifty dollars that Kennedy would win. Close with money and cautious by nature, Edward lowered the bet to twenty-five.

At this time Jack began buying dilapidated downtown properties at auction, which Edward considered unwise speculation. A few years later President Kennedy was dead and Jack reported sizeable profits from properties taken over by the Haverhill Redevelopment Authority.

‘Okay, you were right, I was wrong,’ Edward said. Part of the breakfast crowd, they were in a booth in the Presto Diner, below the railway bridge. The 7.20 to Boston rumbled overhead. ‘Unless you knew something I didn’t.’

Jack blew smoke from a Pall Mall. ‘When you hang around the right people, you hear things.’

Edward batted away the smoke. ‘That your secret?’

‘Little bit more to it than that, kid.’

‘Do me a favor, Jack. Don’t call me kid any more. Marion doesn’t like it. Tell the truth, I don’t either.’

‘Right. Sorry. You’re a man of means.’

Edward had on a new suit, one that now fit him. Rich food had extended his waistline. With Jack’s backing and in a building Jack owned, he had left the bank and opened an accounting office.

Jack snuffed out his cigarette.

Edward exaggerated a cough. ‘Thank God.’ Then he said, ‘Why can’t you and Marion be friends?’

‘Beats the hell out of me. Better ask her.’

‘Maybe if you made the effort. If you were a little polite instead of always trying to get a rise out of her.’

‘When she puts on that long face and looks down her nose at me, what am I supposed to do? Genuflect? That’s your job, kid.’

The waitress freshened Jack’s coffee. He plucked up the morning paper, which had lain unread near his elbow. Weeks had passed since Dallas, but Kennedy still dominated the news.

Sudden tears in his eyes, Jack tossed the paper aside. ‘I wish you had won the bet. Then he’d still be alive.’

‘I never felt the way you did about him,’ Edward said sullenly. ‘He was not a good president.’

‘He had style. Style, kid. That’s what he had.’

‘So did Dad. But that didn’t make him a good husband, did it?’

‘Didn’t make him a bad one. I was closer to Dad than you were, so maybe I knew him better.’

‘And maybe you didn’t know him at all. Mom told me things she never told you, the stuff he put her through. You want to hear some of it?’

‘What’s done is done.’

Edward was almost smiling. ‘You never wanted to know. That’s because you were his son, I was hers. Why don’t you admit Dad got what he deserved?’

‘Keep your voice down. Don’t embarrass us.’

‘You’re just like him. You’re all show, and you think you’re the cat’s miaow. Marion read you in a minute.’

Jack motioned for the check.

Edward’s smile was perceptible. ‘You still pretending you don’t know who killed him?’

‘I guess I always knew that,’ Jack said quietly. ‘What I don’t know is whether you helped her.’

‘I’ll let you guess about that.’ Edward reached for the check. ‘This is on me.’

At Marion’s urging, Edward bought a house on a residential street abutting Bradford Junior College, and Marion joined the Young Women’s Republican Club of Greater Haverhill, faithfully attended the luncheon meetings and chaired one of the more visible committees. Her schedule was full. She took tennis lessons, participated in a new kind of exercise called aerobics and attended a book discussion group.

‘You open a book, you open a door. Consider that a word to the wise, Edward.’

Edward worked twelve hours a day, more during tax time. He had added to his staff, moved to a larger office in his brother’s building and was annoyed when Jack began charging him rent, which Marion maintained was a move to get back at her. She believed she was the cause of the brothers’ unexpected coolness toward each other.

In the evening Edward stretched out to watch TV. His favorite programs, during which he usually dozed off, were Andy Griffith, Hogan’s Heroes and Bewitched. Marion occasionally watched the news, though she angrily shut it off when footage showed hippies and the like protesting the war in South-east Asia, some by torching the American flag.

When tax season was over, Edward reluctantly consented to a short vacation. They flew to Aruba, checked into an extravagant hotel, feasted on ocean delicacies in one of the three dining rooms and spent hours on the beach, where they sipped alcoholic fruit drinks and took in the sunstruck sights, which included mature women with bare breasts. Edward was shocked.

‘Don’t be so provincial,’ Marion murmured from behind outsize sunglasses. She was reading The Valley of the Dolls, a finger poised at the edge of the page.

‘I’m trying not to look,’ he said.

‘Look all you want. Just don’t gawk.’

‘You’d think they’d be embarrassed.’

‘They’re European.’

Edward squinted. ‘How do you know?’

‘They don’t worry about carrying an extra pound. And they don’t shave under their arms.’

‘I don’t find that attractive.’

Putting the book aside, she glanced at him. ‘You’d better rub more stuff on. You’re starting to burn again.’

‘I hate the smell of the stuff.’

‘Do it anyway.’

He squirted lotion from a flask, applied it to the top of his hot shoulders and dropped back to doze off. Marion stretched her legs, her lengthy body well-oiled, her navel a minnow afloat in sweat. In passing, a French-speaking couple smiled appraisingly, which enlarged her sense of herself. A while later she and a muscular man with a close beard stared fully at each other in a shared moment of sensuality. Had Edward not been there, she’d have chatted with him.

Waking, Edward rubbed his eyes, glanced over at her and was aghast. ‘What have you done?’ In a panic, he searched here, there, for the top of her bathing suit. ‘Where is it?’ he demanded.

‘Edward, relax!’

‘How long has it been off?’

‘Five minutes? Ten? What difference does it make?’

‘For me, please. Cover up.’

‘Do you see something wrong with them?’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘What is the point?’

‘You’re not European.’

She slipped a hand behind her head, giving herself more relevance. Stubble shadowed her underarm. ‘Pretend I am.’

‘You’re my wife.’

‘Pretend I’m not,’ she said with a smile and retrieved the top of her bathing suit.

‘Thank God,’ he murmured.

She was glad he didn’t follow her down to the wet sand, where she stood somewhat majestically to welcome any eyes that might be on her. The gentle lap of waves gave her the sensation of someone breathing on her ankles. At home she fancied herself an artificial flower waiting to be real, but here the fancy was fact. She returned to Edward.

‘What were you doing?’ he asked.

‘Getting my feet kissed.’ She reached for her robe and tote bag. ‘Shall we?’

During the short walk back to the hotel Edward was sullen, as if his honor had been sorely tested and his dignity lessened, but in their room he turned contrite. ‘Marion, I’m sorry. I guess I just don’t understand what was going on back there.’

‘You should’ve been proud, not humiliated.’ She stood with her robe open. ‘Look at me, Edward. I’m in great shape, the best I’ll ever be in. Why shouldn’t I show off?’

With a half-nod, he sort of agreed.

She shucked her robe and both pieces of her bathing suit and posed. ‘So what do you think, Edward?’

He shivered. ‘You know what I think.’

‘Then let’s.’

‘Now? We’re all greasy.’

‘So what?’

On the bed, fully engaged, slipping and sliding, she was all squishy arms and legs, while he, all frantic thrust and thump, tried to dig in, maintain a balance, lengthen his presence. At one point he pitched to one side. ‘Stay with it,’ she urged as he tried hard not to flounder. ‘Go faster,’ she commanded.

Instead he paused. ‘Are you pretending I’m somebody else?’ he asked.

‘Do you mind?’

‘Is it Jack?’

‘He should be so lucky.’

With new resolve, he reasserted himself and held his place with the aid of her determined leg lock. Resuming his pace, he soon quickened it into what became a race where the winner would receive roses and kisses everywhere. In the fantasy he outdistanced all others, even himself.

Two days later they returned to Haverhill, Marion with a glorious tan, Edward with a sunburn, for which he consulted a doctor, who told him he should have known better and would have to suffer through it.

The telephone rang Sunday morning and woke Jack West and the young woman beside him. He reached over her, picked up the receiver and instantly recognised the voice on the other end. ‘Gretchen!’ he said. She wasn’t calling from Germany but from New York. ‘What are you doing in the States?’

The young woman slid out of bed, found something to slip on and with a look of understanding left the room.

Jack spoke into the phone. ‘Is something wrong?... I can’t hear you... Yes, of course I can. The Algonquin? I’ll catch a shuttle out of Boston... Gretchen, this is a wonderful surprise... What? Yes. See you in a few hours.’

The young woman lay in the embrace of hot bathwater. Looking in on her, he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You know I don’t demand anything from you.’

He knelt by the tub and sponged her shoulders. ‘It’s someone I knew a long time ago.’

She looked up with near-sighted blue eyes. ‘You don’t have to explain. I’ll be out of the tub in a minute.’

He rose. ‘I’ll make it up to you, Sally.’

‘You don’t owe me a thing.’

Recklessly weaving in and out of lanes on Route lA, he sped to Logan in record time. Inside the terminal he strode toward the ticket booth as if he were back in the army with a sergeant’s Hup! Hup! keeping him in step. No delays. A shuttle got him to LaGuardia within the hour and a taxi delivered him to the Algonquin. The desk clerk rang Gretchen’s room. Jack expected to go up, but she came down, stepping from the elevator with her hair shorter than he remembered, her face thinner, her whole appearance altered in some subtle way that disquieted him.

‘Gretchen.’

He wanted to kiss her but managed only to brush her cheek when she moved her head. Suddenly he felt like a stranger.

‘Hello, Jack.’

In the oak-paneled lounge, warm with voices, they sat in cushiony chairs at a small table.

She smiled. ‘You haven’t changed much. Still the handsome American.’

‘It’s been too long,’ he said, and she seemed to nod. A waiter brought drinks, cognac for her, bourbon for him, which he needed. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’

‘What would that be, Jack?’

‘Maybe you’ll tell me.’

She tasted the cognac. ‘I always wanted to see the Algonquin. I’m a fan of Dorothy Parker.’

The name meant nothing to him. He said, ‘Are you ill?’

She glanced toward other tables, as if seeking faces of celebrities, interesting candidates available. A man whose gaunt good looks emanated an introspective air. An elegantly dressed woman who seemed a careful copy of an actress long dead.

‘How bad?’ Jack asked.

‘How bad does it have to be?’

‘You’re not telling me anything. Am I supposed to guess?’

‘That would be asking too much. I have something to show you.’ She extracted a small photograph from her bag, passed it over and watched his expression slowly tighten. ‘Is there any doubt?’ she asked.

‘How old is she?’

‘Do the arithmetic.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t want you marrying me for only that reason and I knew you would have.’

He held on to the photo. It was precious and his now, and he continued to stare at it.

‘Actually she’s all you, isn’t she, Jack? Physically, damn little of me.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Elsa. After my mother.’

Jack snared the waiter’s eye. He wanted another bourbon and was silent until it arrived. ‘Why did you wait till now to tell me?’

‘I want you to acknowledge she’s yours and I want you to adopt her. A lawyer here in the city has the papers for you to sign. Your State Department has made it possible.’

‘The State Department, that’s pretty high level. What’s going on, Gretchen?’

She smiled ruefully. ‘After you left, your intelligence people pulled me in. They knew about the black-marketing and held it over me. We both could’ve been prosecuted, but they gave me an option. While working for my government I went back on the payroll with yours.’

‘You’re a spy?’

