The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty

Chapter One

Dr. Miriam Levy (Clinical Psychologist)

I’m waiting for my new patient to arrive, not suspecting that within the next hour she’ll reveal herself to be the most interesting patient I’ve ever had.

Her name is Barb Colby. When we spoke on the phone, she claimed to be twenty-eight years old, but the woman who waddles into my office looks at least forty. She’s quite overweight and tall, with glasses and frizzy gray hair. As I gaze at her face more closely, however, I notice that her skin isn’t wrinkled. Perhaps she was telling the truth about her age.

She takes a seat.

“What brings you here?” I ask.

“It’s my mother’s dying wish that I see a therapist.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Your mother is dying?” I make a note of this in my pad.

“No. She’s in great health, thankfully. But it’s an early request. When she tried asking for it as her birthday present, I ignored it.”

I cross out my note. “Why does your mother want you to see a therapist?”

“Because she doesn’t like the way I look.”

“The way you look… at life?” I say, not wishing to be presumptuous a second time.

Barb seems confused. “Maybe that, but what I mean is she doesn’t like my appearance.”

“Ah. And she feels this issue would best be tackled psychologically?”

“Yes.”

“As opposed to joining a gym or getting a makeover, for example?” I ask, just to be certain.

“That is correct.”

“What does she dislike about the way you look?” The answer seems obvious, but again, it’s best not to assume anything.

“She doesn’t like my hair, my fat, my clothes, my glasses.”

I keep making notes in my pad as she talks. I nod and say, “I see. I’m glad your mother convinced you to seek help. I think I can help you. In my work, I see a lot of women who suffer from low self-esteem. They think they’re unattractive, but the way society today—”

“I don’t think I’m unattractive,” she says.

“That’s good. That’s great. It’s not something women are always aware of on a conscious level, though. So, I would like you to be open-minded to the possibility that perhaps, deep down, you might be feeling unattractive without being aware of it. And if that’s the case, you might feel there’s no point in even trying to look better.”

“Yeah but, no. I don’t think I’m unattractive. And I don’t think it subconsciously either.”

I smile. “If it’s subconscious, you wouldn’t know it.”

“Your comments are entirely influenced by the fact that you think I’m unattractive,” she says. “If you thought I were beautiful, you wouldn’t be suggesting I might subconsciously think I’m ugly.”

“No need to get defensive. And anyway, what I think doesn’t matter. It’s what you think that matters. I want to try to help you to find yourself beautiful.”

“I already do.”

“That’s good. And I’d like to get you to take baby steps toward making more effort with your appearance, if that’s something you want.”

“I make great effort with my appearance.”

“I guess your mother doesn’t agree, right? That’s why you’re here.”

“Yes, she does. She wants me to make less effort with my appearance.”

“Less effort? What effort would she like you to make less of?”

She doesn’t reply.

“Can you give me an example?”

She remains silent.

“That shouldn’t be too hard, right? To come up with just one example?” I say, clasping my hands (smugly, I must admit).

“No, it’s not too hard,” she replies.

“Okay, then, I’m all ears.”

“It’s not your ears you need. It’s your eyes,” she says, taking off her glasses and setting them on the little table next to her.

She reaches down into her bag and pulls out a small plastic container. She unscrews the lid. She sticks her fingers in each of her eyes and removes brown contact lenses, which she then drops into the plastic container.

She looks at me and her gaze is dazzling. The effect is that of light shining through aqua-colored glass.

She gets up, sinks her hands into her gray frizzy hair and pulls it off, revealing an incredible head of long, silky blond hair. She tosses the wig on a chair.

I’m trying to gather my thoughts, think of something to say, when she starts unbuttoning her shirt. She takes it off. Underneath is a thick jacket which she unzips and peels off as well. She’s wearing a little white tank top. Her torso is slender, her breasts full, her arms toned.

Not taking her piercing aqua gaze off me, she unzips her jeans, takes them off. She then unzips the fake-fat pants she’s wearing underneath and slides her long slender legs out of each thick leg tube. She tosses these pants on top of her other clothes on a chair in the corner. The whole pile jiggles like a mountain of Jell-O.

Barb pulls fake teeth out of her mouth and places them next to her contacts on the little table. I hadn’t noticed her teeth being particularly unattractive, and yet, somehow, the removal of this fake set tremendously improves the shape of her mouth. Her real teeth are lovely. Framed by her beautiful hair and punctuated by her real teeth, her face is now noticeably exquisite.

I need time, a few days, maybe, to think. I feel put on the spot.

My new patient is standing in my office in her underwear — majestic. She’s probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She reminds me of one of those superheroes after removing their ordinary clothes. She is now ready for action. I almost expect her to open the window and fly out of my office.

The effect is muted somewhat when she scratches her arm self-consciously, though that’s an understandable display of discomfort, considering that her therapist is gawking at her.

“Do you understand, now?” she asks.

I look down at the note I wrote in my pad, which reads: “Mother wants her to make more effort with her appearance.”

I cross out the word “more” and replace it with “less.”

“Yes, I see,” I say. “How often do you wear this disguise?”

“All the time, pretty much.”

“Why?”

“I find my real appearance impractical.”

“But isn’t your disguise even more impractical? Isn’t it heavy?”

“Yes, it’s a bit heavy. But I feel much lighter in it. Being dowdy is liberating.”

“Liberating in what way?”

She shrugs. “I’m left in peace.”

“Peace from what?”

She doesn’t answer.

“From men? Model scouts? Love at first sight?”

She says nothing.

“When did you start wearing it?”

“Almost two years ago,” she says.

“Did something happen?”

She doesn’t answer.

I repeat, “Did something happen, almost two years ago, that made you start wearing this costume?”

She looks suddenly weak, visibly upset. She sits down, drapes her shirt over herself, no longer resembling a superhero so much as a lost girl from a fairy tale. She doesn’t say anything.

“Tell me what happened,” I urge softly, suspecting abuse, sexual harassment, possibly rape.

I can tell she’s having trouble. She doesn’t want to cry, but if she attempts to speak, she will.

I try a different approach. “People must find it surprising that you go around looking like this. Do you get a sense of what they think?”

“Sure, they think I’m fat and ugly.”

“No, I mean the people who’ve known you longer than two years?”

“They think I got fat and ugly.”

“Really? Is there anyone, other than your mother, who knows that this is just a disguise and not the way you really look now?”

“Only my four closest friends.”

“If I were to ask your mother or your closest friends why you disguise yourself this way, what would they tell me?”

She shrinks a little further into her chair, and again can’t answer.

“What would they tell me?” I repeat.

BARB

As soon as my therapy session is over, I rush home, slip some evening wear over my bloat wear, and find my friend Georgia already waiting for me in a cab in front of my building. I scoot in beside her. She shifts along the seat to give me the room I need.

A bouquet of sunflowers rests on her lap.

“For Lily?” I ask.

She nods.

The driver carries us away. We tell him to go as fast as he can because we’re late for Lily’s concert. Or rather, we’re late for a mission she’s sent us on before the concert. At twenty-five, Lily is the youngest of our group of five friends, and the most talented. She asked us to get to the concert hall early so that we tell her whether Strad, the jerk she’s in love with, shows up.

As the cab driver zigzags through traffic, I look at Georgia and say, “Don’t you wish we could go to Strad’s store and just shake him and say, ‘Are you blind? Don’t you see how extraordinary Lily is?’”

“That’s the problem. He’s not blind.”

“Georgia, please.”

The driver makes a sharp left and Georgia gets knocked against her door. “Ow!” she yelps, rubbing her right shoulder.

I myself have toppled onto the space between us.

“Hey, watch it!” Georgia yells at me when she sees I’m lying on her laptop.

“Why’d you bring that?” I ask. “Are you planning to write during the concert?”

Before she can answer, the driver makes a sharp right, and it’s Georgia’s turn to land on her laptop and mine to bang against my door, though I suffer no injury due to my fake fat, which bounces me right back into place.

“Maybe,” Georgia answers. “I like writing to Lily’s music.”

Georgia Latch is a successful novelist. The five novels she published were critically acclaimed, translated into two dozen languages and taught in universities. The second one, The Liquid Angel, was made into a film. She thinks her career would be even more successful if she were more prolific, but her writing process is slow. So she’s always struggling to find ways to write more. Her recent method has been to take her laptop wherever she goes, in hopes of getting work done.

The traffic slows and the driver can’t weave anymore. We are at a standstill.

We finally arrive, late, at Zankel Hall, a concert venue at Carnegie Hall. Anxious about our tardiness and not wishing to waste a moment, we pay and open the cab doors before the driver comes to a full stop. A pedestrian on a cell phone dives in as soon as we’ve burst out.

Midway to the concert hall’s entrance, Georgia stops in her tracks. “My laptop!”

We spin around. The taxi’s gone.

“No, no, no, no, no,” she says and drops the sunflowers.

Neither of us took a receipt, so we don’t have the taxi’s medallion number.

Georgia is bent over, hands on knees, repeating, “Oh my God.”

She has often told me she thinks the novel she’s been working on for the past few years will be her breakthrough, the one that will win the most awards, the one that will garner the best reviews, the one that will sell the most copies — the very same one that is now taking a ride in a vanished taxicab somewhere in New York City. Georgia hasn’t backed up her work in three and a half years, ever since her external hard drive broke while she was completing her last novel. She never got around to buying a new one.

“Have you e-mailed a copy to anyone? Or even to yourself?” I ask her. “Is it printed out?”

“No, no, and no. I never showed it to anyone.”

I pick up the bouquet of sunflowers and put my arm around Georgia, holding her up. “I’ll call the taxi company,” I tell her. “I’ll keep calling, until someone turns it in.”

I lead her inside the building. We sit on a bench in the entrance hall. Georgia cries, her face in her hands. After ten minutes of unsuccessful phone calls which begin with directory assistance, move on to the Taxi and Limousine Commission, and end up with the Central Park Precinct, I’m told by the precinct that no laptop has yet been reported found, and that I should call later to check if that status has changed.

Georgia is staring at me with watery eyes. Her face is red and puffy. Strands of her short dark hair are stuck to the tears on her cheeks.

Our friend Jack Felsenfeld comes out from inside the theater. Though he’s only twenty-nine, he walks with a limp and a cane.

“What are you guys doing?” he asks. “Penelope and I have been here for half an hour already.”

I tell him what happened.

He leans his cane against the bench and squats in front of Georgia. He holds her hands, looks up at me, and asks, “Did you call the Central Park Precinct?” Being an ex-cop, Jack knows these things. He could have saved me time.

“Yeah,” I say.

“You have to keep calling. It might get turned in.”

Not forgetting about why we’re here, I tell him, “Let me go backstage and say hi to Lily. Is Strad here?”

“No sighting yet.”

I ENTER LILY’S small dressing room right as the Rolling Stone magazine journalist who’s been interviewing her is making his exit.

I close the dressing room door behind me.

It’s just me and Lily. And the mirror.

Mirrors take on a whole new meaning when Lily’s in the room. They become a loaded silence.

“How are you holding up?” I ask her.

“Fine.” She’s standing at the sink, soaking her hands in hot water, which she always does before a performance.

“Will you be okay if Strad doesn’t show? Or if he does show?”

“I’ll try to be.”

I know if Strad doesn’t show up she’ll be devastated.

“These are from Georgia,” I say, giving her the sunflowers.

“That’s sweet.” She puts the flowers in a vase of water.

I decide not to tell her about Georgia’s lost laptop in case it disrupts her preparation. “Just remember, you are fantastic. You’ll be great. You’ll knock ’em dead,” I say, staring earnestly into her eyes. I hug her.

The sad thing is, now that I’ve known Lily for eight years, I find her nothing but beautiful. My perception has been skewed by affection. I know what she looks like to others because I remember what she looked like to me when I first met her. My breath was taken away, repeatedly, by the ugliness of her features and their arrangement. I found myself hoping she’d change expressions, but every time she did, the new configuration was worse than the last.

Lily is not disfigured. Her face is not deformed or medically abnormal. It is simply extremely ugly — the kind of ugliness that is inoperable. Any attempt at improvement would be fatal. Changing the distance between one’s eyes is not surgically possible. In fact, it is one of the few facial characteristics that cannot be altered. But Lily’s eyes being far, far too close together is only one of her multitude of flaws. She does have one attractive feature, though. Ironically: her eyes. But only when looked at one at a time, in isolation.

As for her body, it’s fine but irrelevant because people always focus on her face.

Despite the fact that Lily takes some getting used to visually, in every other way she is pure loveliness.

When I get back to our seats, Jack and Georgia are chatting quietly. Our friend Penelope, looking sumptuous and beautifully dressed as usual, is pacing the aisle at the other end of the theater, keeping an eye out for Strad.

He never shows. Lily plays magnificently, but through the whole concert all I can think about is how upsetting it is that someone as talented as she is suffering so much over someone like him.

AT THE END of this strange, upsetting day, when I return to my building, the doorman mutters to me, “You fucking bitch.”

His insults are nothing new. They began gradually, about three months ago. I accept his claim that I haven’t done anything to provoke him because I can’t think of anything I did. I’m concerned that he must be suffering from some sort of mental illness. Tourette’s syndrome, perhaps. That makes me feel protective of him.

I don’t think his insults could be related to my disguise, mostly because I was wearing it long before I moved to this building a year ago. None of the doormen has ever seen my true appearance. They have no clue this is not it.

I’m not in the mood to acknowledge his insult tonight. One day, though, I should encourage him to seek professional help for his possible disorder. Which reminds me of a phone call I need to make.

Chapter Two

As soon as I step into my apartment I call my mother. “Your ridiculously early dying wish has been fulfilled.”

She gasps. “Thank you. How did it go?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Do you think you’ll get rid of the padding?”

“It’s not that easy to lose weight.”

“But it’s not attached!” She always harps back on this point.

“Just because it’s not attached to me doesn’t mean I’m not attached to it. It’s attached to my soul.”

“Do you think you’ll try another session?” my mom asks, full of hope.

Since I’m not sure, and I don’t want my mom badgering me about it, I will nip this nagging in the bud by claiming I will never go back. Even though the therapist seemed fine, she did say one ridiculous thing, and that is the thing I relay to my mom so that she will leave me in peace on the topic forever.

“No, I’m not going back,” I state. “She’s stupid.”

Pause. “Oh? What makes you say that?”

“She told me I should go to a support group for fat people.”

Another pause. “That seems reasonable to me,” my mom says, and adds, “You’re fat.”

“No, I’m not. And you know it and she knows it. I stripped for her.”

“In the eyes of the world you’re fat.”

“Whatever.”

“Please promise me you’ll go to a support group for fat people. At least once.”

“That’s crazy.”

“No. Wearing fake fat is crazy.”

Whenever my mom dwells on her favorite topic — my fake fat — I try to change the subject with her second favorite topic: her upcoming trip to Australia in March.

“Hey, by the way, have you figured out what hotels you’ll be staying at in Australia?” I ask.

“No, not yet,” she says. “I can’t concentrate on that and I won’t feel at peace until you promise me you’ll meet with a group of fat people.”

“You said I didn’t have to go to more than one meeting with a therapist.”

“And you don’t. This is different. It’s a support group. Give it a chance, please. I don’t often ask things of you, do I?”

I don’t answer.

“Barb, I beg you, do it for me.”

“Okay, fine,” I answer.

We say good night and hang up. I take a deep breath. I wish my mom could be patient. I will take off my disguise, in time, when the disguise of old age takes hold of me.

I adore my mother. We get along very well. Our only point of tension is my appearance. I inherited her looks. She used to be a top model, appeared on dozens of Vogue covers, as well as all the other major fashion magazines. Despite her disapproval of my appearance, she is not a shallow person. Unlike many ex-models, she is not obsessed with beauty. She’s not particularly interested in clothes or fashion. But even she has her limits. And I surpass them.

She grew up in Des Moines, Iowa, and moved to New York to become a model. The first year she was here, she met my father, a professor, at the New York Public Library when she wanted to escape the unbearable summer heat and spend a relaxing hour in one of the beautiful, cool, quiet rooms. They immediately fell in love and married soon after. She continued to work as a model until she had me.

Eventually, my dad started having affairs with younger, beautiful women, often his former students. My mother was devastated. She tried leaving him a few times, but he always persuaded her to stay, promised her that things would be different. But they never really were. Even when they were for a short while, he resented her for it, and then things went back to being the same. His affairs were making her life too miserable, so she finally did leave him, after having been with him for thirty-five years.

She bought a house in Connecticut, an hour and a half away, in the woods.

Far from being devastated by the split, I was relieved. I’d seen her so unhappy, and now she would start a new life. She was fifty-six and still looked great.

A few months after the separation, she tried dating a man, briefly. But her heart wasn’t in it. After him, I heard of no one else. She would come to the city sometimes, and we’d have lunch or dinner.

It was Georgia who noticed that my increasing lack of interest in my appearance coincided with my mother’s suddenly finding herself alone. Without really realizing it, I guess, I started dressing more casually and stopped wearing makeup. I took things even further, of course, after my close friend Gabriel died, almost two years ago.

A year after Gabriel’s death, I moved into this beautiful apartment which I love and which I thought would distract me. It has a ballet bar anchored to the floor, because the woman who owned the apartment before me was a dancer with American Ballet Theatre. I’m not a dancer, but I still find the ballet bar beautiful and handy. I’m a costume designer. All around the edges of the room are mannequins wearing some of my most extravagant, historical, fairy tale-like creations. These mannequins — many of which are fur-covered animals with upright human bodies — are all wearing fanciful masks I designed. Atmospheric stage lighting adds to the effect, making the room look like some kind of enchanted forest.

But my beautiful living room can’t distract me from thoughts of Gabriel, and neither can my ugly disguise shield me from them.

Gabriel, who was my best friend, made it perfectly clear in his suicide note that he was killing himself because he was in love with me. Until that note, I had no idea he had romantic feelings for me (or perhaps I chose not to know it). He never told me. He knew I didn’t feel the same way and never would, and he was right.

Why didn’t I fall in love with Gabriel? He was quite handsome, had an amazing voice — deep and smooth — and had so many other qualities. I don’t exactly know why I didn’t develop those kinds of feelings for him. I suspect the reason was something intangible.

His suicide was a complete shock, and yet, looking back, he often seemed a bit melancholy. I noticed it especially when I was alone with him.

In some ways he was the most talented of our group, because he was the most versatile, intelligent, and funny. He was a renowned chef who owned one of the best restaurants in New York City. But unlike Georgia, Lily, or me, who are creative only in our specific fields, Gabriel was creative in all areas. When any of us encountered a bump in our work, he seemed always to come up with some suggestion, some little idea that made all the difference. We were in complete admiration. No one could talk to Georgia about her novels the way Gabriel could. He was the only one she actually discussed her ideas with as she was writing them.

He was a private person, never granting interviews or posing for photographs. Even with us he was a bit reserved and mysterious. Whenever we asked him if there was anyone he was romantically interested in, he just brushed the topic aside good-humoredly. Yet there were plenty of people interested in him. When I walked down the street with him, I noticed women and men eyeing him. And they flirted with him when he stood in lines. He could have had his pick. But he never seemed interested in anyone. I had no idea it was me he was in love with.

I do remember one evening when he was supposed to drop off some food. I was wearing a dress I’d just finished making for a period movie and I was eager to get his reaction to it. I loved showing him my costumes because his face was expressive and gave away his opinion even before he spoke.

When he arrived and I opened the door for him, I said, “Tell me what you think of this dress.”

He didn’t look as pleased as I’d hoped. He stared at me and said, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s physically painful to look at you, you’re so beautiful.”

I smiled broadly. “I knew you’d like it! I think it might be my best one yet.” I twirled.

“It’s not the dress. Your beauty interferes with my ability to judge the dress.” He looked away.

My whole life, people have given me compliments on my looks, so this compliment didn’t particularly stand out. I felt my face drooping. “So you don’t like it that much?”

“I’d have an easier time judging it on a hanger.” He seemed pained as he went to the kitchen and put the food in the fridge.

After that, there was a period when I hardly saw Gabriel. He threw himself into his work and began dating obsessively. Eventually, that tapered off and he spent more time with us again, until one day, after I had a pleasant and uneventful visit with him at his apartment, I exited his building, and he caught up with me by taking the most direct route.

Falling at me from the twenty-eighth floor, he shattered himself at my feet. I don’t think he intended to traumatize me for life — though he has.

I REFUSED TO leave my apartment for weeks after Gabriel died, except to attend his funeral. I was devastated by the destructive effect I’d had on him without realizing it. I wondered if I might be harming others as well. I moped around, feeling dreadful, feeling like a wreck. My face felt shrunken and shriveled, ravaged by sadness, as though it must have aged twenty years, but each time I gazed in the mirror, hoping I looked as bad as I felt, I never did.

I found it unbearable. It didn’t have to be that way. There could be ways to solve this problem. And if anyone had the skills to solve it, I did.

I began by trying on a frizzy gray wig. It helped a little, but I still looked very good. So I experimented with some imperfect fake teeth that changed the shape of my mouth in a slightly unflattering way. I toned down the brilliance of my aqua eyes with brown contact lenses. And I put some glasses on top.

There was still the problematic body to deal with. I knew how to create a simple-but-convincing jiggling fat suit. I’d made several for body doubles in movies.

I had the materials delivered, and constructed the suit. It was easy to put on, weighed about ten pounds, and made me look eighty pounds heavier. It helped tremendously.

I finally agreed to see Georgia, who had been trying unsuccessfully for weeks to get me out of the apartment. I was wearing the full disguise when I opened the door for her. She seemed startled and said, “Oh, hi. I’m a friend of Barb’s. Is she here?”

“It’s me,” I said.

She was speechless. She squeezed my arm, to feel the consistency of my bulk, perhaps wondering if I’d genuinely gained all that weight in a few weeks.

When she had assured herself that my fat was fake, she said, “Is this one of your new costumes? I’m glad you’re working, at least.”

“No. This is how I should have looked. Then Gabriel would still be alive.”

After a pause, she said, “Yes, he probably would be.”

She walked around me, examining me from every angle.

“From now on,” I said, “I think I should wear this costume. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. My looks are to blame for his death.”

She looked stunned for a moment, but then said, “Absolutely.”

I knew that tone of hers. She was humoring me, to be shocking.

So I reminded her, “His suicide note said he killed himself over me and that my appearance was causing him pain.”

“I think this costume is an excellent idea,” she said. “Your beauty is a deadly weapon. Wielding it recklessly is irresponsible. You must treat it like a personal handgun — keep it hidden, handle it with care, and never point it at people, not even in jest, unless you intend to use it.”

I detected a note of anger in her voice, and I was no longer sure if she was humoring me or blaming me for Gabriel’s death.

“I wasn’t exactly flaunting my looks, you know,” I said.

“If you think your meager attempts to hide your beauty were successful, you’re deluded. Is a gun in a holster hidden?”

“You’re talking to me like I’m a five-year-old who accidentally shot my best friend to death.”

“That wasn’t my intention. Despite what his suicide note said, it’s not your fault he died. Your beauty is not you. But it is in your possession and you should control it.”

“Stop comparing my appearance to a weapon. I didn’t kill him.”

“Exactly. I rest my case,” she said, giving me a small smile.

Through her usual psychological manipulation, she got me to say the exact opposite of what I was saying at first.

“So you don’t think my disguise is a good idea?” I asked.

“Of course not. And I hope you don’t either.”

“Yes, I do.”

“It’s not your fault Gabriel died. And if you believe it is, you’re wrong. And if you still believe it is, forgive yourself for his death. And if you can’t, so be it, but you can’t be serious about wearing this disguise.”

“I am.”

She stared at me and finally gave up. “Fine. Anything that helps you get out of the house is fine.”

I liked the disguise. It felt like a punishment and a protection all at once, both of which I’d been craving without realizing it.

Breaking the news to my mother about my new appearance was not a fun prospect. I made an effort to dress well for the occasion — not in my usual sweatpants, sneakers, and ponytail. Instead, I wore an enormous pair of tailored fancy pants over my fat suit, and dressy black pumps, even with a slight heel. A very large silk shirt over my fake-fat jacket. I wore my well-combed gray frizzy wig, my subtly ugly fake teeth. For the first time since my parents had split up, I even put on a little makeup.

I wobbled toward the car, my huge thighs rubbing against each other. I opened the passenger door and said, “Hi Mom!” I plopped down in the seat next to her with a huff. It was strenuous carrying all that weight around.

She didn’t say anything at first, just stared, looking aghast. And then she asked, “What is this about?”

“This is how I have been looking for a while. And my life has been better. I’ve been happier.” My words were reminding me of people who break the news to their parents that they’re gay. “I like looking ugly,” I added bluntly.

Over dinner, we were silent for long stretches. She hardly looked at me. I, on the other hand, observed her carefully. She was now sixty and still hadn’t been with anyone since her brief attempt at dating after she left my dad.

“Why are you doing this?” she finally asked.

“It helps me cope with Gabriel’s suicide.”

“You weren’t responsible for his death, regardless of what his note said.”

I nodded, looking down at my food, my eyes filling with tears, inevitably.

“Is that really the only reason you’re doing this?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why else?”

I cleared my throat. “This is how I’m going to find the man of my dreams.”

She took this in. “Really. That’s an interesting method. Not exactly tried and true. Good luck with that,” she said, irritated.

“This is how I’m going to find my soul mate,” I repeated, “someone who doesn’t care much about beauty, who values other things about me — someone able to fall in love with me even if I don’t look good.”

My mother was gazing at me.

Gently, I added, “Someone whose interest in me won’t fade as soon as my looks do.”

My mother looked down. “So this is about your father and me.”

Unfortunately, my disguise put the idea in my mother’s head that I should go and see a therapist — a request she began frequently badgering me about and which I didn’t give in to until today: almost two years later, two years of wearing the disguise every day, making small improvements to it along the way.

THINKING ABOUT GABRIEL always makes me want to read some of his letters again — something I do often. So, after calling my mother I go and fetch two of them and sit on the couch. With great care, I unfold his suicide note. His handwriting is beautiful and interesting, like he was.

Clenching my lips, I read it once more. I know it practically by heart.

Beloved Barb,

I’m so sorry I have to say goodbye to you and to life.

You didn’t know. I never made a declaration of love, nor even a declaration of desire. I was very careful not to send you signals revealing my feelings because I knew they were not reciprocated. And worse, I knew it would change our relationship and make you uncomfortable. You would never be the same with me again, never be yourself.

You often mused to me about your future, wondering what your life would be like, whether you’d have children and how many, where you would live, who you would end up with. But you never saw me that way.

You made a drawing of me, once, with that talent of yours which matches your beauty — that beauty that has grown so painful for me to behold. In the drawing, I felt you had captured my soul. You made me more attractive, more appealing than I am. If that’s how you saw me, why couldn’t you love me?

