

### Comments and reviews

In _Envious Shadows_ , R. P. Burnham has given us a full blooded novel, driven by plot, character and issues of racism, sexism, infidelity, the struggle to survive economically in a small Maine town and the overarching love that can redeem us from sorrow and loss. This is a book that will provoke thought, feeling and rage at hatred and inequity. Surely this is the most we can ask of any writer when we pick up his book.

–Laurel Speer, poet and former columnist for _Small Press Review_

R. P. Burnham demonstrates his knack for storytelling in his novel, Envious Shadows. He keeps the reader interested in the plotline while also managing to interweave a penumbra of moral lessons about love, prejudice,and judgment in a modern context. Envious Shadows is filled with a highwit and a talent for creating relatable and realistic characters. For those looking for a strong plot with an accompanying wisdom for modern life, Envious Shadows is a must-read.

–Jesslyn Roebuck in identity theory.com web blog July 2006

Envious Shadows is a deftly crafted, engrossing contemporary novel, one of those works that is not afraid to face the grim realities of life and the cruelties of society as well as the redeeming power of love... A beautiful work that depicts life in all its grim realities, Envious Shadows is a rewarding read.

–Mayra Calvani, Bloomsbury Review

Envious Shadows is a marvelous book. It is about a black and white relationship which has strength to resist the intermittent brutality of human nature. With the lightest of hands, the essence of your personality is present on every page, leading the reader forward toward an understanding of human nature as it should be. The book never lags for a instant, and it is full of realistic details on a wide framework of topics which range from dealing with the psychological integration of half-way house residents into society, the intricacies of the game of softball, the atmosphere of pubs, the challenges facing building contractors, the mindset of the KKK, to the correct planting of roses. There isn't a pompous moment in it and it is loaded with quiet wit, with seriousness, with irony, and through it all there shines not only a knowledge of literature but a knowledge of life.... I was very taken by your last novel but I truly believe that Envious Shadows is even better, and that is as it should be. From Shelley's poem on the first page to Millie's soothing advice at the end, the book is truly a living work which encompasses modern dilemmas.

–Susan Davey

### ENVIOUS SHADOWS

by

R.P. Burnham

SMASHWORDS EDITION

******

PUBLISHED BY:

The Wessex Collective on Smashwords

Envious Shadows

copyright 2005 by R. P. Burnham

Cover: _Malevolence_ by William Blake

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

#

Who reigns? There was the Heaven and Earth at first

And Light and Love;—then Saturn, from whose throne

Time fell, an envious shadow ...

Shelley, _Prometheus Unbound,_ II, iv, 32-34

*****

Table of Contents

Today and Tomorrow

A Car, a Cottage, and the Persistence of Memory

Dangerous Games

Love and Hate

A Gathering of Like-Minded Men

Secrecy

Refuge

Live and Let Live

Two Serious Conversations

The Last to Know

Meeting Secretly

End of the Affair

Snowbound

Girls Night Out

Losing the Way

Roses

Trapped

The Fatal Shot

It Doth Repent Me

A note about the writer

##

Today and Tomorrow

Fiona Sparrow could hear someone's high-pitched screaming and the sounds of things crashing to the floor that told her one of the residents was having a psychotic episode in the recreation room upstairs. She had been working in the kitchen of Phoenix Landing, a halfway house for schizophrenics and manic-depressives in Portland, Maine, helping the cook and four residents prepare the evening meal, and would not have noticed the ruckus had she not gone into the dining room to see if there were enough soup spoons for the meal. Feeling the incipient panic welling up inside, she wished she had not volunteered to check. This was only her second week of full-time employment at the house and the first time she would be called upon to do her duty and display her knowledge of the field in which she had just earned her B.S. degree from the University of Southern Maine. She could hear Dr. Kevin Blanchette telling her on her first day that in addition to her other duties to help prepare the residents for life in the community, she was to drop everything and back up any other attendant who was in trouble. "These people are generally nonviolent," he had said, "but in certain moods they can be as dangerous as trapped animals."

Remembering these words, she felt her heart pounding as she raced upstairs and entered the rec room where she was surprised to see that it was Eddie, the only black resident, who was causing the problem. His round, pleasant face, which usually had the appearance of scholarly thoughtfulness, was contorted in rage as he stood with his fists clenched in front of the table where he had been painting in acrylic. Most of the artistic accouterments were scattered across the floor. Mark Lewis was on the other side of the table talking to him as calmly as he could. "Come on, Eddie. Calm down, calm down," he kept repeating. Other attendants had told Fiona that Eddie was capable of being disruptive but that the sign was a change in his paintings' subject matter from benign land- and seascapes to weird and compelling interior landscapes abstract expressionist in style. She could see that the painting he was working on was a seascape of the rocky coast of Maine with a lobster boat anchored in the bay, so supposedly he should be mellow. Her glance also took in the rest of the room. Karl Edwards, whom she already knew to be a trouble-maker (he had purposely tripped the fire alarm, causing the fire department to come last week, and had had three or four temper tantrums in front of her already), was surfing the web on the residents' computer. A picture of a red sports car was on the screen, but he was currently watching Eddie and Mark with a pleased grin on his face. The other resident, Ann Marie Renault, was listening to music through headphones and was apparently oblivious to the commotion in front of her. Her eyes were closed and her body swaying to the music she alone could hear.

Now in the room, Fiona was more embarrassed and indecisive than afraid. Mark Lewis was a heavyset blond man with small wire-framed glasses and a thin, blondish mustache. He was big enough to ordinarily intimidate the residents. A more likely scenario would be for her to be having difficulty and calling on him for help. With the situation reversed, she did not know what to do.

Then she heard someone else rushing up the stairs and felt better almost instantly. She could watch and learn and not have to intervene. The new arrival was Sylvia Kroger, whom she had known for several years and with whom she had been in several classes at USM. She was tall, thin, and plain. She tended to be moody, even standoffish, and was sometimes patronizing. Fiona, never liking her very much, was surprised when Sylvia suggested she apply for the job at Phoenix Landing. She felt grateful towards her but had to confess she still didn't like her. She was an experienced attendant, having worked here for two years, however, so right now she was glad to see her.

Sylvia was frowning as she regarded Eddie, frowning and angry. With a curl of her lip she whispered, "I bet he didn't take his medication this morning. Sure as hell, I'll get into trouble."

"Didn't you see him take his pill?" Fiona asked, but before Sylvia could answer Eddie began yelling.

"What's it to you I don't have supper? I'm going to finish this painting and another one I've got to do. I don't need any interference from the CIA, FBI or NAACP, so you can just leave." He picked a brush up off the floor and made as if he was going back to work, then paused. "You know how vile it is to spy? It's a betrayal—that's what it is. You're a turncoat."

Mark raised his eyebrows and put his hands with his fingers splayed on his chest, assuming a pose of perfect innocence. "I'm not a spy, Eddie. I work here. I'm doing my duty."

"He must have hidden it under his tongue," Sylvia whispered. "Usually I see when they do that, but this morning I was distracted. Rita Delaney couldn't find the blouse she wanted to wear and was acting up."

Fiona nodded, but said nothing. Sylvia was soliciting an ally, not imparting information.

"You want me in jail, don't you," Eddie said, his voice suddenly calm. "I'm sorry I'm going to have to disappoint you. Painting isn't a capital offense."

"Mark," Sylvia called to get his attention. She made a sign as if taking a pill and swallowing. "I don't think he swallowed," she said, mouthing the words almost inaudibly.

Mark nodded in acknowledgment, then turned back to Eddie. "You've got to realize I'm only here to help you. You can paint later. Now it's time to get ready for supper."

Eddie's face clouded. "You want to help me, get my sister. She'll explain everything."

Other people were coming up the stairs now, and everyone except Ann Marie, who was still blithely listening to her private concert, looked towards the door. Kevin Blanchette and Eric Williams entered the room, the former the director and the latter one of the night attendants here an hour early. The male reinforcements were welcome in case Eddie had to be subdued. But first Kevin, in the role of Dr. Blanchette, Director, would try moral suasion. He was a youngish-looking man in his late forties, with thinning hair and very dark eyes. He let the attendants call him Kevin but did so with the air of doing a favor to inferiors. He liked, in fact, to project a professional aura, and it was plain to everyone that he liked even more the sound of Dr. Blanchette. Fiona was still not sure what to make of him. She kept shying away from the conclusion that he was an ass.

"Eddie," he said, "you know we've talked about this before. We dine collectively here. We have to or else the cook would never get her work done. You know that, right, Eddie?"

Eddie's face had been undergoing a transformation. While his behavior towards Mark showed that he regarded himself as superior to the mere attendant, he was clearly afraid of Dr. Blanchette. "Yes, sir," he said in a whiny voice that made Fiona wince. His dignity had deserted him, and without it he was naked and exposed. Is this necessary? she wondered before her attention went back to Kevin.

"Did you take your pills this morning?"

Eddie looked down at his painting and mumbled something inaudibly.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

After a long silence Eddie looked up, his face defeated and ashamed. "No," he mumbled, then louder, "no."

Kevin folded his arms on his chest, then cradled his chin in one hand. "You like to be free, don't you, Eddie? Because the way to be free from your voices is to take your medication."

A stubborn, hard look settled on Eddie's face. "I ain't heard voices in months. I don't need that stuff. It makes me a zombie."

"But, Eddie, don't you think the reason you haven't heard voices is because you take your pills?"

At first Eddie looked as if he was going to cry. His face crinkled up and he began hyperventilating before the hard, stubborn expression returned. He was still afraid of Kevin, Fiona thought, but he was more afraid of the medication. She wondered if the profession she had chosen for her life's work simply bullied people into a conformity that robbed them of whatever life nature gave them. Sylvia didn't consider Eddie's dignity or his wishes; she thought only of getting into trouble. The rest of them were convinced that making Eddie a zombie was the best thing, but did they realize for whose benefit it was best? Perhaps worst of all, Eddie knew he was a zombie under medication.

Kevin, to do him credit, wanted to avoid forcing Eddie to take his medication. He looked at Fiona and made a sign, which at first she did not understand. When she did she felt herself blushing. His eyes and a slight nod towards Eddie told her that he wanted her to try to reason with Eddie because she too was a black person. Simultaneously she realized that her blackness was the reason she was empathizing with him and hoping he wouldn't take the pills and that she knew racial solidarity could not take precedence over professional duty. She was in an absurd situation where she would have to play a role, not be herself. She was used to that, but it was a small consolation. She stepped forward and with a resignation she could not hide said, "Eddie, you should take your medica-tion. Avoid trouble. Do what's best."

He had called Mark a turncoat to his face. With her only his eyes spoke. He looked at her for a long moment, then turned away. It would be a long time, if ever, before he would ever trust her again.