‘What’s the harm? We’re all on the same side against Communism, except Uncle Sam is paranoid and trusts nobody.’

He continued to stare at the photo, somewhat in wonder.

‘I’ve never hidden you from her, Jack. She has a picture of you in your soldier suit and she’s always known that some day she’d meet you.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Private school. Switzerland.’

‘When do I sign the papers?’

She touched his hand. ‘Tomorrow at ten.’

They moved from the lounge to the dining room for early dinner, though neither seemed particularly hungry. Gretchen drank table wine with her Dover sole, which she didn’t finish.

Jack scarcely touched his filet mignon but consumed another bourbon. The waiter asked if everything was satisfactory, and Jack nodded and ordered coffee. To Gretchen, he said, ‘Are you in any danger?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Then it’s your health.’

She shrugged. ‘Nobody talks about cancer. So why should I?’

He was slow to speak. ‘Incurable?’

‘That’s what they say. I can’t give you the exact day or week, Jack, but I’m told I don’t have long.’

He was shaking. When the coffee arrived, he wanted to order another bourbon, but Gretchen whispered, ‘Please. Don’t.’

He stirred his coffee, though he had added nothing to it. Looking her full in the face, he said, ‘I’m scared.’

‘I know the feeling. I’ve gotten past it.’

‘I don’t know if I can.’

She made him stop stirring his coffee. ‘You’ll have to learn, Jack. You’ll have to grow up.’

‘You were always the more mature one, I remember that. You took care of me.’

‘You were such a boy. But a lovable one.’

‘And now I find out that after I left, you took the fall for us both.’

She consulted her watch, Swiss-made, one he had bought at the PX in Frankfurt. Her twenty-third birthday. He had thought her younger. ‘I’ve booked you a room,’ she said, and his eyes showed his dismay.

‘Why can’t we share yours?’

‘I’m not the same woman, Jack. I don’t have the same body. I may not even have the same soul.’

‘Pretend we’re old and gray. We’ll just hold each other.’

When she did not respond, he said, ‘Please.’

The room was small, the bed big. A low light was left burning because Gretchen did not like the dark, though he did not remember it a problem in the past. Her head lay snugged in the crook of his arm. Her hair smelled of hotel soap.

‘Marry me,’ he whispered.

‘Too late, Liebling.’

‘You never taught me German.’

‘You never took the time to learn. You Americans expect everybody to speak English. Incidentally, your daughter speaks three languages, yours included.’

‘When do I see her?’

‘Arrangements have been made for her to come to you after the school year. I’ve written all the details out for you. Promise me you’ll always look after her.’

‘I swear.’

Her hand touched his cheek. ‘I love you, Jack. I always have, and I don’t trust any Americans, except you.’

‘I’ve never known you to be cynical.’

‘After what happened in Dallas, I thought the world would blow up. The assassination reeked of conspiracy.’

‘I have too much on my mind to be bothered with that.’ His free arm drew her closer and tightened, as if never to release her.

She squirmed. ‘You’re hurting me, Jack.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m glad my mother went first. It wouldn’t have been right if I had.’ She stretched her legs against his. ‘You can turn the light out now. I feel safe.’

The morning was mild and brought with it the first tender leaves of spring, and the sudden appearance of a monarch that fluttered near Jack. He and the young woman stood outside a stately brick house on South Main Street, not far from his flat at the Bradford Manor. He was in the process of buying it, the papers soon to be signed. The young woman was surprised.

‘Why all this?’ she asked. ‘Must be at least a dozen rooms in there.’

‘You know why.’ He had told her about his daughter and in the next breath had asked her to marry him. Now he was asking again. ‘Please, look at me.’ Then he noticed that something was different. ‘Why aren’t you wearing glasses?’

‘Men don’t make passes at girls who do. Dorothy Parker said that.’

The mention of the name brought him up short. Where had he heard it before and why did it give him a chill? He said, ‘I’m well off, Sally. You’d never have to worry.’

‘I know that.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’

‘I know you don’t love me.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘What you want, Jack, is a mother for your daughter. What is she — twelve, thirteen? I’m only seven years older.’

From tall shrubs came the berserk squawk of a jay. ‘You’d be like a big sister. And we’d have children of our own.’ As they approached the shrubs, the jay flew away. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘I seem to need you to tell me.’ They passed a rose bush awaiting bloom. ‘Tell me about her, Jack. Am I anything like her?’

‘Who?’

‘Gretchen.’

Something clicked. Stopping in his tracks, he asked, ‘Who’s Dorothy Parker?’

‘She died recently. She was a brilliant woman.’

‘So was Gretchen.’

They waited in the parlor of the Methodist minister who was to marry them. Sally wore a pearl choker Jack had bought her and a satiny blue dress on which he had fastened a corsage. He had on a three-piece suit with a boutonnière. Leaning toward her, he whispered, ‘I’ll be a good husband, I promise.’

‘I know you will, Jack, and I love you.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘Where the hell are they?’

The witnesses were late, Marion’s fault, but they were on their way, though at the moment they were waiting for the lights to change.

Edward drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Come on, come on,’ he said, and red turned green as if so ordered.

Marion shook her head. ‘I still say she’s too young for him.’

‘It’s not that much of a difference. What’s ten or so years?’

She removed a mirror from her purse and checked her face. ‘And tell me something, Edward, how does he know that kid in Switzerland is his?’

‘He showed me her picture. Couldn’t be anybody else’s.’

Marion impatiently shook her head. ‘How gullible you men are. Over in Germany with all the GI’s, you know what the women must have been like.’

‘How would I know? I wasn’t there.’

‘Why not, Edward?’ She tucked away the mirror and viewed him suspiciously. ‘Shouldn’t you have been in the army?’

‘I had a college deferment. Then I married you.’

‘Your lucky day.’

The minister was waiting for them at the door and accepted Marion’s apology while Edward took the blame. In the parlor the minister arranged Jack and Sally in their places and Edward and Marion in theirs, and suddenly the air became solemn, the surroundings sacrosanct. The ceremony was the short version, which seemed to please Marion. The jewel-encrusted wedding band Jack fitted on Sally’s finger impressed the minister, who in a resonating voice pronounced them man and wife.

Jack gave the bride a tender kiss and Edward followed with one on her cheek. Marion embraced her and kissed Jack on the mouth, so quickly he didn’t have time to react.

At the curbing outside the minister’s house she and Edward waved goodbye to the newlyweds, who were leaving in Jack’s white Impala convertible with red leather upholstery and dual exhausts.

Marion made a face. ‘In that car he must think he’s still a kid. Did you see the gaudy ring he put on her finger? He must’ve paid plenty.’

‘He always does.’

‘You’re his accountant. How much is he worth?’

‘That’s privileged, Marion, but his blue chips include Coca-Cola, Gillette, and Wells Fargo.’

‘Maybe I should’ve married him, not you.’

‘I’m doing all right.’

‘You’re doing fine, sweetheart. And you’ll do even better.’

Destination Logan Airport, Jack drove in the slow lane of Route lA with one hand on the wheel and his free arm round Sally. The roof was raised and the radio was tuned to a music station she had chosen. Her taste ran to rock while his remained loyal to the signature songs of Sinatra.

‘I like him,’ she said. ‘Maybe in time I’ll learn to like him more.’

‘I’ll give you all the time in the world.’

Their honeymoon plans, a Caribbean cruise, mandated a flight to Miami. Jack now had serious second thoughts.

‘What if we went to New York City instead? Would you like that? We can stay at a great hotel and have breakfast in bed. We can catch a musical, see Ethel Merman. Ever see Yankee Stadium? We can do that.’

‘You’ve already paid for the cruise.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Do you like Peggy Lee? We can find out what club she’s singing at and go there. You look a little like her, did you know that?’

‘With or without my glasses?’

‘Makes no difference.’

‘How do we get there?’

‘We’ll drive.’

‘I can’t keep up with you, Jack.’

He didn’t hear her. He was looking for a way to get off Route 1A, to reach the Massachusetts Turnpike, a map already in his mind. Without thinking, he switched the radio from her station to his and then caught himself.

‘It’s all right,’ she said and listened to Andy Williams crooning ‘Moon River’.

‘Sinatra’s Tiffany,’ Jack said. ‘This guy’s Woolworth’s.’

‘Do you think it will work for us, Jack? I so much want it to.’

‘How can it not?’

‘I’m afraid of your sister-in-law. I saw the way she kissed you.’

‘Marion likes to cause trouble. Don’t worry, Sal. She doesn’t stand a chance.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

Under an untroubled sky and bursts of sunlight, they reached the Turnpike sooner than expected. Sinatra was singing ‘Deep in a Dream’. Jack swayed his head. ‘Lovely, lovely,’ he said. The toll plaza loomed. ‘Damn, I’ve got only hundred-dollar bills. You got anything small?’

She picked through her purse. ‘Nickels, that’s all. Jack, what are you doing?’ He sped past a tollbooth without paying.

‘Jack, you shouldn’t have done that!’

Three miles down the Pike a state trooper, with siren shrieking and dome light flashing, caught up to them. The trooper, who was young and wore his visored cap in rigid military fashion, took his time stepping out of the cruiser and much more time ambling to and around the Impala. After giving Sally an insinuating once-over, he said to Jack, ‘Forget something back there, asshole?’

Jack stiffened. ‘What would that be, fuckface?’

The trooper reddened in the instant, drew his revolver and shot Jack in the throat. Then he shot Sally, but she, unlike Jack, lived to testify against him.

Part Two

On a sunlit pathway in the Common an old man bore his weight on a cane at every other step. Abruptly he stopped, stood straight and lifted the cane like a baton. The Boston Symphony Orchestra appeared full-blown before him, began to play resoundingly and continued even after the old man lowered the cane, opened his trousers and began to wet on the margin of the pathway. The slender dark-haired woman seated on a nearby bench noticed that the man resembled her uncle. Here her dream ended.

‘What do you make of it?’ she asked Dr Wall, whose dense hair capped a large head stuffed with other people’s secrets, including some of hers.

‘You tell me,’ he said, as if all dreams, hers in particular, were self-evident.

‘The obvious, I suppose. All that stuff I told you about. I was only a girl when I came to this country.’

Dr Wall’s large eyes regarded her from shallow sockets. ‘How old are you, Elsa?’

‘You know how old I am. I’ll be thirty soon.’

‘Does that scare you?’

‘Why should it?’

‘You’re not a girl any more. You’re a mature woman, but you may not think like one. That could be a real problem. Is it, Elsa?’

‘I’m paying you to tell me my problem, assuming I have one. Do I?’

‘Since you’re here, I presume you do, but I defer to your judgement. I certainly don’t want to take your money under false pretences.’

She went silent and Dr Wall held his breath, for her visits meant much to him. Finally she said, ‘I’m being unfair to you, aren’t I? Forgive me.’

He let out his breath, visibly relaxed and remembered her first visit to his office. She looked younger than her years and could have been a college girl groping for eternal truths. The fall of her dark hair and the slimness of her figure entranced him. The father of three, he had conceived a fourth with his second wife in his arms and Elsa in his head.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Well, what?’