Meeting you meant I was doomed. It has sapped me of my ability to derive pleasure from anything but you. Everything is ruined for me because nothing can match you, nothing can compare. I’ve never been as happy as when I’m with you. And I’ve never been as miserable. Sometimes those two feelings are separated by only a moment.

My work, my success, people’s praise — all those things that mattered to me — mean nothing to me now. My professional ambition has deserted me because I know it will not get me your love.

Beloved Barb, I adored you from the moment I met you. You have touched my soul in ways you will never know.

Goodbye, sweet heart.

More later,

Gabriel

Reading this letter always leaves me devastated, even after all this time.

Those two words, “More later,” which under any other circumstance would seem very banal, baffled my friends and me for a while. That is, until I began receiving more letters from Gabriel — letters he’d prepared before his death and had arranged to be sent to me on specific dates when he knew he would be dead.

The second letter resting on my lap is one of those — Gabriel’s latest, and by far strangest, one. I received it two days ago and have discussed it with my friends at length. We have no idea what he’s talking about. It reads:

Dear Barb, Georgia, Lily, Penelope, and Jack,

One of you confessed to me that you did something very bad. I don’t want to reveal what it is until it’s absolutely necessary. And it will be necessary soon.

Love,

Gabriel

Chapter Three

After folding the two letters and putting them away, I turn off the living room lights.

I’m tired. I go to the other room, which is not only my bedroom but my office. There’s a desk in the middle of this large room and a couch in a corner. The bed is simply a mattress on the floor because it satisfies my bohemian taste. I’ve lined the room with floor-to-ceiling storage space. I have built-in drawers that hold supplies for masks, sketches, fabrics for costumes, sewing equipment, etc. I also have a big closet where I keep dozens of costumes I’ve made or am in the process of making. My own clothes take up only a tiny portion of the closet because I have little interest in my appearance other than to make sure it’s bad.

I’m in the midst of getting ready for bed, taking off my fat, when Georgia calls in tears. She can’t sleep; she’s devastated about her lost novel in her lost laptop. I tell her to take a sleeping aid, and we’ll try calling the police again tomorrow. She says she already took one and it’s not working. I tell her to come over and sleep on my couch if she wants.

A half hour later, Georgia is sitting curled up on my couch, sipping a cup of hot chocolate.

I first met Georgia five years ago when I was the costume designer for the movie based on her novel The Liquid Angel. It was my first job in costume design, and it basically made my career, earning me a Satellite Award and an Oscar nomination. (I chose Gabriel as my escort to the Academy Awards, and we had a memorable time even though I didn’t win.) Job offers poured in after that and I dropped out of Tisch’s MFA program to devote myself full time to freelance costume designing. I haven’t since been nominated for another major award, though my designs continue to get positive reviews that praise their originality, freshness, and psychological insight.

Georgia and I became good friends right away and we often turn to each other during difficult times, such as now.

“I don’t see how I can write again, now that I’ve lost my best work,” she cries, putting down her cup of hot chocolate.

“You’re a great writer. You’ll write it again and even better.”

“I’ve lost work before. I don’t write it better. I write it worse.”

AFTER SHE LEAVES, I work all morning on a series of masks and costumes I’ve been hired to design for a TV movie.

I would happily keep working till dinnertime without taking a break, if only I hadn’t promised our friend Penelope I’d have lunch with her and her parents. I always try to do whatever I can to help Penelope. She’s a dear friend who’s had a tough life. Or rather, she had a tough three days, six years ago. She was kidnapped and kept in a coffin for sixty-nine hours. She doesn’t often ask for favors, so when she begged me because she didn’t want to see her parents alone and she claimed they had always wanted to meet me, etc., I couldn’t refuse.

Penelope doesn’t want to see them alone because of the ongoing tense exchange she has with her wealthy father over the issue of her not yet making a living at the age of twenty-eight. He pressures Penelope to get a job, or to make money some other way, any other way. Instead, Penelope decided to take a pottery class. She discovered she had no talent for making attractive pots. Impressed with her classmates’ pots, which were merely ugly, not hideous like her own, she decided to open a store and sell their ugly pots. Her father disapproves of her business venture. He thinks the pots are ugly and her idea stupid. Worse, the pots aren’t selling and the store is losing money. And he’s the one who pays the rent on her store and on her apartment. He hasn’t given her a trust fund, just a monthly allowance for food, bills, clothes. If he wants to, he can stop supporting her at any time, and she would have nothing, not even a place to live.

It seems obvious to me that Penelope is tortured by her lack of achievement. She would give anything, I think, to possess a special gift, an ability; even the smallest, most modest skill.

She did make efforts to please her father over the years, she did try a few jobs, but hated them and left each one within a couple of months. The pottery class, however, she enjoyed greatly and she continues to take at least two ceramics classes every semester: Wheel Throwing and Handbuilding.

Penelope told me that each time she sees her father, which is every two weeks, he bitterly asks her how sales are going. She never lies, always says, “Terrible.” She’s becoming increasingly stressed by his questions.

PENELOPE AND HER parents are already seated when I arrive at Cipriani Downtown. They shake my hand warmly. They don’t know I’m wearing a disguise. Penelope assured me she never told them. In their eyes, I must make a striking contrast to their daughter, who’s sitting there all prim and ladylike in her cream cashmere sweater set and her immaculately applied makeup.

The waiter takes our order. After telling him I want to start with the steamed broccoli and then have the grilled sole, no sauce, Penelope’s very skinny mother leans over to me and says, “I admire your discipline. My willpower leaves much to be desired.” She rubs her stomach, as though it were convex instead of concave.

“It’s not discipline,” I say. “I just don’t like fatty foods.” It’s ironic that I, of all people, possess the rare trait of not enjoying the things that destroy one’s beauty. “Fat and sugar make me want to throw up,” I explain.

“Really? Then how do you maintain your…” She seems unsure how to finish.

“Girth?” I offer.

She nods sheepishly.

“It’s actually not that easy to get rid of, you know. For emotional reasons, I guess.”

“I sure know what you mean,” she says, squeezing her bony upper arms critically, as though they were covered in a layer of thick flesh caused by years of compulsive eating due to emotional torment. “I don’t know how Penelope does it, with what she went through six years ago…”

I nod politely.

Not for a moment did Penelope’s father hesitate to pay the exorbitant ransom when his daughter was abducted. He got it ready as soon as the kidnappers told him the amount, but before he had a chance to deliver the money, the police found the criminals and freed Penelope. The kidnappers had kept her in a coffin so that she’d sound all the more distraught when her father asked to speak to her. They held up the phone to the coffin and instructed her to talk to him through its walls and describe her situation. She was crying and had to shout to be heard.

“Barb!” her father booms at me. It’s the first time he’s spoken since I sat down. “You make a living designing costumes, right?”

“Yes,” I say, hoping he hasn’t figured out I’m wearing one.

“You make a good living at it, from what I gather from the magazines.” Penelope must have shown her parents the few articles that have been written about me during the past couple of years.

“It’s okay,” I say softly, sorry that my presence didn’t protect Penelope from her dad’s obsession.

“I wish my daughter would follow your example. She has so many advantages and opportunities.”

No one responds.

Penelope’s father turns to her. “How’s your store going?”

“Quite well, thank you,” she says. I look at her, startled.

Her father does an auditory double take. “What do you mean, ‘quite well’?”

“Selling vigorously,” she articulates. “Compared to before.”

“Are you putting me on?”

“No.”

“Are you selling new merchandise?”

“No.”

“I can’t believe those pots are selling.”

“I’ll show you the sales records next time I see you.”

“No need. I can look at them today when we go to your store.”

“But we’re not going to my store.”

“Yes we are. I want to see the records. After lunch, we’re going back to your store with you.”

“Today’s not a good day. I’m not in the mood.”

“Nonsense. Your reticence is very suspicious, I hope you realize.”

When lunch is over I try to take my leave, but Penelope grabs my arm so tightly it hurts, even through the padding, and in a low voice says to me, “Please come with us.”

“I really need to get back to my work.”

“I beg you with every shred of my being. For moral support,” she says.

In the store, Penelope’s father examines her recent sales records. Appearing impressed and amused, he says, “It looks like you’ve indeed been selling these pots. Didn’t I say customers can be endlessly surprising?”

He gets up and gazes at the merchandise. “It’s beyond my comprehension why anyone would buy any of this pottery. It’s abominable.”

Penelope says, “That makes it art, more than craft.”

Her father reaches for a big, misshapen brown mug. To my surprise, the handle comes off in his hand while the rest of the mug stays on the shelf. Startled, he turns to his daughter, holding the handle.

“You broke the mug!” Penelope says. “That was my best piece.”

He picks up the rest of the mug and attempts to put mug and handle back together. “I’m sorry. The handle just lifted right off.”

“It was a fragile, delicate piece. Very refined and elegant.”

He looks down at the two pieces of mug in his hand. “You grew up in a house filled with refinement and delicacy. This mug is a big clunky chunk of mud, the farthest thing from elegant.”

“Absolutely, according to your narrow-minded and unsophisticated definition of elegance.”

Looking irritated, he puts the pieces back on the shelf and reaches for another item — a bowl. It breaks in two as soon as he’s touched it.

He looks at Penelope. “This bowl was broken,” he says.

He picks up a plate, but only half of it goes with him. “What’s going on? All these items are broken,” he says.

“I can see that. It’s a shame you broke them,” she says.

“Stop it.”

Penelope blushes fiercely.

“Stop the bullshit. I want an explanation,” he says.

In a voice that sounds so strangled I myself can barely breathe, Penelope says, “Customers have to pay for what they break.”

A chuckle escapes me. She has gall. She may not be a creative genius like Lily or Georgia, but nature was a genius in making her.

After a moment’s reflection, her father’s eyes open wide. “That’s how you’ve been selling your merchandise? You make people believe they broke a piece of crap, and you make them pay for it?”

“I was kidnapped,” Penelope says.

“Ah, here we go again.”

“I was kept in a coffin for three days.”

“SO?” he screams. “Why do you always bring that up to defend your inadequacies?”

“Please don’t be so harsh,” Penelope’s mother finally says.

His tone softens. “Don’t you feel ashamed to do business this way?”

“It’s a selling technique,” Penelope says.

Feeling sorry for her, I jump in. “Positioning the broken pieces in such a way as to make them appear unbroken requires great skill. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in the long run, the art of the deception becomes the true art of the piece.” I reach for an ugly mug that looks in perfect condition. The moment I raise it from the shelf, a piece of the rim falls inside the mug. “Wow,” I gasp. “It looked so undamaged. Your technique is remarkable, Penelope. Achieving this effect of false wholeness, this illusion of integrity, must take a lot of work. It’s a tough balancing act.”

“Yes,” she says.

Her father is not satisfied. “But don’t customers object to paying for something they didn’t break? How did you manage to get so many people to pay for the pieces?”

“I cry,” Penelope says.

“You cry to sell your broken merchandise?” her father screams.

“Yes, it helps! And I’m thinking of branching out and selling glassware, too.”

“I’m embarrassed by you.”

“I was kidnapped!” she exclaims again. “And don’t pretend you don’t see how that could possibly affect the rest of my life. I was kept in a coffin for three days and three nights. No food. No water. No physical movement. Hardly any air to breathe. No toilet. I should be dead right now.” She gives her father a searing look.

Her father turns to me. “You seem well balanced. Do you have a good therapist you could recommend?”

I stammer, “I have one… since yesterday… uh, I don’t know how good she is.”

Penelope says, “I didn’t go to a therapist when I came out of the coffin — I don’t see why I should go to one now.”

Her father takes her by the shoulders and stares deep into her eyes. “You’re the one who keeps using the coffin excuse to defend every poor choice you make and to justify your lack of… achievements — which I don’t say is invalid, but it tells me you might want to deal with your coffin issue. Face it, you never really got out of that coffin. Let a therapist free you.”

Seeing no reaction from her and unwilling to wait more than two seconds for one, he adds, “And anyway, if you don’t start contributing to your living in a legitimate way very soon, I’m going to stop supporting you. Then you’ll have no choice but to make money, honey.”

THE TENSION OF the last couple of hours has exhausted me. I decide to go straight home instead of buying some more materials for my masks, as I’d intended.

By the time I arrive at my building, I have a blasting headache.

The doorman opens the door, saying, “Here you go, cunt.”

I cringe because I’m afraid he’ll be overheard by the other two doormen at the front desk. There are other staff members as well in this large lobby: porters, handymen, the super, one of the employees from the management office. What worries me is that he’ll get fired, end up homeless, kill himself, and it will be my fault because something about me — my kindness, my compassion, who knows — made him feel safe enough to drop his inhibitions and allow his mental problem to surface in my presence.

“Having a bad day, huh, Adam?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too. Hope it gets better,” I say cheerfully, trying to make my tone raise his spirits. And I go up to my apartment.

Chapter Four

That evening, Lily, Georgia, Jack, Penelope, and I go to a bar to blow off steam. We’re all upset. Lily’s shown us a postcard Strad sent her:

Hey Lily, Sorry I can’t make it to your concert. Hope it goes/went well. Last month I read that great article in Time Out about your new music’s powers. Congratulations on your success! Strad

When we meet up, Penelope gives me a gift to thank me for helping her deal with her parents at her store of ugly ceramic items. The gift is an ugly ceramic item: a hideous box with a beautiful metal clasp encrusted with a small green stone. But at least the gift is not broken.

“Sorry I didn’t wrap it,” she says. “I made it. Except for the clasp. Someone in the metal department at school created it for me in exchange for two pots.”

“Thank you!” I say, kissing her on the cheek. “I’m so touched. It’s wonderful. It has such character.”

We all make a show of admiring the box, though secretly we’re just admiring the clasp.

Penelope tells the others about the fight with her dad in her shop of broken pots and his threat to stop supporting her if she didn’t start contributing to her living in a way that wasn’t against the law. They’re astounded to hear about her selling technique.

I’m sad for Penelope, after the fight with her father, and I’m sad for Georgia over her lost novel. Mostly, though, I’m angry on Lily’s behalf. So I scan the bar, as has become my habit, for a possible scapegoat, for a shallow man to represent all shallow men.

At the same time, I’m also searching for an exception, for a man capable of falling in love with a woman for reasons other than her looks. That’s the only kind of man I could ever fall in love with.

While my friends huddle on a banquette and order drinks and snacks, I spot a man reading a stack of handsome books at the bar. He’s a bohemian type. Chin-length hair.

I approach him. The books are small, old editions with lovely bindings. The man himself is attractive, too — not that that matters. As I near, I glance at the spines of his volumes: Cinderella, The Sleeping Beauty, Little Red Riding Hood, Rumpelstiltskin, Tom Thumb, The Princess in Disguise, Hansel and Gretel, Rapunzel, and Snow White.

Maybe this isn’t an occasion for my usual bar ritual. The presence of the books gives me hope that perhaps this guy isn’t as shallow as all the other strangers I’ve approached.

I stand behind him and look over his shoulder. The page he’s looking at has a beautiful illustration of Sleeping Beauty, with a few lines of text.

“This is the first time I’ve ever seen a man reading fairy tales in a bar,” I tell him.

He looks me over and tersely replies, “I’m doing it for work.”

“Now I’m dying to know: what kind of work?” I sit down on the barstool next to him.

He closes his eyes wearily and says, “I’m a kindergarten teacher. I really have to focus right now.”

He has to focus, and yet I can’t help noticing him turning his head to look at several attractive women who have entered the room.

“Bringing fairy tales to a bar must be a great way to meet women, though I don’t think classic fairy tales are the best things to read to children,” I say.

“Excuse me?” he says, in a tone that conveys annoyance, not only at what I’m saying, but at the fact that I’m still talking.

I’m fully aware that I’m very annoying during my bar ritual. That’s the point.

“Haven’t you noticed how the heroines are always beautiful?” I say. “There are no ugly heroines, no ugly girls that are worthy to be loved. There are poor heroines, dirty heroines, like Cinderella, but never ugly heroines. That sends out a terrible message to kids.”

“I can see how that could make certain ugly women angry,” he says, not looking up from The Sleeping Beauty.

I glance at my friends and hold my nose to indicate that this is a real stinker. Georgia mimes stabbing gestures toward the man, which startles me. That seems a bit excessive, even for her.

As for Penelope, she has been trying to gently break her empty water glass in such a way that it can be reassembled and held together with nothing but the glue of gravity. She told us it’s practice, for when she will make good on her promise to her dad to branch out into glassware.

I say to the kindergarten teacher, “Actually, you’d be surprised at how little it has to do with being ugly. I have plenty of female friends who look just like those beautiful heroines. They have hair that looks like this,” I say, taking off my wig. “They have the same kind of body, typically considered to be beautiful in our culture. Very similar to this,” I say, taking off my fake-fat jacket. “Some of them look remarkably like Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and that whole classic bunch, and yet they still feel angry about the kind of message the fairy tales communicate to children.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Georgia’s whole body gesticulating. She invariably gets wired when I begin taking off my wig in front of a guy.

As for Lily, I always worry it might pain her to watch a man’s transformation from jerk to gentleman as I go through my own transformation from unattractive to attractive. The difference between how men treat an ugly woman, like herself, and one who is beautiful is not something she needs her face rubbed in, but my compulsion to go through the ritual overpowers my need to spare her the sad spectacle. If she is hurt, she never shows it.

The kindergarten teacher looks at me as I take out my fake teeth. To my amazement, he appears angry. I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s refreshing to meet a man who doesn’t become sweet and gooey when I unveil my looks. I’m about to compliment him on his consistency, when he says, “I feel robbed and violated.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You deceived me. You stole…” he trails off.

“What did I steal?”

“My opportunity to make a good first impression.”

“I didn’t prevent you.”

“Yes you did, by misleading me into thinking you were—” He cuts himself off, but I know what he was about to say. I misled him into thinking I was ugly and fat, and thus not worth his time and attention.

“Ah, I think I get it,” I answer. “When you say I stole from you the opportunity to make a good first impression, you mean that in the same way as how you stole from every ugly woman you’ve ever laid eyes on the opportunity to impress you with something other than her looks.”

“You’re crazy, you know that?” He sweeps his fairy tales into his big bag and leaves the bar.

I go to the restroom, change back into my disguise, and rejoin my friends.

I scoot into their booth. The glass Penelope broke is now sitting in front of her, reassembled and looking intact except for the break lines running across it like scars. She is holding the postcard Strad sent to Lily, gazing at it grimly.

“May I?” I ask, taking it from her. As I look at it again, the slight relief my ritual gave me wears off. This postcard is soul-crushing. No one would understand why it’s soul-crushing unless they knew Lily’s story. And we know it well.

Lily met Strad — a name he’d given himself in honor of his favorite violin-maker, Stradivarius — three years ago at the musical instruments store where they both worked when she was in her second year of graduate studies at the Manhattan School of Music. She developed a crush immediately. Strad Ellison did not reciprocate her interest — was perhaps not even aware of it. He had a very active dating life. He said he had high standards and that he was very idealistic and romantic and was looking for a great love. The reality is that Strad is a superficial guy, only interested in dating beautiful women.

And yet Lily had not aimed too high. Strad was not “out of her league,” as the expression goes — certainly not mentally, and not even physically, that much. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, but in Lily’s eyes he had enormous charm. I met him a few times at the store where they worked and noticed he did manage to be dashing, occasionally, but never for more than five minutes at a time.

One day, Lily invited Strad to watch a studio recital in which she was going to play two of her compositions on the piano. She was hoping to impress him.

But when they went for coffee after the recital, he merely told her politely she’d been good. On the other hand, he raved about Derek Pearce, one of the other composers who’d performed. He particularly praised one of Derek’s pieces, saying, “That’s the kind of music that is more than just beautiful. It beautifies the world around it. You want it never to end.”

Lily said, “At home I have recordings of some of his other compositions, in case you want to come over and hear them.”

“Why not?” Strad said, and they left the coffee shop and went to her apartment.

Strad lay on her floor. It was better for his back than sitting on the couch, he said. She put on a recording of Derek’s music.

“Why don’t you turn out the lights and light some candles? I love listening to music in the dark,” he said.

Understandably, Lily was hopeful.

Strad asked if he could smoke. Even though Lily hates smoke, she said okay and gave him a plate as an ashtray.

She lay next to him, resting on her elbow, and feasted her eyes on his profile which was glowing dimly in the candlelight.

The lines of his face mesmerized her. They had character, were so lived in. His features were weathered yet humorous, connected by tremendous laugh lines, and encircled by silly curly hair. He had an ugly kind of beauty or beautiful kind of ugliness which was why, in her secret heart, she hoped that her own ugliness could appeal to him the same way his appealed to her. Unfortunately, his particular brand of ugliness appealed to a lot of women, she noticed.

His physical appearance was not what she had first fallen in love with. She’d first fallen in love with everything else about him. His considerate nature. His love of his dog. His way of laughing at things she said when she had no idea why.

That night, as Strad was lying on the floor of her apartment, listening to Derek’s music, he began commenting, “He’s good. Not as good as he was tonight — he’s gotten better. Music like his, music that has the power to make things around it beautiful — that’s great music. Music that improves people’s perception of reality. That’s music’s highest power, most noble ability. Making the world more appealing.”

Strad took a drag on his cigarette and after blowing the smoke toward the ceiling he said something that changed Lily’s life. He said, “I would fall in love with — and marry — any woman who could create music like that. If Derek was a chick, I’d ask her out.” He flicked his ashes onto the plate.

And then he talked of all the various women he had recently dated, was presently dating, and was thinking of dating.

Lily made a decision right then in the dark: to attempt the impossible. She knew she couldn’t win Strad with her looks. Her strength lay in her talent. She would win him through her music. She would impress him so deeply that he would have no choice but to fall in love with her. She would try to create music that beautified the world.

Lily quit her job the next day, wanting to set to work immediately on her project. But beautifying the world with her music was not an easy task. It took her eight months of the most intense dedication. It required an extraordinary amount of perseverance.

After many failed attempts, she decided that perhaps she was aiming too high. So she tried beautifying merely her neighborhood instead of the world.

But she still couldn’t manage it.

She scaled down, focusing on her street.

But still, she didn’t pull it off.

So she went to the supermarket and picked out a single item at random: a banana. She brought it home, put it on her piano, and stared at it for a while, rotating it, trying to see the unique beauty in the banana. She then imagined having a craving for it. And slowly, slowly, a melody came to her.

She was excited. She found other objects in her apartment, spread them out on her piano, and studied them while trying to compose flattering pieces for them.

She called us, told us she’d succeeded and wanted to test her music on us. We gathered at my apartment.

“The piece of music I’m going to test is the one I composed for junk mail,” she told us. “But before I begin, I want to make sure you all dislike junk mail.”

We confirmed we not only disliked it, but hated it.

She went to my week-old pile of mail near the front door, pulled out all the junk mail, and plopped it on the ottoman cube in front of us.

“You haven’t changed your minds yet, right? You still hate junk mail?”

“Right!” we all exclaimed.

“As I play the piece, pay close attention to your feelings and let me know if you detect any change in your perception of the junk mail. Let me know if you start finding it more beautiful and desirable.”

She sat at the piano and played her junk mail melody while we gazed at the pile of junk mail.

When Lily was done playing her piece, Penelope said, “I’m sorry, Lily, but this was not a valid test.”

“Why not?” Lily asked, rising from her piano bench.

“Did you take a look at this junk mail before you set it down? It’s not normal junk mail!” Penelope said, kneeling at the foot of the ottoman cube and looking through the envelopes and leaflets. “In fact, technically, I don’t think this is junk mail at all. I mean, look at it; it must have cost a fortune to print. The quality, the colors, the sheen, are all exceptional.”

“She’s right,” Jack said, pulling the ottoman cube closer to him. “And not just the colors, but the words. There’s humor!”

“And there’s irony, too,” I said, skimming some of the text. “And depth. And double meanings.”

“And cliff-hangers!” Georgia exclaimed, dropping to her knees next to Penelope and zeroing in on a leaflet of junk mail. “It’s actually gripping! Listen to the suspense in this line: ‘Who dry cleans better than us?’ They don’t answer the question! They just leave it hanging like that, torturing us. It’s a great hook and extremely thought-provoking.”

Lily just watched us.

Since the music had ceased a minute ago, its effect was now wearing off. Our interest in the junk mail was starting to fade, but not before we reiterated that this had not been a good test because the pile of junk mail was better than average.

Lily sat at her piano and played the same piece over again, which caused us to fight over who would get to keep the junk mail, even though it was mine. We ended up Xeroxing it on the machine in my living room closet, so that everyone could get a copy, and I kept the originals. When I mentioned that I might bind mine, not only did they not think it weird, they decided they might bind theirs as well. That is, until Lily stopped playing, and the pile gradually appeared for what it was: junk.

This was five months ago. Things progressed quickly after that. Lily’s career took off and she now gets highly paid by stores like Barnes & Noble, Tiffany, Bloomingdale’s, Crate & Barrel, and others, to compose music that will beautify their merchandise. Her music is played while customers shop, and soon these customers get an urge to buy more books, more toothpaste, more jewelry, or more of whatever Lily was assigned to enhance musically. Recently Barnes & Noble told her, off the record, that its sales had almost doubled since it started playing her book music.

The critics have been impressive in their ability to look past her music’s commercial use (one pundit even called it “crass usage”), appreciating its genius. The reviews have been glowing.

Lily wanted Strad to find out about her achievement on his own, without her having to brag about it. Considering how many articles have been written on her in the last few months, it was a reasonable hope. She assumed he would contact her as soon as he heard she had accomplished what he said should be the ultimate goal of music: to beautify the world.

And yet she heard nothing from him.

“He probably doesn’t read, the idiot,” Georgia said.

“I don’t know about that,” Lily replied. “As I’ve already told you, when I gave him one of your novels, he not only read it and loved it, he immediately bought your other four books and read and loved those too. It’s funny you’re so down on him. He’s a huge fan of yours. He said one of his greatest joys in life would be to meet you.”

“Well, then, it will be one of my greatest joys never to meet him,” she said simply, and smiled.

Eventually, Lily sent Strad an invitation to last night’s concert, thinking that if he didn’t know about her success yet, he would now. The beautiful printed invite included a bio, which described the particular musical powers she’d recently developed. (The invitation also reassured any nervous guests that none of her “influential” music would be played that evening, and it wasn’t.)

During our dinner after the concert, Lily told us, “I’m worried I didn’t exactly achieve what Strad was talking about. He spoke of music that beautifies the world, not music that beautifies consumer products.”

“Consumer products are part of the world,” was Georgia’s response.

Lily shook her head. “Strad probably doesn’t see it that way. He’s an idealist.”