But she didn't have to continue the otiose exercise, for one of the attendants downstairs with the other residents came up to say that Eddie's sister, Lucille Durham, was here. Someone had apparently phoned her. She came up immediately. Clearly a woman used to projecting a presence, she entered the room with stately grace. She was overweight, but instead of being a fault it contributed to her presence. Her face was classically African, and her large dark eyes brimmed with intelligence and authority. Her hair was very short, almost a crewcut, but it complemented perfectly her large gold earrings. She wore very bright colors, a yellow blouse, a purple skirt, and a lavender neckerchief above her massive bosom. Fiona was instantly intrigued. Her own complexion reflected her white blood. Her skin was light, tawny in color, and very smooth. Her black hair, also worn short just below the ears, was straight. Her most African features were her flat nose and thick lips, but nothing about her face compared to Lucille's magnificence. She felt as if an African princess stood before her. Apparently she had the same effect on everybody else, for all stood aside as she made her way up to her brother. She went directly to him and gave him a kiss, then put her arm around him protectively. When they shifted position to talk to Kevin, she took her arm away but her hand sought his and clasped it. There was obviously a very strong bond between the two. Eddie relaxed the moment she appeared, and the tension that had filled the room was swallowed up by her presence. "I know Eddie needs his medication," she said to Kevin in a sonorous voice, "but I hope there will be no trouble."

"I don't think so," Kevin said. He spoke in a respectful and friendly tone. Obviously he knew and liked Lucille. "If you want to talk to him, we'll be glad to leave you in privacy."

She exchanged a glance with her brother that seemed to convey much wordless informa-tion. "I don't think that will be necessary. What would you like, Eddie?"

His face softened so that he looked like a trusting child. "I wish I could come home," he said plaintively.

"I wish you could too, Eddie, but it's not possible right now. I know that medication isn't perfect, but it's the best they have now. You know what I think?"

"What?" His eyes widened in hope.

"I think someday soon they'll come up with a better pill. Until then you're going to have to take the medication available. There's one other thing, though." She turned to Kevin Blanchette. "Is it possible to adjust the medication, give him less, so the effects aren't so severe?"

Kevin glanced at Eddie as he considered. "Maybe a little. We could begin now after I consult with our psychiatric nurse."

As Fiona watched in admiration this black woman mastering the situation, the conviction had been growing on her that Lucille Durham wanted to talk to her. She had noticed Lucille observing her now and then. She seemed surprised to see a black woman among the attendants, but whether it was surprise or some other emotion, she was genuinely interested, and by that curious ability to read nonverbal signals that Fiona, as the only black person in Waska, Maine when she was growing up, had grown adept at perceiving, she was certain Lucille would draw her aside before she left. And she was right. After the medication was administered and everyone began dispersing, Lucille came up to her and asked, "Could you walk me out after I say good-bye to Eddie? I'd like to talk to you."

Once outside and on the sidewalk, she said, "Well, sister, you're new here, I see."

"Yes. I just started two weeks ago, just after finals were over at USM."

Lucille nodded, watching her with friendly interest. "Uh huh, I see. Are you graduating or is this a summer job?"

"No. I mean yes, I'm graduating and it's a regular job. It took seven years of both full time and working while going at night, but I'm finally graduating."

"Congratulations!" She smiled. "It sounds like you really earned your degree. That means you must have really wanted it. I admire that. My name is Lucille Durham, by the way," she said, putting out her hand. "You are...?"

"I'm Fiona Sparrow." Her handshake was firm, her gaze steady.

"Your accent tells me you're from Maine."

Fiona nodded. "Yes, Waska. I was the only black person in town. My mother is a white woman from Waska. My father is from Boston, but I've never met him."

"Oh, really? Does he know about you?"

Fiona looked away. "He did. I don't know about now. In fact, I don't even know if he's alive."

Lucille followed her eyes down the street. "Does that bother you?"

Such a question, which Fiona would ordinarily regard as impertinent or prying, was so obviously good-hearted in intent that she answered without any hesitation. "Sometimes. It used to bother me more, but what can I do?"

"Eddie and I didn't have a father either. I understand." She flashed a radiant smile. "I mean I really do. To tell the truth, you remind me of myself ten or fifteen years ago. I also graduated from USM, though I did it in four years because I had an aunt who helped me with money. But I went through the same kinds of struggle..." She put her hand on Fiona's shoulder. "Now, sister, let me say that if you ever want to talk I can be reached at the city's social services office. I know, you see, how it is to be the only black in an organization. People assume you're there because of affirmative action. They expect you to be speaking jive and listening to hip-hop. They're surprised when you speak standard English. They expect you to be incompetent. Do these things ring a bell with you?"

Fiona nodded guardedly. They did ring a bell, but she didn't like to talk about them.

Lucille seemed to understand her attitude. She spoke more generally when she said, "Our liberation is far from complete. But we have a duty to the race. But perhaps you don't agree?" She smiled at the same time she raised her eyebrows questioningly.

Nervously Fiona returned the smile. "I do. I felt a duty to Eddie, for instance. He knows the pills make him a zombie. He even used that word. When he had the problem, I was secretly hoping he wouldn't take the medication. He wanted to paint, you see, and..."

Lucille's smile disappeared and she looked concerned. "Well, Eddie is sick. I think Kevin is trying to do the best for him. He was a very intelligent and good student, but in high school he started having symptoms of schizophrenia. Sometimes I wonder why we all don't have them. To be black in America is to be schizophrenic." She looked at her watch. "Goodness gracious, look at the time! I've got to get home and cook supper. Our two kids are the reason I couldn't handle Eddie anymore. They're a handful, believe me. I had to let him go until the kids were older. But remember what I said—any time you want to talk. And keep an eye on Eddie for me."

To be black in America is to be schizophrenic.

Once alone Fiona began thinking about that remark until her head with filled with a thousand thoughts and memories. She knew from experience what that remark meant and remembered in high school how a similar remark by W .E. B. Du Bois had suddenly made clear to her the ubiquitous feeling of living a double life where what was said and done did not square with inner reality. She couldn't recall Du Bois's exact words, but it was something about always feeling your twoness—American and Negro; two souls, unreconciled desires in a dark body. Du Bois was also half white. Lucille, unlike her, self-confident and outgoing, was both an inspiration and a reprimand. Fiona admired her; she had never seen a black woman so strong that she dominated the room and its inhabitants; she made Fiona feel proud for her race and want to be her friend; but, she thought, suddenly filled with doubt, she would have to measure up. We have a duty to the race, Lucille had also said. That other remark implied that she regarded Fiona as a potential leader. Flattering, yes, but had she won enough victories over circumstances to lead by example or was she herself still in need of help? On thinking it over, she rather suspected that her life had been small and unheroic, failing more than achieving. She had learned very early the dangers of asserting herself. Children when angry think of the cruelest thing they can say to inflict pain. If a child was fat he would be called a ton of lard; if she wore glasses she would be called four-eyes. Fiona found in the first grade when she accidentally knocked a girl off a swing that the words reserved for her were "stupid nigger." She wasn't even sure what it meant but felt its force in the eyes of the surrounding children as some-thing that separated her and kept her from being normal. It brought stinging, childish tears as its immediate effect and the death inside of something vital and sustaining as its permanent effect. Ever afterwards she was careful not to assert herself or draw attention to herself. She learned to smile and be conciliatory, to defer to others: she learned to hide herself away. She was if anything the exact opposite of Lucille Durham.

Why? Because she was alone. Her mother, who was very supportive and often told her that it was "us against the world," couldn't help her, for her mother wasn't with her at recess or when children played together after school. It wasn't enough to have a mother, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends, not when she was the only black in Waska. She grew up with the biggest reality in her life being the split between her real self hidden away and her physical self of tawny skin, flat nose and full lips. People saw those physical characteristics; they didn't see her. Equally important, people being mirrors, she didn't clearly see herself. That, she realized, was why Lucille's remark about being black and schizophrenic resonated so powerfully in her mind. Nor, particularly when she was young, did she meet herself in books she read in school and at home. She identified somewhat with characters who were orphans or lost because they had cares, they didn't fit in, they experienced estrangement. But literature did not speak to her. Only in high school did she grow personally interested in history and the social sciences because in those classes they frequently talked about black people in America, though even then she noticed the topic was always seen as a "problem." From things she learned in school she started reading books by and about some of the black leaders who began and continued the long struggle for liberation— Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, W. E. B. Du Bois, Dr. Martin Luther King, and Malcolm X. The first time she was stirred to a mixture of pride and sadness in her race was when she read in Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass that slaves never sang when they were happy but when they were most unhappy. Something of the strength and resilience of black people made her proud of her black blood for the first time in her life, even as she shed tears of sadness thinking of their burdens.

She kept that pride hidden away, however—she was sure no one in Waska would understand it—and so her real self was still submerged and hidden just as it was a mere hour ago when she didn't dare to support Eddie's desire to paint in peace. Internalized schizophrenia had solidified into a social role. Other more fundamental confusions existed then and still existed. Her mother's love gave her a sanctuary of security even if not an identity. Nor did she always forget that most people were very nice and that she had many, many positive experiences growing up. Hundreds of times when she was a girl she played with her cousins and neighbors and was perfectly happy. In high school she played softball and field hockey and had many wonderful times, sometimes even experiencing pure joy. She loved the democratic ethos whereby every member of the team rooted for everyone else. Her teammates would greet her at home plate after she hit a home run with hugs, mob her when she scored a goal in field hockey, and be supportive friends with her at social gatherings. But while she remembered these good times, they did not outweigh some of the painful things that had happened to her. One that made her understand that bad experience made a deeper impression than positive experience, that pain was more vividly powerful than pleasure, happened when she was eight or nine and went with a group of girls to a friend's house to swim in the family swimming pool, only to find when they got there and the mother saw her that the party was canceled. Some explanation was offered, but she knew and so did the other girls that the long conversation the mother had with her daughter before they came out to announce the cancellation was about her. That and memories of seeing people wipe their hands on their pants after touching her could still make her cringe. The other factor that could easily obscure her memories of positive experience was the ever-present subtle racism she had to endure. Often it was nothing more than people's expectations or lack of expecta-tions of her—a teacher who would think she was not up to a challenge requiring mental acuity or creative intelligence, students when they broke into groups to do a project assigning her the simplest tasks, people who were surprised when she spoke articulately on some subject. One time when she was working in the town's drugstore in high school a woman brought back some off-the-shelf nostrum and exchanged it for a less expensive one. Fiona had to deduct the amount from the refund and give the woman change. She had already done the math in her head and knew that from the $5.34 refund she was to take $4.60 and return 74¢, but the woman clearly thought such calculations were beyond her. "Shouldn't you get the manager?" she asked, meaning: shouldn't you get the white man. Such experiences constantly put her in situations where she had to prove herself, but because she was not demonstrative, she would never say anything even when she had proven herself.