‘Do you forgive me?’

‘Nothing to forgive.’ He doodled on a yellow notepad while considering his next question. ‘How are you getting along with your aunt?’

‘She’s not my aunt by blood — and I see little of her.’

‘Is that the way you want it?’

‘It pleases us both.’

‘But does that please your uncle?’

‘Money pleases my uncle. I doubt very much my aunt does, though there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her.’

‘Does that disturb you?’

‘My life disturbs me, Doctor. That’s why I’m here. You’re supposed to straighten me out.’

Dr Wall drew a small heart, which became a face when he added eyes, a nose and a smile. He had named his youngest child Eloise and had her picture on his desk. He said, ‘Do you feel we’re making progress?’

‘Progress is a buzzword. Everything is buzz in this silly country. A movie actor for a president — you Americans aren’t real.’

‘What does that say about you, Elsa?’

‘I’m not an American.’

‘Your father was.’

‘My father was a bedtime story. Mostly he was made up and now he’s just a rumor.’

‘I remember your telling me you loved him.’

‘Surely I was fantasising. You must’ve seen that.’

Dr Wall doodled an oval into a face, minus the smile.

‘How are you doing, Elsa? Are you in a relationship?’

‘That’s off limits. I no longer discuss that with you, Doctor.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Why not?’

‘You’re in love with me. And that makes me nervous.’

He kept his composure, though his hand holding the pencil trembled. ‘And what brought you to that conclusion?’

‘It’s obvious.’

‘Not to me, I’m afraid,’ he said and attempted a patronising smile, which she countered with a thin one.

‘Am I embarrassing you, Doctor? Or should I call you Harvey now?’

‘That wouldn’t be entirely appropriate. Are you trying to embarrass me?’

‘No, Doctor, merely trying to take control of my life. I’ve never actually had it.’

He viewed the wall clock with opposing emotions. Her time with him had ticked away. ‘Same time next week?’

She shrugged. ‘Sure. Why change things now?’

His pencil hand still trembling, he watched her rise from the depth of her chair. Her blouse was blue, her skirt small. When she reached the door, he blurted out, ‘Elsa!’

Surprised, she glanced back at him. ‘What?’

‘It’s true. I am in love with you.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, opening the door, ‘your secret is safe.’

A taxi bore Elsa through Boston traffic to the steel and glass of the office tower where her uncle’s lawyer was a partner in a venerable Yankee firm. He was also a family friend and Marion’s confidant, though not always a trusted one. When Elsa was a girl he was Uncle Bob. Now he was Robert.

Robert, though busy, sent word that he would see her shortly. Waiting in plush surroundings, Elle and Vogue at her elbow, she was served coffee in bone china and scones on a crystal dish, and supplied with a napkin of Irish linen. Distant doors opened and closed. Men in tailored gray came and went. Two senior partners emerged from an elevator and in passing smiled at her. With her legs crossed and her skirt riding up, she felt like a racy magazine among sober volumes.

She had polished off the scones when a chic young woman briskly approached. ‘Your uncle apologises for keeping you waiting. He shouldn’t be much longer.’

‘He’s not my uncle,’ Elsa said. ‘Not any more.’

‘Would you like more scones?’ the young woman asked quickly.

‘No, thank you.’

Twenty minutes later she was shown into Robert’s expansive office of carved mahogany, glints of copper and brass, and paintings of hunting scenes. A figure rising from behind a massive desk was silhouetted against a skyview of glass. A tailored length of manners and charm, Robert glided toward her with what Elsa saw as his ecclesiastical air.

‘I feel like I’m being granted an audience. Do you have a ring for me to kiss?’

‘You haven’t changed, Elsa.’

She smiled into a precise face made more precise by round steel-rimmed glasses. His graying hair had a boyish cut. ‘Nor you, Robert. Had you chosen the church, you’d be a bishop now, at least.’

He chose to ignore that. ‘You look wonderful.’

‘I knew you’d say that.’

‘Then I’m glad I did.’

He guided her to a sitting area, where they sat in opposing wing chairs, she with her hands on her knees, as if she were thirteen again and listening to Robert summarise the legal document that made her real uncle her guardian.

‘What can I do for you, Elsa?’

‘How wealthy am I?’

He smiled. ‘You’re well off, you know that.’

‘How well off?’

‘Your uncle and I would need to sit down to figure it out. What’s the problem, Elsa?’

‘I think Uncle Edward has been stealing from me.’

He inclined his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

She spoke rapidly, the words rehearsed. Investment accounts she’d thought solvent were not, certain stocks had been sold without her knowledge and money her mother had left her was unaccounted for. She appreciated the record settlement Robert had negotiated for her father’s wrongful death, but where had Uncle Edward invested it? Too much was up in the air.

Robert gave her a quiet look of dismay. ‘Your uncle would never cheat you. He moves money around to keep it safe, his and yours. Besides, I look after your interests.’

‘You look after his, not mine.’

‘They’re one and the same. Your uncle has always protected you, seen to your needs, your education. You’ve wanted for nothing.’

‘I think he’s forged my name to documents.’

‘That’s absurd.’

‘I think the two of you are in it together. Or do I mean the three of you?’

Robert sighed heavily. ‘I was wondering when you’d bring Marion into the mix. Can’t you get over that? You’re a big girl now.’

Her voice went cold. ‘That’s what you told me when I turned sixteen.’

‘You’ve never forgiven me, have you, Elsa?’

‘You once informed me I had nothing to forgive.’

‘And I was right,’ he said, his demeanor airtight. His armor was his suit, staid, boardroom.

‘I plan to get my own lawyer,’ Elsa said.

Nothing changed in his face. ‘Why?’

‘I’m taking a stand.’

‘Against whom?’

‘All of you.’

He rose smoothly from his chair, which told her the audience was over. On her feet, she needed a moment to maintain her balance. In one of the hunting scenes, hounds circling a wild boar appeared rabid. Robert walked her to the door.

‘I understand you’re seeing a psychiatrist.’

She threw him a look. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I see your checks.’

‘I didn’t know you went through them.’

‘I browse.’

Opening the door, he stood by it. He was now fully his legal self, cool-brained, his mistakes few if any. Elsa looked into baffling blue eyes that expressed only ambiguities. ‘I expected more from you,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I loved you, Robert.’

‘I’m sorry about that too.’

A taxi took her through the heart of the city, through the crush of Kenmore Square, where traffic sounded like the Boston Symphony tuning up, and into Brookline to a shady side street and a brick house that rose unexpectedly above great growths of rhododendron and flowering pink almond. In the driveway a pigeon swirled up like a package coming apart. Elsa said to the driver, ‘I used to live here.’

The driver, appreciative of the generous tip, said, ‘That must’ve been grand.’

Approaching the front door, she heard Marion playing the piano, not very well, with a tendency to pound the keys. The playing stopped when Elsa rang the bell.

Marion seemed not at all surprised to see her. ‘Come in, dear.’ They sat in the sun room, by far the cheeriest room in the house, Elsa’s favorite when she had lived there. Marion had a full-time maid now. The maid served tea and crustless sandwiches. ‘Thank you, dear,’ Marion said in the same tone she had greeted Elsa. Now in her fifties, Marion still had her looks, her figure and her inflated sense of self, which, in Elsa’s estimation, rivaled Robert’s.

Left to themselves, Elsa said, ‘How long have you had her?’

‘Juana? More than a month. She has many rough edges, but I’m smoothing them.’

‘She’s pretty.’

‘Very.’ Marion took a deliberate sip of tea. ‘Are you still writing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything published?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Pity. With your Wellesley education, you’d think you’d be in print by now. Perhaps you should self-publish.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Elsa said.

‘Up to you, dear. Have you found a suitable man yet? I heard you have.’

‘I know your tricks, Marion. You’re fishing, pretending you know something you don’t.’

‘Do you really think I’m that devious?’

Elsa finished off a half-sandwich and, reaching for another, smiled. ‘Yes.’

‘We’ve had our differences, but don’t you think it’s time we put them aside? I certainly do.’

Elsa poured herself more tea. ‘I’m not that scared and timid girl any more, Marion. Or that gullible young woman. I’m finally taking charge of myself.’ She lifted her teacup. ‘Why are you staring at me?’

‘Sorry, dear, but it’s amazing how much you resemble your father. When I first saw you I had my doubts, but surely that’s his chin. So sad you never knew him.’

‘I feel I do.’ Elsa rose. ‘Excuse me. I have to pee.’

Marion stiffened. ‘Aren’t you beyond that sort of talk?’

‘What would you rather I say?’

‘Let’s not get into a pissing contest, dear. You know the way.’

Elsa could have used a downstairs bathroom but chose to mount the stairs, her fingers tapping the polished rail all the way to the top, where she turned left and glanced into Marion’s bedroom. It was the master bedroom, but in the move from Haverhill to Brookline Marion had chosen it for herself, a knock needed for Uncle Edward to enter. Elsa remembered the room had always harbored an amorous smell, her uncle home or not, more so when he was not.

Toward the end of the passageway she entered a bedroom once hers and now one of the guest rooms, all traces of her gone, anything worth keeping she had taken with her, any reminders Marion had removed. In the bathroom, before using the john, she addressed the mirror in German: ‘Do I know you?’

On Elsa’s return to the sun room, Marion looked up with a faint smile and said, ‘You haven’t once asked about your uncle.’

‘I was getting to it.’ Elsa sat down, retrieved her teacup and crossed her legs. ‘How’s he doing?’

‘Recovering beyond expectations. No stroke is going to keep him down.’

‘Is he still in that nursing home?’

‘Yes, dear. We chat by phone.’

‘I plan to visit him.’

Marion shrugged. ‘You don’t seem to like us any more, dear.’

‘He’s been stealing from me.’

‘That’s ridiculous and cruel of you to say such a thing. You live wonderfully off the investments he’s made for you.’

‘No, Marion. I live off my father’s money, plus my mother’s — though I no longer know where much of it is.’

Marion’s color sharpened. ‘Let me set you straight, young lady. Your father walked a thin line. He was a manipulator, a conniver. Sure he made money, but your uncle made it grow.’

‘How strange,’ Elsa said glibly. ‘All this time I thought Uncle Edward was just the bookkeeper.’

‘He was the brains!’ Marion immediately gathered herself. ‘I’m not trying to take away anything from your father. All things considered, we got along quite well.’

Elsa rose to leave. ‘I’ll see Uncle Edward tomorrow.’

‘Are you going to cause trouble?’

The maid reappeared. Elsa smiled at her.

‘Juana, I don’t believe I’ve introduced you to my niece. This is Miss West.’

‘I’m not actually her niece,’ Elsa said, still smiling. ‘I’m my father’s daughter.’

Barefoot in a terry robe, Marion poured herself a second glass of port, a self-imposed limit, just enough to give her a glow, and called out, ‘Is it ready yet?’

Juana appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Marion, wineglass in hand, paused at the curve in the stairs. ‘Is the phone plugged in?’

Juana reappeared. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Thank you, dear. Thank you very much.’ At the top of the stairs she said, ‘What did you think of my niece?’