“You’ve achieved so much more than what he was talking about. You’ve achieved actual magic.”

“Magic is not necessarily more important than poetry. I think he was talking about poetry.”

Penelope finally stepped in with, “Lily, you’ve achieved something extraordinary, that’s never been done before. If Strad hasn’t contacted you, it’s because he doesn’t know about it yet, not because he’s not impressed. He probably didn’t bother reading your bio in the invite, nor did he see any of the articles about your music.”

We all hoped Penelope was right and we were disappointed today when the arrival of this postcard proved her wrong. Lily’s not getting what she wants out of her inspired musical accomplishments, not a speck of the affection she craves. In his message, Strad doesn’t suggest they see each other. There is no: “Stop by the store and say hi one of these days. I’ll give you a good price on a flute. ”

“Are you all right, Barb?” Jack asks me.

I’m suddenly aware of the grim expression on my face. “He’s not worthy of you,” I tell Lily. “Do you think you can forget about him now?”

“No,” she replies. “Actually, I’m going to call him tomorrow and suggest we have coffee.”

Soft sounds of concern and disapproval escape us.

She explains, “If I’ve failed to create the kind of music he was talking about — and I guess I have, judging from his postcard — I want to know how I can do better.”

Doing better is not the issue. Looking better is. That’s what she doesn’t understand. At least that’s my bleak take. I would love to be wrong.

As we’re chatting, we’re oblivious to the waitress who is refilling Penelope’s water glass. Before the water reaches the top, the glass falls apart and the water spills all over the table.

“Oh! Shit! I’m sorry!” Penelope exclaims, as the water slides onto her lap.

“What on earth?” the waitress says, staring at the broken pieces of glass.

“The glass was broken and I reassembled it, stupidly. I’m sorry,” Penelope says, mopping up the water with her napkin.

“You reassembled it? Why?”

“To see if it could look intact.”

“It’s very dangerous,” the waitress says.

“I know. I’m so sorry, I forgot about it, I didn’t intend to leave it that way.”

We call it a night.

I walk home. Adam the doorman greets me with: “I hope your evening was as dreadful as you are.”

“Not quite.”

“Wait a minute,” he says, closing his eyes and pressing his thumb and forefinger against his forehead. “I’m trying to imagine you with a personality.” Opening his eyes and shaking his head slowly in bewilderment, he says, “No luck. If I throw a stick, will you go away?”

I say goodnight and oblige.

Upstairs, I receive a call from my mom saying that she researched support groups for fat people and found Overeaters Anonymous, Food Addicts Anonymous, and Eating Disorders Anonymous.

“The problem is,” I tell her, “I don’t overeat, I’m not addicted to food, and I don’t have an eating disorder of any kind.”

“Listen, I’m not an idiot. I can see there’s a slight discrepancy. But I couldn’t find a group called Fat People’s Support Group, otherwise I’d say go to that. You’ve got to make do with what’s out there, sweetie.”

After we say good night and hang up, I brush my teeth, take off my fat, and carefully hang it up. I love the sensual protectiveness of my disguise. It’s like being a turtle or a snail: you can go out and wander around, yet still have the benefits of staying at home. No one bugs you.

I haven’t had sex in two years. I haven’t even gone on a date since Gabriel died and I donned my padding. It’s not that I’m not open to it, as evidenced by my bar ritual. If some man were open-minded enough not to shut me out the second he sees me in my ugly disguise, I’d consider going out with him. But I haven’t found such a man. So I spend a lot of time with my friends, who happen to all be single at the moment as well.

Peter Marrick

Friday, 13 October

Something has happened to me. I finally got around to looking in the laptop I found in the taxi three days ago, and I think my life may never again be the same. While searching inside the computer for its owner’s contact info, I stumbled upon a diary. I know I shouldn’t have looked, but I did. I only meant to glance at it quickly, to see what an average person concerns himself with. Turns out this journal was not written by an average person. It belongs to the novelist Georgia Latch. I haven’t read her books, but over the years I’ve thought I should. Their concepts intrigue me.

Her friends, though, intrigue me even more. I found it painful to read her descriptions of these artistic people. It reminded me once again that I’m not living my life how I want.

I must meet them. And there’s one I’m completely enthralled by: Barb. First of all, there’s the simple fact that I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as her. In the laptop there are photos of how she really looks — incredible — and how she makes herself look each day — unrecognizable. The mere fact that she wears this disguise is just… so eccentric, in a good way. I read in Georgia Latch’s diary about Barb’s routine in bars, how she takes off her disguise in the middle of conversations with men who show no interest in her. And then she walks away. It’s very spunky and sexy. The way Georgia writes about her, she sounds incredibly interesting.

I’ll return the laptop tomorrow. I’m tempted to make a copy of the photos of Barb — especially the gorgeous ones — but I know I shouldn’t. Still, they seem too beautiful to part with.

These people must never know I’m the one who found the laptop. First: they’d be angry I took so long to return it, especially poor Georgia. And secondly and more importantly: according to the journal, Barb will never date a man who has already seen her physical beauty.

I have to think of the best way to meet them. There is an obvious way, but as I’ve learned detrimentally late in life, the obvious path is not always the best one.

I’m glad I’m writing down my thoughts. Despite my many attempts to keep a journal, I’ve never been able to stick to one for long. Life gets in the way.

Chapter Five

Before meeting Strad for coffee, Lily makes very little extra effort with her appearance because there is not much that can be done. In fact, Lily has often noticed — and others have agreed with her — that in her case, the less done the better. Lipstick only emphasizes the ugliness of her lips. Mascara does the same disservice to her eyes, drawing attention to their unfortunate proximity to each other.

She feels that her best hope today with Strad is her talent, her music.

They meet at The Coffee Shop in Union Square (she tells me all about it later). They sit at a table in the back. They make small talk. He congratulates her again on her success without lingering on the topic.

So she decides to probe. She says to him, “I was very influenced by your words a while back when you said that music’s most noble ability is to beautify the world.”

He looks at her blankly, nodding vaguely. Then he talks about other things — movies he’s seen.

She persists. “The kind of music I’ve developed, does it approach in any way what you were talking about?”

“When?”

“When you said that beauty — I mean music’s — highest purpose is to beautify the world.”

“Hmm, I don’t remember that conversation.”

She blinks, confused. She doesn’t understand how he cannot remember. Or is he lying, out of discomfort? Yes, perhaps he remembers it perfectly and feels embarrassed about having said he’d marry any woman who could create that kind of music. Maybe he doesn’t want to be held to that statement.

In an anxious attempt to understand his feelings, she murmurs, “You said that one should strive to create music that alters people’s perception of reality, music that beautifies reality. I always kept that in mind.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. I mean, I’m glad you were inspired by what I said.” He laughs and bites into his toast.

Lily stares at him, her heart sinking. She can tell with absolute certainty that he’s not pretending. He genuinely doesn’t remember. That’s how unimportant that conversation was to him. And here she’s been worrying that perhaps she hasn’t created exactly the kind of music he had in mind, that perhaps she hasn’t executed his vision in quite the right way to please his discriminating sensibility.

But maybe there’s still hope, she thinks. Just because he doesn’t remember uttering those words doesn’t mean they might not be true.

Gently, she says, “It’s funny that you don’t remember, because you seemed to feel pretty strongly about it at the time. You even said you’d fall in love with — and marry — any woman who could create that kind of music.”

“Did I say that? Is that why you composed your recent music?” he asks, and immediately bursts out laughing. He puts his hand on her wrist. “I’m kidding; I flatter myself. But seriously, I can’t believe I said that music’s highest purpose is to beautify the world, and much less that I would marry… whatever. I mean, I do believe you, that I said it, because I know what asinine things I’m capable of saying, but you should know me well enough by now not to listen to half the stuff I say.”

While she tries not to cry, something in her dies.

But she doesn’t want to give up just yet. She’s not even sure he actually heard her music. Perhaps he only read about it. Perhaps if he hears it, he’ll be won over. The entire last year of her life was built on the statement he made in the dark. She refuses to believe it was utterly meaningless and her efforts were pointless.

“Have you heard any of my music?” she asks softly.

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure yet. I don’t go to stores much. Except the one I work in. Been so busy. But some friends of mine have heard it. Get this,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows. “One of them heard the piece that’s at the florist. He ended up shelling out $100 he hadn’t intended to spend. Oh, and I have a client — remember Mrs. Lockford? — well, she bought thirty tubes of lip balm at Walgreens.” He slaps the table and thrusts himself back in his chair, as though to say, “Case closed.”

Lily smiles, nodding sadly. She has indeed composed music for Astor Flowers and Nivea lip balm. She sometimes gets hired to compose music for entire stores and sometimes for specific products in stores.

Strad grins and sweeps the hair out of his face. “I love the little signs the stores are forced to put on their doors by law. What’s the wording again? It kills me.” He pauses and thinks. “‘Warning: Your tastes may be temporarily compromised by the ambiance in this store.’ And then, then, my favorite part is something like, ‘Be aware that you will be buying under the influence. You are advised to familiarize yourself with the return policy of this establishment prior to making any purchase.’ Ha!” He slaps the table again, startling the cutlery.

Lily smiles and nods. She’s always been charmed by Strad’s bursts of enthusiasm.

But she’s not going to let them distract her now. Focus and perseverance — one might even say fixation — have always been among her greatest strengths, as well as greatest sources of misery. She may be sweet and fragile, but she’s like a missile. When she has a mission, nothing can distract her, and as long as there’s a shred of hope, she doesn’t give up. Now her last shred of hope rests in playing him her music.

“Could you do me a big favor?” she says. “I’d really like to play something for you, to get your opinion on it. Do you have a few minutes? We could stop at the Building of Piano Rooms.”

Strad hesitates only a moment, and then says, “Sure. I have a few minutes.”

Lily pays the bill and they walk to the Building of Piano Rooms two blocks away.

They rent a small room. She feels a little uncomfortable, as though they’re booking a hotel room for sex, which of course she would much prefer.

The room contains nothing but a piano and two chairs. In her state of mind, it feels grim and seedy. The piano is giving off the vibe of a bed. She knows that’s just her perception, skewed by years of longing and frustration. In actuality, the space looks like a miniature classroom.

Strad sits on a white plastic chair near her.

She will play exquisitely. She wants him to be in awe. She’s not sure this is the most effective path to love, but she knows of no other way. If she can incite in him a very intense degree of admiration, perhaps the leap to adoration will be possible.

“What do you want me to beautify?” she asks.

He looks confused. “I thought there was a piece you wanted to play for me, to get my opinion.”

“Right.” She forgot. “But I need you to pick something randomly for me to beautify. I need to know how well I perform when I’m not prepared. That’s what I need your opinion on.”

“Okay. How about a pen or something?” he says, tapping his pockets. “Do you have one?”

She takes a ballpoint pen out of her purse and places it on the music stand. “Before we start, pay attention to your feelings toward the pen. Form an opinion of it. On a scale of zero to ten, how impressed are you with the pen right now?”

“I guess… zero. No offense, I hope.”

“No, of course not.”

She focuses on the pen.

This is more important to her than any concert she has ever played. She takes a deep breath and begins a piece for the pen.

After a minute, the pen starts looking poetic. As Lily keeps playing, the pen acquires depth. Gradually, it comes to represent the epitome of human thought, of human invention.

“Hey, that’s wild! It really does look better,” Strad says. “It’s like looking at a pen in a movie. A dramatic movie with beautiful sets and costumes. It’s like the pen suddenly has a story, or a history. How’d you do that?” He looks at Lily ardently, and before she can answer, he says, “I’m sure you’ll understand when I say I need to get to a stationery store urgently.” He laughs. Putting on his coat, he adds, “That is so impressive, that you were able to develop this skill. You could have a lot of fun with it. You’re very talented.”

She gives him a sad smile and mumbles thanks.

“No, thank you for playing me your stuff. It was a blast!” he says. “I love it.”

Sure, he loves it. But he doesn’t love her.

Outside the Building of Piano Rooms, they say goodbye and each go their own way.

She walks in the cold, briskly at first. Sniffling, she tilts her head back and looks up, helping gravity sink the tears back into her lovely but unfortunately positioned eyes.

Lily heads back to Union Square. She walks through the park, slowly, looking down, gazing at the leaves in her path — golden, crispy leaves, now transformed into a rotting mush. She listens to the cars rolling through puddles. She feels lonely. She sees homeless people. She sits on a bench, holding onto its cold arm.

She remains sitting there for quite a while, and then calls me to meet her.

As I’m walking toward her, seeing her looking so lost in the surrounding grayness, I can’t help but think of Gabriel.

“I gave him my best performance,” she says.

I nod.

“Why did I think Strad would be any different?” she goes on. “It’s not as if I ever see any interest in the eyes of any man I ever meet. Ever.”

That’s when she tells me about her meeting with Strad, about how he was being his usual self: casual, detached, full of fun, without the slightest romantic or sexual interest in her. She says that even in her easily deluded state, in which his smallest gesture can seem loaded with imaginary meaning and promise, there was no room for hope. She now realizes it wouldn’t make any difference how extraordinary she became musically, magically, or otherwise — except visually.

Imagining her in that piano room with its undoubtedly merciless fluorescent lighting, and the letdown she must be feeling now, is tough. As she talks, she looks beaten. I wish I could protect her from ever sustaining another blow. I’m afraid that in life, every hit we take chips away at us. How many more hits can she take before she breaks completely?

“I think you should forget him,” I tell her.

“Oh, I’m not giving up quite yet.”

“You’re not?” I ask, with a weird mixture of alarm and relief.

She shakes her head. “No. I’ve thought of another project I’m going to start working on. And if I succeed, there’s a good chance Strad’s feelings for me will turn into love.”

MY MOM CALLS again. She asks if I’ve picked a meeting of fat people to go to yet.

“Yes,” I say.

“Which one?”

“Excess Weight Disorders Support Group.”

“That’s not one of the ones I told you about.”

“This one sounds better for my fat problem. I Googled to find a group whose very name doesn’t make me feel like a fraud.”

“When are you going?”

“Next Friday.”

“Why not today? Today’s a Friday.”

“I can’t. My friends are coming over.”

“Every day, every hour that you wear your disguise is an hour when you could be meeting a nice guy you could love spending the rest of your life with, but he won’t notice you because you’re hidden within that mountain of horror.”

“If he doesn’t notice me, he’s not a nice guy.”

I WASN’T LYING. My friends are in fact coming over for a Night of Creation.

Our Nights of Creation take place in the evenings, not at night, but Georgia’s publicist didn’t care about this inaccuracy when she dubbed them that and each of us a “Knight of Creation.” Her goal is fame for her authors at any cost.

These creative evenings of ours started four years ago when Georgia and I decided to throw a party as a way of meeting each other’s friends. Lily and Gabriel were among the friends I brought. Penelope and Jack were among the friends she brought. Georgia had met them a couple of years earlier when she interviewed them for a magazine article she was writing about Penelope’s kidnapping and her deliverance from the coffin by Jack, who was the cop who had rescued her.

The party Georgia and I threw was successful. People stayed late. But the six of us stayed the latest. We were engrossed in conversation. We talked about our lives and ambitions. We confided in each other. Most of us were in the creative fields and we lamented the loneliness of the artist’s life. Georgia said she found the isolation so unbearable that she often went to coffee shops to write. She liked the noise and bustle. It helped her concentrate. But she said it had gotten more difficult each year as she’d grown to dislike the feeling of anyone looking at her screen or reading over her shoulder. As she was telling us this, she suddenly had an idea: she suggested we try getting together to work on our separate arts in one another’s company.

It probably wouldn’t have worked for most people. For some reason, though, for us it did. Everyone being industrious was inspiring. We felt like family — which for some of us was very appealing, our real families leaving much to be desired. Georgia’s embarrassment over the name made the rest of us even more eager to embrace it facetiously. Over time, of course, it stuck.

Our Nights of Creation take place once or twice a week in my large living/dining room. Lily plays and perfects her compositions at a piano she keeps at my apartment for this purpose. A few feet away, at one end of my dining table, Penelope makes hideous little ceramic sculptures. At the other end of that same table, I design and construct my masks and costumes. Sitting between us, at the long side of the table, Georgia types her novel on her laptop (or at least she did, before she lost it). Gabriel would cook up delectable creations in my kitchen and bring them quietly to each of us while we toiled.

Jack doesn’t do anything creative. If he’s not lounging on the couch, reading psychology magazines, he’s lifting weights, enjoying himself watching us work. Some of the injuries he sustained while freeing Penelope from the coffin were permanent and serious enough to prevent him from ever returning to the police force. Even though he’s an invalid, he’s more athletic and stronger than any of us. He walks with a limp and can’t run, but there are plenty of things he can still do that we can’t, such as walk on his hands and do back handsprings (as long as he lands on his good leg). Financially, he’s okay, thanks to a huge anonymous gift of money he received after the rescue — perhaps from Penelope’s father, no one knows. He makes extra with a part-time job at a senior center, which leaves him with plenty of free time — much of which he spends with us.

Even though it was wonderful working to the scent of Gabriel’s culinary inventions and our evenings have never been the same since he died, we still enjoy working in one another’s company. We cherish that sense of camaraderie and companionship. Everyone’s art mixes with and affects everyone else’s.

Tonight, as usual, Lily, Georgia, Penelope, Jack, and I busy ourselves with various activities. I’m working on a pair of fantasy pants for a play. Georgia is mourning the loss of her novel by slowly flipping through the pages of her last novel. Penelope, hammer in hand, is finding new and delicate ways to break pots and balance their pieces back on one another in a deceptive appearance of wholeness. Jack is browsing through psychology magazines. And Lily is throbbing away at the piano, but today, instead of looking at her hands or at nothing in particular, her gaze is fixed on Jack, which I find peculiar. Jack notices it and starts making faces at her in an attempt to snap her out of her hypnotized stare.

“Don’t mind me. It’s my new project,” Lily tells him, interrupting neither her playing nor her gazing.

“Does your new project involve me, somehow?”

“Yeah, I’m just practicing on you. I’m trying to beautify you.”

He blinks quickly as he processes this information. “You don’t find me good-looking enough?”

“Of course I do. I’m just trying to make you even better-looking. So get back to your reading and let me work.”

Lily continues her playing and staring.

After another half hour, Jack says, “It’s starting to hurt.”

Lily stops playing. “You’re kidding!”

“No.”

“What hurts?”

“My ego.”

“Oh.” She instantly resumes playing.

He adds, “To watch you trying to beautify me while wearing that frustrated expression makes me feel self-conscious and unattractive.”

I KNOW I’M acting like a mother hen, but I call Lily before going to bed to make sure she’s okay. I keep thinking of Gabriel.

“How are you holding up?” I ask.

After a pause, she says, “Okay.”

Her tone is odd. I don’t buy her reply. “How are you doing?” I ask, more slowly. “Really.”

She’s silent, and then says, “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s just…”

“What?”

“My hands… They’ve been strange today.”

“Strange? How?”

“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“That’s okay.” I add, “No, I won’t.”

“Okay… After I saw you in the park this afternoon, I came home and I started playing the piano. As you know, I was really depressed. Well, I gave in to that feeling, I sank into it. And something scary happened.”

“What?”

“My hands started changing,” she says.

“They did?”

“Yes. They became gray and shiny. And they felt different. Sort of empty. Or hollow.”

Now I’m the one who’s silent. I finally say, “Gray and shiny?”

“Yeah… Kind of like silver.”

“Are you exaggerating?”

“Do I ever exaggerate?”

I think about it. “No.”

“I’m actually understating it,” she says. “Because then my hands became worse. They got shinier, until they were very reflective, like mirrors.” She is silent, as though waiting for me to react. But I don’t know what to say, so finally she asks, “You do believe me?”

“Yes,” I say, not technically lying. Sure, I believe that her hands were reflective — reflective of her mental state, a mental state which concerns me greatly. “And do you have any idea what triggered this?” I ask.

“I think my mood.”

“What was your mood, exactly?”

“I told you. Extremely sad.”

“Do you know what the reflectiveness was?”

“It felt like death. As though it was trying to take hold of me. And the worst part was, I was tempted to let it, because it was a welcome relief. But then I resisted it and it went away.”

THAT MAKES ME think of Gabriel, of course. I’m still thinking about him the next day when I check the mail and, to my surprise, I have another letter from him:

Dear Barb, Georgia, Lily, Penelope, and Jack,

One of you, in addition to Barb, was my very close friend. Our friendship was deeper than the rest of you suspected, even deeper than my friendship with you, Barb. This person knew about my love for you, Barb, and kept my secret, and for that, I’m grateful. During times when I was depressed over my unrequited love, this human being was my only source of comfort and knew that sometimes I wanted to end my life and that one day I might.

I will refer to this special friend as “KAY.” Eventually, I will tell you what this acronym stands for, but for now let me simply say that just because KAY is more popular as a girl’s name than a boy’s, do not assume KAY is female. Do not assume anything.

My closer level of friendship with KAY started one day when we were alone and confided in each other more deeply than we had with the rest of the group. We began meeting one on one without telling the group. We confessed more about our lives, our feelings, our opinions, our dreams.

We’d meet for walks. For coffees. It was strangely like having an affair, except that it was not sexual — just a very caring intimacy.

One day, KAY did something very bad and told me about it two weeks later and made the decision to do something very bad again, but not immediately; instead, KAY would do it exactly two years from then — which is now just a couple of weeks away.

You’ll have to prepare yourselves for the date (Friday, October 27), hopefully get through it, and then put it behind you, and try to forget.

In all honesty, you will never be able to forget. But with a little luck and my postmortem guidance, your group might be able to return to some semblance of what it is today. I know it’s asking a lot, but I hope you will see your way to forgiving KAY her/his folly.

Love,

Gabriel

I call Georgia.

“Hello?” she answers, sounding loud and excited and out of breath.

“I just got another letter from Gabriel.”

“Oh yeah? It’s so nice of him to stay in touch, isn’t it?”

I’m not in the mood. “Not funny.”

“Sorry. What does he say?”

I read her the letter.

She greets it with stunned silence, which jibes with my mood much better.

“How weird,” she finally says.

“Are you KAY?” I ask.

“Oh, I am more than okay.”

“Not O-KAY. KAY!”

“No.”

“You’re not making much effort to deny it.”

“If I don’t sound fully engaged, it’s because I was just about to call you with some news. I GOT MY LAPTOP BACK! Someone dropped it off at my building with a note that said, ‘Sorry for the delay. Been busy.’” She laughs.

“I’m so happy for you. That makes up a little for Gabriel’s letter.”

Her tone sobers up. “Oh, yeah. What a disturbing letter. He’s even weirder in death than in life.”

I decide I want to read the letter to the others in person when I see them tomorrow, in case their expressions reveal which one of them is KAY.

Peter Marrick

Sunday, 15 October

I had the intern return the laptop. That’s one thing off my plate.

I’ve been spending a lot of time trying to think of ways to meet Barb and her friends, other than the obvious way. I haven’t been able to come up with any ideas due to my damned lack of imagination — ironic and rather tragic in view of how much I crave to be creative. Which is one of many reasons why I need to meet these people.

I got a complaint at work that I look distracted.

I can’t obsess about this anymore. I will meet them the obvious way.

Chapter Six

On Sunday, I invite my friends over and read Gabriel’s letter out loud to them. They act surprised in appropriate ways (except for Georgia, who’s heard it already), and I can’t decipher which of them might be KAY.

While we work, Lily continues trying to beautify Jack through her piano playing, but without success. Upset and frustrated, she leaves abruptly.

Georgia says she doesn’t like her novel anymore, that it’s not as great as she thought it was when she believed it was lost forever. She says the memory of it took on monumental proportions, and now the reality of it is just a bit of a letdown. She attributes this to absence making the heart grow fonder, and it makes her sick.

Penelope says Georgia is probably simply suffering from some sort of post-traumatic reverse syndrome of taking something for granted as soon as she gets it back.

And I remind Georgia that she’s always told me this was her best novel yet, so it probably is.

LILY DOES NOT call that night even though I asked her to when she stormed out of my apartment earlier. I’m concerned about her. I know she’s upset that she hasn’t been able to beautify Jack through her music. I restrain myself from calling her, not wanting to be overly protective.

What dramatically increases my concern is that, at two o’clock in the afternoon the next day, movers show up at my apartment to take away Lily’s piano. They tell me those are her instructions. They show me a form she filled out requesting its removal. While they carry out the upright piano, I’m anxiously trying to reach Lily by phone. She’s not picking up. I curse myself for not calling her last night.

As I run out of my building to look for Lily, I pass Adam the doorman who says to me, “One day you’ll find yourself, and wish you hadn’t.”

I’m a bit unsettled by that comment as I jog the few blocks to Lily’s apartment, trying to refrain from holding my bouncing fake fat.

I ring Lily’s downstairs buzzer. There’s no answer. A tenant on his way out lets me in. I knock on Lily’s apartment door. No answer. I can’t stop my worry from mounting, though I know it may be irrational. I call Jack, Georgia, and Penelope. Within minutes, they have joined me. Jack gets the super to open her door. Lily’s not in her apartment.

We go to my place. We keep calling her.

At five p.m. we’re sitting on my couch, trying to reassure ourselves that she’s okay, but not doing a very good job of it. I mention to my friends that three days ago she seemed delusional, claiming her hands had turned to mirrors and that it felt like death was trying to take hold of her, but that she fought it and it went away.

“Yeah, she told me that too. Not reassuring.” Georgia pauses and takes a deep breath before adding, “But let’s be optimistic. I’m sure she is fine, and will be fine, and in fact will probably make all her dreams come true. I’ve noticed that in life there are three ingredients that, when present simultaneously, create a potent combination: talent, love, and lack of beauty. One’s love for someone, unrequited due to one’s insufficient beauty, can motivate one to do great things to win that love, if one has the talent. Just look at what Lily’s achieved so far. And I bet it’s not stopping.”

Twenty minutes later, the doorman buzzes me. We brighten, gripped by hope.

But when I answer my doorman intercom, I hear Adam’s voice say softly in my ear, “Hi, piece of shit. There are some deliverymen here for you.”

My heart sinks. I was so hoping for Lily.

“What do they want?” I ask him.

“To deliver something, moron.”

“Deliver what?”

“I’ve only got one nerve left, and you’re getting on it.”

Ignoring him, I repeat, “Deliver what?”

“A piano.”

A piano is not as good as Lily herself, but it’s the next best thing. “Thanks, Adam. Send them up.”

We’re surprised that the upright piano the deliverymen carry into my apartment is made of mirror. We admire it, while they place it in the spot I indicate by the window.

Forty-five minutes later, Lily strolls into my apartment.

When she sees her new instrument, she says, “Ah. Good. It’s here.”

“We were worried to death!” I scream at her.