This was the life in which Lucille had seen the promise of leadership. Fiona smiled wryly at herself, straining to keep her perspective and therefore her sense of humor. Exhorting herself to be assertive and self-confident did not begin today, though remembering how Lucille had wordlessly communicated with Eddie she hoped that the older and more experienced woman could see a potential in her that she herself could not see. If nothing else, to have another person believe in her was a gain. She had, after all, accomplished some things in her short life. There were many times when in exhaustion from going from work to school and from school to work, finding it almost impossible to find time to study and never the time to get a proper amount of sleep, she didn't think she would ever get her degree, and yet now she had earned it and was even working in her field. As she walked back into Phoenix Landing, thinking that her workplace was aptly named, all in all she felt better.

Sylvia was waiting for her when she came in. Apparently she had seen the conversation with Lucille, for she asked what they were talking about. "Nothing much," Fiona said, not at all pleased to feel she had been spied upon. "She just wanted to make sure Eddie was being taken care of."

"Is that why you stayed out there five minutes more? Thinking about Eddie?"

"Yes," Fiona said, now angry with herself for failing her first test of assertiveness. She wanted to tell Sylvia to go to hell and mind her own business, but knew she couldn't. "Why do you ask?"

Sylvia shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Oh, no reason. I was just waiting to ask you if you'd like to go to Gritty McDuff's for a beer after work."

Fiona suspected that she was still worried about getting into trouble, but with a slight chance that Sylvia simply wanted human contact, that she was lonely, she softened. "Don't worry. I'll back you up if Kevin asks. Or has he already?"

She shook her head and appeared hurt and nervous. "I just thought having a beer would be relaxing after the blowup."

"Sorry," Fiona said even more softly. "I'm meeting my cousin and we're going back to Waska. Maybe some other time."

She watched Sylvia walking upstairs to the attendants' office with a feeling of helpless perplexity. How inscrutable human motivations were! Maybe it wasn't lack of assertiveness that held her back but some half-seen, half-felt knowledge of human complexity. In that case doubt was more appropriate than willfulness. She knew even before reading Hamlet in her required literature class that doubt led to inaction. Maybe leaders were people with limited understanding. Maybe Lucille—but she stopped that line of reasoning. If Lucille was not genuinely insightful and knowledgeable, then nothing was sure. She sighed dramatically, still holding on to her humor and perspective as she went upstairs to finish filling in her log for the day. She briefly told her night replacement about Eddie and a few other items, then checked to make sure the camera the house owned had film in it because tomorrow she was going on a field trip with a group of residents to Portland Head Light and Prout's Neck. The camera was ready for action, so her work-day and duties were done. She looked for Sylvia to say good-bye, but she was already gone. Kevin nodded to her from the inner office as she went out, a perfunctory nod that made her wonder if he was displeased with her efforts earlier. But that was to be too paranoid, she decided as she walked to Monument Square to meet her cousin. She had told a small lie to Sylvia when she said they were going back to Waska. They were, but first they planned to have dinner at the Tandoor Restaurant. Right now, however, she didn't think about that lie or about Sylvia, for her head was still filled with Lucille and when not thinking of her inspirational example she thought about her cousin Marilyn and what she had been suggesting for the last month. The feeling grew upon her that today was going to decide much of her life for the coming years, and the realization made her feel very uneasy.

The square as always was filled with activity. Street kids and punks with lip rings, nose rings, eyebrow rings, probably rings in hidden places. Pigeons and gulls looking for handouts from little old ladies, others pecking at debris on the ground or in trash receptacles. Middle-class and working people waiting for buses, tourists with shopping bags bulging from L.L. Bean. She walked past the Grecian woman at the top of the Civil War monument, and waited across the street from the library for her cousin.

When Fiona was a girl she was best friend's with Marilyn's older sister Tammy, who was exactly her age. But Tammy was now in graduate school in Florida, and Marilyn, whose two fewer years had seemed enormously distant when they were young, had been growing closer to her cousin during the past few years. They commuted together in Marilyn's car to Portland each day. Marilyn, who was in her second year of teaching the third grade at a public school in South Portland, had been living with a man in Waska until a few months ago when they broke up. Since then she had been hinting to Fiona that they should get an apartment together in Portland. Fiona lived at home with her mother, and at the age of twenty-five was tempted by Marilyn's suggestion. What made her hesitate was her cousin's well-deserved reputation as a predatory female who couldn't live without a man. Rooming with her was likely to be a very impermanent arrangement that would last only as long as the time it took to find a new man.

Her power over men was strange. Though she had a big bust, she wasn't very pretty in Fiona's opinion. She was the power hitter for the Courtney Academy women's softball team that Fiona and Tammy played on and looked it. She was muscular and heavy-thighed, but with a so-so face accented by clear milky skin, wavy light brown hair and stunning blue eyes—her best feature—she swept just about any man she took a fancy to off his feet and into her bed. Fiona suspected without any real proof that it was what happened there that gave her her power over the male sex.

While thinking about this, she was surprised to be awakened from her reverie by Marilyn herself, who was yelling at her as she came up, "Fiona! Here I am!" She was wearing a knee-length skirt and a white blouse with a pearl necklace at her throat as opposed to Fiona's typical jeans and light blue jersey. "You must be in quite a fog. I just drove right by you on the way to the parking garage. I yelled, waved, tooted, whistled and made faces—nothing. You just stood there."

"Oh," Fiona said, "I was thinking of something. We had an incident at Phoenix Landing today. I'll tell you about it when we get to the restaurant."

Marilyn nodded, hardly listening. Her face brightened. "Hey, guess who I heard from today? Tara Wright. Should we go directly to Tandoor to make sure we get a seat?"

"I guess so. What did Tara want?"

"She wants to get the softball team together for a reunion and, you know, play a game. It's the seventh anniversary of our state championship game this weekend. What days did you say you had to work?" She wants you to be there."

"Saturday and Sunday. I have Memorial Day off."

"Good. That's what I told her. She thinks about ten or twelve from the team can make it—everyone who's in Maine this summer. She knows Tammy can't be here. We could have a game of five or six to a side, make right field foul, and have some fun. She's also thinking of joining the summer league if enough want to. I think they only play slow-pitch, though. I'm not wild about that."

They were at the Tandoor Restaurant now. Upon entering the richly exotic atmosphere resplendent of eastern spices, they were glad to see plenty of seats were still available. One of the waiters came over and led them to a table, where they ordered a beer and samosas for an appetizer. The onion chutney that was one of the sauces that came with the samosas was Fiona's favorite thing on the whole menu. At first they talked about playing softball this weekend. Fiona found herself looking forward to it as a break from routine and told Marilyn she'd probably be interested in playing in a league this summer even if it was only slow-pitch. Then after they had each ordered a chicken dish and enough raita and nan for both of them, Marilyn asked her about the incident at work that had put her into such a fog.

"Well, it was stupid," Fiona said by way of beginning. "It was one of the residents named Eddie. He hadn't taken his medication in the morning—probably he held it under his tongue and then spit it out later—but he was quiet and minding his own business painting with acrylics up in the rec room. He just wanted to paint, you see. He was being quiet, not bothering anybody as I said, but the rules are the rules. An hour before dinner you put away what you're doing and then break into groups to talk about the day with your attendant."

"It's too regimented, you mean."

Fiona nodded as she broke off a piece of nan and dipped it into the raita. "I know these people need order in their lives, but really. Every second of every minute? We're supposed to be teaching them to function in society, not prison."

"But won't they be unable to function without medication?"

"That's true, but here it was really a separate issue. Eddie was okay until he was told to stop painting. I saw his point of view and agreed with it. If I was director I would allow residents the dignity to finish a task they had started." She took a mouthful of her chicken dish and chewed thoughtfully. "I mean it's so trivial, the interference. It demeans them. I'd like to say something at a staff meeting, but I know I don't dare to."

Marilyn caught the waiter's eye and asked for some more Masala tea. "Well, you just got started. You don't want to get the boss on your case. Miss Johnson, my principal, likes to have her own way. She's a fussbudget and drives everyone crazy." She paused when the waiter returned with the tea; then after a sip and a satisfied sigh, she said, "What I do is humor her, then do it my way."

"It's even worse, though. Because I'm black Dr. Blanchette thought I might have some influence on Eddie—"

"—You mean this Eddie is a black person?"

"Yes. So he asks me to talk to him, see? I had to say what I didn't believe. It was awful."

Marilyn put her fork down and leaned forward, her face looking concerned. "I wouldn't blame yourself. Everyone has to do that at work some time or other. You've got to play the game according to the rules."

"I just wish I'd be more, you know, assertive. It seems like I never say what I'm thinking or feeling."

"Fiona, you're shy, that's all. Lots of people are shy."

"It's more than being shy. It's being black. Eddie's sister, Lucille Durham, is a wonderful, powerful woman. She works for the city in social services. You know what she told me?"

Marilyn, looking up from sopping korma sauce with a piece of nan, raised her eyebrows and cocked her head.

"She said to be black in America is to be schizophrenic."

"What did she mean by that?"

"Well, we were talking about racism. People look at me and see black skin. They don't see me. I'm always someone's expectations, not someone with a personality of my own."

Her cousin seemed surprised. "You don't believe that, do you?"

Fiona paused for a moment, in doubt not about what she thought but about how she could express it. She glanced at Marilyn. "Actually I do."

Marilyn's blue eyes widened. "You mean personally?"

Thinking about the woman at the drugstore who wanted her to get the manager, she nodded.

"That implies you feel you're totally a black person. But you're half Maine Yankee. You're as much a WASP as you are a black person."

"No. No, I'm not. If you have black skin then it isn't a choice, or rather the choice is made for you. People regard you as a black person. I'm a black woman."

Marilyn pushed her plate aside and leaned forward, her elbows on the table. "Come on, Fiona. I can remember a few racist incidents when we were growing up, but they weren't many. Like the time the guy in Old Orchard yelled nigger bitch at our car. But two or three incidents like that aren't enough. I've been called a stupid cunt. I admit it's vile, but it doesn't make me a victim."

Fiona smiled. "You're a woman, though. The guy insulted you as strongly as possible. He meant to demean you, right? To say you were only good for one thing? He reduced you to a thing. He didn't see you."

The analogy didn't seem to impress her. "Nobody on our Courtney Academy softball team was racist, were they?"

"No," Fiona admitted. "They were good teammates. But I'm telling you, what others say can have an impact. My point is that when you're black they have more subtle ways of labeling you like a bug and keeping you in your place."