Juana, hesitating, pushed fallen locks of hair from her young face. ‘She seem nice.’

‘You work for your money, dear. Hers is a gift.’

Marion moved on. The master bathroom awaited her, womblike in its warmth, the air sultry. A bouquet of pink carnations topped a column of marble near the bidet. Marion dropped her robe and slipped into a sunken tub brimming with suds. Bubbles burst near her nose. After luxuriating for several minutes with her eyes closed, she stretched an arm and seized the phone, near which she had placed her glass of port. The call was to Haverhill. Extension 210, the rehab center.

‘Edward?’

‘Yes.’

‘You sound better.’

‘I’ll be home sooner than expected.’ He had lost the slur in his speech, though he still needed a walker and help getting in and out of bed.

‘I had a visitor,’ Marion said and took a slow sip of port. ‘Your niece. Robert called me earlier, so I was expecting her.’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Nothing Robert can’t handle.’

‘Ah, yes. Good old Robert.’

‘Don’t get touchy, Edward.’ Marion raised a knee and soaped it with a sponge. ‘I thought you’d gotten over that.’

‘Tell me how, and I will.’

‘I shouldn’t have called. I’ve upset you.’

‘Why did you call?’

‘To prepare you, Edward. Elsa plans to visit you tomorrow.’

‘Should I have Robert here to coach me?’

‘Now you’re being sarcastic.’ Marion’s other knee rose from the suds. ‘That’s not like you, Edward.’

‘Are you in the tub?’

‘How can you tell?’

‘Your voice.’

She retrieved the wineglass. ‘Different voices, different events. You know most of them.’

‘But not all.’

‘That keeps me a mystery. We friends again, pet?’

A minute or so later, after ringing off, she drained the wineglass, turned on the tap for more hot water and slid down to her chin. Her eyes closed, her head hot and turbulent with a kaleidoscope of thoughts, she luxuriated for twenty minutes more, was reluctant to rise and wasn’t sure she would.

‘Juana, where are you?’ Juana was downstairs but heard the call and came up fast. The fluffy towels Marion wanted were right where Juana always left them, in plain sight and within easy reach. Juana moved them closer and retreated. ‘Thank you, dear.’

Marion stepped from her bath and admired herself in the long panels of a mirror. How many women her age and even younger wouldn’t kill to have a figure like hers? A hand on her hip, she turned sideways. Her bosom was a springy addendum, her buttocks a solid postscript.

‘Wow!’ she said aloud. If her own image excited her, what must it do to others? ‘Juana, come in here and look at me.’

Elsa lived in a brownstone on Beacon Street, a fourth-floor condo with the Public Garden, the Common, the library and the theater district all within a stroll. She had converted a large bedroom into a reading room with two club chairs and three walls of books, as many in German as in English, some in French. A smaller room was her sanctuary for writing, her portable typewriter abandoned for a word processor, which Gordon had urged her to try.

Older than she by ten years and shorter by three inches, Gordon was her upstairs neighbor and a professor of humanities at Boston University. His usual attire was a blazer and bow tie. When carrying a book bag, he resembled a remarkably neat child. Sitting in one of her club chairs and sipping cappuccino, he said, ‘Nothing to show me?’

He was a frequent reader of chunks of her writings. At present she was at the start of a novel in which she was the protagonist. Her purpose was to rescript her life and give herself better lines and a more forceful part, but today she had written nothing.

‘Too busy seeing people,’ she explained from deep within the matching chair, ‘including my shrink.’

‘Is the dear man helping you?’

‘He’s in love with me.’

‘So am I, in my fashion.’

They exchanged smiles. Each was comfortable and caring with the other. When one had a cold, the other delivered soup.

Gordon appreciated her wit, she admired his learning. Sundays they brunched at the Ritz. Her company, he told her, gave him height. He escorted her to the theater and to the movies. Each wept when Debra Winger died in Terms of Endearment.

‘Never not be in love with me,’ she said.

‘Not to worry.’

Studying her over the rim of his cup, he remembered when she moved in some seven years ago and answered his knock wearing a sleeveless top. He introduced himself with a bottle of wine. When she accepted it, he glimpsed hair in her underarms and thought her wonderfully natural. Now he thought of her as an indoor flower vulnerable to direct sunlight.

‘More cappuccino?’ she asked.

‘I’m fine.’ He squinted. ‘But you’re not.’

‘Yes, I am. Would you like to hear some music?’ Gordon knew the music she meant. Her mother had loved American jazz, and her father, she’d been told, had favored Sinatra and certain big bands. Their tastes dominated hers.

‘No music,’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

‘Just the mood I’m in. One day carries no proof there’ll be another. We take it on faith.’

‘Certainties don’t exist, you know that.’

‘They did when I was little, very little.’

‘Then you shouldn’t have grown up.’

She frowned. ‘Why did you?’

‘Pure curiosity. Otherwise I wouldn’t have.’

‘I’m glad you did.’ Her eyes filled.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’m happy.’

‘You don’t look it.’

‘Joy and sorrow,’ she said. ‘In German, they sound much closer. Liebe und Leid. Easy for one to bleed into the other, and they often do.’

He looked at his watch, time to leave. He had an early class in the morning. They carried their empty cappuccino cups into the kitchen, where he took hers, rinsed both out and placed them in the dishwasher. Then he smiled. ‘I’d make a great spouse, wouldn’t I?’

‘I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, Gordon.’ She walked him to the door and, opening it, kissed his cheek. ‘Promise me something.’

‘Anything.’

‘Swear you won’t get AIDS.’

Elsa rose early, ensconced herself at the word processor and composed the synopsis of a story she’d been mulling for some time. She printed it out, read it over slowly and shivered. An hour later, she met a friend for breakfast at the Parker House.

‘Thanks for taking the time, Rachelle.’

The waiter served Elsa eggs Benedict, Rachelle only toast.

Elsa dug in. Rachelle, nibbling, said, ‘I still hate you.’

They’d been roommates at Wellesley, where Rachelle’s weight had fluctuated radically. She was either gaining or losing while acquiring no fixed shape of her own. At present she was in her hefty mode.

‘You look great,’ Elsa said.

‘No, you do. I know exactly what I look like. What did you want to see me about?’

‘My writing.’

‘How did I guess?’ Rachelle was an editor at Little, Brown. ‘I’ll give you my standard speech. The bare bones of all stories have been rattled since we first began spinning tales. It’s language that keeps stories going, that refreshes and renews them. Language is a breathing thing, forever changing, shifting meanings, creating hues, adding nuances. That’s your strength, Elsa. You write beautiful prose.’

‘Then why did you reject my manuscript?’

‘Let me finish. I read every word of it. You compose a sentence in the shape of a woman, full of grace and charm and flashes of intuition. A masculine sentence delivers the force of the obvious, but yours carries the delight of the unexpected.’

Elsa dabbed her mouth with a napkin. ‘I’m waiting for the other shoe.’

Rachelle pointed. ‘Are you going to finish that?’

‘It’s yours.’ Elsa shoved her plate forward. ‘Okay, let it drop.’

‘This is delicious.’

‘Rachelle. Please!’

‘Your stuff is too introspective, too airtight. How to put this? Your stories are like hothouse tomatoes. The outdoor taste is lacking. Am I offending you?’

‘No. Go on.’

‘There’s no plot and little movement. And too many of your stories have a vague father figure lurking in the background, more a ghost than a character.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Now you’re angry.’

‘No. I anticipated the criticism.’ Elsa reached into her bag and extracted a folded sheet of paper. Unfolding it, she passed it over to Rachelle. ‘Read this. It’ll take only a minute.’

‘What is it?’ Rachelle donned glasses.

‘Synopsis of something I’ve started.’

Rachelle started scanning it and stopped halfway down. Returning to the beginning, she knitted her brow and read it slowly and carefully to the end. Then she shivered. ‘Jesus, Elsa, where did this come from?’

‘I could make it a short story or work it into a novel. Whatever would feel right.’

Rachelle said nothing.

‘It’s about the unthinkable.’

‘I can see that.’

‘Would Little, Brown be interested?’

Rachelle folded the paper and returned it. ‘I don’t think so, Elsa.’

Behind the wheel of her seldom-used red Toyota, Elsa drove under the speed limit on I-93, with an eye in the rear-view. Any glimpse of a state police cruiser terrorised her. The trip to Haverhill, usually under an hour, took longer than she had planned. The rehab clinic was located near Lake Saltonstall, known to natives as Plug Pond. Flowers, some slain by careless feet, followed a walkway to the entrance. Inside, she knew her way around. Her uncle had a private room with a wide window overlooking a garden. At the open door she could hear the noon news. Peering in, she said, ‘Hello, Uncle Edward.’

Pivoting in a bedside chair, he said, ‘Come in, come in, Elsa. It was just on the news. Count Basie died. He was one of your father’s favorites.’

‘I know.’ She looked down at a large round man wearing a Japanese robe of calligraphic patterns. ‘My mother told me.’

He used a remote to turn off the television. She knew he expected a kiss on the cheek, but she could not bring herself to do it. Instead she drew up a chair and said, ‘How are you doing?’

‘Hard to say. We’re all temporary, Elsa. It’s mortality that gives life value. Immortality would flood the market and I’d be a poor man.’

‘But you’re not, Uncle Edward. You’re rich.’

He smiled with a sigh. ‘But how much control do we have over our lives? Even the wealthy worry about cancer.’

‘You beat yours.’

‘It could come back. Your aunt thinks I’ll live for ever, stroke and all. That may not suit her.’

‘She’s not my aunt.’

‘A shame you two never got along. Your father’s fault. You look too much like him and Marion couldn’t get past that. It was a love-hate thing with her. Jack had that effect on people. God, I miss him.’

Elsa experienced a wave of anxiety. Her uncle had some time ago given her a graduation picture of her father, Haverhill High, class of 1950. In the picture her father stood tall and smiled broadly, as if his world would never end. Quickly she said, ‘Are you comfortable here, Uncle Edward?’

‘I’m home. Haverhill’s home. I never wanted to move to Brookline. Shifting my office to Boston, I never wanted to do that either. Marion’s idea.’

‘You enjoyed going to the symphony.’

‘I liked the Pops, never the symphony. Symphony was Marion putting on airs, pretending she wasn’t Haverhill.’

Elsa stared ironically at him. In Boston he had eaten lavishly at the best restaurants and grown fatter. His belly billowed from his loose robe, the robe a gift from Marion several birthdays ago.

‘You know why I’m here, don’t you, Uncle Edward?’

‘Your aunt called me.’

‘Please don’t call her that.’

‘You think I’m stealing from you. Why would I do that, Elsa? I’ve plenty of my own money.’

A quiet anger heated her face. ‘I don’t need to be a CPA to know I’ve been cheated. All these years I’ve trusted you. Is it just you, Uncle Edward?’ Her tone turned insinuating. ‘Or is it the three of you? The same old ménage à trois.’

‘Don’t be disgusting.’

‘They control you, Uncle Edward, don’t tell me they don’t.’

His color rose. ‘I’m my own man.’

‘My father was a man. I’m not sure you are.’