“I’m sorry. I was busy.”

“With what?”

“Same project. But I’ll be practicing on myself now instead of on Jack.” She sits at the piano and starts hitting single keys, listening to the sound quality. “I bought this piano thinking it might inspire me. My project is so insanely difficult. Impossible, probably. But I’ll work on it until I croak, if that’s what it takes.”

“Why don’t you just give up?” Penelope says.

“Because then life might not seem worth living.”

“See, that’s the project you should be working on — making life worth living for reasons other than Strad,” Jack says.

“I can’t. I need love.” Lily starts playing scales very rapidly, testing the piano. She stops, says, “Sounds good.”

We’re all standing around the musical instrument, our scowling expressions reflected back at us.

BEFORE BED, I call Lily at home to get a better sense of how she’s doing and ask if she’s had any more trouble with things like her hands becoming reflective.

“Yes. Yesterday I was in the pits of depression and then the hand thing happened again a couple of times while I was playing the piano. I stopped it each time from spreading, but I was so tempted not to.”

“It spreads?”

“Yes. Up my wrists and arms.”

“How do you stop it?”

“I will it to stop. I refuse to let it overtake me — out of fear, I guess. Even though it feels good. I mean, it feels good because it feels like nothing, which is good compared to how I feel, which is terrible. Death is the ultimate painkiller. When I will it to stop, it recedes, and the pain comes flooding back.”

“I’m glad,” I say quietly. “That you make it stop. And since yesterday, it hasn’t happened again?”

“No. So far it’s only happened when I hit bottom. But today I’m okay. Buying the mirrored piano cheered me up a bit.”

On Friday is the meeting of the Excess Weight Disorders Support Group, which I promised my mother I’d attend and have been dreading.

When I arrive I see there are about twenty people in the group, all overweight or obese, mostly women. And there is a leader, fitting the same description.

The meeting begins. A woman shares her story. A few people make comments. Another woman shares. More comments. I wait for an opening to tell them the truth about myself. I’m nervous.

For a long time, I see no opportunity until finally a woman says, “Ever since my first child was born I’ve been struggling with my weight. I gained a lot and then lost some and then gained back more than I lost, and then lost some again, but whenever I lose any weight, I gain back all of it and more.”

Another woman jumps in with: “I’m a total yo-yo dieter, too! I take the weight off in the summer and fill my closet with skinny clothes, and then I put all the weight back on in the winter.”

Heart pounding, I say, “Same here. I take the weight off at night and hang it in my closet and put it back on in the morning.”

No one seems to hear me.

Someone else says, “I guess I have a really slow metabolism. I gain weight so easily. And it gets worse as I get older. Anything I eat goes directly from my lips to my hips.”

“I totally know what you mean,” I say. “For me it’s even more direct. It bypasses the lips altogether.”

A couple of chuckles and puzzled looks, but the group doesn’t pause, keeps on talking. I’m not sure my mom would be satisfied with my efforts.

I finally see my opportunity when a woman says, “I mean, I know I’m thin on the inside.”

“Me too! See?” I spring up and flash the assembly. Everyone stares inside my fat jacket, gaping at my thin torso and shoulders.

“What are you doing? Why did you come here?” the leader asks, not looking happy.

“My therapist says I have a serious weight issue, like the rest of you, and that just because my way of getting fat is unusual doesn’t mean the source of the problem isn’t very typical.”

“You don’t belong here,” another woman says.

“But I’m fat.”

“Yours is removable.”

“So is yours. It just takes longer.”

“You’re a thin person.”

“So are you, on the inside. Like me.”

“I assume you don’t even have an eating disorder, right?”

“No, but I’ve got a weight disorder,” I insist. “I engage in unhealthy, compulsive behavior like everyone here. When you guys go to the store to buy your fatty things, I go to a store and buy a different kind of fatty thing. And then I go home, and instead of eating mine, I put it on my body. My brain and emotions have the same need as yours to be fat, but my body is unable to manufacture that fat for reasons of taste. I hate the taste of fattening foods. I hate overeating. And I hate being inactive. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a very serious weight problem. I can’t stop putting on the weight. When I take it off, I can’t keep it off. Either your way or my way, the fat ends up visible to everyone, and the result is the same in the eyes of the world.”

“Okay,” says the group leader. “Let’s move on… Sally? Would you like to share?”

I sit in silence for forty more minutes until the meeting finally ends.

GEORGIA TELLS US her agent wants to know if our whole group would be willing to appear on TV, on News with Peter Marrick, to be interviewed about our Nights of Creation and our creativity in general.

“They want us on Wednesday night at six,” Georgia explains. “They’re doing a segment on creativity. They read about our Nights of Creation in that Observer article last year.”

We agree to do it. We’re particularly excited that the great Peter Marrick himself, America’s favorite local news anchor, will be conducting the interview. Even if he weren’t so charismatic and charming on camera, the incident a few years ago when he ran into a burning building and saved three children would make him America’s sweetheart. His cameraman captured the spectacle of Peter running out of the burning house, his hair on fire, carrying a baby in one arm and dragging two small children in his other hand. The only injury he sustained was to his hair follicles. His decision to continue anchoring the news with singed hair and then with a shaved head drew even more viewers. And when his hair grew back nicer and more unusual than before, that didn’t hurt the ratings either. He looked angelic — almost ethereal with his hair floating around his head, light and airy, like a halo.

“You should all go on the show without me,” Georgia says. “I’ve got nothing to say about creativity anymore. When you lose your faith in your work, what have you got left as an artist? Nothing much.”

“Haven’t you done any writing in the last week since you got your laptop back?” Jack asks.

“I tried.”

“And?”

“I’ve become an expert at backing up my laptop. I’ve set up three different backup systems. The first is manual. The second is automatic, hourly, wireless, in the apartment. And the third is automatic, daily, in the cloud, which means that all of America could blow up and I could still retrieve a backup from the Internet in Europe, assuming I wasn’t in America when it blew up.”

Chapter Seven

I discover a new letter from Gabriel waiting for me in my mailbox.

That letter shocks me so deeply that I’m not able to call my friends right away to tell them about it. I do research online for about an hour. Then I think. I spend the entire night thinking. I don’t even try to sleep.

IN THE MORNING, I call my friends. I tell them to come to my apartment at three. This way, I’ll still have a few hours to think more about the letter.

MY FRIENDS ARRIVE promptly. We settle ourselves on the couch.

Not beating around the bush, I unfold the letter.

I take a deep breath and begin reading—

Dear Barb, Georgia, Lily, Penelope, and Jack,

This is my final letter to you before October 27^th. I didn’t want to upset you sooner than necessary, but now I must tell you the terrible thing one of you did, and I must issue an urgent warning that I hope is no longer necessary, but if it is, you must heed it.

On Lily’s birthday, we were all out at a bar. It was a great evening. We were in high spirits, having a wonderful time, laughing a lot. Lily was turning twenty-three, and we were teasing her about her youth, which we secretly envied but also cherished. She seemed to find it very amusing. Then she and Barb went to the restroom, and just when they had rejoined our table, we heard a guy a few feet away make a despicable and ludicrous comment about them to his buddy. We never talked about it, but we all heard it.

If you do not remember what the man said, I’ve written it down in the small envelope I’ve enclosed in this letter.

I stop reading and hold up, for my friends to see, a tiny, pale blue envelope on which are scribbled the words “Offensive Comment.” (I opened it last night, not because I didn’t remember the comment, but to check if Gabriel’s recollection matched mine. It did.)

My friends look uncomfortable, staring at the blue envelope. I’m waiting to see if any of them want to read it.

Blushing painfully, Lily says, “Okay, first of all, guys, this walking on eggshells is not necessary. The man’s comment was something like, ‘Look at that hideous chick and her gorgeous friend. Isn’t it amazing how her ugliness brings out the other’s beauty, and vice versa? It would ruin my evening, having to look at a dog like that, not to mention if I had to be seen with one.’”

Lily waits for our reaction to her recollection. After a moment of stunned silence, we mutter our grim indignation at the man’s comment.

I don’t read the next two sentences of the letter. I recite them, my gaze locked on my friends’ faces so as not to miss the slightest quivering of an eyelash: “The man who made the comment was murdered that night, in his apartment, by one of you.”

I note a few sharp intakes of breath and a couple of frowns. Penelope’s hand flies to her mouth.

I continue: “The killer among you (K.A.Y.) confessed it to me two weeks later. Please take a moment now to look at the article I’ve enclosed about the man’s murder.”

My friends look at each other and at me in shock. Lily looks particularly distressed, which I can well understand. Even if she’s not the killer, she might nevertheless feel indirectly responsible for the man’s death.

I hand them the New York Times article.

They crowd around it, looking at the man’s photo under the headline “Murder Strikes Home In Tribeca Neighborhood.” They try to read bits of the article over one another’s shoulders, while appearing uneasy about possibly huddling too close to a murderer.

“Read it out loud,” Jack finally instructs Georgia, who’s holding it.

She reads:

Tribeca residents were stunned yesterday to learn that a local resident, 33-year-old Lawrence Finn, has been found murdered in the kitchen of his Vestry Street home. Mr. Finn was discovered yesterday morning in his apartment on the third floor of his elevator building by his housekeeper who alerted authorities. It is believed that Mr. Finn was killed by a single knife wound to the throat, but police are not releasing specific details of the crime. It is not known if a weapon has been recovered.

“This was a senseless and bloody act,” said Detective Vince Monticelli of the First Precinct. “We are appealing to anyone who may have seen anything suspicious in the Vestry Street area between the hours of midnight and 3 a.m. to come forward. The motive for this crime does not appear to have been robbery. It is possible Mr. Finn knew his attacker and allowed him or her entry into the apartment.”

Mr. Finn was an employee of Morrison & Partners, a New York-based hedge fund company. “Larry was a nice guy,” said Anthony Morrison, chief executive officer of Morrison & Partners. “I know of no one who wished him any harm.”

Police are investigating the recent trading activity in which Mr. Finn was engaged for clues to a possible motive. The often secretive trading practices of the unregulated hedge fund industry frequently result in large gains and losses for investors. Companies targeted by hedge fund traders are also known to resent the impact such trading has on their market valuations.

A friend of Mr. Finn’s, Mark Stanley, was the last known person to see him alive. Mr. Stanley and Mr. Finn were together on Tuesday evening at the Saratoga Lounge on East 16^th Street. According to Mr. Stanley, he left Mr. Finn at the bar at approximately 11:45 p.m. “I can’t believe this,” said a stunned Mr. Stanley. “Larry always liked to party hard. We were having a great time.” Mr. Stanley was interviewed by the police but is not considered a suspect.

Detectives have questioned employees at the Saratoga Lounge and are trying to ascertain at what time Mr. Finn left the bar, and if he was alone at that time. They are asking anybody who was in the Saratoga Lounge on Tuesday evening after 8 p.m. to come forward with any information they may have.

When Georgia finishes reading the article, she gazes at Lily. We all do.

Slowly and quietly, Lily says, “I’m horrified by what you’ve just read. How do we know this letter is really from Gabriel or if it is, that Gabriel is telling the truth?”

Georgia turns to me. “Barb, have you looked into the case?”

I inform them that I researched it online last night and that the murder has never been solved. The police believe it was an isolated, spontaneous act. It didn’t appear to be related to any other crimes that had taken place in the city.

“As for the authenticity of the letter,” I add, “I can’t imagine what motive anyone could have for forging Gabriel’s handwriting and making all this up. I think our safest bet is to assume the letter’s real and that Gabriel is telling the truth. It would be risky not to take it seriously.”

Jack nods. “Still, I’d like to get the opinion of a forensic handwriting expert to make sure this letter really is from Gabriel.”

“Good idea,” Georgia says.

“But what if Jack is the killer and has a motive for creating a false report?” Penelope says. “You would trust his ‘expert’?”

“We can get a second opinion, if you want,” Georgia tells her. “Why don’t you find us a second expert and ask him or her as well?”

“Okay, I will,” Penelope says.

“I doubt the letter’s forged,” Georgia says. “I think what’s more important is figuring out who KAY is.”

I continue reading the letter from where I left off: “A few weeks after confessing this crime to me, KAY said, ‘I don’t want you to think this will be a recurring thing I do, but there’s someone else I’ve decided to put an end to. I’m going to kill Strad.’”

“Wha—?” Lily gasps. I carefully observe her reaction.

I continue reading:

KAY said to me, “I’ve made up my mind that in two years’ time, if Lily still loves him and he still doesn’t love her, I will try to kill him. But I will leave it partly in the hands of fate. What I mean by that is that in two years, on the evening of October 27th, sometime between the hours of 8 p.m. and midnight, I will kill him if I get a chance. I may even plan it in advance. I will put a fairly serious amount of effort into it. But if I don’t succeed during those four hours — like let’s say there are constant obstacles — I will take it as a sign from fate that Strad should not be killed, and I will not continue trying. See, I’m easygoing and flexible.”

I did my best to dissuade KAY from this plan, but nothing worked. I even threatened KAY, said I would call the police and tell them about the first murder. KAY said that was my right, and that I should do it if I wanted to.

My dear friends, I’m sorry to be keeping KAY’s identity from you, but I’m afraid that if I don’t, you’ll turn KAY in to the police. You may judge me harshly, but I care too deeply for KAY to send him/her to prison.

I need to take a break from my reading because Lily is crying.

“Are you okay?” I give her a sympathetic look and hand her tissues.

“Please finish the letter,” she says, wiping her nose.

I continue reading:

I’m sorry to be leaving you with this burden, but your job now is to protect Strad on October 27th (next Friday), between the hours of 8 p.m. and midnight. If you succeed in keeping him alive during that time, KAY will never again try to harm Strad or anyone else. KAY promised. And I believe KAY.

Just because Georgia may be the likeliest candidate, don’t assume it’s her. Or that it’s not. Just because Lily may be the least likely one, don’t assume it’s not her. Or that it is. Any of you might be the killer, except you, Barb. I’m exempting Barb because all of you will have an easier time protecting Strad if at least one of you has been cleared of suspicion.

You should know that KAY loves you all and would never harm any of you. In addition, KAY promised never again to kill anyone, other than Strad. This was a solemn promise. You may wonder why I choose to believe a homicidal maniac. I don’t have an easy answer. I’m sure you know, though, that I would not leave you in the hands of anyone I thought would ever harm you.

“Oh my God, he’s insane,” Georgia says. “How can he trust a psycho? I think we’re in grave danger.”

Jack looks at her and nods grimly.

I continue reading the letter:

If, on the day you read this letter, Lily is no longer in love with Strad, or if she is and he loves her back, then you can disregard this letter.

There are some rules you need to be aware of:

1) KAY will not hesitate to kill Strad in front of any of you. If the attempt is successful, KAY will leave it up to you to decide if you want to help KAY hide/dispose of the body or turn KAY in to the police. KAY trusts that you will make the right decision.

“Oh, how horrible,” Georgia groans. “How could you put us in that position, whoever you are?” she says, looking at Jack, Penelope, and Lily.

After duly noting her reaction, I resume reading the letter:

2) KAY will not go so far as to kill Strad in front of anyone other than you guys because KAY would then without question get turned in.

3) KAY has agreed not to set up a lethal situation that would kill Strad outside of those four hours. For example, KAY can’t give Strad a package between the hours of 8 p.m. and midnight that will explode after midnight.

I don’t want to explain to you in great depth KAY’s motives for wanting to kill Strad, mostly for fear of inadvertently revealing KAY’s identity. So I will limit myself to saying that KAY feels that Strad’s existence is ruining Lily’s life. I assume you will try to present arguments to change KAY’s mind, and perhaps you’ll have better luck than I did, but don’t count on it.

I told KAY that I would warn you of KAY’s murderous plan before it’s meant to happen. So don’t think that my letters to you are much of a surprise to KAY. I told KAY I would instruct you all to do everything in your power to protect Strad during the four dangerous hours. KAY accepted this, said your success or lack of it would be part of what KAY will interpret as destiny’s will.

In case you’re wondering why I revealed to KAY that I would alert you, I had no choice. I was afraid that if KAY felt betrayed by my letters, KAY would decide to change the rules and would make an attempt on Strad’s life at another time, on another day, when Strad wasn’t protected.

If you ever find out who KAY is, I hope you will be compassionate and able to forgive her/him.

I wish I could say “My thoughts will be with you,” but I will have no thoughts. And that’s what I’m looking forward to. Please be happy for me and love one another as I love each of you.

You will never hear from me again. Barb, this is my final letter.

Much love,

Gabriel

I fold the letter, my eyes moist despite my anger at Gabriel.

Lily is the first to speak. “If one of you kills Strad and if the cops don’t get you, I will hunt you down myself and kill you and then kill myself.” She pauses. “Is that clear?”

“What a charming day,” Jack says.

Georgia says, “I think we have to settle one question: Do we want one of us, a friend, to go to prison? I mean, Gabriel was afraid we would, which is why he didn’t want to tell us who it is. But is he right?”

We all look at one another.

“Maybe it depends on who it is,” Georgia adds.

“Oh?” says Jack. “And which of us would you feel good about sending to prison?”

“No one. I’m just throwing the question out there. Maybe some of you would feel okay about sending someone like… oh, I don’t know… me, for instance, to jail, and not someone like, um… Lily. Or Penelope.”

A little impatiently, I say, “Please, Georgia, we don’t have time for your insecurities and paranoia right now. Of course we don’t want to see you go to prison, what’s wrong with you? Especially if you’re not the killer. Now, let’s focus! The 27th is only five days from now.”

The truth is, I would sooner die than see Georgia go to prison.

But I can tell she’s offended by my tone. I brace myself for her favorite retaliation technique: gently demonstrating to everyone that her intelligence is superior to the offender’s (we all know she can dwarf us intellectually without effort, and it baffles me that she still feels the need to prove it).

On this occasion, she goes about it in the following insidious fashion. Adopting an innocuous tone, she says: “It was smart of you, Barb, not to read us the letter as soon as you got it. Did you use that valuable time to try and test us to figure out who the killer is?”

“No,” I reply, truthfully.

And the reason I didn’t is because even though I spent most of my time since yesterday afternoon trying to come up with ideas of how to test my friends, I failed to come up with any good ones (except for one little test I intend to try later, but which I doubt will work).

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she says. “The best time to figure out which of us is the killer would have been between the time you received the letter and the time you read it to us — when only you knew the situation. It’s a shame not to have made some use of that precious window of opportunity.”

“No, it’s not a shame, because there’s really nothing I could have done,” I say, with some confidence considering the nearly twelve hours I spent thinking about it. I feel pretty sure that even Georgia, with her superior intelligence, could not have thought of how to uncover the killer’s identity.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true,” she says. “I’ve no doubt there’s something one might have thought of.”

“Like what?”

“I’d have to think about it.”

“Why don’t you. And let me know how you make out.”

“Okay.” A split second later she says, “Oh, I just thought of one.”

“What is it?”

“Not worth mentioning now. The opportunity’s gone.” She shoos the idea away with her hand.

“But please do. I would be very interested.”

“It’s really nothing special. I’m sure you would have thought of it yourself if you had spent even just twenty minutes trying to come up with something. And plus, as you so rightly pointed out, don’t we have more important things to talk about?”

I have an impulse to slug her. “Just tell me what you thought of.”

“All right. Here it is. You could have sent a letter to each of us, pretending to be Gabriel.”

I look at her sternly, waiting for her to elaborate. She doesn’t. I cave in: “Elaborate.”

“Each letter would have to appear to be a single, unique, confidential letter. The letters could say something like, ‘As you may or may not already know, I have sent a letter to Barb announcing your plan to kill Strad. In it, I do not reveal that you are the killer. I’m protecting your identity. But let me entreat you now, one last time, not to kill Strad.’ Blah, blah. End of letter. It’s obvious what would happen next. The three of us who are not the killer would be utterly baffled and freaked out by the letter. We’d be calling you up, shrieking: ‘Oh my God, Barb, I just received this crazy letter from Gabriel saying I have a plan to kill Strad, but I don’t!’ The killer would be the only one who wouldn’t call. Simple.”

I could indeed have done that, I realize sadly. It would have been brilliant. I’m deeply demoralized by this huge missed opportunity. I feel as though I’ve let Lily down (assuming she’s not the killer). Georgia is a worthier friend than I am (also assuming she’s not the killer). She’s a smarter friend.

“Barb, you can’t compare yourself to the queen of convoluted thinking. None of us can,” Jack says, as though he’s read my mind.

Georgia, too, has sensed my distress. She backpedals, her entire tone softening: “Jack’s right. And anyway, I wouldn’t wish this ability on anyone. It makes my life wretched, feeds my paranoia, makes me overly complicated, irritating to others, including to myself, but on some rare occasions, such as this one, it comes in handy.”

I gaze at my friends. “There’s something I’d like to say to whichever one of you is the killer.” My tone is chilling. I have their full attention. “If you, KAY, were so close to Gabriel and were his confidant to the degree that he even told you of his suicidal thoughts, why didn’t you prevent his death?” I start shouting at them, shooting them furious glances. “You could have sought out help! You should have told us. At least you should have told me of his love for me. I would have done something, acted differently, been more attuned to the situation. But most of all, you could have stopped him from killing himself. How could you let him die? Are you so incompetent, so lame, so selfish, what? Didn’t you care enough about him to save his life? You certainly are a murderer.”

I haven’t taken my eyes off of them for a second. My words were painful. Yet they had to be said — because they were the test I came up with last night. I wasn’t very optimistic that it would succeed in its purpose of provoking the killer into betraying him/herself. And I think I was right. The only purpose it seems to have served is to make us feel really awful.

I scrutinize my friends’ faces to try to catch any trace of emotion, any quivering lip, any distress, because I know the killer cared deeply for Gabriel and I’m certain my words must have inflicted particularly acute pain on him or her.

But as I contemplate these people, no single reaction stands out. They all display attitudes that could be used against them. Jack sighs and looks down. I ask him what’s up. He says he agrees with me, that the killer should have prevented Gabriel’s death, but that it can be hard to prevent such things.

Georgia also looks suspicious because she’s staring at me fixedly, her jaw clenched.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.

“Because I agree with you, too. You would think the murderer could have stopped this suicide if he cared about Gabriel.” But she says this a bit stiffly, which makes me narrow my eyes. Yet I move on.

Penelope acts perfectly normal, which is questionable in itself.

And Lily is wiping tears from her face, which is either shady or completely understandable.

We discuss whether or not we should request the help of the police.

“We can’t tell the police,” Georgia says. “KAY is sick and needs to be protected by us. I know you may take offense at this, Lily, and I’m sorry about it, but I care much more about KAY not rotting in prison than Strad staying alive.”

“You’re right, I do take offense at that,” Lily says softly.

Jack, who — perhaps because he’s a cop — has been looking especially glum since hearing me read the letter, says, “Telling the police would be one easy way to find out which of you is the killer. Unless the killer took extreme precautions, all the police would have to do is match each one of you against the forensics from that crime scene two years ago. But the price of finding out would be high — not only for KAY, who’d end up in prison, but for the rest of us, who’d lose her. I can’t see myself sending one of you to prison for life.”

Georgia exhales loudly with relief and clasps her hands. “You feel as I do, sweet Jack!”

“What kind of cop are you, to think this way?” Lily says to him.

“A cop who’s very fond of every single one of you,” he replies, gazing at her steadily.

Penelope asks him: “Aren’t you afraid that the killer, who must be a psycho, could be dangerous not only to Strad but to anyone, including us? Personally, I’m going to be afraid now of being alone with any single one of you.” She pauses thoughtfully. “That’s not to say I’d be capable of turning any of you in. I wouldn’t be.”

Jack says, “Keeping the killer among us is a risk, but I don’t see what other option we have. We just have to hope she cares as much about us as we care about her.”

“I feel very differently from you all,” Lily says. “I would rather see one of you go to prison than see the man I love get killed.”

“The man you love,” Georgia scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Has the man you love been wonderful to you the way we have been? Have you developed a close, loving relationship with the man you love the way you have with each of us? Would the man you love do anything for you the way we would? Does he love you at all, even just as a friend?”

Lily’s hard expression softens with this reminder of our devotion to her.

“And yet you want to take this to the police?” Georgia asks her.

“Yes, I want to. But obviously I can’t.”

Now it’s Georgia’s turn to soften. She smiles and puts her hand on Lily’s arm affectionately. “Aw, so you do feel the same way we do.”

“No.” Lily removes her arm. “I have another reason. If we bring the police into this, it’ll ruin my chances with Strad. The police will reveal everything to him. They’ll tell him that for years I’ve been so in love with him that one of my friends is ready to kill him to bring me peace and free me of my obsession. I’d be so embarrassed if Strad knew any of this. I could never face him again. And he’d be so horrified, he’d never want to face me again either, I’m sure.”

In the end, we are unanimous: we will not take this to the police. We will protect Strad ourselves on the evening of his possible murder. The only thing left to do is figure out how to go about doing this.

We’re aware the killer can kill Strad without physically being with him. KAY can have Strad killed by a hired gun. Or plant a bomb that will be scheduled to explode during the four-hour window. Or countless other more ingenious ideas.

So it quickly becomes clear to us, for all sorts of reasons, that on the evening of the 27th, making sure that no one from our group will be with him won’t be enough protection. Strad must not be left alone. He must be actively protected.

My friends say we should all be with him. That’s the part I find weird.

“I understand why we can’t leave Strad alone that evening,” I tell them, “but I still don’t understand why I can’t protect him by myself. Gabriel made it clear I’m the only one of our group you can all trust. Strad and I could be alone in this apartment, and I wouldn’t let anyone in, and no one would have access to him.”

“I don’t feel good about you being alone on that occasion,” Jack says. “I’d want to be there to protect you. You never know what the killer cooked up. I understand you can’t be sure that I’m not the killer so you’ll want either all of us there or none of us there. So it has to be all. We can control whichever one of us is the killer, if she tries anything.”

Georgia says, “And the other problem is that Strad isn’t likely to want to spend an evening alone with you, Barb, in your apartment, unless it’s a date. And wouldn’t it be weird vis-à-vis Lily if you were to have a so-called date with Strad? And would Strad even want to go on a date with you? No offense, but your disguise may not be the kind of look he’s into. He thinks it’s your real appearance.”

Penelope says, “And another good reason for having us all there is that if an attempt is made on Strad’s life, we’ll get to see who among us is the killer, which we’d like to know anyway.”

I finally reluctantly relent. We will all protect Strad.

The location we pick for the evening with Strad is my apartment, which I will make killer-proof for the occasion.

Before everybody goes home, I make one final request. “I want to know if the killer among you has changed his or her mind about murdering Strad. After you leave here today, I’d like you, KAY, to call me and press any digit on your phone one time if you no longer intend to kill Strad, and three times if you still do. You don’t have to speak to me or reveal who you are. Just beeps. One beep is no. Three is yes.”