"That wouldn't be why you're hesitant to room with me, would it? I thought we were cousins, not black and white."

There was an edge to her voice as if she was prepared to be defensive and possibly even hurt. Instantly Fiona felt bad and wished she hadn't shared her thoughts. "Oh, no, it's not that at all. You and Tammy have been wonderful to me all my life. I don't at all think of us as black and white but as friends and relatives. Please," she said reaching over and touching Marilyn's hand, "don't think I think that way about you. I meant strangers, people I don't know."

Marilyn seemed relieved. She pulled her plate back and busied herself finishing up the last remnants of her chicken dish, and then asked in a cheerful voice, "Then what is your objection to the idea? If it's money, I could pay more than half."

"It's partly money, partly that I'd like to be sure of this new job before making a big change, and also... Well, let me ask you about that man you're interested in, the one you've been talking a lot about during the last few weeks."

Marilyn didn't seem to get her drift. Forgetting that it was apartments they were discussing, she exclaimed with an eagerness that suggested she'd been waiting for a chance to talk about him, "Oh, he's so cute! He has the most divine brown eyes, almost golden in some lights. And his jaw is square. I like a man with a square jaw. It gives him an aura of strength. And though he's not tall, he's muscular. Also, his buns looks firm," she giggled. "I have noticed that. Today he sat with me at lunch. I'd say he's definitely interested. In fact he started talking about a movie he wants to see, and I know he was working up the courage to ask me to go with him—like you, see, he's shy—but then two other teachers came into the teachers' room and he clammed up."

Fiona smiled and looked pointedly at Marilyn's arms. She was a very strong woman, the power hitter on their softball team even when she was a freshman. "Did you tell him?"

Marilyn, returning the smile, spoke confidentially. "Not yet. Some guys don't like strong women."

"I'm certainly no expert on men or relationships, but isn't honesty the best policy?"

"Oh, I'll tell him. But I want to make sure he's hooked first." She stopped, looked at Fiona, and then shook her head grimly as if mocking herself or more likely Fiona. "You don't approve, do you? But I don't mean anything sneaky. I just mean that I want us to get to know each other gradually. He runs, so he knows about athletic fitness. Besides, all's fair in love and war."

She continued staring at Fiona for a long moment, apparently reading that her cousin still did not approve. She was correct, for Fiona was remembering how Marilyn had stolen the boyfriend of one of their teammates. The bad feelings that ensued caused the team to break into two camps, and as a result they lost two games in a row for the first and only time. But Fiona knew that it would be very unwise to bring this up right now. She remained silent.

"Fiona," Marilyn sighed comically, still reading her face. "Fiona, Fiona. You've never had a boyfriend, have you?"

Immediately she felt herself becoming defensive. "You know I haven't. I've been too busy working and studying—that's been my life for the past seven years."

"Yeah, but really, you're twenty-five now. I think your shyness has something to do with it. Let me ask you, are you still a virgin?"

Now Fiona felt herself blushing, and blushed more because she knew that her cousin could see it through her tawny skin. "No, actually I'm not. But that's not the issue."

"Oh, yes it is. I'm going to work at getting you fixed up with someone. But in the meantime, I want to hear about this escapade you've obviously had. I want juicy details, mind you."

The details weren't particularly juicy, but Marilyn wasn't going to hear about them anyways. Tom Brown was his name, a plain name for a plain young man, earnest, studious, and lonely—that last characteristic the one that drew Fiona, also lonely, to him in their freshman year at USM. He was in two of her classes and had free periods in the cafeteria at the same time. After a while they began sitting together and had become friends. A few years later at his little hovel of a student apartment near lower Congress Street they had begun discussing sex because it was the section of their psychology course they were studying, and one thing led to another. It was quite simple, really, though awkward too, and they never repeated the experiment. He was in graduate school now, having graduated in the standard four years, and they had lost touch with each other after exchanging a few letters in his first year away. Surprisingly, Fiona found that she could discuss the encounter without embarrassment or regret.

"It was nothing. He was a good friend and we were alone one night, that's all."

"It wasn't love? You didn't go on from there?"

She shook her head. "No, it was friendship. It was just that we were both virgins."

"Fiona, I don't understand you."

"It's simple, really. We weren't like other people. Other people would have called it love, but we didn't. We were honest."

"Honesty doesn't get you a man."

"I wasn't looking for a man. In fact, nothing about it was planned. It just happened. And remember, I had to get my degree. I had to work."

"You've got your degree and a job now. It's time for a man. And it's time for you to make more decisions in your life like sharing an apartment with me. I hope you're ready."

"I probably am," Fiona said. "But give me a few more weeks to see how things are going at work. Can you do that? All I need is a little time."

She said this with the uncomfortable feeling that it was the worst kind of lie, self-deception. For the seven years she had worked to get her degree she had been putting off her life, and she knew it. Now that today had become tomorrow, delay was no longer excusable. And yet she delayed.

A Car, a Cottage, and the Persistence of Memory

Lowell Edgecomb, glancing out the showroom window at the traffic on U.S. Route 1, experienced a moment of estrangement. He was not in Chicago. Laurie Heinsohn, the woman with whom he had been living for the past five years, was over 1500 miles away physically and on the other side of the universe spiritually. He no longer worked with his uncle building houses. He wasn't going to get married. He wasn't going to settle down, be a father, raise boys and work eight to four every day. Instead he was in Waska, Maine buying his mother a new car with money from stocks that until last year he thought were mere printed paper. The estrangement, how-ever, went beyond the fact that he was living again in the town in which he grew up. The salesman, Rett Murray, was a very strange man, quite unlike any salesman he had ever dealt with before. He had the most unsalesmanlike ability to make one feel uneasy in his presence. Lowell, at least, felt uneasy and was simultaneously trying to talk to the man and figure out what the source of the uneasiness was.

It started in the normal world. Lowell had gone in to the showroom and told the receptionist that he wanted to buy a car just as a million other people would do. She had asked his name and gone into the back room to fetch a salesman. A few minutes went by during which time he leafed through some brochures and examined one of the floor models of the kind he wanted to buy. Presently out came Rett Murray to be of service, such as it was. Even as he walked across the showroom toward him, Lowell could sense an under-current of hostility in the way he walked and looked at him. After they identified each other (as opposed to greeting one another), Murray said, "So you want to buy a car?"

"Yes. Yes, I do. I know exactly what kind and what color I want."

"How come you're so sure you want a certain car?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

The question was so unexpected that Lowell stared in speechless amazement at the salesman.

He was a tall, scrawny fellow with a large Adam's apple bobbing up and down when he talked. He had little ratlike, mistrustful eyes of uncertain color. His cheap suit didn't fit him very well—it was too big in the shoulders so that the padding hung like snow on the edge of a roof. His shoes were scruffy. His thin brown hair looked dirty. Lowell was so mesmerized by the bobbing Adam's apple that it took him awhile to realize the man never looked him in the eye for more than a split second every now and then. His first reaction, before his uneasiness started, was to suppress a smile when the thought popped into his head: I hope this guy lives on more than commissions. He was the most unpromising-looking salesman Lowell could ever remember meeting. He himself had worked in electronics stores in his past and was familiar with the usual expectations of a salesman. All he could conclude was that this guy must be a relative of the boss.

"So why are you so sure?" Murray repeated.

"Why am I so sure? What do you mean?"

"We got a lot of cars here."

That didn't answer the question. Dissonance.

Murray looked behind him at the noise of another salesman dropping a thick folder.

"Well, you see, I did some research on the Internet using my brother's computer." He felt his face redden. Why was he telling this man this absurd fact? Then he recovered himself and in a businesslike manner enumerated the specifications he wanted, and Murray went over to the computer on his desk to see if a car matching these specifications was in stock.

As he searched the computer Murray worked his mouth, pursing his lips and running his tongue over them in a way that Lowell suspected was meant to disgust him. It did, and for a moment he considered going elsewhere to buy the car. But Hopkins Motors was the largest Ford dealership in the county. He would have to go all the way to Portland to find a similar range and selection.

"I suppose you'd like a test drive," Murray suddenly said, looking up from the computer screen.

"Does that mean you've got the model and color in stock?"

He nodded and stood. "I'll get the keys."

He was gone for a few minutes. When he returned the aura of hostility was still present. They walked together into the lot, searching for the maroon Ford station wagon Lowell had specified.

"How will you finance it?" Murray asked just as they found the car.

"I don't need financing. I'll get you a check if the car is satisfactory."

Murray whistled in a particularly insolent way. "Where do you work?"

Lowell frowned angrily. "I don't work. But what business is that of yours?"

"That must be nice," he said with sarcasm about as subtle as garlic on the breath. He went over to the passenger side, not bothering to unlock the door for Lowell. Only when he was seated inside did he reach over and allow Lowell into the car.

"Where's your car?" Murray asked as Lowell, giving him a black look, slid into the driver's seat.

He told him the eight-year-old Japanese car, rusty and with many a dent that was parked in front of the showroom door, was his car.

"Won't be worth much in trade-in, you know."

"Doesn't matter. I'm not trading it in. The car is for my mother."

Murray didn't say anything, but Lowell, concentrating on backing out, imagined he rolled his eyes.

He drove out of the dealership onto Route 1, going about a mile before he turned into a country road. Ordinarily he would be vocalizing his thoughts about how the car was responding, but since the salesman was sullenly maintaining his silence, he said nothing. The car, though, was okay. He was sure it would be perfect for his mother. He pulled into a farmyard, backed out, and returned to the dealer's parking lot, perfect noncommunication being maintained the entire way. When they got out of the car, Lowell, thinking that if his mother was going to get the car he promised her he would have to say something, began talking in a businesslike manner about the particulars of paying for the car, signing the contract and so forth. As if they hadn't driven together for fifteen bizarre minutes without saying a word, Murray answered his questions equally routinely. But quite suddenly he changed the subject:

"You don't recognize me, do you?" His eyes flashed.

Lowell glanced at him, noting that almost instantly Murray dropped his gaze and stared at the ground. "I was thinking you looked a bit familiar, but I've been living out of state for the past fifteen years."

Murray nodded. "I was in your brother's class at C.A."

"I see. But about the car. I'd like to have it tomorrow."

They went back to business, walking now to Murray's desk inside the showroom where Lowell signed some papers and said he'd be back tomorrow at about ten o'clock. Then he left without saying good-bye. Somehow that seemed appropriate.

He went directly to the bank after leaving Hopkins Motors and spent half an hour arranging for a certified check to be ready tomorrow morning. Then he drove out to Camp Melton where Fred McClellen, a builder and general contractor, was completing a new house. It was a beautiful day, the Thursday before the Memorial Day weekend, and glimpses of the Waska River flowing serenely under tower-ing pines were truly lovely. He had known these views since a boy when he'd ride his bicycle down to the beach, but they looked fresh and new to him today. Everyone in Chicago whom he told that he was from Maine would always exclaim, "Oh, Maine is a beautiful state!" Well, it was.