‘I don’t deserve that,’ he said as the air seemed to go out of him. ‘And I’ve done nothing wrong.’

Elsa leaned forward in her chair, her voice low. ‘You betrayed me. I can understand Robert and Marion doing that, but you and I, we’re the same blood.’

Tears came into her uncle’s eyes. Crocodile? She didn’t know and didn’t want to guess. He said, ‘You’re the only family I have.’

She started to soften and stopped herself. ‘I’m taking charge of my own affairs. I’m hiring a lawyer to see how much has been taken from me.’

‘You can’t win, Elsa. They hold all the cards.’

‘What do you mean?’

A burly man in starched whites appeared. It was time for her uncle’s physical therapy, lunch to follow. The attendant helped him from his chair.

‘Tell me what you mean.’

‘Thank you for the visit, Elsa. It’s always nice seeing you.’

She parked the Toyota on the street and strode to the front door of the stately brick house where a monarch, then another, hovered near rose bushes not yet in bloom. After a pause, she rang the bell and waited a full minute before the door was opened by a woman with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Each gazed at the other.

‘I’m Elsa West.’

Sally West gripped the door’s edge to steady herself. Her voice trembled. ‘I’d recognise you anywhere. Please. Come in.’

‘I should have phoned first.’

‘No, it’s all right.’ Sally led her through the entrance hall, past a grand staircase and open airy rooms to a large kitchen full of sunlight. ‘I was just making myself a liverwurst sandwich. Will you have one?’

‘I’d love one.’

‘And German beer?’

‘Oh, yes.’

Sally moved swiftly toward a marble counter. ‘Please, Elsa, sit down. I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. I spend most of my time here.’

‘I can’t think of a better place.’ Elsa sat at a table, her hands clasped. ‘This is where I was supposed to live.’

‘I know. Jack — I mean, your father — wanted to make a home for the three of us, but especially for you. I wouldn’t have been a substitute mother, but I could’ve been a big sister. I desperately wanted to meet you after what happened to your father and me.’

‘Marion said it would upset you, but I often walked by your house on the chance I’d see you. Then we moved away.’

Sally placed two steins on the table. ‘Your father brought these from Germany.’ She poured dark beer from tall bottles and moments later, joining Elsa, served liverwurst on rye, slices of pickle on the side.

‘Thank you,’ Elsa said and for the first time clearly saw the plastic surgery performed on Sally’s face. The bullet had gone into one side of the jaw and out the other. ‘It must have been hell.’

‘It all happened without warning. Your father and I had no time for goodbyes. I’ve gotten over much of that, but I still have nightmares. My doctor calls them re-enactments.’

‘Horror shows.’

Sally looked away. ‘Yes.’

‘You never remarried?’

‘No. I live in this big house by myself, though my two sisters lived here with me till they got married. I’m well provided for. My lawyer saw to that.’

‘Robert?’

‘Yes. Your uncle brought him to me. You and I shared in the settlement. I still can’t believe we got so much, can you?’

‘There were two settlements. You should have got more.’

‘No, no, Elsa. You came first.’

‘I didn’t get shot.’

‘But I’m alive. You lost a father.’

Elsa usually had a hearty appetite but could eat no more than half the sandwich. She drank the beer. ‘I’ll tell you what I’d like to do. Will you go somewhere with me?’

‘Where?’

‘The cemetery.’

Sally flushed with pleasure. ‘The two of us? I’d love to.’

When they climbed into Elsa’s Toyota, Sally said, ‘I have one just like it.’

Elsa was not surprised. She ran the Toyota on to the road. ‘Did Robert make the arrangements?’

‘Yes. He’s a wonderful person.’

‘Is he also handling your money?’

‘I trust him with everything.’

Elsa tightened her grip on the wheel. ‘You might want to be careful. He’s a charming man, but he’s not a saint.’

‘He’d never cheat me,’ Sally said and went silent. They crossed the bridge spanning the Merrimack and stopped for the lights, a long-abandoned Woolworth’s on the left and a high-rise for the elderly on the right. ‘I remember when downtown had four movie theaters,’ Sally said wistfully. ‘My favorite was the Paramount, the biggest. That’s where your father took me on our first date.’

The lights changed and Elsa turned right.

‘I’ll never forget the movie,’ Sally went on. ‘Dustin Hoffman pretended he was a woman. It was so funny. But I can’t remember the name.’

‘Tootsie,’ Elsa murmured.

Within minutes they approached Linwood Cemetery, the gates thrown open, as if the dead craved company, theirs in particular. Sally pointed the way, a tortuous route, though Elsa knew it well from annual visits.

‘I wonder, Elsa. Do the dead know they’re dead?’

Elsa shook her head. ‘For them, it’s as though they never existed.’

‘I don’t want to believe that.’

‘You don’t have to.’

The Toyota drifted to a stop and the two women climbed out. Jack West’s headstone, beside that of his parents, was an impressive piece of marble, his brother’s doing. At the base were pots of geraniums.

‘Those are mine,’ Sally said. ‘I put them there three days ago. I should have brought some for Hank and Milly, though I never knew them. Jack’s father was murdered too, did you know that?’

‘Marion gave me the history. Like father, like son, she said.’

‘Marion is not kind. Your uncle is nicer.’ Sally looked down at the ground. ‘I loved your father more than he knew, more than he ever could know. I used to stand here obsessed. If I think of you hard enough, Jack, will you come back? I still do it at times. I’m doing it now. I’m standing here with your daughter, Jack. Here we are.’

In a voice not meant to be heard, Elsa said, ‘He had no right getting himself killed.’

Sally must have heard. She said, ‘If the trooper had done it right, I’d be with Jack.’

Elsa touched her arm. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Perfectly. I’m sorry.’

‘Perhaps we should leave now.’

‘I usually say a prayer.’

‘Go ahead if you like. I’ll wait in the car.’

Sally’s eyes glistened. ‘No. I feel like I’ve already said it.’

Each was quiet on the drive from the cemetery. Sally wore a small smile, as if she valued her grief and treasured her hurts. The surgery on the one side of her reconstructed jaw had left a shallow pocket, a less noticeable one on the other side. Almost playfully she began twisting her wedding ring as they approached the intersection at the bridge. The light was green.

‘Go right,’ she said suddenly, and Elsa obeyed. Seconds later Sally pointed excitedly. ‘That’s where it was! The Paramount! And afterwards he took me next door to the Paramount Tea Room. We had cheeseburgers.’

Elsa saw only the ugly edge of a strip mall.

Farther up the hill, at another set of lights, Sally pointed out the old high school, from which Jack had graduated, she from the new one. ‘I have his yearbook,’ she said. ‘Do you know what they wrote under his picture? “Get thee behind me, Satan.” ’

Elsa made more turns.

‘Go slow,’ Sally said and pointed to the tenement house in which Jack and his brother had grown up. ‘Take a left now. Let’s go back downtown.’ Downtown, they passed the Whittier, no longer a hotel. ‘Your father used to take me there for a drink. He knew all the regulars, World War Two guys. I was their pet.’ Farther up, nearing the railroad trestle, she said, ‘Please, stop!’

Elsa pulled into a restricted space.

‘Look! That’s the diner where your father and I met. He was in for breakfast and I was his waitress.’

‘Enough!’ Elsa blurted out, as if her mind had blown open.

Each impacted in silence, they recrossed the river into Bradford. Sally peered through the windshield at the sky, as if answers were somewhere, possibly up there. Slowing the Toyota, Elsa pulled up at the brick house and immediately apologised. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that. Please forgive me.’

‘Nothing to forgive. I’m sure I got on your nerves. Can we be sisters?’

‘We already are.’

‘You mean it?’

‘Of course. And we’ll stay in touch.’ She leaned over and kissed Sally’s cheek. ‘But promise me something. Never sign anything unless you bring it to a lawyer.’

‘Robert’s my lawyer.’

‘Not Robert. Anybody but Robert.’

‘But I told you he would never cheat me.’

‘Sally, look at me. He already has.’

In a world of wheelchairs, walkers and canes, Edward West toddled into the crowded dining room on his own, with pride and satisfaction. A lot of old people here. He wasn’t one of them. He liked seeing flowers on the tables, but grimaced at the smell of institutional food, an offense to his acquired sensibilities. He sat at the only table with openings, joining Miss Lincoln, who was in her eighties, and another elderly woman, who was potty.

‘You’re red in the face, Edward. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, Miss Lincoln.’ He was annoyed. ‘Thank you for asking.’

Miss Lincoln, who did not look her age, was recuperating from a hip replacement. She had been one of his high school English teachers, but she remembered Jack the best and never failed to mention him.

‘A shame, such a shame, what happened to your brother.’

She turned to the potty lady, another hip case, and said, ‘I had him and his brother in my class. His brother was quick, very quick, but didn’t apply himself. Edward here applied himself but was slow.’

‘I’ve done all right,’ Edward snapped as he was served tuna casserole. He stared at it. Tasting it, he said, ‘I’ve had better.’

‘Yes, you look it.’ Miss Lincoln said. ‘When did you put on all that weight?’

The potty lady, who wasn’t eating, grinned. She was painting her nails red, which gave her the aspect of an old bird with lethal claws. Edward avoided her eyes.

Miss Lincoln said, ‘Where did you get that funny robe? From a catalog? Do you need to wear it here?’

Eating, Edward refused to respond.

‘A lot of the boys from your time made much of themselves. Herbert Phillips and Michael Mooradian are lawyers. Francis Grose is a college professor. And of course your brother, for the short time he lived, did very well.’

‘I’m a CPA and a damn good one. I have my own accounting firm in Boston and I have a big home in Brookline, did you know that?’

Miss Lincoln began eating her dessert, a bread pudding.

‘Did you know that?’ Edward demanded.

‘Know what?’

‘What I just told you.’

‘I always thought you worked for your brother.’

Exasperated, he shut his eyes and reopened them slowly. ‘You never liked me, did you?’

‘I tried, Edward. God knows I tried.’

He put his fork down, rose awkwardly and left without a word. The potty lady waved goodbye.

Nearly an hour of physical therapy left Edward ready for a nap. Returning to his room, he stretched out on the bed and almost immediately fell asleep. He dreamed a man vaguely familiar punched him in the mouth and broke his front teeth, which were crowns, a good thousand dollars’ worth of damage. Waking with his hand over his mouth, he was relieved to find no blood on his fingers. He wondered whether his assailant had been one of those panhandlers he routinely ignored on the streets of Boston. Then he wondered whether it might have been his brother.

A few minutes later a nurse appeared and took his blood pressure. Always she annoyed him for a reason he didn’t divulge.

She got a reading and wrote it on a chart.

‘Is anything wrong, Mr West? You always look pissed off.’

He flinched. In his day, nurses never talked like that. ‘I’m fine.’

‘This your last day here?’

‘That’s what they tell me.’

‘It’s been nice having you here.’

‘It’s been good being home.’

Moments after she left, the bedside phone rang. He thought it was Marion and answered in a gruff voice. The caller was Robert, who said lightly, ‘What’s the matter, Tiger?’

‘Did you know nurses don’t wear white any more? No uniforms, no caps. They wear any goddamn thing they please, with a tiny name plate that says RN, but you got to squint to see it. The one who tends to me looks like kitchen help.’