“You do realize we should protect Strad regardless of the answer you’re given,” Jack says. “Gabriel said that KAY would put considerable effort into killing Strad on the 27th. Such effort could include encouraging us to let down our guards by pretending she no longer intends to kill him.”

“Yes, I know.”

Chapter Eight

The next day, Monday, we’re gathered at Lily’s apartment for lunch, which we ordered from L’Express.

Lily tells us that when she invited Strad to have dinner with us this coming Friday, the 27th, his reaction was, “You’re kidding me! The Creators? The Knights of Creation will be there?” Strad had read one of the silly articles about us that explained no one gets to pierce our “holy circle.” The word choice was unfortunate, though the gist of it was true.

“Is there any chance we could do it on a different night?” he asked Lily. “I already have plans for dinner that night and I’m attending a party afterward.”

“No, see, that’s the thing, it can only be on that night,” she said.

“Okay, consider me there. But, just curious… why only that night?”

“Oh, it’s Georgia. Who knows. She gets these ideas in her head, and it has to be that night, no other night.”

“Yes, of course. She’s an artist, quirky. Wonderful. I’ve been wanting to meet her for ages.”

Upon hearing Lily’s account, Georgia grimaces with disgust.

During dessert, we discuss the planning of the evening with Strad.

Georgia’s fear is that it will be tedious. “What will we do to kill time while we protect him?”

“You could ask him to play the violin for you,” Lily answers.

“Is he any good?”

“Not really. I think that’s why he recently decided to pursue acting.”

“Don’t make me listen to him perform a soliloquy. It will kill me.”

My cell phone rings. I answer it. I hear three beeps and then a hang-up. I stop breathing as a wave of nausea sweeps over me.

I look at my friends. “I got three beeps.”

“Oh my God,” Penelope gasps.

“Asshole!” Lily exclaims, slapping the table.

I call back the number, which has no name attached. It rings a long time, and then someone, to my surprise, picks up.

“Hello?” a man says.

“Did you just call me?”

“No.”

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Someone who answered a pay phone.”

“Where?”

“Uh… Forty-Seventh Street and Second Avenue. In Manhattan.”

“Outdoors? On the street?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see who just called me a minute ago?”

“No.”

“Is there anyone unusual standing around? Or anyone looking at you?”

“Uh… no, not really.”

“What corner of the intersection is the phone on?” Not that it matters. Not that there would be any point in rushing over there right now. I’m just being thorough because you never know in life what details will come in handy.

“Uh… Northeast corner.”

“Thank you.”

We hang up.

My friends all glance at one another, undoubtedly trying, as I am, to decipher who among them is the killer.

I look at Jack, yearning for his help, but uncertain he’s innocent.

I say, “I guess one of you asked someone — or hired someone — to make this phone call?”

I find the concept of someone being hired to make this phone call terrifying. It makes the whole thing seem like a bigger, more serious production: there’s personnel involved — staff! Who knows, maybe the killer has hired an assassin as well, or many, to do the dirty work. And to think that all this is being orchestrated by someone in this room, someone who is looking at me right now with affectionate eyes and a familiar face — a beloved friend. Unimaginable.

“Probably,” Jack says.

Georgia nods.

“I don’t appreciate what you’re doing,” I say to the mystery killer among us. “Don’t you care that you’re making our lives miserable, devastating our group, probably even destroying it? And don’t you care about how much you would hurt Lily, perhaps even ruin her life, if you killed Strad? Assuming she’s not the killer.”

I doubt my words are persuasive. I’m sure the killer was aware of these risks when he/she made the decision to kill Strad, and yet must have concluded Lily would still be better off if Strad were dead.

LUNCH IS OVER and we each go home. When I arrive at my building, Adam the doorman has his hands in his pockets. When he sees me, he opens his jacket and flashes me his white T-shirt on which is written “Bitch” in big red letters.

I look around. Lucky for him, no one saw him.

I spend the afternoon making preparations for the evening of Strad’s possible death, four days away. (“Evening of Strad’s death” is what we got into the habit of calling it. This isn’t a sign of resignation — it’s simply shorter than including the word “attempted,” or “possible,” but now that I think about it, calling it “Friday” would have been even shorter.) I start making things safe.

I must anticipate every trick the killer might pull.

My apartment, since yesterday, has been off limits to my friends.

This morning I placed an ad on the NYU website, looking to hire a few students to help me search my apartment for any weapons the killer might have already planted there.

I will, of course, frisk my friends when they arrive on the night of the dinner.

My brain is so muddled from stress that I haven’t been able to focus on anything except getting things safe for the dinner. My work has suffered. I’m supposed to be creating a hat that goes with the quirky green velvet outfit I finished two days ago. Ordinarily, I’d be able to come up with an original hat concept in less than twenty minutes. But now my mind has deteriorated almost to the point of asking myself, “What’s a hat?”

I take a walk down Fifth Avenue to Washington Square Park, trying to imagine every weapon the killer might think of using, and I dismiss the ones I assume I don’t need to worry about, such as a gun — which frisking would detect — and a vial of poison — which I plan to guard against by keeping my friends away from the food until it’s served. A wire to strangle Strad would be easy to smuggle in but does not worry me because getting strangled takes a couple of minutes and we’d have more than enough time to pull the killer off Strad. More dangerous are the weapons that can be used in a split second, such as blades, especially razor blades. They’re simple to sneak in and they’re quick. But perhaps most importantly, a blade was the killer’s weapon of choice the first time around.

AT NIGHT, I wake up in cold sweats. My friends are not the types to do anything very bad, much less kill someone, but I’m aware we don’t always know people as well as we think we do, and Gabriel is not the type to lie. So I try to figure out, yet again, which of my friends murdered the man from the bar.

Jack is, of course, the most obvious, mainly because he has killed before. He killed two men in the shootout with Penelope’s kidnappers, the same shootout that left him limping. In addition, he’s still very strong despite his injuries. He would certainly be capable of slitting a man’s throat if he wanted, probably far more easily than Georgia, Penelope, or Lily, at least on a physical level. On a psychological, emotional, and moral level, that’s another matter. I think back on when he first got his part-time job at the senior center, which he took soon after rescuing Penelope, when he realized he’d never be able to get back on the police force due to his limp.

After a few weeks of serving meals and asking after grandchildren at the senior center, he was feeling depressed, missing the kind of work he’d done as a police officer. That was when the seniors started getting into frequent fights — a couple of them a week. Jack broke up the fights. He thought it was strange that the fights were so numerous, but the truth was, he didn’t mind. He felt more useful and less depressed this way.

Jack had broken up six fights in the three weeks since the fights had begun. He decided to ask the director of the senior center what was going on.

“Thank you for keeping the peace and breaking up the fights,” the director said to him.

“No problem.”

“The fact that the fights are fake should not in any way diminish your sense of accomplishment.”

“The fights are fake?”

“Yes. The seniors were excited to have a hero such as yourself working here, but they were worried you would not be happy merely serving them lunch if your special skill — of keeping the peace — wasn’t used. That’s why they took it upon themselves to stage fights. It’s very touching.”

“I’m touched and humiliated at the same time. I don’t think I can continue working here, now that I know this. And I’m not sure why you told me.”

“I told you because I was afraid you’d figure it out yourself and decide to quit the job before giving me a chance to explain how important it is that you continue.”

“Continue serving lunch?”

“And breaking up fights.”

“Fake fights.”

“Yes. The seniors have never been happier. You’ve given them a sense of purpose. They think they’ve given you a purpose in life and that without them you’d be falling apart.”

“It’ll be difficult for me to continue playing along with this.”

“Yes. And therefore very rewarding. Please continue to give the seniors a sense of purpose by letting them think they’re giving you a sense of purpose. That’s a far greater gift than serving them lunch, which you do wonderfully well too.”

Jack has been happy enough at that part-time job for the past five years. The seniors love him and the feeling is close to mutual. He has no immediate plans to leave.

Sure, Jack’s willingness to go along with such an eccentric plan could be considered deviant behavior — but deviant in the most selfless and kind-hearted of ways. It shows such an endearing willingness to swallow his pride that I can’t imagine him murdering a stranger over an offensive comment at a bar — even one directed at Lily. I know I could be wrong, but nevertheless I dismiss Jack as a possible culprit for now and turn my thoughts to Georgia, Penelope, and Lily to try to remember things they’ve said or done that could be indicative of their guilt.

I don’t come up with any grand revelations.

THE NEXT DAY, I decide I must get some work done, must buckle down. I can’t let my desire to protect Strad-the-Jerk damage my career. The movie director I’m working with left me a message asking where the hat was that I said I’d send him two days ago and if everything’s okay.

No, things are not okay, but I must compartmentalize. Just because there’s a problem in one life-box doesn’t mean it has to create a problem in all my other life-boxes.

I settle down to my work, blank page in front of me, elbows on the table, head in my hands, thinking of hat for green outfit. I’ve hardly been at this for two minutes when the phone rings. I should have turned off the ringer. Forgot to.

It’s Jack, saying he just got word from the forensic handwriting expert that Gabriel’s letter is authentic.

I take this in. Jack then says there’s a special way the killer could sneak in a weapon on the evening of Strad’s death, even if I frisk everyone. And he describes the way.

After we hang up, the “way” haunts me.

I call for a meeting; I must discuss the way.

We meet for dinner at Penelope’s place on the Upper East Side. We bring sandwiches.

Before we’ve even unwrapped them, I’m anxious and hence can’t delay getting on topic: “It has been brought to my attention by one of you that women can hide weapons inside their bodies in the fashion of a tampon, and that the weapon can easily be accessed, especially when the woman goes to the bathroom.”

“Typical that a man should think of this,” Penelope mutters, looking at her shoes.

Jack seems taken aback by her guess, but doesn’t deny it. “I’m a cop! That’s why I thought of it. Not because I’m a man.”

Georgia says to me, “Men can hide weapons inside their bodies in the fashion of a suppository. Don’t tell me you’re going to explore our crevices.”

“I can’t be explored,” Penelope says softly, still gazing at her shoes.

Lily looks apprehensive as well.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell them. “I’m not going to explore anyone. I just want you to wear pants, that’s all.”

“You mean so we can’t whip it out in the middle of dinner?” snaps Georgia.

I nod and can’t help laughing. “Everyone will wear pants, and everyone will get frisked, over their clothes, when they enter my apartment as well as every time they come out of the bathroom. In addition, Jack kindly offered to get me a metal detector.”

NIGHTMARES WAKE ME in the middle of Tuesday night, less than three days before the dinner. Being a costume designer, I’m very aware of the nooks and crannies in clothing that can be used to hide a weapon, especially a tiny weapon such as a jugular-slashing razor blade. My fear is that the frisking and metal detecting won’t be enough, that something will be missed. I need a backup plan, a more extreme safety measure I can resort to if necessary. After some thinking, I come up with one that is not ideal because it would make us seem strange in Strad’s eyes, and we would hate for his opinion of Lily to be tarnished by something we do. So I will not use this extreme safety measure if I can help it, though it calms me knowing it will be at my disposal if I need it.

Chapter Nine

That evening, we’re all sitting around in one of the TV studio’s large dressing rooms, waiting to be interviewed live in about an hour.

Penelope breaks the silence with: “I got the result from my handwriting specialist. She said the same thing as Jack’s guy — that her analysis concluded that it was highly probable that Gabriel wrote the letter. She said that ‘highly probable’ is the official term used and means 99 percent certain, and that that’s pretty much as certain as it gets.”

We all nod quietly, not surprised.

We perk up a bit when Peter Marrick comes in to greet us. Oddly, he seems more nervous than we are. But very charming nevertheless. He has the hiccups.

“I’m so happy to meet you,” he tells us. “It’s an honor to have a group like yours on my show.”

We stand there, saying thank you and looking at him like dummies while he hiccups. We’re a bit starstruck.

“I really admire what you do,” he goes on. “I so wish I could be creative. But… let’s save that for the show.”

He chats with us a little more, asks if we have everything we need, then says he has to go to makeup.

Just as he’s about to leave, still hiccupping, Georgia says, “Do you need help with that hiccup?”

“I may be open to suggestions.”

Georgia says, “My method is infallible and can be used instantly. If I’m not remembered for my novels, I’ll be remembered for my Hiccup-Stopping Method. If everyone knew it, no one on earth would ever again have the hiccups for longer than a few seconds.”

What she says is true. Her Hiccup-Stopping Method is her most popular invention in our group. None of us has had a second hiccup in four years because as soon as we get our first hiccup, we use her method and the second hiccup is stopped dead in its tracks.

Georgia says, “The most remarkable thing about this method — considering how foolproof it is — is how unimpressive it sounds.”

“Really? Sounds amazing. What’s the method?” Peter asks, hiccupping some more.

“Stop moving and relax all your internal organs,” Georgia tells him.

He laughs and hiccups again. “What does that mean — relax all my internal organs? Even my bladder? You want me to pee in my pants?”

This makes me laugh, which makes him laugh harder.

“No, not to that degree,” Georgia says. “Just relax your stomach, throat, lungs, even peripheral things like your jaw and your shoulders. Do it now. Close your eyes if it helps. Let your body sort of go limp. The method works best if you use it right away as soon as your hiccupping begins, but even if you wait, like now, it’ll still work. It’ll just take a minute longer.”

Peter closes his eyes but he can’t stop laughing.

“If you laugh you’re not relaxed. Stop laughing,” she commands.

“Easier said than—”

“Don’t talk! Just relax your internal organs.”

Peter laughs some more, eyes still closed and hiccups still going.

Jack tells him, “It’s true it’s not going to work if you keep laughing.”

“Okay,” Peter says, and takes a deep breath and stops laughing.

His self-control impresses me. I’m still laughing.

He stays perfectly still. He has one more hiccup. And then he has no more.

He slowly opens his eyes. “That’s dramatic. It’s gone. How did you come up with that method?”

“I don’t know. It just came to me one day. Maybe instinct,” Georgia says.

Peter leaves the room, smiling at us before disappearing.

The segment on creativity is three minutes. At one point, in the middle of our live interview, Georgia says to Peter (and hence to the world), “I’m a very honest, blunt person, and let me tell you: My writing leaves much to be desired.”

Jack quickly adds, “Anyone with half a brain will know that what she’s saying means nothing. It’s the normal thing writers and artists say when they’re in the throes of self-doubt, which any decent writer or artist is in, much of the time. Plus, like many great artists, she’s a bit bipolar… I mean, not clinically, but you know… so don’t listen to a word she’s saying. Her writing is pure genius and everyone knows it.”

Peter nods. “What’s it like being part of such a creative circle?”

“It can be difficult,” Georgia replies. “One of us is extremely messed up. Far more than the rest of us.”

“Really?” Peter chuckles. “You?”

“No. Why would you say that? Should I be offended?”

“Of course not. But then, who?” he asks.

“We don’t know who. Hopefully one day we will.”

Peter laughs again. “You guys are just fascinating. What is it that makes some people highly creative, like Georgia, Lily, and Barb, and others less so, like, perhaps, you and me, Jack?”

We stare down at the desktop thoughtfully, until Georgia says, “We’re not at our best tonight. We’re stressed and distracted because something’s coming up in two days that we’re really dreading.”

I shoot her an alarmed look.

“What is it?” Peter asks.

“I wish we could tell you. It would make for good TV. But we can’t, sorry,” she says.

“That’s all right. Eccentricities are permitted, forgiven, and even encouraged, where geniuses are concerned.”

Georgia blushes. “Don’t look at me. I’m a lackluster writer, which is something I discovered only recently after recovering some work I’d lost.”

“I happen to know that the vast majority of people who’ve read you would disagree. I also know that a lot of people who have regular jobs have artistic aspirations they’ve neglected. This can cause a certain amount of regret for them. What advice, if any, do you have for those people? Lily, Barb, Penelope, any thoughts?”

We each come up with some banalities along the lines of: it’s never too late; no use regretting the past; pursue your dream even if it’s just five minutes a day before or after work; what’s important is making the time for it, etc.

Peter Marrick says, “Georgia’s second novel, The Liquid Angel, is about a woman whose dream is to become a great artist. One day, to thank her for saving his life, a stranger kidnaps her for nine months and forces her, against her will, to become a great artist. Do any of you have anything to say about that?”

When no one answers, I say, “It’s a story that appeals to a lot of people in artistic fields, especially people whose strong suit is not self-discipline. Lily and I have joked that what happens to the woman in that novel is not entirely unappealing. We sometimes have fantasies of being forced to work, when our own discipline is lacking.”

“Final question,” says Peter. “Is discipline enough? I have a friend, Bob, who claims he has no imagination, yet he wants to be creative. He dreams of doing some good art. Is there any hope for him?”

“No,” Georgia says. “If he lacks imagination, there’s no hope for him artistically. Imagination is the one requirement. Pretty much the only one, really. But so what? Lacking imagination has some great advantages.”

“Like what?”

“Happiness.”

“Really?”

“Sure. In a way, your friend Bob is lucky. So is my mother, who also claims she has no imagination. I think some of the sanest, happiest people are those with the least imagination. Paranoia, for instance, wouldn’t get very far without it. Life is easier without it.”

We go home after being bade a warm farewell by Peter Marrick. I’m sad I didn’t chat with him at greater length during his few attempts at talking to me and the others. I wish we could have done the show when we didn’t have a deadly dinner coming up.

WHEN I REACH my building fifteen minutes later, Adam the doorman opens my cab door for me, greeting me with: “Moonlight becomes you — total darkness even more.”

The taxi driver looks at him, startled.

I blink, at a loss for words. I’m not at my sharpest tonight. I just stare at Adam, thoughtfully. He stares right back at me, just as thoughtfully. Not taking his eyes off mine, he breaks the silence softly, dreamily, with, “When I look into your eyes, I see the back of your head.”

He’s clearly unwell. I wonder if now is the time I should try to help him.

As I’m considering this, he says, “Sit down and give your mind a rest.”

That unblocks me. “Actually, that’s a good idea, Adam. Why don’t we sit here together for a moment and talk?” I say, pointing at the little bench near the door.

The cab driver is still staring at us, which makes me uncomfortable.

Not budging toward the bench, Adam says to me, “I’m too busy. Can I ignore you some other time?”

A middle-aged couple passes us on their way into the building.

“Have a nice evening, Mr. and Mrs. Portman,” Adam says, smiling at them pleasantly.

“Thanks, Adam. You too,” they answer, smiling back.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, I say, “When would be a good time for you to listen to me for a couple of minutes?”

“How about never? Is never good for you?”

“Then let’s talk now, just for a minute.”

“Sorry, I can’t. But where will you be in ten years?”

Trusting he’ll eventually run out of comebacks, I persevere: “Adam, there’s a subject I’d like to discuss with you. It won’t take long.”

He takes two slow steps toward me until he’s closer than I find comfortable. Looking amused, he bores his eyes down into mine and says intimately, “My, my. Aren’t you a little black hole of need.”

“Just this once. That’s all I ask. It’ll be quick.”

“A quickie?”

I nod. “A short conversation.”

“Hard to resist. But why don’t we play house instead? You be the door, and I’ll slam you.”

“You’re very quick-witted and clever, Adam.”

“Your flattery repels me, Barb,” he says. And immediately he hollers “Ow!” and holds his tongue in his fingers, as though in pain.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Your very name blisters my tongue.”

I remember a similar line from my high school Shakespeare class and say, “And you’re very well read, too. Listen, I want to help you. I know a therapist. I’ve seen her myself. I think she can help you, regardless of why you’re doing this.”

“Keep talking,” he says, yawning. “I always yawn when I’m interested.”

“This therapist might be able to uncover why you act and feel the way you do.”

Looking at me thoughtfully, Adam says, “I see what your problem is. You suffer from delusions of adequacy.”

“The cause of your unusual behavior might be emotional, chemical, psychological. It might be something you’re not even aware of.”

“Please breathe the other way. You’re triggering my gag reflex.”

“Okay, well, have a pleasant evening, Adam.”

I walk to the elevator, concerned that his problem might be getting worse. He’s becoming less inhibited, less careful. He allowed a taxi driver to hear him. Who will be next? Someone who might get him fired?

Once I’m in my apartment, my mom calls and tells me she saw the interview and that I was good, but that tragically the camera added ten pounds on top of the dozens of fake pounds already on me.

IT’S THURSDAY MORNING. Only one day left. The NYU students arrive. By three p.m., they and I have finished searching my apartment for weapons and have found nothing, which raises my spirits slightly. Maybe the killer is not as determined as I feared.

Late in the afternoon, I decide to go shopping. I need a change of scenery. I buy a cuckoo clock, in case we become complacent during the evening of Strad’s death. Every hour, the bird will pop out and scream “Cuckoo” to remind us there is one among us. It’ll keep our nerves on edge, where they should be.

THE DREADED FRIDAY has arrived. The effort of trying to think of and guard against every possible murder method has drained me.

In the morning, I decide to bake a lemon chocolate cake. I’m not a fan of the cake because I don’t like cakes in general and Jack isn’t a fan of it either because he doesn’t like lemon, but the rest of our group loves it, and baking it usually helps me unwind.

As I’m grating the lemon peel, my phone rings. I assume it’s one of my friends with a last-minute point of anguish.

But no. To my surprise, it’s Peter Marrick, the news anchor.

“I just wanted to thank you for coming on the show,” he says. “You were great. And your friends, too. Captivating, all of you.”

“Thank you. It was fun doing it.”

He then asks me if I’d like to have dinner with him some time, adding, “I so rarely meet anyone I find interesting.”

He meets politicians, actors, scientists, some of the most important and powerful people in the world. I’m a little confused by his compliment, though I tell him I’d be happy to have dinner with him. He asks if tonight would work.

“Oh, I can’t tonight,” I reply. “I’ve got something I wish I could get out of, but it’s impossible. Though I could have dinner another night.” Unless a murder takes place, in which case it might be some time before I’m up for dating.

“How about tomorrow night?”

“Ah… tomorrow is not ideal either,” I say, thinking I may have to stay in bed all day and evening to recover from tonight’s stress. Or we may need tomorrow to hide the body. Or to prevent Lily from killing the killer. Or to deal with any number of other possible horrifications. “I can do Sunday, though. Or next week.”

We settle on Sunday.

I get back to my cake. As I mix the ingredients, I think about how nice that was, talking to Peter Marrick. And rare. Ever since I’ve been wearing my disguise, men simply haven’t shown any interest in me romantically — not that Peter Marrick’s interest is likely to be romantic, actually.

Chapter Ten

When I’m done with the cake, I lock up all my cutlery, my hammer, my screwdrivers, and anything else that could be used as a weapon, such as items made of glass, that could, in a split second, be smashed and slashed across Strad’s throat. I bought plastic cutlery and paper cups and plates for the dinner.

AT SEVEN, MY friends arrive, as planned. Strad is supposed to get here at 7:30 p.m., and the danger is supposed to start at eight. I thought it was best to get Strad here well in advance of the danger so that if he’s running a bit late, he won’t risk being assassinated on his way here by a hired gunman.

I frisk my friends carefully and then search them with the metal detector, which I practiced using on the NYU students yesterday. Everyone is wearing pants, as I’d instructed. No one sets off the metal detector, which means they didn’t conceal razor blades on or in their bodies. It’s nice to know I won’t have to worry about them whipping out a razor blade when they go to the bathroom. I will only have to worry about them whipping out a piece of broken glass encased in a nonmetal tube inserted in their bodies in the fashion of a tampon or suppository. Frisking them every time they exit the bathroom should be enough to guard against such a danger. Metal detecting won’t be necessary again.

I confiscate bags, cell phones, and shoes.

I then stand before my friends and say, “I want you to be extremely vigilant this evening. The killer could be swift. Be on the lookout for any abrupt movements from any of you, and be prepared to pounce. If the killer is Jack, we should be particularly alert because he’s stronger than the rest of us and will be more difficult to restrain.” They all nod, including Jack.

I continue with, “The rules are: No one goes near the kitchen area; no one near the food before it is served; from the moment it’s served until Strad has finished eating, we should all keep a close eye on Strad’s plate and glass to be sure nobody puts anything in them; everyone stays in the living room at all times, no wandering in the rest of the apartment; and nobody goes to the bathroom unaccompanied.”

They all nod again. “Sounds good,” Jack says.

“Oh, and let’s not forget to try to act natural, for Lily’s sake,” I say. “We don’t want him to think her friends are weirdos.”

“I appreciate that,” Lily says.

“Even if we’re weirdos, we’re still the Knights of Creation and he knows it,” Georgia says, scornfully.

We wait for Strad as 7:30 approaches. It comes and goes. We look at one another. At 7:45 p.m., I instruct Lily to call his cell phone. She does, on speakerphone. He says he’s on his way, had to take a cab because there’s a problem with the subway.

I stare at my cuckoo clock as eight o’clock nears. I ask Lily to call him again. She does, again on speaker. He says he’s two blocks away, that maybe he’ll get out of the cab and walk the rest of the way because there’s traffic.

“No!” I exclaim. If he’s out on the street alone when eight o’clock strikes, who knows what could happen, what the killer might have planned. “No,” I repeat, more calmly, and whisper: “Tell him not to worry, to stay in the taxi until it reaches my building.”

She tells him this. He says he’s now one block away. It’s three minutes before eight. He says he’ll see us soon. He says he can’t wait. Lily hangs up.

I stare at my intercom, waiting for the doorman to buzz me. Finally, he does. It’s Adam, and he softly says to me, “You clownish fool, someone is here to see you, don’t ask me why. His name is Strad. I don’t envy him. He’s in for quite—”

“Send him up,” I say, having no time for his disorder right now.

“Jee-zuss!”

“Real fast, please,” I add.

“Fine, cunt,” he says, and hangs up.

I look at the clock. We’ve got two minutes left before the danger starts.

Ten seconds left. He’s still not here.

“CUCKOO!” shrieks the bird eight times at eight o’clock.

I hear a grim voice in my head saying, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, let the games begin.”

Ten minutes go by, and still no Strad. Perhaps he got lost in the building. This is a common problem in my building, which is huge and consists of four towers, requiring visitors to take two elevators, which are separated by a long hallway and some turns.

I tell Lily this, to reassure her. She nods, chewing her lip.

Strad finally arrives at 8:11 p.m. and sheepishly confesses to me in the entrance hall that he got lost in the building.

“Yes, it’s very complicated,” Georgia calls out from the living room, her sarcasm unfair because it is.

Strad is carrying a shoulder bag, a violin case, a bunch of mixed flowers, and a bottle of red wine. He hands me the flowers and wine. “Thank you so much for inviting me,” he says, following me into the living room. “You can’t imagine how…” He stops mid-sentence as he steps across the threshold. He gazes around the living room at the masked and costumed furry mannequins. “Wow. Amazing. Wow.”