He pulled into the long driveway of the new house—a huge tudor-style trophy house sitting like a massive and incongruous brontosaurus on the banks of the river—and parked behind the last of the half dozen pickup trucks and a couple of late-model cars that showed the house was still in the hands of the proletariat. He walked up to the house looking for someone to direct him to Fred. A man wearing a carpenter's apron and carrying a piece of lumber came out of the garage to do a cut on a portable table saw. He told him the boss was in the backyard. "There's some trouble with the bulk-head door. You'll find him there."

He walked around to the back to find two workers and Fred trying to close the bulkhead door without much success. "Problem with the door, Fred?" he said by way of greeting.

Fred was kneeling down looking at the hinge. "Here's the trouble. The stupid thing has been warped. Buck, see if a good whack won't bring it into alignment. See where the metal is dented? Hit it there." He rose and came over to shake Lowell's hand. Kneeling, he had looked small, but on his feet he was a tall, wiry man who stood stiffly and was rubbing his back. His face, neck and arms were bright red from sunburn. He was forty or so but looked older.

"Close to finishing?"

Fred nodded. "Inside is all ready for the painters. We're just fixing odds and ends now. Things that shouldn't need fixing if they were built right."

Lowell eyed the bulkhead. "I bet that thing was dropped sometime, either at the ware-house or when it was winched into place. I've seen that happen."

Fred didn't answer directly. He was watching his boys carefully. "Not there, Buck. A little to the left."

Lowell, however, was certainly not offended. He was glad to see Fred inattentive because his concentration was on the work at hand. One wanted a contractor with that characteristic. But another thing pleased Lowell just as much. The previous times he had talked to Fred the man had been close to cravenly sycophantic, and Lowell didn't like it. He himself when he talked to customers of his uncle's company took great care to maintain his dignity. If a job could only be gotten through ass-kissing, it wasn't worth it. He had talked to Fred four times about the cottage he wanted to build on his mother's lakefront property twenty miles from Waska, and this was the first time the man hadn't been sycophantic. He was going to be all right after all.

"Did you use our technique?" Fred asked, watching the workmen bang at the underside of the bulkhead.

Lowell grinned. "It's one way. I've returned a few in my day too."

The men tried the door, and this time it closed tightly.

"Friendly persuasion worked this time," Fred said. "Finish up, you guys, and then clear out the stuff in the garage."

He started walking towards the front of the house, and Lowell joined him. "So you are on schedule, right? I figure to get the permit tonight."

Fred nodded and reached for a cigarette. "Yep. Should be able to start next Tuesday right after the Memorial Day weekend."

"Remember, I plan to be there."

The contractor frowned but kept his thoughts to himself.

Lowell had contracted him to pour the foundation and do the framing. Everything else, with the exception of installing the circuit breakers and some of the plumbing, he planned to do himself. "I've already been assured there will be no problem with the permit—as long as we're back one hundred feet from the shore, that is. Still, I have to make my case to the planning board tonight. Unless you hear otherwise, everything will be okay. I'll call you Sunday or Monday night to confirm you'll be there. Does that sound right?"

"Sounds right to me, Lowell."

"The electricity won't be in for a week or so, but Nate Wentworth told me he's completely free after next week. But you can pour the foundation without it, right?"

"Oh, yeah. No problem." Fred puffed at his cigarette.

They shook hands on that, and Lowell left.

His mother would be home soon, but he decided to take a drive along the coast to think. Plans in the making for several months were about to be realized. Once the foundation was poured a line would be crossed and he would be committed to Waska—not perhaps forever but for a long, long time. He wanted to think about this commitment while it was still possible to back out. He had done a lot of backing out already in his thirty-two years. There weren't too many steps left behind him before he would fall over some precipice, yet even those few available steps, if he were to take them, could still mean freedom.

Even his name was backwards, or at least quasi-palindromic. His parents not having married, his name was comprised of their two last names, and only an accidental decision had made him Lowell Edgecomb instead of Edgecomb Lowell. In a time when hippies favored silly names like "Moon Unit" or "God," at the last possible moment his mother had changed the order of the names they had decided on. She didn't think Edgecomb made a good first name.

This business about his name happened in northern California where he was born in a hippy commune that even then was past its day. The sixties had peaked and the war was already lost, even if the government and military didn't realize it. Now it was a cow pasture. He knew that because several years ago he had gone on an absurd quest to find his father and had visited it. Having last seen it when he was five years old, he had only vague memories of a sprawling farmhouse where five couples and numerous children tried to eke out a living by farming and making crafts to sell in San Francisco. Fire had claimed even that tenuous connection to his beginnings. A crumbling foundation of fieldstones reinforced with mortar and a few scattered pieces of blackened wood were all that remained.

Nor did he find his father, the man who to him was the feeling of a huge beard of wiry hair rubbing against his cheek like steel wool and who would sometimes dance with him to Jefferson Airplane's "Feed Your Head" at one moment and then be sullen and withdrawn the next. His mother later told him his father's mind was ruined by too many acid trips. The closest Lowell ever got to him was seeing some of his friends in San Francisco, but they told him the same thing his uncle in Chicago said—that they hadn't seen him for over fifteen years and that he was probably dead. He'd traced him to the Arizona desert before the trail went cold.

His father had walked out on them after a bad acid trip so that there was some ambiguity about his motives. He had plenty of time to clear his head and return, however, so that when he didn't eventually his mother assumed he'd deserted them. Lowell was five at the time. Soon after that the commune broke up. His mother and he went next to San Francisco where for two months they crashed in hippy pads and sometimes spent the night on the streets before his mother took him back to her hometown of Waska, Maine. Her hippy days were over even though she spent the rest of her life reliving them.

Here he grew up, here went through all his changes, here he met life, but because the process to consciousness of self was not altogether a happy one, he had not felt until recently anything approaching affection for what he should have regarded as his home-town. He did not blame his mother for this inheritance—she was who she was, and besides, she had a good heart—but they lived a slovenly, chaotic life. With a genial, easy-going person-ality, she found she was best suited to being a waitress, a job depending on tips so that income was erratic and made further erratic by her propensity to lose jobs with alarming regularity. They were often on welfare and food stamps, and once or twice there was talk among the social workers of removing the children from her care—children because a few years after they returned home she began living with a man who gave Lowell a brother. Bill Paine was his name; this time his mother Pat gave the father's last name at the hospital, though she doubled that up by giving the kid his father's first name as well. Bill Paine Sr. lived with them for about four years off and on before drifting away like her first man. He was a drunkard and, like Perry Lowell, probably a manic-depressive. Lowell had few happy memories of him. The only person who sometimes acted fatherly to him and his brother was their uncle, Cliff Dalton. He was married to Nadine, his mother's sister. He'd take the boys fishing and to ball games with their cousins, and once or twice he came to school when some activity required a father's presence. He was nice but it was not enough. Lowell always had the consciousness of being a fatherless boy; too early was he familiar with the sorrows of being human.

Waska being a small town, the particulars of their home and their life became pretty much general knowledge. Lowell got used to a certain look of disdain and disapproval in the faces of his friends' parents and knew firsthand the soul-freezing feeling of being treated as an inferior long before he actually understood the snobbery and smugly self-satisfied respectability that engendered the disapproval. More than anything, it was this generalized societal disapproval that led him to hate the town that made him feel alienated and inferior. He remembered even as a young boy longing to be free of it. But one thing everyone in town was wrong about was the feelings his mother had for him and Bill. They thought she was selfishly indifferent to all but her own comforts; they didn't understand that she was always and forever a hippy and cared nothing for respect-ability and social norms. The truth was that she was a loving mother in her own way. It was a rare day when she didn't hug them frequently and kiss them good night. She even taught, by example, some valuable lessons in life. She was amazingly impervious to external events, never losing her temper when times were tough, never yielding to self-pity when impoverished and never becoming elated when a time of prosperity came. She was not so much passive as indif---ferent to hardship. In short, as an instinctive stoic, she accepted good and ill with equanimity.

In college once when a group of students were discussing Larkin's famous line, "Your mom and dad, they fuck you up, you know," he was asked about his parents. What came to mind surprised him. He recalled the first time the electricity was turned off because of nonpay-ment soon after Bill Paine had deserted them. Pat had become unused to working and got herself fired for being late. Money from her sister and mother was buying food for them, but bills were shoved into a kitchen drawer unopened and forgotten, with the result that one night the apartment was in darkness. Lowell, ten or so at the time, was young enough to be very fright-ened, not so much of the darkness as of the different and strange situation they found themselves in. He was just about to start whimpering when his mother had saved the day by making a game out of it. "Boys!" she said with an excited laugh, "tonight we get to camp out!" They cooked a supper of soup on the gas stove and with crackers and a can of fruit cocktail had a laughing meal. So what had he learned from her example? Not to worry, to muddle through as if life were a British Empire on which the sun never set? Or maybe, to be your own resource, to live inside, be indifferent to materialistic creature comforts, and let the world be damned?

Something like that he had eventually learned, if not as well as she had. But in high school he was only beginning to learn to rise above fate, and the shame he felt when he thought of what his friends' parents would think was sometimes almost unbearable. The electricity never again was turned off, but there were times when his aunt Nadine and his grandmother still had to help with money and groceries. Instead of making him feel grateful, this help also made Lowell feel ashamed. It made his grand-mother feel ashamed too, and though there was no evidence to show that his mother was bothered by these interferences in the workings of fate, she became the means that made Lowell proud of his mother. The matriarchal Mrs. Edgecomb, widow of the formidable Judge Edgecomb whose strict Calvinist discipline had driven Pat into hippiedom in the first place, challenged her daughter to straighten out her life for her sons' sake. What she did was offer the money for a down payment on a house with the stipulation that her daughter work at a steady job to make the monthly mortgage payments, and for four years Pat did work in a factory and never missed a payment. She only stopped the factory work after her mother died and left money for his and Bill's college education along with money to pay off the mortgage as soon as the family house was sold. That money was split between Pat and Nadine, but since Nadine and Cliff already had a vacation home, the Edgecomb lakefront property was left to Pat. The cottage had burned down years ago, and since the judge died the place was hardly used at all, but such as it was it belonged to Pat. Immediately she went back to waitressing, the job she found most congenial, but her years of steady work, and therefore his grandmother's challenge, bore other strange and wonderful fruit.