‘I understand you have a bigger aggravation. Elsa. How’d the visit go?’

‘We could be hurt.’

Robert’s sigh was audible. ‘Marion figured you’d be rattled.’

‘Do I sound rattled? I’m not rattled!’

‘Calm down, Edward. You’re hyper. I understand you’re going home tomorrow. I’ll pick you up.’

‘Marion can come after me.’

‘She asked me to.’

There was silence.

‘Relax, Tiger. There’s no conspiracy going on.’

‘Don’t call me Tiger.’

‘It gives you and me a chance to talk. I am your lawyer, after all.’

‘You’re more than that, Robert. That’s the goddamn problem.’ He disconnected without a goodbye.

She didn’t have an appointment, but Dr Wall took her anyway. She had an urge to plant herself in his lap. Daddy, I’m here. Read me a story. Instead she settled into the familiar comfortable chair, where she had a diagonal view of a picture on his desk, that of his youngest daughter. Eloise. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said.

‘It sounded urgent.’

‘I didn’t say it was urgent.’

‘Maybe it merely sounded urgent,’ Dr Wall said and saw her shiver. ‘Are you cold, Elsa?’

‘I wouldn’t mind winter coming if the flowers could stay.’

‘Winter isn’t coming. It’s spring.’

‘It doesn’t feel it. Earlier I was at a cemetery. That’s where the living hide the dead.’

‘Is someone you know buried there?’

‘My father. He should be buried next to my mother in Germany. They belong together. Maybe they are. I believe if by some meager chance there’s a heaven, it’s a hangout where angels serve white wine and espresso. Dietrich sings. My mother loved Dietrich, though many Germans didn’t. My father liked Sinatra. Do you think they’re happy, Doctor?’

‘If there’s a heaven, I suspect happiness is mandatory.’

Elsa smiled. ‘That sort of takes the joy out of it, doesn’t it? Actually I have no faith in an afterlife — only the here and now. How about you, Doctor? Do you buy into this religious stuff?’

‘Let’s put it this way, Elsa. It’s just as reasonable — or unreasonable — to believe in Homer’s gods as it is to believe the Christian deity sired a son with a virgin. That’s an old story updated.’

Elsa raised her eyebrows. ‘You’ve never responded so openly before.’

‘You’re too intelligent for me not to. You’d put me in my place. And I know my place, Elsa. I’m sorry I’ve been so transparent in my feelings for you.’

‘I’m the one who made an issue of it. No harm done.’ She rose from her chair with a folded sheet of paper in hand and, straightening it, placed it on his desk. ‘Please read this.’

In their shallow sockets Dr Wall’s large eyes grew larger when he donned glasses. He glanced with mock suspicion at the neat page of typescript. ‘This isn’t a suicide note, is it?’

‘It’s a story idea.’

‘I’m not an editor.’

‘If you’re not going to read it, give it back.’

He read it. Then he reread it. ‘Why would you want to write something like this?’

‘Why not?’

Dr Wall removed his glasses. ‘It doesn’t seem to relate to anything in your experience.’

‘Loss is loss. Horror is horror.’

He was slow to speak. ‘Why did you want me to read it?’

‘Answers. You don’t have any. Nor do I.’

‘Wouldn’t I need to hear the questions first?’

‘They’re yours to raise.’

He rose slowly and walked around his desk with no noise. His shoes were rubber-soled, his smile contrite. He returned her story proposal. ‘All I can say, Elsa, is there’s no deed so dark someone won’t do it.’

She peered into his face. ‘That’s an answer?’

‘No, my dearest. That’s the human condition.’

Sally West moved slowly in the morning, bumping into a chair, dropping a spoon, spilling sugar, as if everything in life were a difficulty and, worse, a danger. When the doorbell rang, she gave a start and for seconds stood frozen. Anything unexpected set her on edge. She opened the door on the second ring and saw Robert standing straight, correct, expecting admiration.

He smiled. ‘May I?’

She stepped aside, he stepped in. Immediately he kissed her forehead, not her cheek, and then stood back for a long look at her, which unsettled her.

‘I thought I’d stop by,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way to pick up Edward. He’s being released today.’

She took a breath. ‘Do you have time for coffee,’ she asked, hoping he didn’t.

‘I’ll make time.’

She led him into the large airy kitchen, where he immediately took a chair at the breakfast table and watched her busy herself with cups and saucers. When her back was turned, he moistened a finger and poked it in the sugar bowl for a taste of sweet. She dropped a cup on the tile floor. Smash! She reddened.

‘I never used to be clumsy.’

‘Let me,’ he said.

‘No, it’s all right.’

He stayed seated and Sally swept up the pieces. Minutes later she served coffee and joined him at the table. He stared at her, his smile returning as if he could read her lips when nothing was on them.

‘You look wonderful,’ he said.

Lightening her coffee, she remembered Robert telling her to rise so that the jury could see her face. Then he touched her face with one finger and then another, showing where the bullet went in and out. Her teeth, he told the jury, were no longer her own, which shamed her.

‘I know what I look like, Robert.’

‘You’re too hard on yourself.’

She remembered her head tightening when Robert asked her to describe the moment the state trooper fired his gun at Jack West, her husband of only a couple of hours. Instead of speaking, she lost control and screamed. Only later did she realise Robert had wanted her to scream. So much money became hers... and his.

She said, ‘I had a visitor yesterday. Elsa.’

‘Elsa West? First time you two have met, isn’t it? What was the occasion?’

Sally hesitated, only for a second. ‘She thinks you’re cheating me.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Robert said with a laugh. ‘She’s accused Edward of the same thing. Claims Edward and I are in it together.’

‘It’s not true?’

‘Of course it’s not true. She has more money than she knows what to do with. It’s made her paranoid, poor thing.’

‘Everything I have is in your hands, Robert. Emotionally, I don’t think I could take another hit.’

‘Look at me, Sally. Do you think I would ever do anything to hurt you? If you do, then you should consider getting another lawyer.’

Suddenly she began to cry and just as suddenly Robert was on his feet. He swept around the table, pulled her to her feet and held her in his arms.

‘I’ll always be here for you,’ he whispered close to her ear.

The sound was unmistakable, as if a seal had been broken and a secret let out. Presently Edward, dressed for travel, emerged from the tiny bathroom with his thin hair slicked back. ‘Hardly room to fart in there,’ he complained.

‘You seem to have succeeded,’ Robert said without a smile.

Edward’s bag was packed, except for his Japanese robe, which lay draped over a chair. A nurse wearing what could have been a pajama top over yellow slacks arrived to wheel him out, a clinic rule, which annoyed him. Robert reached for the robe.

‘Leave it! I never liked it.’

The nurse wheeled him down the corridor to a set of opening doors as Robert trailed with bag in hand, the robe folded under his arm. Outside, Edward pulled himself from the wheelchair and walked on his own to the parking area, where Robert guided him to a Mercedes.

‘This new?’

Robert nodded and, opening the passenger door, helped him in. The scent of Edward’s aftershave was strong, an irritant to Robert’s sensibilities. They scarcely spoke until they were well out of Haverhill and nearing I-93. ‘You’re not wearing your seat belt,’ Robert said critically.

‘Too uncomfortable. What are we going to do about Elsa?’

‘Nothing.’ Robert merged the Mercedes into the swift highway traffic. ‘The ball’s in her court.’

‘She could cause a hell of a lot of trouble.’

‘If push comes to shove, I can make a case for her mental instability.’

‘I don’t want her destroyed,’ Edward said.

‘We might not have a choice, Tiger.’

Edward bristled. ‘You call me that to get my ass, don’t you?’

‘And why would I do that?’

‘That damn superior attitude of yours.’

A quick learner, Robert had graduated from Haverhill High younger than most. The son of a tannery worker, he received scholarships that put him into Boston University and through law school, after which he set up a practice in Haverhill, a reputation to make.

Edward looked out the window. ‘Wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be where you are.’

‘Really?’ Robert glided the Mercedes into another lane. ‘Where would I be?’

‘Still in Haverhill, goddamn it. My brother’s death made you a lot of money.’

‘It made us both a lot of money, Edward.’

Edward stiffened. ‘I loved Jack.’

‘I’m not suggesting you didn’t.’

‘Jack was my hero and so was my father, though my father didn’t deserve to be. My mother was my strength.’

Robert drove with a single finger on the wheel. ‘Now Marion is.’

‘It’s not the same. Never could be.’

‘No? Marion’s the best thing that ever happened to you. And it doesn’t hurt to have me in your corner, does it?’

Edward gave him an ugly look. ‘I am what I am because of my mother. Not Marion, not you, not even Jack. You understand?’

‘Calm down, Tiger. No one’s taking anything away from your mother. A wonderful person, she was.’

‘You never knew her.’

‘My loss.’

Lapsing into silence, Edward closed his eyes and did not open them until they were approaching Boston. A haze mellowing the city’s skyline muted the Prudential Tower and warmed the frigid attitude of the Hancock. On Storrow Drive he said, ‘Why didn’t you ever marry? You must’ve had plenty of women.’

Robert appeared amused. ‘There’s the answer. Too many to choose from. Besides, my life is comfortable the way it is.’

Edward felt himself growing red. ‘You never should’ve laid hands on my niece. She was just a kid.’

‘You never should have stolen from her. What’s worse?’

When they were in the thick of traffic in Kenmore Square, Edward said, ‘Maybe I’ll give it all back.’

‘Think it through, Tiger. Marion would never let you.’

Gordon, in familiar bow tie and blazer, sat in Elsa’s reading room, his book bag at his feet. She had sidetracked him on his way up to his apartment and now was serving him a glass of sherry and one for herself, her second within the hour. Gordon glanced at his watch. He was meeting friends later for dinner.

‘Okay, Elsa. What’s so important?’

She thrust a sheet of paper at him. ‘Read it, Gordon. I need your opinion.’

‘What is it?’ he said, searching his blazer for his glasses.

‘A story idea. Read it!’

Finally he found his glasses, got them on his face and, with lowered head, focused in. Elsa, staring at the small bald spot on his crown, remembered the first example of her writing she’d shown him. Kittens littered with fleas, no homes available to them, were put to sleep for their own good, the finality of death deemed worthier than the uncertainty of life. She had entitled the tale ‘The Big Sleep’, after her mother’s favorite American mystery writer.

Gordon finished reading but did not look up. ‘Let me give it another scan.’

Elsa remembered the stillborn moment when she learned her mother had died. The school administrator took her aside and delivered the message in German and, when she did not react, repeated it in French. Her face frozen, she pretended the administrator’s lips were lying to her.

Removing his glasses, Gordon looked up with concern. ‘This is a Stephen King sort of thing.’

‘Can’t it be more than that? I want to do what the Greeks were so great at.’

‘You want to do horrendous tragedy. It’s been done, Elsa. Over and over again. What the Greeks did is now the stuff of tabloids. Medea would be front page.’

‘My father could have been Greek, he died like one. The gods did him in.’

‘You consider your father a hero?’

‘My mother thought he was.’