“Aw, we love eloquent guests,” Georgia says.

“Your decor is spectacular,” Strad says to me.

“Thank you,” I say.

He puts down his bag and violin case. He notices that none of us is wearing shoes, so he takes his off and puts them by the door.

Then he goes straight for Georgia. “Man, what an honor it is to finally meet you!” He takes her hand in both of his.

“Thank you,” she says.

“No, thank you. For all your books. Spending this evening with you will be such a blast.”

“A blast, possibly.” She turns to the rest of us and asks, “Did we cover that possibility? That it might be a blast?”

“Many times,” Jack says.

“And? What did we decide?”

“That it can’t be a blast as long as he’s with us.”

It’s true, we did cover the possibility of a small bomb and quickly realized that the killer would never use a method that had any risk of hurting the rest of us. As long as Strad is with us, no explosive would be used on him.

So I’m outraged at Jack and Georgia’s unnecessary exchange and offensive double meanings aimed at insulting Strad. Have I not just told them to act normal? Do they not care how their weird behavior will reflect on Lily? I guess they don’t, come to think of it.

Trying to hide my annoyance, I say, “I thought we decided not to be eccentric tonight?” I put a little water and Strad’s flowers into a small plastic vase. “If I detect even a whiff of eccentricity this evening, you will not hear the end of it.”

I take Strad’s belongings (except for his violin case, which he’ll need) and put them in my bedroom, because the killer might have cleverly hidden a weapon in Strad’s bag or coat earlier.

I then pour the wine into a lidded plastic jug and I lock the empty wine bottle in my bedroom with all the other glass items.

Strad strolls around my living room, looking at the costumed mannequins. He stops in front of my ballet bar and asks me, “Why do you have a ballet bar if you don’t use it?”

“What makes you think I don’t use it?”

He looks me up and down. “Wild guess.”

I feel slapped in the face on behalf of overweight people who do use a ballet bar. “The previous owner installed it,” I explain. “She was a ballet dancer. And I do use it for my costume design work with actors.”

“Fun piano,” Strad says, standing in front of the mirror piano. “The sound must suffer a bit in that kind of casing, but it’s great-looking. Am I right, Lily, that the sound suffers?”

“Yes, it suffers,” Lily says.

The thought of suffering reminds me that we’re due for some, right about now. “Speaking of music, weren’t you going to play a little something for us?” I ask him.

“Oh, yes, why don’t you bless us with some of your music,” Georgia says, with an impressive lack of sarcasm.

“Sure!” Strad goes to his violin case.

I follow him. He opens it.

“Can I see this case? It’s so beautiful,” I say.

“Sure.”

I hold the case, caress the lining, examine it thoroughly inside and out and when I’m relatively certain that it’s safe, I say, “And can I see your violin too?”

He hands it to me. I’m not sure what could be hidden in a violin, but why not be thorough? As for the rest of him, I didn’t use the metal detector on him because I didn’t want to freak him out. Plus, no one is supposed to touch him. If anyone stashed a weapon on him in advance and tries to pickpocket him during the evening, we’ll put a stop to it before anything can happen.

I give him back his violin and he positions himself in front of the couch area, where we all take a seat.

Georgia raises her hand. “Oh, I’ve got an idea. Maybe Lily should accompany Strad on the piano. That would be so nice.” Her motive is all too clear to me: she’s hoping Lily’s music will mask Strad’s. But the pretext she gives is, “This way, Strad, you’ll be able to hear for yourself if the piano suffers from its casing.”

“Sure,” Strad says. “If you want to join me toward the end, Lily. I’ll signal you when I’m ready.”

Lily nods and sits at the piano. He plays for ten minutes, which is mildly unpleasant, before he gives Lily the nod.

She starts improvising, and I don’t know if my perception of her playing is influenced by my knowledge of her feelings for him, but her notes seem to coat his in silk. Her playing wraps itself around his in a manner that does not take us long to sense is rather erotic. Her sounds are caressing, clinging to his sounds, dripping from them, climaxing with them. Her notes are practically raping his notes, though the one thing they’re not really able to do is to beautify them. Lily’s power is not quite strong enough to counteract the mediocrity of his art.

When they’re done, Strad plops into an armchair. “That was exhilarating! I don’t think the sound from the piano suffered much.”

“Oh, I think it suffered,” Georgia says.

Jack starts talking to Strad about his acting ambitions.

Georgia walks by the low side table next to Strad’s armchair without noticing that the bottom of her long cardigan is getting caught on the bouquet of flowers Strad brought me. Jack is the only one besides me who notices what’s about to happen and lunges at the vase to steady it before it topples over and spills.

The only thing the three women notice is Jack lunging in Strad’s proximity. Misinterpreting his abrupt movement as an attempt on Strad’s life, they hurl themselves at him and he falls under their weight. On his way down, his lip and nose get smashed against one of my ottoman cubes. He is now face down on my thin rug, the women on top of him holding his arms and sitting on him like hens.

“Stop! Stop!” I cry, hurrying toward them. “Get off him. I saw everything.”

They stare up at me, not convinced, and not getting off him. They’re waiting for me to offer an explanation, which they know I can’t give them in front of Strad.

“I order you to get off of him right now,” I tell Georgia, Penelope, and Lily in a calm but commanding voice.

They finally obey, reluctantly. Not only can I not give them an explanation, but they realize they now have to help me come up with a fake one because Strad is watching us, horrified.

“Why did you just attack him?” he asks them.

Jack struggles to his feet, his nose and lip bleeding. He touches the side of his face, where he’ll undoubtedly have a bruise.

He gazes down at the floor. There lie the flowers and plastic vase on the wet rug.

Strad looks at all of us, waiting for our explanation.

We stare back at him, stumped, having no idea what to say.

In the silence, the cuckoo clock tick-tocks like a metronome.

I try to buy us some time by fetching a paper towel and an ice pack for Jack.

Perhaps I could say the women thought Jack was headed toward the stereo, and he has terrible taste in music.

“Why isn’t anyone speaking?” Strad asks. “Lily? Why did you pounce on Jack?”

Lily doesn’t reply. Instead, she busies herself picking up the flowers and wiping up the spill.

I can’t stand the silence anymore, so I’m about to blurt out my absurd answer, but just before I do, Georgia casually says, “Training.”

I exhale softly, having complete confidence in her powers of fabrication.

“Excuse me?” Strad says.

“It’s training.” She shrugs.

“Training? To be what, Charlie’s Angels?”

“No. We’re training him. He asked us to attack him at unexpected times as part of his ongoing maintenance program. It keeps his reflexes sharp.”

“Is that true?” Strad asks Jack, with a twinge of excitement.

“Yes. It improves my reaction time,” Jack says.

“For what?”

“For my job. I’m a cop, you know.”

“I thought that was over. I thought you worked at a senior center now.”

“Only part time. I’m also an undercover cop.”

“But I thought you couldn’t be a cop because of your limp and your cane and the fact that you can’t run.”

“That’s why it’s a great cover.”

“So you can run?”

“No, that’s why it’s a great cover.”

“What’s a great cover? Not being able to run?”

“Yes. That’s what makes it really good.”

“But how can you be an undercover cop if you can’t run?”

“By doing special training, like you just saw.”

“That makes up for not running?”

“More than makes up for it. You saw how intense it was. The women did an excellent job, I must say. I’d been reproaching them lately for not going at it with enough conviction.” He takes the paper towel and ice pack and presses them to his face. “I just never thought they’d attack me when a guest was here. Which, of course, is why it’s the perfect time to do it.” He chuckles and turns to his aggressors, giving them a thumbs-up. “Nice work, by the way.”

Even though Jack is usually not the one who comes up with the ideas, he’s quite good at riffing off them once they’re out there.

Blood is still running out of his nose. He wipes it again with the now mostly red paper towel.

“I don’t know, this seems weird,” Strad says, shaking his head, looking suddenly skeptical again.

“It’s a form of conditioning, like Pavlov’s dog,” Jack says. “When you get attacked and hurt on a regular basis and at various random times, you start jumping at the slightest abrupt movement because you know pain is coming. That jumping is a desirable state of conditioning.”

“It is?” Strad says. “Like those kids who shield their faces if you make an abrupt gesture near them because they get slapped at home regularly? That never seemed good.”

“But for adults it’s good. Especially for cops. That’s what average people don’t realize when they watch those big Hollywood action movies. In those movies, it takes a lot to faze the heroes. But in real life, it’s the opposite. The toughest, most effective guys, the best fighters, the police heroes, the army heroes — all the best ones — they jump at the slightest abrupt movement.”

I’m struggling not to smile. My friends too. The tension has left their faces. You’d think the threat had left the room.

“Thanks again, guys,” Jack says to his trainers, giving them each a high-five. He spins back to Strad. “Oh, and just so you know, they’ve asked me to put them through the same rigorous training, so we may be attacking each other at various times. Don’t be too startled.”

The three women chuckle uneasily.

I tell everyone it’s time for dinner.

We move to the dining table. I serve them a cold meal of fancy sardines in herb sauce, which I bought already prepared from a nearby gourmet shop. I serve Strad last, and once his food is in front of him, I don’t take my eyes off it. I can’t believe he’s the only person in the room I can absolutely trust.

We scare easy tonight. At one point Georgia sneezes. It practically gives me a heart attack. A few minutes later Penelope drops her plastic fork. We stare at her with terror.

Things get misinterpreted. The slightest sounds. If someone laughs, the rest of us hear it as evil and expect the worst.

“Wow, you guys are like jumpy, high-strung thoroughbred horses,” Strad says. “You’ve really honed that flinching trait.”

A few grunts is the only response.

No one tries to make conversation during dinner except Strad, but he doesn’t get very far. He asks me about my costumes. I give him brief, bland answers. I’m not capable of more. The others don’t seem to be either. So he gives up. The ticking of the clock is noticeable in the silence. There isn’t even the familiar clanking of cutlery — typical of conversationless meals — since everything is plastic and paper. I spend long stretches of time in a sort of trance, staring at Strad and his plate, lost in thought, trying to make sure I haven’t overlooked any killing methods or schemes the murderer might have come up with.

While Strad chews on his food, Lily, too, stares at him. But hers is a very different look from mine. Her look is one of adoration.

Strad gazes at all of us sitting there stiffly, and says, “Do you guys always have this much fun?”

Georgia can’t help laughing.

When the fake bird flies out of the clock at nine, screaming “CUCKOO!!!” we all hit the ceiling except Jack.

“I saw it coming,” Jack explains.

Three more hours to go. Why did I think marking the slow passage of time with this clock would be a good idea?

“Ah!” shouts Strad, slapping the table, which scares me even more than the cuckoo did, “I have been wanting to ask you something for ages, Georgia!”

“I’m all ears,” she says.

“What in the world is the anagram for ‘Whiterose’ at the end of your novel The Liquid Angel? I’ve been racking my brains for months. I simply must know.”

“Otherwise what? You’ll die?” Georgia says.

He chuckles. “Uh, something like that.”

“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” She pauses. “Which is why I’ve given you the answer.”

“What do you mean you’ve given me the answer? No you haven’t.”

She turns to the rest of us, “Have I?”

We nod.

She turns back to Strad. “You see. I have.”

“When?”

“A few seconds ago.”

After a pause, he says, “You’re not going to give it to me in a way I can understand?”

“Guess not,” she says. “I’m a little sadistic, I suppose.”

Nothing much but chewing goes on at the table for a while.

Strad gets up. “Where’s the bathroom?” he asks me.

We all get up. He looks surprised and says, “No, please, you don’t need to get up.”

“It’s all right,” I say. “Jack, will you lead the way?”

“Certainly,” Jack says, and proceeds toward the hallway. I keep an eye on Strad’s plate until everyone has left the table. We begin escorting Strad to the bathroom.

“Uh, what are you guys doing?” he asks.

“Showing you to the bathroom,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. “We’re almost there.”

We go through the hallway, turn a corner, and there we are, all crowded in front of the door.

“Please make way,” I say, and open the bathroom door. I take a quick look, to triple-check that everything seems safe, and show him in.

Strad steps inside, closes the door, and we hear nothing. After about thirty seconds he says, not very loudly, “Are you still there?”

I don’t answer right away, unsure what to say. Finally I answer, “Yes.”

Softly, he says, “Why?”

After a pause, I say, “In case you need anything.”

“I don’t need anything. You can go back to your seats now. I’m sure I can find my way back even though I got lost in your building.”

I don’t think this requires a response, so I give none. We still hear nothing. Time passes and still we hear absolutely nothing. I get worried. Having him out of my sight makes me nervous even though I’ve searched that bathroom multiple times and found no danger. I imagine things. Impossible things, perhaps, but when they’re dwelled on, they start to seem possible. I imagine a lethal gas seeping through the bathroom vent. I imagine a deadly electrical current connected to the metal faucet knobs and activated only when Strad is in the bathroom. I imagine that maybe I was not vigilant enough about staring at his plate and that now he’s quietly dying from poisoning.

I’m straining to hear the slightest sound. My fingertips are against the thin wooden door that separates us.

And then I hear him say softly, “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I reply, almost as softly.

“I’m a bit uncomfortable with you all standing out there, you know,” he says.

I nod and murmur, “We know.” That wasn’t meant for him to hear and I don’t think he did.

There is the sound of the sink faucet going on, and a second later, the bathwater running. I have a preposterous vision of the killer having arranged for these faucets to turn on by themselves. The door would be locked, jammed, no way to unlock it, the faucets would keep running, no way to shut them off, and the tiny bathroom would fill up like a fish tank.

“Are you okay?” I ask through the door.

“Fine, fine.”

Finally, despite the racket of the running water, we make out the sound of him urinating.

A few moments later, the water noises stop and he comes out of the bathroom, intact.

Relieved, I’m about to take him back to the table, when Lily says, “I need to go, too.”

I give her permission.

“But I’m not sure I’ll be able to, with you all standing here,” she says.

Strad decides to make her feel more comfortable by masking her sounds. He fetches his violin and plays The Four Seasons by Vivaldi, right outside the bathroom door.

Upon her exit, I frisk her, prompting Strad to ask me, “What are you doing?”

“Just routine,” I reply.

“I need to pee, too,” Georgia says, and slips into the bathroom.

Strad plays “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

When Georgia emerges, I frisk her very carefully.

“Did she steal anything?” Strad asks.

“Uh, it doesn’t look like it,” I say.

“You didn’t frisk me,” he says.

“Not yet.”

As I’m about to give Strad his token frisk, I get a better idea. “Lily, frisk him.” Why not give her some gratuitous pleasure?

She stares at me hard with embarrassment, and then slowly advances toward Strad. She pats his arms, from wrist to shoulder, then his chest. Her hands seem a little shaky as they descend toward his belly. She is carefully mimicking the way she saw me frisk her and Georgia — she does no more and no less. She strokes Strad’s waist, his hips, his pockets — which are bulky, but she ignores them — then his legs and ankles. She walks around him and frisks him from behind. His back pockets have some bulk in them as well, but she does not explore.

“All good?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

“This is surreal,” Strad remarks to me, as we escort him back to the table. “You have me frisked, my pockets are bulging with things, and yet you don’t ask to see what’s in them. It could be your soap, you know. I could have stolen your soap.”

“I trust you.”

We take our seats and finish our sardines.

The time has come for the table to be cleared for dessert. The problem is, I don’t want any of my friends to take the dirty dishes to the kitchen because of the opportunity it would give the killer to sprinkle sleeping powder on the fruit salad I’ve prepared (which is sitting on the counter) or in the coffee pot. We’d all fall asleep and the killer could kill Strad at his or her leisure. Or while setting the dessert plates, the killer could apply some poison directly onto Strad’s plate or plastic spoon or fork.

One way to avoid these risks would be for me to clear the table, but this will not work either because I’d have to take my eyes off Strad’s still unfinished cup of wine.

Therefore, there’s really only one option that’s completely safe.

“Strad, you may clear the table now,” I say.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“We’re ready for dessert. You can take the dirty dishes to the kitchen, and please don’t eat out of anyone’s plate.”

He gets up, a little baffled, muttering, “Sure, I don’t mind helping,” and takes his plate to the kitchen.

He sees that no one else has gotten up. “Am I supposed to help or am I supposed to do it all by myself?”

“The latter,” I say. “We prepared the meal. It’s only fair.”

“Oh, this is very original,” he says, full of good humor. “The guest waits on the hosts. So this is what it’s like having dinner with the Knights of Creation.”

A few minutes later, I say, “Thank you very much, Strad. When you’re done, you can set our dessert plates and serve us the fruit salad and lemon chocolate cake. Then if you wouldn’t mind pouring us some coffee, that would be great.”

“You really pull out all the stops when you entertain, don’t you, Barb?” he says. “Not only do you bring out the fancy paper plates and plastic knives and forks and serve wine in these beautiful paper cups, but you ask your guest to clear the table and serve you.” I think I detect a mixture of indignation and awe in his tone.

“You guys are so unconventional, it’s delightful,” he adds, taking my plate to the kitchen. He carries the plates one at a time, which drags out the process. He obviously hasn’t had much practice helping clear tables. Three plates are still left. But that’s okay, we’ve got all the time in the world.

We hear music. It’s Strad’s cell phone.

He answers it and hangs up after a moment.

“Now this is weird,” he tells us, looking tickled.

“What?” I ask.

“There’s a present for me downstairs!”

“Ignore it; it’s a trick,” I blurt.

“Who’s it from?” Penelope quickly asks, undoubtedly attempting to cover up my strange comment, which I appreciate.

“She didn’t say,” Strad replies. “It was a woman on the phone, but I have no idea who. All she said was, ‘Strad, there’s a present for you downstairs.’ And she hung up. And no number is showing up on my phone.”

“I think it sounds fishy,” Jack says.

I should have confiscated Strad’s phone as soon as he arrived. In the last few days, it did occur to me that the killer might call Strad during this dinner — or rather, hire someone to call Strad — with some sort of pretext to lure him away from our protection. Nevertheless, seizing Strad’s cell phone seemed excessive at the time. I regret my decision now.

A sudden, irrepressible urge to communicate my feelings to the killer overwhelms my desire not to sound strange in front of Strad. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t like it,” I say to the killer in our midst, whoever it is.

“What, you think I faked this call to get out of my domestic duties?” Strad asks me. “I didn’t, I swear. I know I must clear the table and serve dessert, and I will. And I’ll serve the coffee, too.”

I’m afraid the supposed gift downstairs will be a small bomb, small enough to kill only the person who opens it. But I try to reassure myself that no member of our group — even the killer — would ever endanger any other member. A bomb — even a tiny one — is simply too risky. It must be something else, some other weapon or ploy.

My friends, too, are unsettled at the prospect of this gift being brought into the apartment. Georgia copies my technique of addressing the killer: she stares blankly into space and says to him or her, “I can’t believe the gall you have to actually be attempting something right in front of our eyes.”

Obviously this stunt does not clear her. She could still be the killer.

“I’m not attempting anything!” Strad exclaims. “I told you guys I would clear the table and I will, as soon as I get back from getting my present.”

Penelope jumps on the bandwagon with her own blank stare and address to the killer: “Do you realize what you are doing to us? Don’t you care about our group?”

“I do! I admire it greatly,” Strad tells her. “I’d love to be a part of it. And you’ll see, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Then Jack takes his turn addressing the killer, who could, of course, be himself: “If you do what you intend, don’t assume we’ll help you afterward. We definitely won’t. You’ll be on your own.”

Strad squints, trying to understand. “You guys are not being clear. Is this about more than clearing the table and serving dessert? Is this about cleaning the kitchen? I can do that, too, if you want. It’s not that much work to throw out paper plates and plastic cutlery.”

Then I remember that even if it’s a bomb, it can’t go off after midnight because that was the rule KAY agreed to. “Strad,” I say. “I want you to wait until the evening is over before you get your present. I insist on that.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I want to find out now what it is. I’ll be just a minute.”

I heave myself out of my chair. The others get up as well. I keep an eye on Strad’s cup until all my friends have stepped away from the table.

“You didn’t need to get up. I’ll be right back,” Strad says, putting on his shoes.

We gather around him near the front door.

“Wait,” I say. “Let me call the doorman to make sure there really is a package. Maybe the call was a prank.”

I pick up the intercom’s receiver and I call downstairs.

Adam answers.

I begin, “Hi, this is Barb—”

“What do you want, ass-head? Make it quick. Your voice gives me ear infections.”

“Did someone drop off a package for one of my guests?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? No one? Are you sure?”

Adam is silent and confused for a moment, and then says, “Are you normally this stupid or are you making a special effort right now?”

“His name is Strad. You have no package for Strad?”

“I have it right here.”

“Hmm. That’s weird. We got a message saying a package was dropped off with you.”

“If you’re having a stroke or something that requires the defibrillator let me know by banging your head three times against the phone and I’ll be sure to send the defibrillator up to you real slow.”

“Okay, thanks.” I hang up and turn to Strad. “He says there’s no package.”

“Really? Do you mind if I speak to him to be sure he didn’t make a mistake?”

“Of course he didn’t make a mistake. You heard how thorough I was.”

“Yeah, but still. I want to make sure.”

Clearly Strad won’t let this rest until either he speaks to Adam himself or goes downstairs and looks for the present with his own eyes. There’s no point in my trying to stop him. What’s important now is that I not let him call Adam, who would inform him I’ve been lying, which could offend Strad enough to make him leave and no longer be under our protection.

“No, I’ll do it,” I say, picking up the intercom phone before Strad can respond, though I do catch the expression of frustration on his face.

Adam answers.

“Hi, it’s me again,” I say.

“Stop plaguing me.”

“Sorry to bother you again, but could you please check in the back to make sure there isn’t a package for Strad? Maybe it was dropped off earlier when Bill was at the desk, and maybe he forgot to put it in the system.”

“What kind of game are you playing?” Adam asks me.

“Thanks,” I say. I wait enough time for Adam to theoretically go to the back, while in reality he’s treating me to a litany of insults. After a few more seconds I say into the phone, “Ah, you do have it? Great!”

“Leave me alone.”

“Well, that explains it. Thanks for checking.” I hang up.

“He does have it,” I tell Strad. “Sure enough, it got dropped off when Bill was on duty.”

“Great. I’ll get it. Don’t serve the fruit salad. I’ll do it when I get back.”

He walks out the door. We do as well.

“Be back in a jiffy!” he says, waving.

We flank him as he walks down the hallway.

“Why are you guys doing this? I’m not a moron; I won’t get lost a second time. You don’t even have your shoes on.”

“That’s all right,” Jack says. “The person on the phone didn’t say who they were or who the present was from. I’d stay as far away from that supposed present as possible if I were you.”

“Jack is a cop,” Lily adds. “He knows what he’s talking about. Let’s just go back to the apartment, Strad.”

Ignoring her suggestion, Strad steps into the elevator. We squeeze in around him.

“It’s wonderful to be escorted and embraced this way by your group, to be taken into your fold,” he says. “You guys must like me. I feel cuddled by five mother hens. Does this mean I’m part of your exclusive inner circle, now? Am I one of you?”

We don’t answer. When the elevator doors open again, we follow him down the long hallway to the second elevator. I’m in a trance, thinking that if we survive the opening of the present, I will take extra precautions for the rest of the evening, starting with his cell phone confiscation. I don’t care how strange it makes me look. Appearances are nothing. Anyway, it’s my apartment, my rules. And let’s not forget that there is also my special backup precaution, which I was hoping to avoid using due to its extreme deviance. But perhaps the time has come.

We take the second elevator down and arrive in the lobby.

Wanting to be the first to examine the box for any suspicious signs, I move ahead of my friends and go straight to the front desk, behind which Adam is standing.

“Hi, Adam. Can I have that package, please?”

Handing me the box, he leans toward my ear and whispers, “Scumbag.”

“Thank you so much,” I say, smiling.

I haven’t yet told my friends about the doorman’s strange behavior these past few months.

I look at the writing on the box. There’s no return name or address. Just the recipient’s name, Strad Ellison, c/o my name, and my apartment number.

“When was this dropped off?” I ask Adam.

He looks at me and knows he can’t insult me since my friends are next to me, staring at him, waiting for his answer.

“About half an hour ago,” he says. “And I’m very sorry about the misunderstanding we had on the phone when I kept telling you the package was right here, and you kept thinking I said it wasn’t. I’m glad we cleared that up, eventually.” He looks at my friends.

“Yes,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Strad staring at me. “Who delivered it?” I ask Adam.

“A woman,” he says.

“Did she give her name?”

“No.”

“Did she say anything at all?”

“She said the package was for your guest, Strad Ellison. That’s all.”

“What did she look like?”

“Asian. Early twenties. Shoulder-length hair.”

“Anything else you can remember?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Adam.”

He nods.

Strad takes the box from me. Luckily, it’s sealed tightly, so there’s no choice but to wait until we get back to my apartment to open it.

On our way up, I gaze at my friends’ faces. By dint of imagining each of them in the role of the killer, they’ve each become the killer in my eyes.

Back in my apartment, I instruct everybody to go to the couch area and stay there while I fetch the scissors from my bedroom.

Upon my return, I inform Strad that I must be the one to open the box, that I never let anyone handle my scissors.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he tells me. “You said earlier that you didn’t want anyone to be eccentric tonight. So I’m wondering, is this your version of not being eccentric? What I mean is, are you usually even more eccentric?”

Not sure what to answer, I meekly settle for: “I’m not being that eccentric. It’s just a habit I have with scissors.”

“Why did you lie about my package?”

“It made me nervous. You didn’t know who it was from.”

Georgia says, “Plus, we were having such a good time, why interrupt the fun?”

“Okay, open it,” he tells me.

“Everyone, step away,” I caution.

I don’t want anyone to make a lunge for whatever weapon might be in the box. And if it does turn out to be a bomb, the farther away they stand, the better.

“Farther,” I say. They take another step back. “You too, Strad.”

Everyone is now standing a good six feet away from me.

As I carefully cut the tape around the box, I start getting more worried that it might actually be a bomb.

“If you think you can zero in on your target with surgical precision, you are wrong,” I say, speaking to the killer while staring at the tape I’m cutting. “Perhaps you will hit your target, but you’ll hit us as well — yourself included — and me in particular. I’ll be disfigured beyond recognition, which is okay with me, but is it okay with you? I’ll be blinded, I may even get killed. So many of us could get killed. Do you really want to harm us this way? Is it really worth it?”

“Eccentric is not the right word,” Strad says to Lily, who smiles politely through her fear.

I continue addressing the killer: “Think about it. You don’t have much time. You better decide quickly because there won’t be any turning back once the box is opened.”

I glance at my friends. They all seem extremely tense, holding their breaths.