The first fruit came when, taking his cue from his grandmother's will, he channeled the hurt and feelings of inferiority from Mrs. Grundy's looks of disapproval into studying. Against all odds, he rose above the chaos of his home life and became a good student in high school, particularly in mathematics and sciences. He developed an interest in computers, becoming so good that he actually wrote programs for the computer system at Courtney Academy. He got a weekend job at the local Radio Shack and became a whiz at electronic gadgetry, even building himself a workable computer before they became widespread appliances in the home. His example inspired his younger brother to study and apply himself so that all the Mrs. Grundys of Waska who had shaken their heads at the boys' prospects were mortified to be proven wrong. It was a small consolation, though Lowell deep inside still felt as if he deserved their looks of disapproval. This was a feeling that took him a long time to shake. Even now it could occasionally still come back to him in the dark soul of the night when he would wake from a dream and find himself a despised and fatherless boy.

But as Mrs. Grundy's disdain faded and as his teacher's praise and his boss's trust in him at the Radio Shack grew more common, he did finally manage to distance himself from his inherited sense of inferiority. To the outside world, in fact, he became a self-confident young man, competent at everything he did and confident that he could do anything. His teachers told him his grades and his intellect would get him into any college he applied to, and when they enumerated several examples one of them was the University of Chicago. Chicago was the city of his father and where his uncle, whose only contact was a Christmas gift mailed to him each December, still lived. The older he got the more he felt the absence of a father in his life. It was like a hollowness growing inside him, not pain but the absence of a sense of completeness. He applied, was accepted, and at age eighteen found himself a student at the University of Chicago.

But he was his mother's son and grew alienated in a different way from the society he found himself in. His classmates were almost universally materialistic go-getters recognizing no higher value than self-actualization, which for them meant the fast track up the corporate ladder or the professions, expensive cars and trophy houses. Seeming to him more like capitalist manikins than human beings, they literally disgusted him. Fatherless and product of chaos himself, he knew that whatever he was searching for in life it wasn't that. As he had done earlier in response to a different sense of alienation, he channeled his disgust into total commitment to studies. For two years he learned everything that was possible to learn about computers and computer programming; then by his junior year boredom grew to accompany the alienation. He stopped studying, hung out in coffee houses, experimented a little with drugs, found a girlfriend in one of the waitresses at his favorite coffee house, lived with her off campus, and flunked out. He got a job in an electronics store and worked there for a few years. It was during this time that he went to the West Coast looking unsuccessfully for his father. A few more years passed during which he lived directionlessly, though he was not so much bitter as indifferent, passive.

One day his roommate from freshmen year looked him up and asked if he could help set up one of the first Internet companies. The man was a business major and needed help with the computers and programming for his site. He told Lowell that he was exactly the man he was looking for, despite the fact it had been four years since he had used a computer. "It's like riding a bike, isn't it, Lowell?" he asked jocularly. "Besides, everyone on campus knew you were the best."

Even with the flattering compliments Lowell had his doubts. He had turned his back on all that. It was too mixed up with the capitalist manikins that had turned his stomach. In the end his former roommate convinced Lowell to help, even though—or more likely because—he couldn't pay him. Lowell helped him set up the business, writing programs, networking the com-puters and, after teaching himself the new HTML language by reading a book on it, setting up the web page. He got expenses and room and board for his four months of work and in addition six thousand shares of the company, which Lowell kept in a cardboard box in his apart-ment and regarded as worthless paper. He did a few more freelance programming jobs, getting paid for them and making enough to move into a small apartment near the University of Chicago, and then, as if life were a sickness and he had had a relapse, he started drifting again, directionless and passive.

During his years in Chicago he had grown quite close to his Uncle Bob, his father's brother, and his Aunt Sarah. They invited him to the house frequently, especially on holidays, where he spent many hours listening to his uncle reminisce about his father. He learned that his father had also never fit in when he was in high school. His uncle told him he was not surprised when his father ran away to San Francisco to become a hippy. Uncle Bob, the steady one in the family, continued the family business and married, though he and Sarah had no children. Lowell could tell this was the saddest disappointment in his uncle's life, but he hid it behind a pleasant and genial persona. He often introduced himself to people by saying he was Robert Lowell, the builder, not the poet. One weekend when he was paying a visit to his relatives, his uncle asked him if he could help with the new computers his construction company had got. After Lowell had set up the computers and taught his uncle and the two foremen he employed how to use them, Bob asked him if he'd like to come into the company. Lowell understood exactly what he meant: being childless and over fifty now, he was looking for someone to pass the business on to when he retired. Lowell thought about the offer for a week or two and then agreed with the stipulation that he start at the bottom as a carpenter's helper. This being the best way to learn the business, his uncle readily agreed. For five years he worked at every aspect of the business until he was knowledgeable enough to be entrusted with the responsibility for projects himself. By this time he was being paid well, though much of the money simply accumulated in his bank account. Like his mother he was essentially indifferent to things material. He still drove the used car he'd bought to get him to work sites when he first began. When it broke down he bought the Japanese compact he was still driving till this day.

He had various relationships with women during these years, many one-nighters and some lasting a few months but nothing truly serious until Laurie Heinsohn came into his life. He met her at a party. They started talking in a corner of a room full of people, then moved into the kitchen where it was more quiet and talked for two hours. She had dark hair and striking blue eyes that registered her feelings exquisitely when she told him about an accident she had seen on the way to the party. A little boy had been badly hurt when struck by a car and was sobbing in fear of dying more than from the pain. She was so disturbed that she had considered going back home after the ambulance took the boy away. Lowell was not particularly fond of parties—he didn't like them in fact and wouldn't go to them except that he disliked loneliness more—so when Laurie suggested they go to a quiet coffee house a few blocks away, he readily agreed, and they left.

They stayed until past midnight, not listening to the folk singers but talking. She told him about her girlhood on a dairy farm in southern Wisconsin, of getting up before dawn to get to work, of how she had left that life for the city and sometimes felt so homesick and alienated that she considered going back home. Her father was only in his fifties but had been stricken with Parkinson's disease so that her two brothers ran the operation now. Veronica, the cow that when she was a calf had won a 4H prize for Laurie, had recently died, and Laurie's blue eyes glistened when she spoke of her. In high school she had gone with a boy who was now a Lutheran pastor, and if things had been a little different she would be a minister's wife right now. But she told him that story with less regret than she showed for her cow Veronica. More guardedly, Lowell told her about his birth in a hippy commune in California and about his roots in small-town Maine. By the end of the night they had fallen in love.

They had almost four good years together, during which time they went to Wisconsin twice to meet her parents and once to Maine to meet his mother and brother. Occasionally she hinted about marriage, but last year after her thirtieth birthday came she passed beyond hints to explicit remarks about her biological clock. At first he brushed off these remarks with attempts at humor; she was not amused and began asking him if he loved her. "You know I do," he'd say and argue that he needed more time. He did make an effort. He would think about marriage, trying to talk himself into it, but the thought didn't go too far before he would always confront an insistent no in his mind, a no that was irrational, a vague feeling and though only a feeling impossible to surmount. Intellectually he couldn't understand it or accept it. It wasn't her. She was a sweet girl, a wonderful woman, good-natured and with a good sense of humor, respon-sive to others, tolerant about frailties in other people and by no means under any kind of impression that she was perfect. She was also pretty, a good lover, and fun to be with. And yet something inside him said no when he got to the final boundary of commitment. Because she loved him, because she was understanding, because she was tolerant and patient, she did not push him unduly—she only made sure now and then that he understood her position. So they didn't argue; it was much quieter than that; but slowly the issue of marriage became the only reality in their lives.

It was at this time that he experienced the first and probably only windfall in his life, a piece of luck that he accepted with an indifference and equanimity worthy of his mother. His friend's Internet company became a success, and the dividends from the formerly worthless paper of his shares paid $20,000 the first time and over $30,000 the second time so that he now had an enormous amount of money in his bank account. The financial security that his class-mates devoted every waking thought to achieving came to him accidentally. It did not, however, change anything between him and Laurie. A day came when the atmosphere of their little efficiency apartment became so tense that going home after work no longer held any joy. It was as if they had become enemies, not lovers. Nothing she could say, and more importantly nothing he could think, could change what happened to him every time he tried to visualize marriage with her: a cold feeling seized his insides like a drink of liquid nitrogen. This stage of suppressed hostility and tension lasted for another few months until one day he came home to find a note and all her things removed from the apartment.

When she moved out right before Christmas last year, it came as a surprise, even a shock. He had thought with time that one or the other of them would move towards the other's position, the hostility would end, the air would be cleared, and they would go on renewed and happy. He never envisioned separation and finality, even though he still could not see himself a married man. With Laurie gone, his connection to Chicago weakened even further. His original interest in the city—that it was his father's town—had long ceased to mean much to him. He stayed through the winter, but it was the worst three months of his life. Sooner than he would have expected, he heard she had found someone else, news which he received with a pang of jealousy mixed with regret. But he couldn't blame her, so the emotions devolved into self-loathing. Lonely, he himself wasn't ready for another relationship. Perhaps, he thought, he would never be ready for another women in his life. If Laurie wasn't right for him, it was hard to see what woman would be. His days became dreary. He started feeling more rootless than he had when he left Maine all those years ago. Then the world was before him; now he felt world-weary and finished. He was confused, sometimes even scared. Wanting those feelings to end, he spent hours every night trying to assess his situation. Slowly the idea grew in his mind that he belonged in Maine. With all the money he had in the bank, it occurred to him that he could build a cottage on his mother's lakefront lot. Pretty soon the idea of a cottage was all he could think about—as if it were a woman he had fallen in love with. He felt at the same time a sense of how ludicrous it was to have the idea seize and dominate his mind. He wondered if the idea of the cottage was not a false idol. In the early spring, however, he gave his uncle notice, trying not to see the deep hurt this caused him, and as soon as he completed the house he was building for his uncle's company, packed his clothes, books, and the household things that fit into his car and drove to Maine.

As he drove along the beach (only rarely actually seeing it so overdeveloped with cottages was this section of the Maine coast), he recalled his past not so much sequentially but as a connected whole. Regrets dominated, above all Laurie, but also his uncle. The former was lost to him, but he could make amends to his uncle—he could go back to Chicago and his uncle's business. He owed a great deal to the kindness of his nearest relative aside from his mother and brother. His other regrets—his father, his childhood, his flunking out of college—had assumed the finality of facts beyond the reach of change. But his mother was both past and present. He had rather neglected her during his years in Chicago, having only come home for visits four times in all those years. She was overweight and not in the best of health. Her life, as far as he could see, was still chaotic. She needed looking after if she were to glide into a comfortable old age. Besides the car, he planned to also buy her health insurance. And then there were his brother and Becky, his sister-in-law. They had two boys now, four years old and one year old. They had met and gone steady all through college and married after graduation. They were the future and possibly an inspiration. At least he thought they might be. His brother hadn't inherited the restless sense of incompleteness that had been his lot. Maybe in observing and sharing the life of a normal family he could see his way clear. More than anything else, it was his brother that had brought him back home and would keep him home: he wasn't going to back out, not this time.