Gordon sipped his sherry. ‘My heroes were those Celtic warriors who sprang naked on to their horses and galloped into battle with swords and hard-ons.’

‘That’s very revealing, Gordon, but did you know Dorothy Parker had a canary she named Onan because it spilled its seed on the ground?’

‘As a matter of fact, I did. Did you know Walt Whitman slept on his mother’s pillow for years after she died? And Emily Dickinson wondered whether she’d be punished in heaven for being homesick.’ He gestured at her sherry glass. ‘You finished that off fast.’

‘I miss my mother, Gordon. And my father.’

He spoke gently. ‘I know you do.’

‘They’re gone for ever. They’re dead. Do you know what death is, Gordon? It’s God murdering you.’

Viewing her with concern, he said, ‘I can call my friends and cancel out.’

Elsa gripped her empty glass. ‘I may need another.’

‘If you have another, someone will have to put you to bed.’

‘Hitler will never pay for his crimes, Gordon. Nor will God.’

‘Would you like me to stay?’

‘Maybe you’d better.’

Fresh from the shower, girdled in a fluffy white towel, Marion stood barefoot by a window and watched the Mercedes glide up the drive and ease to a graceful stop. Doors winged open. Robert hopped out while Edward needed time, the effort visible on his face. She hurried downstairs, positioned herself where sunlight would wash over her when the front door opened and waited.

‘Come on, fellas, move it,’ she said under her breath.

The door opened.

‘Well, my boys are back,’ she said. Edward lumbered forward like a huge child. His kiss was sloppy, and she stepped back, not quite pushing him away. ‘Nice to have you home, dear.’

‘You’re not dressed,’ he whispered.

‘You caught me unawares.’

Robert placed Edward’s bag on the floor, the robe on top, and with mock indignation strode to Marion. ‘Are you naked under that?’ His hand raced under the towel. ‘By God, she is, Edward.’

Marion slapped his wrist. ‘Behave yourself.’

‘Was that necessary?’ Edward said angrily.

‘Probably not, my friend. Do forgive me.’ Robert blew Marion a kiss and she gave him an ugly look.

‘You’re leaving?’

‘Things to do.’

Tightening the towel around her, she walked Robert to the door on her chorus girl legs, were they a little longer. Unable to decipher their whispers, Edward turned abruptly and began a slow climb up the stairway. Partway up, he heard the front door close, then Marion’s voice. ‘Should you be doing that?’

Without looking back he said, ‘I’m not an invalid.’

‘While you’re up there, take a bath. Get that nursing home smell off you.’

In his bedroom, he viewed a picture of himself when he was young and courting Marion, his eyes shut tight to her faults, hers open to every one of his.

God, he had loved her! And still did.

He ran a bath and took off his clothes. When Marion looked in on him, he was standing on the scale and trying to get a reading. The weighted arc of his abdomen made his sexual organs remote, raising the question of whether he had any.

‘The doctor says I must lose weight.’

‘Anybody could’ve told you that.’

‘I have to stick to my diet.’

‘All up to you, isn’t it?’

‘Where’s your maid? Juanita, is it?’

‘Juana. I had to let her go. She didn’t appreciate me.’

He stepped off the scale. Tilting, he was mass warping space. ‘What are we going to do about Elsa?’

‘Does she worry you that much?’

He placed a cautious foot into the tub. ‘Yes.’

‘Leave her to me,’ Marion said.

Staring up, Marion saw no lights in the apartment. Keys Edward had given her got her into the building and then into the apartment. In the dark she pawed the wall for the light switch, found it, and flooded the front room. Then she gave a start. On the sofa was a small man sleeping under an afghan.

‘Who the hell are you?’

Gordon woke. An arm shading his eyes, he said, ‘Who are you? How did you get in?’

‘A key, you damn fool. Elsa’s uncle is co-owner of this apartment.’

‘Does Elsa know that?’

‘Whether she does or not doesn’t change the truth of it,’ Marion said and watched Gordon rise out of the afghan. He was in designer underwear, his shorts monogrammed. ‘Excuse me for asking,’ she said, ‘but are you a fag?’

‘Excuse me,’ he replied, ‘but are you a hag?’

Marion lifted her chin. ‘Precious little prick, aren’t you? Where’s Elsa?’

‘Sleeping. Best not to wake her.’

‘Whatever-your-name-is, do you live here?’

‘No.’

‘Then get out.’ Breezing by him, Marion marched directly through an unlit corridor to Elsa’s bedroom and threw on a light. ‘You awake?’ Elsa stirred under the covers. Marion waited a moment. ‘We have to talk. I’ll wait for you out there. By the way, I told Twinkletoes to leave.’

Elsa’s head appeared. ‘You had no right.’

Returning to the front room, Marion said, ‘You still here?’

Gordon was mostly dressed. He stepped into tasseled loafers and retrieved his bow tie and blazer. Presently Elsa, looking groggy, appeared in tank top and underpants.

‘It’s all right, Gordon. I can handle it.’

Gordon left with obvious misgivings. Marion, settling into a wing chair, said, ‘I won’t ask about him. That’s your business.’

‘It’s hardly yours.’ Elsa sat on the sofa and folded the afghan over her lap. ‘What do you want?’

‘We’re all sick of your slanders. Any more of them, your uncle and Robert will bring suits against you. Are you listening to me?’

‘Every word, Marion. Please go on.’

‘Your credibility will be zero. I’ll testify you falsely and maliciously accused Robert of seducing you when you were a teenager. Actually you were obsessed with him, that’s what I’ll say. And your uncle will tell the court how vindictively jealous you’ve been of me ever since you came to live in our house. Are you getting the picture, dear?’

‘You’re playing a good scene, Marion.’

‘There’s more. You’re seeing a shrink, right? Right away, that tells the court you’re unstable. Runs in the family. Did you know your grandfather was murdered? Your grandmother was never arrested but should have been. Your uncle could testify to that.’

‘Any more, Marion? I’d love to get back to bed.’

‘Just a question, dear. Why in God’s name don’t you shave under your arms?’

Elsa tossed the afghan aside and stood up. ‘My mother never did. Why should I?’

‘You have lovely legs, dear. We’re both lucky in that regard.’

Elsa stepped away. Over her shoulder she said, ‘If you have a key to my apartment, please leave it on the table on your way out.’

When she crawled back to bed, the dark of the room seemed to double. The phone rang and she fumbled with the receiver. Knowing who it was, she said, ‘Am I going crazy?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Gordon said. ‘That woman’s a piece of work.’

‘I’m afraid of her.’

‘I would be too.’

There was a flash at her window, seconds later a thunderclap.

‘Did you hear that, Gordon?’

‘I did. It was predicted.’

There came another flash, a louder clap. ‘That used to scare me, but now I realise thunderstorms are echoes from the Iliad. Who did you root for, Gordon? The Greeks or the Trojans?’

‘I tried not to take sides, but Hector was my hero. He had class. Achilles had none.’

‘My father was Odysseus, but he didn’t make it home. My mother and I both waited.’ There came more lightning, louder claps. ‘Gordon, if you were with me right now, would you tuck me in? Like a real daddy?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘You’re always there for me. Thank you,’ she said.

She could feel her heart pounding when she rang the bell. The minister answered the door himself and ushered her into the parlor. Sally West. Of course he remembered her. How could he ever forget? Seated, they stared at each other. He had less hair and a paunch, but otherwise he looked the same. She could only imagine what she looked like to him.

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said.

‘I’ve thought about you so many times, Sally. I visited you at the hospital, but you probably don’t remember. You were in and out of sedation.’

Frowning, she scrutinised the room. ‘You’ve changed the drapes. They were maroon.’

‘I believe they were.’

She felt the weight of the minister’s eye and smiled. ‘I had on a blue dress and I wore a pearl choker that Jack bought me.’ She lifted her left hand to display her jeweled wedding band.

‘I certainly remember that,’ the minister said.

She blushed happily. ‘Jack was always a big spender. We drove away in his new convertible.’

‘Yes. A white one.’

‘Jack never came back.’

The minister went on the alert, fearing she was breaking down. ‘Forgive me, Sally. Would you like something? Tea, coffee?’

‘Nothing, thank you. Last night I dreamed of the trooper. Why did he do it, Reverend? Was he evil?’

‘I’m not sure I believe in evil, Sally. It may be only a theological concept.’

‘My doctor says some people are explosions waiting to happen. Do you believe that about the trooper?’

The minister let out his breath. ‘I’m going through a crisis of my own, Sally, so I’ll tell you exactly what I believe. I’m amazed that God miswires so many of us. Even the brain of a genius is out of kilter. Brains that work right belong to mediocre folks. Like me, Sally. Maybe like you.’

She might not have heard him. ‘My doctor says the trooper’s manhood was threatened when Jack didn’t show respect.’

The minister nodded. ‘We put a young fellow in a uniform, give him a gun and expect the best. Occasionally we get the worst.’

Sally half heard the words. She had an itch down below and, as if a child again, gave it a solid scratch through her thin dress. ‘If God made us, Reverend, shouldn’t he share the blame for the bad we do? Couldn’t he at least give me my husband back?’

For moments the minister saw her as a child, which intimidated him, for he believed that the enormous questions children ask weigh as much as the world. ‘I don’t have an answer, Sally, and I don’t think anyone else does, though they may pretend they do.’

‘Do you have any answers at all?’

With a profound sadness, he shook his head.

‘Why the hell did she send that to me?’ Robert said. ‘She’s weird, you know that.’

Marion returned the typescript to him. ‘But if I had to guess, I’d say she was telling you what a woman, any woman, is capable of.’

They were lunching at Locke-Ober. Each had strict dietary habits and was eating lightly, Caesar salad for Marion and smoked salmon for Robert. Robert said, ‘But why would she want to write a thing like that? It has nothing to do with her life. And it certainly doesn’t touch mine.’

‘Are you sure? Maybe she wants to do you in and she’s warning you. Don’t smile. I’m half serious.’

Robert’s gaze, skirting her, went to other tables, to anyone who might be looking. He liked being seen with Marion, for much about her was still eye-catching. ‘You’re being dramatic,’ he said.

‘Did you or did you not take advantage of her when she was of a tender age? Think hard. It may come to you.’

He sipped mineral water. ‘You’re being extraordinarily sarcastic, aren’t you?’

‘I’m concerned for your safety, darling.’

‘You may have noticed. I sleep with one eye open.’

‘Do you mind?’ She sampled salmon from his plate. ‘Mmmm. Good.’

Robert glowered. ‘You know I hate you doing that. It’s vulgar.’

‘That’s why I do it, darling. It gives me the upper hand, even if only for a moment.’

He smiled reluctantly. ‘You’re a worthy adversary, Marion. Married, we’d probably kill each other.’

‘Married, darling, we’d simply lose interest.’

With a sigh, he looked at his watch. ‘I’m running late.’ He signaled for the check.

Marion patted her lips with a napkin. ‘Will I see you tonight?’

‘If Elsa doesn’t shoot me.’

‘Her grandmother used a blade. So the odds are you won’t see it coming.’