Penelope exhales suddenly and says, “I feel faint.” She sits on the couch.

I’ve finished cutting the tape. I lift the flaps, push aside the crumpled paper, and see my face staring back at me from the bottom of the box. It’s an antique-style mirror with a handle and an ornately molded frame. I take it out of the box.

The tension leaves the room like a change in cabin pressure.

I pull the rest of the packing paper out of the box. Nothing else is in it. No bomb, no weapon.

I turn the mirror over. Beautifully engraved on the back is the name “Strad” and underneath it are the words, “See Differently.”

“See differently?” Strad says. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe someone wants you to see what kind of person you really are,” Georgia says.

“Or maybe someone wants you to see the people around you in another way,” Penelope says.

I puzzle over which of my friends sent this gift. It could have been any of them. It even could have been Lily, whose meaning behind the engraved words may have been: “Take a good look at yourself. Are you really so much more beautiful than I am?”

“Or maybe someone thinks you’re vain,” Jack offers.

Strad seems a bit disgruntled at these less than flattering interpretations. He finally suggests, “Or maybe someone thinks I’m a great guy and feels compelled to shower me with gifts.”

“One gift,” I mutter. “Hardly a shower.”

“Oh, it’s a shower. I call three gifts a shower. This is the third anonymous gift I’ve received.” He plunges his hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out two silver objects: a lighter and a business card holder. They are both beautifully engraved in a similar fashion. The words on the lighter, right under his name, are “Desire Differently.” And on the card holder: “Think Differently.”

I just stare.

“I like these gifts,” he says, putting them back in his pocket. “I just wish I knew who they were from. I haven’t told anyone I was coming here today, so whoever dropped this off must have followed me here, or been hired to follow me. Unless… they’re from one of you,” he says, his gaze lingering on Lily.

We all shake our heads no, including Lily, who blushes slightly.

I return the scissors to my bedroom. Clearly these gifts have to come from someone in our group. If KAY’s attack is only in the form of words engraved on a beautiful gift, I can handle that. The words aren’t even an insult — just a gentle suggestion. Perhaps I’ve been overly cautious. I tell myself to relax a bit. I’ve known my friends a long time and I should have a modicum of faith that none of them would commit murder. I pause, catching an error in my thinking, which I grimly correct: or at least commit murder a second time.

As I reenter the living room, I see that Georgia has stepped away from the couch area, where the others are chatting. She is casually approaching the hand mirror, which I’d placed on a little table between two windows.

My leeriness comes swirling back.

“Georgia! What are you doing?” I bark.

She seems flustered — a rare occurrence. “Nothing, I just wanted to examine the mirror.”

“Really.” My tone reeks of skepticism.

“Don’t let her!” This is Jack.

“Step away.” I march over to the mirror. “Why are you so interested in it?”

“I’m not so interested in it,” she says. “I’m just exhibiting a normal degree of curiosity.”

I pick up the mirror and examine it. We were so relieved it wasn’t a bomb, we forgot to be thorough. I turn it over, scrutinize the intricate molding.

And then I see something.

A tiny clasp that blends in with the molding. It’s located on one side of the handle, in the nook where the handle meets the mirror. I spot an identical one on the other side. Each clasp is encrusted with one tiny red stone which I had noticed but thought was just decoration. I open both clasps and pull on the handle.

With a grave metallic sound, a steel blade slides out. What a moment ago was a harmless object of vanity is now a dagger and its sheath.

Chapter Eleven

Everyone gathers around me.

My lips clenched, I study my friends.

I see profound shock and stricken features.

I just can’t tell which one’s faking it.

“Not so close,” I say, pointing the dagger at them. I wouldn’t want anyone to grab it from my hands and stab Strad.

They back up.

“Wow, look at that,” Strad says, oblivious. “How cool!” He takes the knife and mirror from me. “It’s an even better gift than I thought. Too bad I don’t know who it’s from.”

“Yes, it’s a shame,” I say, trying to unwrap Georgia’s soul with my eyes.

She gives me a little shake of the head to deny her culpability.

Far from being too cautious, it’s clear to me I was not nearly cautious enough. Drastic revisions of plans need to go into effect immediately.

“If you don’t mind, I must put that in the bedroom,” I tell Strad, tugging on the dagger and sheath.

“Why?” he says, letting them go.

“It’s my knives and weapons phobia.”

“Why are you guys so scared of me?” he asks. “I’m not going to hurt anyone!”

“Oh really?” Georgia replies, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

I notice Lily reacting with a barely perceptible cringe.

“And I need your cell phone, too,” I tell Strad.

“And what’s your pretext for that?” he asks, plopping it in my palm.

“Disliking interruptions.” I look at the assembly. “Couch area!” I order, pointing.

They shuffle to the couch.

I carry Strad’s gift and phone to my bedroom. Despite being deeply shaken up by the dagger’s unsheathing, I’m still not sure I want to resort to my special backup safety method. So I hold off for now.

I return to the living room with a nagging feeling that I’ve overlooked something.

And then it occurs to me.

“Strad, show me your other gifts again,” I say.

“Why? You want to take those away too?”

“Please, I just want to see them.”

He hands me his silver lighter and business card holder. I scrutinize both. After fiddling with them for a few moments, I discover a very well hidden razor blade built into the structure of each one. Once the blade is slid out, it remains attached to the object, which has become its handle.

“CUCKOO!” shrieks the bird ten times in the most obnoxious manner possible. It’s ten p.m.

“You are cuckoo, Barb, to have bought that clock,” Georgia says, clenching her heart with her hands.

“Those are fantastic gifts!” Strad says, thrilled to behold the hidden weapons.

I don’t share his enthusiasm. I visualize what could have happened tonight if I hadn’t discovered those blades. Maybe after dinner, while sitting on the couch having coffee, Strad would have taken out his lighter, lit a cigarette, and tossed the lighter onto the coffee table to await his next cigarette. (I would have allowed him to smoke since our priority this evening — his protection, not our comfort — requires him to stay with us till midnight.) My friend the killer would then have gotten up to stretch his/her legs, casually picked up the lighter “to look at it,” pulled out the blade, and sliced Strad’s jugular. Same thing could have happened with the business card holder if the opportunity had presented itself.

Who knows what other weapons the killer might have stashed or smuggled in, or simply have access to — starting with his or her own body, for Christ’s sake! I hadn’t thought of it till now, but here it is: what if the killer is a secret martial arts black belt and can inflict a lethal blow in a split second?

“Sit!” I order my friends, pointing to the couch.

I carry Strad’s silver gifts to my bedroom.

It’s clear to me I’ve got no choice but resort to my special backup method now.

I return from my bedroom holding four pairs of handcuffs I bought a couple of days ago.

I drag four chairs from the dining table to my ballet bar, which is parallel to the table, a few feet away from it. The fact that the bar is sturdy, horizontal, height-adjustable, and bolted to the floor makes it perfect for what I have in mind. I lower it to child level. I position the chairs side by side, behind the bar, and instruct my friends to take their seats.

They obey, only a little surprised. I handcuff their left wrists to the bar. They will be comfortable; their forearms can rest on the bar, which hovers a foot above their laps.

“What in the world are you doing?” Strad asks me, alarmed.

I’ve already come up with my excuse, so I confidently deliver it: “I’m about to serve the chocolate cake.”

“What does that have to do with handcuffs?”

“They go wild for that cake. Like beasts. I always have to handcuff them when I serve it.”

He stares at me.

“If I don’t restrain them, there’ll be no cake left for you,” I explain.

He still just looks on, not responding.

I continue — might as well prepare him: “And they must remain in the restraints not just for dessert, but until the end of the evening or at least until the effect of the cake has worn off. It takes a while.”

“The cake’s that good?” he finally says.

“Quite good.”

“I look forward to tasting it.” He frowns. “Why are you lowering the blinds?”

“It can get ugly once the cake kicks in, even with the handcuffs on. I’d rather the neighbors not see.” The truth is, the possibility of a sniper has only now dawned on me.

I also discreetly unplug the doorman intercom. I don’t want any more announcements of presents waiting downstairs, or, God forbid, visitors — hired visitors, hired killers, or even just innocent visitors who might be shocked at the sight of a dinner party with handcuffed guests.

I serve each of my friends a piece of chocolate cake and some fruit salad on a plate on their laps under the bar.

They begin eating the cake.

Strad watches them and starts laughing. “You guys remind me of cattle at the trough. It’s so degrading. Geniuses in chains. Well, at least some of you. I’ve got to take a photo of this. I brought my camera, actually. It’s in my bag.”

My friends look at him aghast, their gaping mouths full of chocolate cake. They turn their faces to me like spectators following a tennis match. In my court is where they think the ball is now. I’m sure they’re imagining this photo plastered all over the Internet.

“Are you out of your mind, Strad?” I say. “I’m horrified you would even suggest such a thing.”

“No need to get hysterical. I won’t take a photo, then. No problem. Actually, I’m honored that you’re letting me see your inner sanctum, your secret weirdness.”

Returning to the kitchen to cut Strad a piece of cake, I warn him: “And remember, stay away from them. They’ve had their first bite. They’re under the influence.”

“They seem very well-behaved to me.”

“They know they better be or they won’t get seconds.”

Strad and I take our seats at the table, facing the others. I nibble on my pear. He smokes and tastes the cake. He compliments me on it.

Strad tells us he read parts of Georgia’s novels aloud to his various past girlfriends.

“Oh, terrific,” Georgia says, sourly. “And how did they like them?”

“Depends on the girl. Some of them didn’t quite have the mental capacity to appreciate your work.”

“Really? You dated some dumb girls?”

“I’ve had my share.”

“Why?”

“They had other things going for them.”

“Like what?”

“Phenomenal looks.” Strad chortles smugly.

“That must be thrilling, dating a good-looking cretin,” Georgia says.

Penelope scornfully snorts.

“It can be, for a time,” Strad says.

“I suddenly feel less flattered that you like my books,” Georgia says. “Sounds like you’ve got bad taste. And you’re very shallow.”

He seems hurt, and in that moment, I catch a glimpse of what is the real problem with Strad (and by the same token, what the problem is for Lily): Strad is a somewhat endearing asshole. He’s a generally amiable guy with some odious opinions.

He finally responds to Georgia’s accusation with, “You feel that way because you’re a woman. It’s different for men. A man has to be physically attracted to a woman. If he can’t get it up for her, what is he supposed to do, shove it in with a stick?”

We’re all a little shocked. I steal a glance at Lily. She’s staring down at her plate, looking extremely uncomfortable.

Georgia recovers first and says to Strad, “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one in this room who has bad taste in romantic partners.”

“That’s good to hear,” Strad says, smiling at Jack with complicity. But then, noticing that Jack doesn’t return his smile, he says, “May I ask who it is?”

“No, you may not.” And then, after a beat, Georgia says to him, “Could you go for me?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, could you date me?”

He seems stunned. “You mean, considering how charming and charismatic you’ve been with me?”

“Whatever. Could you?”

“You mean if I could imagine there wasn’t a torrent of hostility coming from you to me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Just answer.”

“Well, I can’t imagine it.”

“Why do you think you always date physically beautiful women?”

“I like ’em.”

“Yes, but why aren’t you capable of falling for someone with other attributes?”

He looks mildly exasperated and doesn’t answer.

I glance at Lily, sitting there frozen and looking as though she wishes she could disappear. I disapprove of beauty conversations taking place in front of her, and yet, now that my pet peeve is being bounced about, I cannot, will not, be left out of the dialogue.

“Strad,” I say, “there are other aspects to a person. Even other physical aspects that can be sexy — apart from beauty.”

“Yes, of course. But… like what?”

“Anything!” I snap impatiently. “Body language, for example.”

“Body language doesn’t do it for me.”

“Then pick another.”

“None of them do it for me. What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know, practice. Eventually, you may acquire the taste. You may even wonder how you were ever satisfied with the straightforward, simple, dumb kind of beauty.”

Strad replies, “Most men don’t get turned on by ‘other attributes.’ In fact, if you want the truth, those ‘other attributes,’ especially brains, talent, higher education, accomplishments, impressive jobs, often make a beautiful woman less sexy in the eyes of many men. Not in mine — I’m not that way. But in the eyes of many. They would never admit it, of course. Anyway, why are you all pickin’ on me?” He turns to the only other man in the room. “I feel persecuted, Jack. Help me out here a little, will ya?”

Jack sighs. “What can I say? Many guys can get turned on by other attributes. Most jerks can’t.”

“Et tu, Jack? What’s going on here? Anyway, you’re full of it. I’m sure you go for the best-looking women you can get, and you probably do pretty well getting the better specimens.”

Georgia yanks on her handcuff. “Specimens? Are you for real?”

“Sorry, poor word choice,” Strad admits. He leans toward me and says under his breath, “I’m glad she’s chained, by the way.” He turns back to Georgia. “I’m not an artist with words, like you, Georgia, but you know what I mean.”

Georgia says, “Many years ago I met a guy at a dinner party and I thought he was really ugly. Pale skin, very thick lips, prematurely gray frizzy hair, puffy slit-eyes like a toad’s, and I was horrified when he sat next to me. Within probably five minutes of him talking to me, I was utterly charmed, completely under his spell to the point that I asked the hostess if he was single. The hostess said he was gay. That didn’t stop me having a crush on him for years.”

Eyebrows raised, Penelope says, “That’s funny, the same thing happened to me in college. There was a guy in my drawing class. I found him utterly repulsive. He was short, fat, had greasy stringy black hair plastered on his balding sweaty head. He complimented me on one of my drawings. Then I bumped into him in the coffee shop and we had a snack together. During that snack I developed a massive crush and started finding him beautiful. We became friends. My crush lasted for months, maybe years.”

“What happened?” Lily asks. “He didn’t like you back?”

“He was gay.”

We all laugh, even Strad.

“I don’t suppose that’s ever happened to you,” Georgia says to Strad.

“No, I’ve never had a crush on an ugly lesbian,” he replies.

“Come on, I’m serious. Haven’t you ever developed feelings for someone you weren’t attracted to at first?”

Frowning in mock concentration, he says, “Oh, dear, I’d have to give it some thought when you’re not all looking at me.”

But we keep on looking. Even Lily. She’s clearly very interested in the topic.

Strad finally says carefully, “I don’t recall if that’s ever happened to me. But I’m sure it could, under the right circumstances.”

Penelope waves me over.

“What is it?” I ask her.

“I need to whisper something to you.”

I bend down to her level. Cupping her free hand around her mouth, she whispers in my ear, “This only just occurred to me. The weapon could be a tiny poisoned glass dart blown out of a tiny straw smuggled in the hem of a garment. It could be done one-handed with the hand that’s not cuffed. Strad is not safe right now.”

I blanch. She’s absolutely right. The metal detector wouldn’t have picked up a tiny glass dart and straw, and neither would the frisking.

Penelope warning me of this method seems to indicate that she’s not the killer.

On second thought, if she were the killer, she’d still have plenty of reasons to tell me of this method. In a flash, four possible reasons go through my mind, and I’m sure there are more:

1) She wants to divert my attention away from another method she’s about to use.

2) She is curious to see how I would have protected Strad against this method, had she thought of using it.

3) She wants to make herself appear more innocent.

4) She knows that by telling me about this method, she is forcing me to increase Strad’s protection, which will escalate the weirdness of the evening to a degree that might cause Lily to finally lose any remaining hope that Strad could ever fall in love with her, which will help her move on with her life.

Barely breathing, I say, “Strad, get up.”

“Why?” he asks, getting up.

“Come right this way.” I lead him out of the room and around the corner, while shielding him from the others with my body as much as possible. I bring him his chair. “Sit down.”

He sits. From my seat at the table, I will be able to see both parties while they won’t be able to see or hurt each other.

This is only a temporary solution because I’m sure Strad will not want to stay behind that corner for two whole hours. Maybe not even for two whole minutes. Therefore, I must come up with a better system to protect him from possible darts. I wish I could ask Georgia for ideas.

Luckily, it doesn’t take me too long to come up with one. I set myself to work immediately.

I open the living room closet and withdraw the big sheets of transparent plastic I bought to protect my furniture when my apartment was painted a few months ago.

“Why am I around this corner?” Strad calls out to me.

“Punishment,” I reply.

“Oh. Was I bad?”

“No. They were bad.” My new location hides me from his view as I unfold the sheets of plastic.

“What’d they do? They didn’t seem so bad.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Apart from ganging up on me and telling me what a jerk I am.”

I don’t answer.

He says, “Anyway, how is my sitting around this corner their punishment rather than mine?”

I open a drawer, looking for my roll of transparent masking tape. I reply, “I’m depriving them of the sight of you.”

“Is the sight of me that good?” he asks.

“They thrive on it.”

“Perhaps I should just go home, then. That would deprive them of it very effectively,” he says.

“No!” I exclaim.

“Why not?”

I don’t know what to say. I hope my silence will alert Georgia to come to the rescue.

She does, with: “Barb’s kidding. We weren’t bad. This is just a game we like to play called Hide the Guest.”

Still hidden from Strad’s view, I climb on a chair and start taping one end of a plastic sheet to the ceiling, letting the rest hang like a transparent curtain. This creates a dart-proof partition between my friends and the dining table.

While I do this with a few more sheets, until all my friends are behind plastic, Georgia explains the game to Strad: “You have to try to remember what each of us is wearing and what we look like, including eye color, hair color, presence or absence of glasses, etc.”

From behind the corner, he sounds mildly interested in this game. But then she has to ruin it by adding, “The point of the game is to test your level of self-centeredness.”

I kick my socked foot in the direction of her face, intentionally missing her by only an inch, which sobers her up temporarily.

I finish taping the last bit of plastic to the ceiling. Just in time, too, because Strad says, “You know what? I don’t really like the sound of this game. I’m sure I’d be terrible at it, so I’d rather just have a normal remainder of evening with you—”

He stops mid-sentence as he emerges from around the corner and beholds the plastic curtain with my friends watching him through it. And me, still atop my chair.

Stupefied, he asks, “What are you doing?”

“We’ve entered the phase of the evening called Partitioning,” I say.

“It’s totally creepy-looking,” he says. “It looks like you’re setting up some sort of weird execution.”

“Oh, no, on the contrary. I’m about to serve them seconds. They go so wild for seconds, they often throw their cake.”

We keep the conversation going for another hour. Jack throws most of his cake at the curtain to support my story. Not being a fan of lemon, it’s no big sacrifice for him. The others merely throw large crumbs. No one attempts to shoot darts, thankfully, not that it would matter much with the plastic sheets.

When the cuckoo finally screams twelve times at midnight and the danger is over (according to KAY’s rules), my friends really start acting mad. They cheer and clank their chains, demanding to be freed.

I unlock their handcuffs. They all, except for Lily, shake Strad’s hand, saying, “Congratulations.” Penelope even says, “Congratulations, you’ve made it.”

“Into the group?” Strad asks, his face lighting up. “You know, it did occur to me that this might be some sort of initiation. If you tell me that I have made it into the Knights of Creation, you’ll make me a very happy man.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Penelope says. “I just meant that you made it through this strange evening. There is no such thing as ‘making it into the Knights of Creation.’”

Strad is disappointed though he takes it well. In fact, he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave, now that everyone is so cheerful and authorized to go to the bathroom unaccompanied. We move to the couch area and Strad says he’d like some more coffee, but asks if he can get his phone back to quickly first check his messages.

I get him his phone. He’s surprised to see he has three new ones.

As he listens to each one, our attention is drawn to his gasps and facial expressions, which become progressively more despondent.

He finally turns off his phone and says, “Barb, you ruined my day, possibly my life, by taking my phone from me. I have to go.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Lily asks.

He speaks quickly: “First, some chick tells me there’s a fantastic film audition I’d be perfect for, in an alley. She gave me the address. It’s just a few blocks from here. She said she spoke to the casting people about me and they really want to see me, but it has to be soon because they’re closing casting at midnight, no exceptions. She said not to bother coming after that. She left me that message at ten o’clock. It’s now after midnight.”

“In an alley?” I ask faintly.

“Yes.”

I can’t believe what a close call that was. I took Strad’s cell phone into my bedroom right before the cuckoo scared us at ten. If I’d waited another ten minutes, Strad would have answered the call and gone.

Strad glares at me. “The second message was from someone saying there’s a leak from our music store to the basement apartment and that if I don’t get there in the next hour, they’ll have to get a locksmith to force the door open because the super’s not there.”

We don’t comment.

“The third message is from someone who says he’s a friend of my friend Eric, and that they’re both at a party and just met this chick who’s unbelievably beautiful and who wants to meet me because they’ve been talking me up to her, but I’d have to go there right away because she’s only staying ten more minutes and doesn’t want to leave them her number. So he tells me to hurry on over. The message was left an hour ago. That woman might have been my future wife. And now she’s probably gone.”

I’m all too aware that each scenario could have led Strad to a probably deserted place, perfect for slaying him. If we’d accompanied Strad to the location, the killer among us would have committed the act personally by grabbing a weapon that was possibly stashed ahead of time at the scene or along the way. If we’d let Strad go alone, some hired killer might have done the deed.

Strad gets ready to leave, but as he begins putting on his shoes, he cries “Argh!” and withdraws his foot immediately from his loafer. His toes have something gross-looking on them. Hard to tell what. He slides his hand into the shoe to investigate and extricates a smelly mash, which I recognize as sardines from our dinner. There’s no mistaking it, thanks to a little sardine tail sticking up in the air.

“Why is there fish in my shoe?”

No answer from anyone.

“Who did this?” he asks.

I apologize profusely and say, “One of us has a serious mental problem and likes to leave this kind of gift for people he or she likes. Like a cat who brings a dead rat to its owner.”

“Which of you?”

“We don’t know.”

He dumps the sardines in the trash, washes his hands, cleans out the inside of his loafer, and leaves me his dirty sock.

About to plunge his other foot into his other shoe, he thinks the better of it and checks it with his hand. Instead of sardine mash, he pulls out a little piece of paper that he reads aloud: “If I could have, I would have.” Strad looks at us, clearly waiting for an explanation and a quick one.

“God only knows,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m sure it was meant in the nicest possible way. But as I said, serious mental problem.” I circle my temple with my finger, hoping that will be enough to satisfy Strad.

“If I had to guess, I would guess it’s you.” He approaches me, searching my face. “You’ve been acting like a lunatic all evening.”

“That was necessary,” I say. “But this wasn’t me.”

He sees it’s pointless to argue with me. He grabs his things and his engraved gifts, which I’ve turned over to him. We say our goodbyes and he departs.

As soon as I close the door, I grab Georgia’s arm to get everyone’s full attention, especially hers. I hiss at them all: “My compliments to whichever one of you is responsible for those voice messages he received. But it’s now after midnight. I hope it is understood that nothing, nothing bad will happen to Strad at any of these locations he may go to. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Now or ever. One of you is clearly a psycho, but I hope even psychos can have a sense of honor. You gave Gabriel your word that Strad would not be harmed after midnight tonight, KAY.” I look at one after another. They stare back at me.

“Well, I’m not the killer,” Georgia says, “but if I were, I would absolutely keep that promise. And I tend to think the actual killer will have that same decency.”

The others nod uncertainly.

She says, “I think we should get back on the horse immediately and have one of our Nights of Creation as soon as possible. Say, tomorrow night. I’m free.”

We look at each other but no one answers.

She says, “If we don’t make a big effort to regain a sense of normalcy right away, things could stay awkward between us forever. And that would be a shame because I love our group. I know we all do.”

So we agree to meet the next day for a Night of Creation.

Chapter Twelve

The following morning, Lily calls and thanks me for the “unbelievable amount of effort” I put into protecting the man she loves. She says she’ll never forget it.

I’m glad I didn’t schedule my dinner with Peter Marrick for tonight. I need this whole day to rest and unwind, though I did some Internet research on him and learned he’s thirty-five and won the Emmy for local news five years straight. In addition to anchoring the local news, he anchors the national news when the usual anchor is out, and he does regular special reports for Newsroom Live, the weekly current events show. As I already knew, he got a huge amount of attention nationally when he saved the three children from the fire. Soon afterward, he appeared on The Ellen Show, Letterman, and The View. He (along with his singed hair) was in People magazine’s 100 Most Beautiful People. The article under his photo talked about his “inner beauty.” He did a series last year about poverty in America that won a Polk Award, after which Time magazine selected him as one of the hundred most influential people in the world. All of this is a little intimidating. I love talking about current events but I’ve never had to hold a conversation with someone this well versed in world affairs.

Not wanting to get any more nervous than I already am about my dinner with Peter tomorrow night, I decide to distract myself by going to Strad’s store to find out if I was right about the voice messages being part of an elaborate plan to kill him. I bring him his sock, which I’ve cleaned twice to get rid of the sardine smell. I ask him if everything turned out okay with the leak from his store.

He places his palms on the counter and leans toward me. “You’re not going to believe this, but it seems that every single one of those messages was a prank.”

“Really?” I say, trying to look surprised.

He tells me there was no flood in the music store, no audition in an alley, and no beautiful woman at a party. In fact, no party.

This grim information chills me, even though it’s what I expected.

I must stop obsessing about Strad’s near murder. It’s in the past, he survived.

This evening, during our Night of Creation, I’m too tired and stressed to work on the hat. Instead, I read a script for a film I’ve been asked to costume design — not sure I’m interested. But it’s hard to tell, because I have a hard time concentrating. The fact that one of my friends is a killer is something I have to live with — not comfortably, but I have to endure it, because the alternative is worse. We all have to endure it. We don’t talk about it.

Nevertheless, I do watch my friends. And I notice them watching one another, too. I wonder if we’ll ever find out which of them did it. I wonder if we can live with never knowing. In truth, that may be the only way we can live with it.

We are all completely crazy to have decided not to tell the police. We are spending large amounts of our lives with a homicidal maniac who could, at any time, decide, on the spur of the moment, to kill anyone, kill all of us, kill strangers. We are crazy and I assume my friends realize this. I wish I could express it to them, but I don’t want to because I’m afraid my argument will be too convincing. I don’t want them to decide we must tell the police.

THE NEXT DAY, Sunday, I design the hat. I can sense right away that I’m back. I know what a hat is today, and I’m able to judge my own work. It’s a good hat. That little hat is a huge load off my conscience. I spend the rest of the day designing ballet costumes that are due in two weeks. I get all sixteen costumes done.

Thanks to my productive day, I’m in a decent mood as I sit down to dinner with Peter Marrick at Per Se. We’re seated near large windows with a beautiful view of Columbus Circle and Central Park.

I’m glad I did my research on Peter because after we place our order and the waiter has explained the detailed history of the three kinds of butter on our table, I’m able to turn to Peter and say, “I watched your interview with the Chinese president on YouTube. It was very impressive.”