He turned from the beach and drove inland towards Waska, entering town from U.S. Route 1 and passing for the second time today Hopkins Motors. Once downtown, he made the turns that led to his mother's modest ranch house. In the driveway he saw her car, a twenty-year-old Lincoln that she had driven since her mother's death.

Inside, at first he didn't see her as he surveyed the small house from the door. The coffee table was piled high with soap-opera magazines, fast-food wrappers (some of them on the floor) and a box of half-eaten chocolates. Ringo, her big male tiger cat, was sunning himself on the windowsill. The walls were decorated with some of her macramé made at the commune many years ago and with a couple of posters of uplifting subjects. One showed Mt. Everest with the ersatz philosophical legend below that read: STRIVE FOR THE SKIES/AIM FOR THE HEIGHTS; the other showed hippies with flowers in their hair with the simpler legend, FLOWER POWER. The rug below his feet was worn where one walked from the front door to the kitchen. On the bookcase, laden mostly with CD's and tapes of 1960's rock groups, he could see from the door where his mother had written with her finger DUST ME as a reminder to do some housework when the spirit moved her. He assumed she was in the kitchen or backyard and was about to call to her when a noise made him look down to his right to see her on her hands and knees on the floor in front of the TV.

Her face wore a perplexed, frustrated expression that melted into a smile when she saw him. "It's like the old days, Lowell," she said and followed it with a hearty laugh. She stood up by rolling and then stiffly pushing herself off the coffee table. His mother had a round face buttressed by a double chin. When she laughed her small hazel eyes disappeared into folds of fat that made her look like a laughing Buddha in a Chinese scroll painting. She was short and stout, but with a torso of normal proportions and a protruding belly and thick hips her chubbiness was of a decidedly pear shape. Watching her now, Lowell was put in mind of a bowling pin righting itself.

Standing a bit unsteadily, she scratched her ample belly and adjusted her bra strap. "Either that or the machine's gone haywire. But I think the juice was killed today."

"What are you talking about, Mom?"

"My soaps weren't recorded this afternoon. I figure the juice went off. When that light flashes, isn't that what it means?"

"Usually. Here, give me the remote." He buttoned to the record menu, but it was blank. "Yeah, I think the electricity went off, maybe for just a few seconds. That's enough to wipe the settings off, even if not long enough for us to camp out."

She smiled sweetly, seeing that he had recognized her reference to the old days, but then as quickly as it came the smile disappeared. "Dr. Goodwin was just about to run away with Nurse Gaudet when the episode ended yesterday. It's all I could think about all day at work." She sat down on the couch and sighed. Taking a long gulp of coke and reaching for a chocolate, she said, "It's probably the reason I dropped Mr. Chattham's blue plate special. Now I'll have to wait."

"Aw, I doubt you'll miss much. Don't things go pretty slowly on those soaps? I mean," he added when she gave him a sharp look, "don't they drag these things out? I bet they just made the airport today and won't take off until tomorrow."

"That's where you're wrong. They're driving to his vacation home in the upper peninsula of Michigan. They plan to live off the land. He's going to give up doctoring." Again she sighed, this time philosophically. "Well, c'est la vie as the frogs say. Until you came home I never saw these soaps anyways."

She was referring to the fact that though she had had the VCR for years she didn't know how to program it. When Lowell was told she wished she didn't have to miss her soaps, he pro-grammed the VCR for her.

Lowell quickly reprogrammed the VCR, then handed the remote to her. "It'll be all right tomorrow," he assured her.

She turned on the TV, and reaching for another chocolate, she said, "You're a love for doing these things for your mother, Lowell, just so I can watch soap operas. Ain't I a ridiculous old woman? The oldest hippy in Waska, Maine, indeed."

Lowell, on his way to the kitchen to get a beer, didn't respond. Returning to the living room, he said, ""By the way, Mom. Your car will be ready tomorrow morning."

But now she was engrossed in watching a talk show and didn't hear him. The topic was about women who dress too sexily. A heavyset black woman with thin bandanas crisscrossing her ample chest like ammunition belts was explaining why she displayed herself this way. "That woman gives new meaning to the term displaying your wares," she said. "Anything less on and she'd be showing her birthday suit." She laughed, her eyes disappearing into rolls of fat like a Chinese Buddha.

Her lack of interest in or excitement about the new car didn't surprise him. When he'd first asked her for permission to build a cottage on the lakefront property and live there, she'd readily assented. "Except for a picnic or two, we've hardly used it," was all she said. Nor did she follow him closely when he explained that he planned to get a lawyer and put the cottage in Bill's name as well because he didn't want to appear to be trying to steal it. Legal niceties and property had little reality for her. Later when he had to work on her car and change the spark plugs and timing belt to get it running, he had the further thought that a pleasant thank-you gift for letting him live at the lake would be to buy her a new car. When he told her of his plan, she'd replied with her usual equanimity, "Oh, that would be nice. I've never had a new car."

So he waited a minute or two, then repeated. "Did you hear me, Mom? I said the car would be ready tomorrow."

She stared at him vacantly for a moment before coming to attention. "Oh, ain't I a ridicu-lous old woman. The oldest hippy in Waska, Maine, I swear. I almost forgot you were out today getting me the nicest gift anyone has ever got me."

Lowell smiled. "It'll be ready tomorrow, as I said. I have to make a stop at the bank and then get it registered for you."

"Could you get the maroon color?"

He nodded. "Just like you wanted."

"And it's automatic, right? You know I can't drive with a clutch."

"It's automatic. Don't worry. It's exactly what you wanted. I'm going to ask Bill to drive me over if he can get the time off during lunch break."

"That reminds me. Bill called. He has some problem with his porch railing. He wants your advice on what to do."

Lowell sat down and watched the program while he sipped his beer. A woman wearing a see-through blouse was the next guest. She claimed her choice of apparel made her feel comfortable. "Comfortable!" Pat barked. "That little filly means she enjoys making the boys uncomfortable." Pleased with her bon mot, she laughed, once again making the Chinese Buddha appear on her face.

Lowell grinned. "You're something else, Mom," he said as he finished his beer. "I'm going over to Bill's to see what the matter is. Shall I get a pizza for supper on the way home?"

"Pepperoni and green peppers," his mother said as she indulged in another chocolate.

He made the phone calls and left. Bill was waiting on the front porch when Lowell drove up. He was wiggling the metal railing on the concrete steps and looking perplexed. "Glad you could come, big brother. Did you get the car for Mom?"

"Sure did. Bought it from a very strange guy, though. Do you know Rett Murray? He was in school with you, he told me."

Bill frowned. "I don't really know him but I know of him. He's a Nazi."

"A Nazi? What do you mean?"

"I mean he's literally a Nazi or KKK or something like that. He was arrested in Portland for inciting a riot a couple years ago. He was handing out leaflets denying the Holocaust in front of a synagogue or something."

"How the hell does he sell cars, then?" Lowell asked.

Bill smiled at the thought. "I don't know, but business is probably business. He does the Nazi stuff on his own time. Maybe he only gives deals to Aryans."

Lowell came up the steps to look at the railing. "Is this the problem Mom mentioned. Is this what needs fixing?"

"Yeah. I was trying to fix it, but actually I have no idea what to do. Do I need to get some concrete mix or what?"

Lowell jiggled the railing and studied its footing. "The concrete has come loose, probably rotted by salt you put down in the winter. But no need to get concrete. Anchor cement is what you need. It comes as a powder which you mix with water. It hardens to rocklike hardness."

"You mean they have something just for this problem?" He made a comic face that went beyond surprise to utter astonishment. Unlike his brother, he was not very handy around the house. Lowell in fact had fixed several things for him already during the spring.

Lowell regarded him affectionately. They certainly didn't look like brothers, not even half brothers, but they were very close. Bill had sandy hair (it was blond throughout his youth but now several shades darker), blue eyes, a nose that slightly resembled a ski jump in shape, and he was tall and slender—in all these particulars he was the exact opposite of Lowell, who was short and stocky, dark-haired and dark-eyed as well as generally darker-complexioned than his brother. His nose was prominent as well. People said the one feature they shared was their mother's square jaw, though even that would take a perceptive and close observer to see the similarity.

"If you want, I'll get some of the anchor cement at the hardware store tomorrow and fix it."

Bill nodded, but before he could speak they heard a squeal of delight from behind the screen door. "Uncle Lowell!" His four-year-old nephew Johnny had spotted him. He opened the screen door and came out onto the porch with a big grin on his face.

"Hi, Tiger. What have you been doing?"

"We was watching TV. You want to see?"

Lowell shook his head with exaggerated regret. "I've got to go pretty soon. I'm picking up a pizza for my Mom and me. Do you like pizza?"

Johnny solemnly shook his head up and down. "Oh, I do," he said very seriously.

Behind him Becky, carrying her baby, stepped outside. She was very pretty with a long, narrow face and straight blond hair worn short just below her ears. Usually she wore contact lenses, but today she had her glasses on. "Has Bill offered you something to drink? Would you like a beer?"

"No thanks, Becky. I really do have to get going in a few minutes."

"We'll have to have you and Pat over for a cookout this weekend. How does that sound?"

"That'd be nice."

The arrangements were made, and Becky, explaining that she had to get supper started, went back inside with the kids.

As soon as they were alone again, Bill asked, "Are you sure you can take a whole after-noon of the kids?"

"They don't bother me. In fact, to see you and the family was one of the main things that brought me back home. I especially wanted to see the boys grow up."

A strange look passed over Bill's face. For a moment Lowell thought he'd said something wrong. He gave Bill an inquiring look.

"Oh, it's nothing," he said in answer to the unspoken question. "It's just that I'm still adjusting to being number four around the house, that's all. Even my own brother puts me in that position. But it's all fine, really. Becky is a thousand percent mother."

Lowell tapped him on the shoulder. "You're number one as brother, believe me. But all's fine with you and Becky, isn't it? I hope so, because I envy you. I kept thinking about you and Becky with Laurie. The appeal was there—for a family, I mean. But something held me back. Maybe, you see, I'll never have boys of my own. If so, you can expect to have an indulgent uncle around."

"I wouldn't worry, Lowell. Something told you Laurie wasn't quite the one. But when you find the right one, you'll know it's the real thing. It gets to where it's not a choice you have to think about—the choice is already made. That's how it was for me with Becky. You'll find a woman like her. Don't worry."

Bill walked to the bottom of the steps, and Lowell followed him. "I hope so." He spoke doubtfully.

"No, really, Lowell, you'll know when it's right. For what it's worth, I predicted Laurie wasn't the one."