Elsa peeked into the sun room and saw her uncle napping in a recliner, his head tipped back, his feet up. Approaching on tiptoes, she peered at his face in the hope of glimpsing something of her father. Heavy and expansive, the face smothered any token resemblance.

‘Uncle Edward!’

He woke with a snort and gave a start when he saw her, momentary fear in his eyes. ‘Elsa. How did you get in?’

‘No one answered the bell, so I let myself in. What happened to Juana?’

‘Who?’

‘The maid.’

‘I never met her. Marion let her go.’ Edward straightened the recliner and rubbed his eyes. ‘I seem to sleep mostly during the day. The past keeps me awake at night.’

‘Mine is beginning to,’ Elsa said. She took a seat near him. ‘Where’s Marion?’

‘She and Robert still like to romp. I thought they’d have gotten over it by now, but they haven’t.’

‘It doesn’t seem the hour for romping, Uncle Edward.’

‘You never know with those two.’ He spoke in a feeling voice. ‘Do you hate me, Elsa?’

‘Why would I hate you, Uncle Edward?’

‘I can think of several reasons, one having to do with Robert and you. I never should have let that happen.’

‘What happened, happened,’ Elsa said with a painful memory of staring into Robert’s eyes with monstrous innocence and total infatuation. ‘As much my fault as anybody’s.’

‘But Marion and I should’ve looked after you. We owed it to you.’

‘What you owe me now, Uncle Edward, is an accounting. I’ve chosen a lawyer. I went through the Yellow Pages of the Haverhill directory and a name jumped out. Mooradian.’

‘Michael Mooradian?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your father went to high school with him. A good man, a good lawyer.’

‘That might not be good for you, Uncle Edward.’

He closed his eyes. ‘I’ve handled cancer and a stroke. I guess I can handle this.’

Elsa rose and rearranged the strap on her shoulder bag.

She stood, stylish and a bit formidable in a gray suit, the jacket fitted, the skirt narrow.

Her uncle opened his eyes. ‘This may be hard for you to believe,’ he said, ‘but I love you.’

‘I love you too, Uncle Edward.’ She leaned over and kissed his brow. ‘Good luck.’

Elsa, sitting on a bench facing Park Street, glimpsed a familiar figure and said to herself, ‘Why am I not surprised?’

Moments later Sally West entered the Common, proceeded up the pathway, and, tilting her head, broke out in a smile. ‘Elsa! What a crazy coincidence!’

After an embrace, Elsa made room on the bench. She felt she knew the answer but asked anyway, ‘What are you doing in Boston?’

‘I come in once a month to see my doctor. Then, if the weather’s nice, I kill time in the Common before catching the train back to Haverhill. What are you doing here?’

‘Usually I’m not. At least not at this time of day. The last time I was sitting on this bench I saw my uncle conducting the Boston Symphony.’

‘Edward?’

Elsa smiled. ‘It was in a dream. Do you repeat your dreams to your doctor? Yes, I think you told me you did.’

Sally crossed her legs. ‘I stopped doing that a long time ago. It’s always the same sort of dream.’

‘Did my father suffer?’

‘He didn’t have time.’

‘Thank God for something.’

Sally skewed her head and looked at Elsa full in the face, her voice almost a child’s. ‘Is God good?’

Elsa shrugged, with a glance at her watch. ‘I’m sure he has his faults. We all do.’

‘I want to believe in something. There must be something.’

‘Believe in yourself, Sally. It’s worth a try.’

‘Where are you going?’

Elsa was on her feet. Gripping the strap of her shoulder bag she said, ‘I have an unscheduled appointment.’

Staring up at the length of her Sally said, ‘You look so smart, Elsa. You look so... so Boston.’

‘I think I’d rather look Haverhill.’

‘Then it wouldn’t be you.’ Sally’s voice reached out as Elsa stepped away. ‘Will we stay in touch?’

‘That’s a promise,’ Elsa said over her shoulder.

‘Do you mean it?’

Elsa’s stride was swift and she may not have heard.

Edward went to his bedroom with a terrible weariness and fell into a troubled sleep. An hour later Marion entered hers, followed by Robert. Tall twin windows looked out on spruce and hemlock.

Marion said, ‘He’ll sleep till midnight, then stay up most of the night.’

‘Poor bugger,’ Robert said, shedding his suit jacket.

‘He’s happy, darling. He has his money and he has me.’

Robert unknotted his tie, regimental, from Brooks Brothers. Contacts had long ago replaced his eyeglasses. ‘What if he had to choose?’

‘It would be a close call.’ Marion reached down and loosened a pump by its heel. ‘But he’d choose me, of course.’

Robert’s fine English shoes were placed side by side, like soldiers. Marion’s pumps, which she had kicked away, lay one way and another, as if estranged. Robert shed his suit, his shirt and his underwear, and drew a smile from Marion.

‘You should keep your clothes on. You no longer look distinguished. But I love watching you spring to life.’

‘You keep me on my toes, Marion.’

‘I hope so.’ She drew off taupe panty hose and displayed buttocks as shiny as if they had been buffed. Freed, her breasts took on a life of their own. A hand on her hip, she said, ‘Well?’

‘You’ll do fine.’

Each looked forward to the bed. Marion viewed the sexual act as two bodies in exquisite trauma. Robert said it was a debate turned violent over who was giving the most, orgasms at stake, reputations on the line.

‘How about me?’ he asked, both hands on his hips.

‘Pick of the litter, Robert.’

Each had no complaints, for each invariably performed with accuracies that left the other with no letdowns. Each in intensely immodest ways made the other feel valuable, and each in oblique ways loved the other.

Robert moved toward the lamp. ‘Leave it on or turn it off?’

‘Up to you.’

‘Does that make me boss?’

‘If you like to think so.’ In bed, under lamplight, she stretched her legs. ‘What would you do without me, Robert?’

‘Die?’

She paused for a second. ‘You don’t have to go that far.’

Dr Wall was squeezing her in, as she and his secretary had known he would. The secretary said to her, ‘I love your outfit.’

‘Thank you.’

Smiles were exchanged. ‘You can go in now.’

In Dr Wall’s office, she stared at the picture of his youngest daughter and said, ‘Is that me?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Sorry. A crazy idea was running through my head. It happens.’

‘True,’ Dr Wall said. ‘It happens to all of us.’

Sitting straight, she pictured him with his clothes off, a little man strutting like a rooster. She imagined it wouldn’t take much to make him cock-a-doodle-do.

‘Why are you smiling?’ he asked.

‘Am I? Sorry. My father’s widow is your patient. Why didn’t you ever mention it?’

‘Not my place. And it wouldn’t have been proper.’

‘Who recommended you to her? Was it Robert? My uncle? Or was it both?’

‘Please, Elsa.’

‘I hope you’re helping her. She’s been hurt much too cruelly. Of course, many of us suffer fates we don’t deserve. God’s way of showing us who’s boss.’

Dr Wall’s eyes were feasting on her. ‘You’re looking especially attractive today, Elsa.’

‘You’re not listening to me, Doctor. Any moment now, you might turn a little foolish. I hope not.’

Dr Wall envisioned her standing nude with a hand limply on her hip. Modigliani would have cherished her on canvas and stretched her neck. Dr Wall said, ‘I’ll try to control myself.’

‘I have another story idea. Late at night a man is snacking at the kitchen table when his wife creeps from the bedroom and plunges a butcher knife into his back. Somehow he finds the strength to call 911, which saves his life, but he is never the same afterwards, neither physically nor mentally. The lesson is you never know anyone’s true mental state, not even your own.’

‘The human psyche, Elsa, is the least peaceful place in the universe, but I’m not telling you anything new, am I?’

‘No, and you’re staring at me in that foolish way again.’

He saw her as Dietrich’s Lola in Blue Angel and himself as an actor mouthing scripted lines. He couldn’t help himself.

‘I love you, Elsa.’

‘It’s the second time you’ve told me. Once was enough.’

He didn’t want this. He wanted Plato’s cave, his face to the wall. ‘More than enough. I’m sorry.’

‘I came to tell you this is my last visit. I’ve had enough of this country. America is cattle herded into an abattoir for the benefit of McDonald’s and Burger King. It’s a storm trooper executing my father. It’s a country where der Tod das Leben schandet.’

‘I’m sorry, Elsa. I’m not sure I know what that means.’

‘Death mocks life,’ she said.

She was on her feet. He shot to his, his voice wavering. ‘I don’t want to lose you.’

Elsa spoke from the door. ‘Remember what you told me about my father? You can’t lose what you never had.’

Edward West dreamed of his mother, Milly, who, with a frayed voice, led him to the potty. Constipated, he produced only a few hard pennies. He couldn’t remember his father’s name and started to cry. ‘Hank,’ his mother told him. ‘It’s Hank.’

He was sorry the dream ended and more sorry he was lying awake and alone, with the small hours looming ahead of him. Rising, he pushed his feet into leather slippers and reached for the robe he thought he had discarded at the rehab center. The nightlight hurt his eyes. Depressed, he avoided looking at himself in the dresser mirror. A light burned in Marion’s room, but the room was vacant.

He shuffled down the stairs and saw Marion poised, barelegged, in an outsize T-shirt, one of his, near the front door. The door clicked.

‘Who was that?’

‘Robert,’ she said. ‘He was just leaving.’

‘Damn you!’ he said.

She viewed him with disgust. ‘Time you grew up,’ she said and turned away.

He followed her down the hall. ‘I won’t put up with it any more. I want you to end it.’ He was talking to the swing of her hips, to the hard flash of her legs and the balls of her feet. ‘Do you hear me?’

In the kitchen she turned on him. ‘Who are you to dictate to me?’

‘I’m your husband.’ He struggled to keep his voice strong and his robe from falling open.

Marion poured herself a small glass of water and drank it down. ‘Robert and I share something you’ll never understand.’

‘Try me.’

‘It’s in the blood. Beyond that, I don’t want to hurt your feelings.’

‘It’s never stopped you before.’

She hesitated. Did she really want to bare differences between him and Robert? Would he even understand? Robert was over-the-calf hose. Edward was ankle socks dribbling into his shoes. ‘Go to bed,’ she said. ‘I am.’

Left alone, he felt devalued, a major portion of him looted. He missed his mother, his father, his brother. Jack! Where are you?

He shuffled from the kitchen and paused at the hall mirror, his robe flopping apart. Not a pleasing picture.

The climb up the stairs winded him.

‘Where are you?’

A foot on the closed toilet seat, she was clipping her toenails. ‘Stay out.’

An order he obeyed. ‘Robert’s a crook,’ he declared.

She laughed. ‘So are you. We all are, Tiger.’

‘Don’t call me that!’ He trembled. ‘I keep perfect records. I could bury him.’

‘He’d crush you like a bug.’ She began work on the other foot. ‘Face it, Tiger, you were never your brother, and you’re certainly not Robert.’

Edward stepped forward and saw her from behind, an unholy view, arse and thighs cut smooth. God, he loved her! ‘What am I, then?’

‘A nobody.’

‘What?’ His robe had reopened.

She knew he was behind her but didn’t bother to look up. A razor passed so smoothly across her throat that she had no idea she’d been murdered.