“Thanks. Being on Newsroom Live gives me some great international opportunities.” He chuckles. “After I got an interview with him, every Asian leader wanted to talk to me.”

I hope he’s not going to expect me to know the names of any of those presidents. I have an urge to put on a seatbelt because I sense we are about to launch into a detailed conversation that might require a knowledge of the minutiae of world politics. But I’ve got nothing to worry about. Suddenly appearing uninterested in the topic, he veers off and tells me he always dreamed of being creative but somehow never had time, life just whizzed by, propelling him in the direction of TV journalism.

To my surprise, he asks if he can join our group, the Nights of Creation, for just one evening.

“Oh,” I say, startled. “It’s nice you’d want to. I’ll ask them. I know they loved meeting you.”

“Thanks.” He smiles and takes a sip of wine.

“Would you be working on an art project, if you came?”

“Yes.”

“Great. What would it be?”

“I don’t know.” He tears a piece of bread.

“What art form would it be?”

“I don’t know,” he says, buttering his bread.

A bit embarrassed for him, I softly say, “I just mean, would it be, like, painting, or music, or writing, or sculpting…?”

“I know. I don’t know,” he replies, just as softly. We gaze at each other. Then he whispers to me, with a sad, dreamy air, “I must sound like an idiot.”

“Not at all!” I say, thinking he sounds a bit strange. “Which art forms have you tried in the past?”

“Practically none. In school, I drew a bit in art class. And I learned to play the recorder when I was ten.”

I nod. “Were you good at either?”

“No. But I was a total beginner.”

I laugh, and nod again. “Do you have a good imagination?”

He looks away quickly. “Probably not.” He raises his arm high in the air to flag the waiter, which I sense is to hide his discomfort. He orders another bottle of water, even though ours is still three-quarters full.

Feeling sorry for him, my mouth starts uttering words without my brain having completely approved them. “You can come to our Night of Creation. No problem. It’ll be fun. I’m sure the others will be fine with it. We have one tomorrow night, if you’re free.”

He says he is, and thanks me. He seems happy.

Since we set foot in the restaurant, everybody’s been staring at us. Perhaps they’re surprised that this famous news anchor is having dinner with someone so conspicuously unattractive.

But Peter seems completely oblivious to the stares and very much at ease with me as his dinner companion.

During dessert, Peter says to me, “The truth is, I think I haven’t got an ounce of imagination.”

When I did my research on him yesterday, I found out he’s been married once. Since his divorce three years ago, he’s been linked to a couple of women, but nothing serious.

“Do you like being an anchor?” I ask.

“I like it. I don’t love it. When you’re an anchor, you cover events. You don’t create them. You report on contributions. You don’t make them.”

“Reporting on contributions is a contribution, isn’t it?”

“Such a minor one.”

“I disagree. Plus, you’re so good at it. How did you become so successful if you weren’t that interested in your work?”

“Of course I was interested. It’s easy to be interested in a big, fat soap opera — which is what local, national, and world events are, you know. If I could go back and do things over, I might have preferred to become one of the notable people who is notable for something other than reporting on notable people.”

I nod, understanding.

After dinner, he hails a cab for me, smiles down at me, and says, “See you tomorrow.” He kisses me good night on the cheek. It leaves me feeling weak.

When I arrive at my building, Adam the doorman says, “I should change my shift. Seeing you so close to my bedtime gives me nightmares.”

I don’t mention that we have that in common.

THE FOLLOWING EVENING, my friends arrive early to our Night of Creation so that we can watch Peter on the six o’clock local news before he joins us. They’re excited I’ve invited him, and it works wonders to lighten the mood, which frankly was a bit weighty last time, when all we could think about was which one of us was the killer.

We wait for Peter. He finally bursts into my apartment carrying a large drawing pad and exclaiming, “My friends!” with such an air of relief and yearning, it makes us laugh.

When he sees my mysterious, dim, cavernous living room filled with upright, human-sized animals wearing my costumes and masks, he falls silent.

“Oh my God. This place is amazing,” he says, walking in slowly, taking it all in. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful room.”

I’m glad he finds it beautiful. Everyone finds it striking but not everyone finds it beautiful.

“These costumes are gorgeous. Are they your creations?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“It’s like walking into a fantasy land of imagination, of endless possibilities. No wonder your friends like to work here. Did you put this whole decor together yourself too?”

“Yes, but the lighting is what makes it work, and that was done by a lighting designer friend of mine.”

He looks at me and laughs. “The lighting? So on top of being astonishingly talented, you are also breathtakingly modest.”

During the session, he draws imaginary landscapes, but his output is low and his skill is poor. Georgia whispers to me in the kitchen, “If he spent less time gazing at you and more time turning that gaze inward, he’d boost his productivity. If you want to help him, you should sleep with him. It would get that sexual tension out of his system and allow his creative juices to flow.”

I laugh her off. “If you spent less time surfing the Internet and more time working on your novel, perhaps you’d boost your productivity.”

“I can’t. My novel makes me nauseated.”

“Then write a new one.”

“I can’t. I’ve put too much time and work into this one. I can’t just abandon it.”

Peter seems endearingly concerned that Georgia hasn’t been able to write since she lost her laptop and got it back four days later.

He asks her, “If your laptop had been returned to you more quickly, say after one day, do you think you’d be experiencing the same difficulties with your writing now?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

He turns away. “I’m just always interested in how creativity works.”

“It’s not like I do no writing. I do write in my journal.”

“That doesn’t count,” Peter says. “Not to belittle journal-writing, though. I wish I could keep a regular journal. I’ve tried it, but I can never stick to it for more than a few days. I should give it another shot at some point.”

We invite him to join several more of our Nights of Creation. He seems delighted.

Peter Marrick

Sunday, 12 November

I started showing up early for the Nights of Creation, hanging out with Barb in her kitchen, just talking. She’s a fascinating person. I’m charmed by her focus on her work and by the wildly imaginative drawings that result from that focus. I’m charmed by her sense of humor. I’m amazed by how much she cares for her friends and by how much they adore her.

Now that we’re becoming closer, I know I should tell her I’m the one who found Georgia’s laptop in the taxi — that I know she’s wearing a fat suit and a wig, and that underneath it she’s drop-dead gorgeous. But I don’t want to hurt or frighten her, and I don’t want to make her angry. More than anything, I want to keep spending time with her.

Barb

Peter Marrick comes early to our Nights of Creation, week after week, and he stands in the kitchen with me. I don’t know why. He’s subtly flirtatious, yet doesn’t ask me out on another date. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in his mind, no idea what he’s feeling. He’s a mystery.

Georgia, too, has noticed his strange air, and she remarks to me in private one day, “He seems a little tortured.”

“I know,” I tell her. But I have to admit I enjoy his company.

Lily hasn’t been making much progress on a piece of music that will beautify her for the man she loves. She works on it all the time, including every time we meet for our Nights of Creation. As the days pass, she gets more frustrated and depressed.

I know that the killer promised never again to try to kill Strad, but every time Lily exhibits extreme sadness I worry that the killer won’t be able to resist the urge.

Midway through Peter’s eighth Night of Creation with us, when we’re focused on our work and Penelope has just broken, very gently, yet another small pot, Lily gets up, lifts her piano bench in the air, and lets it drop on the piano. She smashes the sides and back as well.

We stare at the spectacle in utter shock.

Without its mirrored coating, the piano is ugly. Its surface is matte brown with patches of exposed glue.

After we’ve cleaned up the mess and everyone has gone home, I call Lily before going to bed to make sure she’s okay. She doesn’t answer but calls me back a few minutes later and tells me I just saved her life. She explains that she was playing at her piano, feeling in the pits of depression, and her hands started turning reflective again. It began spreading up her arms and she knew that this time she wouldn’t have the strength to stop it and it would kill her and she didn’t care. Hearing my voice leaving her the message is what gave her the strength to stop the progression.

THAT EVENING, PETER calls me. He says he was very disturbed by the incident of Lily smashing her piano and that he’s worried about her.

This is not the first time he has seemed caring about my friends, which is something I really appreciate. He’s kind and gentle and strikes me as a genuinely good person. I’m particularly touched that he is concerned about Lily’s well-being, as she is the one I’m the most anxious about.

“I wonder if there’s anything anyone could do to help her snap out of it,” he says.

“If you get any ideas, let me know.” And then I remember he doesn’t have much imagination.

We move on to more pleasant topics. Peter is in no hurry to get off the phone. He seems to enjoy talking to me and getting to know me. But our conversation ends with no suggestion that we get together outside the group.

He probably can’t overcome his lack of attraction to my appearance.

“AN INTERVENTION,” PETER declares. That’s the idea he comes up with a few days after our conversation.

“Like for addicts?” I ask.

“Yes. Because that’s what she is. She’s addicted to a person.”

It’s true. The day after smashing her piano, Lily went right back to trying to beautify herself through her music. She worked on this impossible project not only on her home piano, but on her now ugly, naked piano at my apartment. Gone is the energy she was infused with when practicing on Jack and then on herself. She plays slow, melancholy pieces. Now that every reflective surface of the piano has been shattered, we’re afraid she’ll treat us as her mirrors and ask us for progress reports on her looks. The last thing we want is to have to say, “No, you don’t look any prettier yet.”

MY FRIENDS AND I decide to give Peter’s idea a shot. On the day of the planned intervention — the first Monday after Thanksgiving — Lily is sitting at her ugly naked piano, striving for the impossible, as usual. She thinks this is one of our regular Nights of Creation.

As a group, we approach Lily. I put my hand on her instrument and say, in a formal voice, “Lily, we would like to speak to you.”

“Yes?” she says, looking at me without stopping her playing.

“On the couch.”

“Really?”

I nod.

The music dwindles and stops. “What’s it about?”

“Come this way.”

She takes a seat on the couch. Peter and I sit on the ottoman cubes in front of her. The others sit on either side of her.

Peter will be making the speech. He told us in confidence that he prepared one, so we decided to let him be the main speaker, since the intervention was his idea. I hope it’ll be good.

Leaning toward Lily, his elbows resting on his knees in a casual pose, this is what he says to her: “You know, in my line of work, I’m out and about in the world a lot. I go to fancy dinner parties and I see women who dehumanize themselves, who treat themselves as though they’re pieces of meat. They objectify themselves. And as if that’s not bad enough, they don’t even do it for themselves, they usually do it for someone else: for a man. It’s really sad.”

“Okay,” Lily says, appearing uncertain as to what he’s getting at.

Peter remains silent, until she says, “And? What? You think I do that?”

“Only you know,” Peter answers.

“I don’t do that,” she says.

“These women see themselves as merchandise.” He pauses and looks at her meaningfully, letting his words sink in. “They get facelift upon facelift upon nose job upon cheekbone implant upon breast augmentation upon liposuction upon lip enhancement. It seems to me the only way these women are able to subject themselves to so many procedures is by viewing their bodies as nothing more than material possessions. Can you imagine how hard that must be on their spirits, to see themselves as nothing but meaningless, lowly objects? They may not realize it, but consistently thinking of the external appearance as both supremely important and also as an object whose uniqueness and differences are not valued or appreciated and must therefore be butchered and uniformized has got to wear the spirit down on some deep level.”

His words express how I feel so perfectly, they make me want to cry.

I have to admit I’m intrigued by him. And I’m starting to like him very much: for this speech, for his effort, for recognizing Lily has a problem, and for caring enough to do something about it. I like that he took the initiative on this, that despite knowing her less well than we do, he took a more forceful step than we have ever taken with her. He’s the first person outside of our group that I’ve been drawn to in a long time, since before Gabriel died.

Lily is listening to him very attentively. She appears genuinely interested. I think Peter is making progress, which is not surprising considering how persuasive his argument is.

“And it requires a lack of self-esteem, too,” Jack adds, “even though these women often try to claim the opposite. You know, they like to profess that it’s because they value themselves that they do all these cosmetic procedures. But that’s just spin.”

Peter continues: “What I’m getting at, Lily, is that you are such a beautiful person, intrinsically. You shouldn’t try to alter yourself to accommodate the tastes of a shallow prick who’s unworthy of you. You’re a great artist. Do you know how much I’d give to have even a fraction of your talent? This may sound corny to you, but my advice is love yourself and love the people who love you, not the others.”

I’m nodding in agreement. The others are, too.

The most thrilling part is that Lily is nodding, too. Peter’s words seem to be getting through. And I don’t think she’s just being polite.

Lily raises her index finger to interrupt Peter, and says, “Wow, you’re saying some very interesting stuff. You’re really helping me put things into focus. You’re so right on every front.”

“You see my point?” Peter says.

“Oh, God, totally!” she replies, getting up. “Can we continue this a bit later?”

“We haven’t finished!” I cry.

“I got the gist of it, though,” she says. “But please, keep talking. I can still listen.” She walks over to her piano, sits, and goes right back to playing — completely undeterred.

We stand around her piano. Through the filter of my frustration, her music is hell to my ears. “Why are you doing this?” I bark.

“Don’t mind me.”

In a whisper, I ask Peter if this is common, the alcoholic getting up in the middle of an intervention and going straight to the liquor cabinet.

“I’m sure it happens a lot,” Peter says.

I turn to Lily. “Have you even heard a word Peter said?”

“Yes, every word,” she replies, clearly reabsorbed in her playing. “And I will give it some serious thought.”

Jack says, “Lily, do you see that getting up in the middle of Peter’s talk is a symptom of your disease?”

She nods. “I’m sorry. But you know how it is… when the impulse takes you.”

“The impulse to what? Destroy your life?” Penelope pitches in.

“I can play and listen at the same time. I’m a good multitasker. You guys can keep talking to me, if you want.” But her eyes are downcast, and she doesn’t really seem to be listening to us.

We ask her to please stop and pay attention.

“I am!” she claims. She has an intense expression on her face — a look of deep concentration. But her gaze seems to be turned inward. As I speak to her, she nods mechanically while playing.

And then I stop talking. An unsettling sensation has quieted me.

Still nodding, she says, “Go on, I’m listening.”

But I don’t go on.

“You were saying?” she says.

I just gaze at her. Words are meaningless now.

Then she asks, “Has the cat got your tongue? I’m all ears, keep talking.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I finally manage to murmur.

And the reason it doesn’t matter, the reason I have been silenced, is that the unthinkable, the impossible, has begun.

Beauty is crawling all over Lily like a disease. It is clawing at her face, chewing her features, transforming their shapes, harmonizing their lines. It attacks her flesh, takes hold of her skin like a rapidly-moving cancer, leaving behind pure loveliness. Waves of delicacy wash over her. Ripples of symmetry soften her. Layer upon layer of grace sweeps over her entire countenance.

I shake my head a little, to make sure I’m not hallucinating. I blink.

We need the tape recorder.

The melody is fast and inescapable. It’s an ocean of notes crashing around us in my living room. Gorgeous and delirious.

This has got to get recorded. Before it’s too late. Does Lily even know what’s happening to her — what she’s achieved?

I finally manage to tear my eyes away from Lily, who no longer resembles the Lily who entered my apartment tonight. I look at my friends.

Jack is fetching the small recorder from the bookshelf nearby and comes back with it on tiptoes, turning it on. He holds it out of Lily’s sight, so as not to distract her — not that she would notice anyway; her eyes are closed.

She still hasn’t looked at us since she sat at her piano. We, on the other hand, can’t stop looking at her — with the solemnity of country folks watching a spaceship land. Her beauty continues to increase. She looks like an angel.

I’ve never seen anything like this, beauty of this magnitude. I had no idea it existed.

And suddenly, the angel speaks. “I’m tempted to look into your eyes to see if anything has happened. But I’m afraid of being disappointed again.”

“Open them,” I say.

Slowly, she does. The effect is spectacular. Her eyes are turquoise, large and clear.

There is no model, no actress in any movie I have ever seen who is as exquisite as Lily right now. When I’m not wearing my disguise and men look at me, if they see even a fraction of the beauty I am seeing right now, I forgive their shallowness. There is power in beauty. That’s the tragedy of it.

It’s hard to imagine that Lily can’t decipher from the looks on our faces the extent of her success. If we were cartoons, our mouths would be hanging open wide in awe, our lower jaws on the floor.

But because we are human and because Lily has endured months of failure, her insecurities aren’t permitting her to read our expressions with any degree of accuracy. So she seeks out an answer in a roundabout way. “Does this piece need to get recorded?” she asks.

“Yes,” Jack says, lifting the recorder within her line of vision. “It’s on.”

A smile appears on her lips and her music takes off again, free and wild. She’s done it and — at last — she knows it.

She plays for a while longer and says, “Time to see the rate of the fade.” She stops playing, gets up and goes to the ballet bar. She stands with her hand on the bar, facing the narrow full-length mirror at its side.

She seems startled by her reflection and takes a step closer to see better.

“You’ve succeeded,” Georgia tells her. “Probably beyond what even you imagined, right?”

“Yes,” Lily says.

As the seconds pass, Lily’s loveliness lessens. “The fade is even more rapid than I expected,” she says.

Within a minute, every hint of beauty has left her.

“Now I just have to see if playback works as well as live,” she says, and asks us to hook up to the speakers the recorder containing the musical hallucinogen.

We do, and turn on the music. She studies her face as her beauty returns. The porcelain skin, the delicate features.

“Peter,” she says, looking at him in the mirror, “thanks for helping me. It’s completely thanks to you that I succeeded.”

“How?” he asks, baffled.

“You made such good points. The women you spoke about, who alter themselves drastically — you said they objectify themselves, that they see themselves as merchandise. You made me realize how important that is. I wasn’t doing it very much, and that was the problem. You helped me see that. So I lowered my self-esteem until I saw myself as no more significant than an item sitting on a shelf — a ceramic pot Penelope might break and put back together. I told myself that I’m like any other object in this world that I must beautify, just an ugly pot.”

“Wait,” Peter says, looking at me. “I can’t believe my ears. I was making the absolute opposite point.”

“Which was then reinterpreted by an artist,” Georgia says.

“Before, I wasn’t focusing on the right things,” Lily says. “But as soon as I tried Peter’s idea of looking at myself as an object, bam! I gained a sense of distance from myself, which freed my mind to come up with this new solution: depth. So that’s what I went for. The music enables you to see past my unfortunate physical appearance.”

“Past it? So what are we looking at?” Jack asks.

Lily doesn’t answer. Her silence is puzzling until I understand what she’s reluctant to state because of her modesty.

“Her soul,” I say.

“Her inner beauty,” Georgia adds.

Blushing slightly, Lily says, “Yeah, it wasn’t shining through. Not even slightly. I don’t know why. My physical appearance is very opaque, in addition to being ugly — an unfortunate combination.”

“So you performed… a kind of… musical peel?” Penelope asks.

“Yes, exactly.”

“What now? Do you have a plan?” Georgia asks.

“I have a fantasy. One of you will call Strad and offer to set him up on a blind date. He will agree. He and I will have our date at the Barnes & Noble in Union Square, in the coffee shop on the third floor. I will ask the store to play my beauty music on that day, instead of my book music, which they usually play. That’s how the whole thing would begin.”

“The whole thing? So you’re thinking there will be a ‘whole thing’?” Penelope asks.

“Well, that was the point, wasn’t it?” Lily says.

“How can you have a relationship with someone if the music always has to be on?” Peter asks. “What if he wants to take you out where no music is playing? Is this stuff covered in your fantasy?”

“Yes. I’d wear a mask.”

“A mask?”

“Yes. Or just avoid going out. But if I can’t avoid it, I’d wear a mask.”

“Won’t he find that strange?” Peter asks.

“Perhaps. But in my fantasy, he accepts it. And plus, people are often strange.”

“And you wouldn’t mind living your whole life this way?” I ask.

“Maybe not. And that’s an interesting question coming from you, Barb.”

“What if he finds out the truth?” Peter says. “What if you’re at home with him one day and for some reason the music stops and he sees you’re Lily?”

“Maybe his love could survive the truth.”

“What if it couldn’t?” Penelope asks.

“Maybe it won’t be the truth anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Jack asks.

“Maybe by then I will have improved the music to make its effect permanent. Even through silence.”

Georgia claps her hands once. “Okay, who’s going to make the call? I hope it’s not me because the thought of setting you up with that creep is hard to bear.”

“I’m not quite ready yet,” Lily says. “There are two things I have to take care of first.”

AN HOUR AFTER my friends leave, I’m surprised that Lily comes back to my place to speak to me one on one.

She asks me if I could make a mask for her to wear sometimes, if she’s ever out with Strad. She says she wasn’t able to find a nice one that fits her because her eyes are too close together for any normal mask. She says there’s only one she found that fits her, and she pulls it out of her bag. To my horror, it’s a mask of the Wicked Witch of the West, from The Wizard of Oz. The face is hideous green rubber with a hook nose topped by a big mole. The witch is wearing sunglasses — cheap sunglasses attached to the mask. I turn the mask over and see that each eyehole is huge, the size of the entire lens of the sunglasses, which explains why she bought it. Big eyeholes can accommodate a greater variety of distances between people’s eyes.

“You’re right, this is not exactly the kind of mask you want to be wearing when you’re hanging out with Strad,” I say.

“I’m going to wear it at the start of my first date with him.”

“Why?” I ask, stupefied.

“I want to experience what you experience when you take off your disguise at bars.”

I PUT EVERY other project on hold to make the mask. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I’m so excited by what has happened. And it’s all thanks to Peter. Lily will have a chance to taste one of life’s greatest joys: romantic love; unrequited love suddenly requited — something she might never have been able to experience if it hadn’t been for Peter helping her access her greatest powers. He was her source of inspiration. And he wasn’t even trying. He was trying to do the exact opposite — convince her to give up her insane project and unhealthy obsession with Strad. If he’d succeeded at that, it would have been good. But this new outcome is even better. It may not be as healthy, but it’s much more delicious.

I could make a perfectly decent mask in an hour, but I want this mask to be inspired. I want it to be jaw-droppingly beautiful, ethereal, majestic. And most of all, I want it to be white. I have a vision of Lily in a white mask, which doesn’t make it easy for me because white is my weakest color. White masks always come out bland at my hands. Especially the feather ones, which is the kind I want Lily’s to be. I try to talk myself out of that color, but fail.

I work on it all night. Can’t stop. It always makes me feel good to do things for Lily, and she never asks for anything, so the opportunities are rare.

In the morning, I sleep for a few hours and then get back to work on the mask. One reason it’s taking so long is that I keep pausing to daydream about Lily wearing it and taking it off for Strad while the music is playing.

I continue working all day, and by the evening, I’m practically done. This white mask rivals — possibly even surpasses — my most beautiful colored masks. I had to make the eyeholes close to each other, though doing so would reveal Lily’s biggest facial defect. So I made the eyeholes huge, touching in the middle and extending far to the sides, in a sort of infinity symbol, which turns out to be the mask’s most stunning feature. I covered the eyeholes with a mirrored surface (the type of glass used for mirrored sunglasses). It’s essentially the same concept as the mask she already has — but attractive. Lily will be able to look out, but anyone trying to look in will only see themselves.

THE SECOND THING Lily takes care of is asking Barnes & Noble for the special favor she is hoping they’ll do for her. They refuse, claiming a whole day is too long to play her mysterious “other” music instead of her brilliant book music, and that their sales would suffer excessively. But then Marcy Singer, a very kind store manager, succeeds in getting permission to play that “other” music, as a “very special favor,” from two to three o’clock, on any afternoon of Lily’s choice — but only one single afternoon.

Lily is pleased. One hour seems more than adequate to get her fantasy started.

THE TIME HAS come to make the phone call. No one wants to be the one to make it, though everyone wants to listen, including Peter, so we gather at my place to decide who will do it.

But first, I can’t resist showing Lily and the others the white mask I’ve almost completed. When they see it, they gasp.

To my great pleasure, Lily says, “I never expected you to make something this amazing!” She touches it lightly with her fingertips.

They all stand there admiring my mask, which cannot go on long enough for my taste.

“It’s reminiscent of a mask one might find in Venice, only more unusual,” Penelope says.

“It’s your best work,” Jack states.

“Possibly,” I reply, pleased. “I don’t know what possessed me.”

“You don’t? I do,” Georgia says. “What possessed you is the same thing that possessed me last night: inspiration. Caused by Lily, her perseverance, and her magical success. When I got home, after I got over my initial despair that I would never be able to create art that came even close to rivaling hers, I decided to emulate her. Just for the hell of it. Just to see what happened. So I got a bucket and placed it next to my chair in case I needed to throw up, because, as you know, every time I even think of trying to write since I got my laptop back, it makes me want to vomit. I sat there and actually attempted to write.”

“And? Did you succeed?” Peter asks.

“I’m not saying I produced anything on Lily’s level. But it was like before I lost my laptop. As though I’d never lost it. And to me, that feels like magic. It’s all I could hope for.”

“I’m so happy you’re writing again!” Peter exclaims, hugging Georgia, to our surprise. “What a relief! All is right with the world.” His hug lifts her off the ground.

Lily thanks me again for the mask. I tell her I can’t give it to her just yet because I need one or two more days to add a couple of finishing touches to it.

“It looks pretty finished to me,” Penelope says. “Be careful not to spoil it. I know that sometimes when I overwork a ceramic piece, it turns out worse rather than better.”

“Really? That’s interesting,” Jack says, strolling over to my shelves. “Where’s that nice ceramic box you made for Barb a few weeks ago? That was such a beautiful example of having not overworked a piece. And it had such a nice clasp.”

“Thanks, but I didn’t make the clasp, remember, only the box.”

We move on to the question of who will call Strad. As expected, they all say they’d rather not, which only leaves me. I’d rather not, too, but I cave in.

On speakerphone, I dial Strad’s number.

“Strad, Barb,” I say, when he picks up.

“Hi Barb,” he says.

“I’m calling to set you up on a blind date.”

“Oh.” A cautious pause. Then, “Who is she? What does she look like?”

His question surprises me, which surprises me.

“She is a knockout,” I tell him.

I give him Lily’s new cell phone number — the one she got for this occasion.

To our pleasure, he calls her just a few minutes after hanging up with me. Lily answers her cell on speakerphone, so that we can all hear. She adopts a slightly deeper voice than her natural pitch.

He asks her a few perfunctory questions. She tells him she’s my new assistant. That’s what we settled on in advance, along with her new name, “Sondra Peterson,” which she picked as an homage to her favorite top model from the sixties.

They make plans to meet on Sunday at two o’clock at the coffee shop on the third floor of Barnes & Noble in Union Square. Just like in Lily’s fantasy.

Before they hang up, he says, “How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll be wearing a mask.”

Silence. “Why?”

“Why not? It’s as good a way as any to be recognized.”

Silence. “And then you’ll take it off? I like being able to see who I’m talking to.”

“Yes, I’ll take it off.”