"You did? When?"

"After your vacation when you and Laurie came home a few years ago. Becky said something about hearing wedding bells in the family again, and I said I wasn't so sure."

This was very interesting. "How did you know?"

Bill shrugged. "I didn't really. Like you, I just had a feeling. Somehow she didn't seem quite right for you. Maybe because she grew up in a complete family, maybe she didn't understand how your life was. Something like that."

"Well, I guess she didn't. It does bother me, though, that all I had was a feeling. I could never really put it into words. That was disturbing, you know."

Bill nodded. He walked over to Lowell's car and examined it. "It's a wonder you didn't buy yourself a new car too," he said, looking at the rust and the many dents.

Lowell followed him over to the car and started to get in the driver's seat before stopping and leaning across the top. "I'd better go get that pizza. It's probably just about ready."

Bill leaned on the roof and started rubbing an area where the sun had faded the paint. "Hey, a bunch of us guys from work and some of my old pals around town are planning to have a softball game on Memorial Day. Would you like to play?"

"Yeah, that'd be fun. I left my glove in Chicago, though. Can I borrow one from you?"

"Better than that—I still have your old glove, the one you had in high school. I'll give it a saddle soap treatment and it'll be good as new. By the way, what did you mean when you said Murray acted strangely? What did he do?"

"He seemed to resent everything about me. It may have started because I didn't recognize him. Then again, he didn't like it that I was paying cash. You know, as if I was rich and he wasn't."

"Maybe he thought you were a drug dealer. Don't they pay for expensive German cars with a suitcase of money?"

"Maybe they do, but this was a Ford I was buying, and it wasn't hot money in a suitcase. Besides, he was hostile from the moment he came out of the office, before we'd exchanged a word. I'm telling you, it's really weird when a salesman shows hostility and resentment. Usually they're all phony smiles and friendly remarks. If I hadn't already decided on Mom's car, I would have walked out."

Bill stood up and rubbed his back before folding his arms across his chest. "Maybe he thought your nose looked Jewish."

"What? Me? Look Jewish? That's bizarre. I've never heard that before."

"Well, you don't. I'm just thinking of the Nazi mania. He's never seen your father. He probably knows you were born in a hippy commune." He frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then added, "Could be your name too. You know there's a well-known lawyer in town named Lowell Rosenberg who's Jewish. Some Jews like those Waspy names like Elliot and, well, Lowell. Murray certainly knows that."

"Well, after tomorrow I won't be troubled by him anymore—or be any trouble to him." He got into the car and started the engine.

"Tell Mom about the cookout."

"I will."

"And don't forget the softball game."

"I won't," Lowell said. Already he was looking forward to the weekend.

Dangerous Games

In the middle of eating his bowl of cereal with a banana sliced on top, Bill Paine looked over at the shelf where he had left Lowell's glove after giving it a treatment with saddle soap last night. It wasn't there. A feeling of extreme annoyance came over him, and he paused for a moment to compose himself before asking Becky, "Where's the glove I treated last night?" Despite the pause his voice still betrayed his exasperation.

Becky looked at him fixedly from where she was kneeling in front of the dishwasher. "I put it in the breezeway."

Without responding he went back to his cereal and the sports page in front of him. The Red Sox had lost yesterday on an error in the eighth inning, and he read a column about that until his cereal was finished. Getting up and bringing his bowl to the sink, he said, "I wish you told me. If you'd left before me, how would I know where it was?"

Becky, calculating the placement of the dishes in the full, if not overfull, dishwasher, did not answer at first. She took two smaller plates from the bottom rack and placed them in the top between coffee cups. "Hand me your dishes, would you?" she asked, then placed the bowl in the bottom and his glass on top. She stood and reached for the soap. "It's hanging on the hook by the door right next to your glove. You couldn't miss it."

Bill nodded on his way to the downstairs bathroom to brush his teeth. He felt angry and misused, and even angrier with himself for feeling this way. As he brushed his teeth rather savagely, he thought about his life as the father of two children and the husband of his college sweetheart. He didn't know what Becky expected of him. She seemed content with his providing the money that bought the clothes, shelter, food and entertainment for the two boys. She was glad when he helped around the house or played with the boys, but she didn't encourage these things; she didn't ask him for anything, in fact. It was as if all that was required of him had already been accomplished in providing the seed that led to the boys' births. Lowell, the eager uncle, now envies him, and in a role reversal that confuses Bill, looks upon his younger brother as a model. He tells Bill in so many words that he is a lucky man who has everything that life can bestow. Did he feel lucky? Did he have everything? He was an accountant, not a philosopher: he feels empty, dissatisfied, superfluous. He feels cheated. He in turn envies Lowell his freedom. Worse still, he feels guilty because he feels Lowell's point of view should be right. He feels he should be happy. Everyone except him, it seems, thinks that he is lucky.

He drove to work in Portland with Darren Bolt, alternating weeks as driver and passenger. Darren, who was recently divorced, began talking about it just a few weeks ago after months of stoic silence. "We dug ourselves into a hole until we found ourselves buried in hatred. We became strangers to each other," he said, looking straight ahead at the road and speaking in a low voice that sometimes was hard to hear over the noise of the traffic. "It was probably my fault. I was too involved in work, but the other thing I see is that we fell in love too early—before we were fully ourselves, you see. Becky was your college sweetheart too, so I know early love is not always bad, but it was for us."

Bill had listened to this account of the death of a marriage with an uneasiness he still felt. Becky was the only girl he had ever loved. In high school he had some girlfriends but nothing that ever approached the way he felt for Becky. Darren's belief that he and Becky were different from him and his divorced wife had the opposite effect, for Bill began wondering if he and Becky also had fallen in love before they fully became the people they were. He wondered if they were growing apart because they were becoming their real selves. His arguments with himself that they had simply hit a dead spot in their life together, that Becky was exhausted from being with the two boys twenty-four hours a day, and that their love was strong enough to withstand transitory misunderstandings were like a burr in his mind that the slightest thing (such as the misplaced glove) could rub into an open sore.

When he returned to the kitchen, Becky was going over her shopping list for the cookout later today and had a question for him. "Does your mother like rosé wine? We have some, but I've only seen her drink white."

"I don't think she cares. She only drinks one glass to be polite."

"But still it might be that she only likes white wine."

He sat down and began lacing his sneakers. Lowell should be arriving any minute.

"Well?" she asked.

"As I said, she doesn't really care."

"Is anything wrong?"

He looked up from lacing his sneakers to see her looking at him. Her mouth was set determinedly, but her eyes seemed puzzled, even hurt. It was her mouth he responded to, however. "No," he said in an airy tone that suggested that something was indeed wrong, but in the meantime Johnny, who was in the living room watching a children's show on public television while his brother slept, called, and she went to him instantly.

He had spilled his orange juice on the rug, and for five minutes Becky busied herself with the crisis, cleaning up the spill and lecturing their son on being more careful. Bill's impression was that she had totally forgotten he was in the house. "You have to hold the glass with both hands," he heard her say. "Your hands aren't big enough to hold it with one." She was not scolding him or yelling at him—she didn't believe in those techniques—she was, rather, explaining patiently as if he were a miniature adult.

Bill went down to the basement to collect a couple of bats and some new softballs. By the time he returned to the kitchen Lowell was just driving into the yard. Instantly his spirits lifted. A whole morning of having fun playing softball lay before him, the kind of fun that concentrated the mind so that he didn't have to think about any slight, any misunderstandings, any painful thing.

He went to the door and shouted a greeting to his brother. Hearing him, Becky came out wearing the gracious, lady-of-the-manor smile she always had for any guest or family member who paid them a visit. "Good morning, Lowell. Before you go, Johnny has something to show you." Johnny peeped out from behind her as she spoke and shyly stepped forward. He was hiding something behind his back.

Lowell walked over to the porch. "What have you got there, tiger? Are you going to show me?"

Johnny grinned. "It's your picture, Uncle Lowell. I drew it." He handed the sheet of paper to Lowell.

It showed an oval face with a happy smile and a shock of dark hair on a disproportionately small body wearing a red T-shirt and blue jeans. A tree and a house were in the background below a blue sky and a yellow circle representing the sun. Johnny had scrawled his name in the lower right corner in the way his mother had taught him, and below that in Becky's neat handwriting was written, "picture of Lowell by John Paine, age 4."

"Is this a gift for me, Johnny?"

"If you want." The artist smiled shyly, still clinging to his mother's leg.

"I do. I'm honored and I like it very much."

Bill tousled Johnny's blond hair and grinned as widely as his son. "Keep an eye on your mother, partner. Me and Uncle Lowell have got to go now."

Wasn't this it? His dream, his own boy, blue skies? He tried to make the joy he was feeling for softball channel into his other more real life with his family, but the kiss he gave to Becky was perfunctory. They drove away talking about Johnny and the game while he crammed Becky into a dark corner to be considered later. Lowell noticed nothing.

The plan was for them to get to the field early to claim it before the rest of the guys showed up half an hour later. There were two diamonds in the park—one for city league night games and one used by the middle school. The city league park had lights, two small stands holding about seventy people each, a backstop, and a well maintained infield; the other diamond, about three hundred yards away on the opposite side of the field, had no amenities whatsoever. It was used by the kids at recess and often was in very bad shape that could cause ground balls to take erratic hops. Both Bill and Lowell realized that the odds were against them getting the good diamond since people were known to claim it as early as six o'clock, and it was sometimes used for league games postponed because of rain and so forth. A holiday Monday upped the odds slightly, but when they arrived they saw the good field was already claimed by what appeared to be a large group, some of whom were in uniform. They drove by slowly to see if the early comers could be challenged to a game, but there were clearly two teams warming up. So it was the secondary diamond for them. They turned left on North Street and drove up to the parking lot of Wentworth Middle School. The school was one of those long and low one-story buildings reflecting the architectural taste of the 1950's and 1960's. Both Bill and Lowell had gone through grades five through eight here, and neither had fond memories of those years. The ugliness of the architecture matched the sad ugliness of their home life, for some of those years were the times of economic hardship and chaos. Bill's father had long deserted them just as Lowell's father had before him, and frequently the electricity would be turned off, food would sometimes be scarce, and some of their classmates treated them with contempt. But even then playing baseball on that field had made Bill forget every extraneous thing and lose himself in the game. What was more beautiful than a baseball field? He'd asked that before, and someone answered that the body of a beautiful woman was. Yes, but that was a different kind of beauty. Baseball belonged to the part of him that gave continuity to his life. Always it was a refuge, a place where time stood still. Both Lowell and he had played Little League, and both were on the Courtney Academy baseball team, though of course not at the same time and Lowell had been a bench warmer only getting into games with lopsided scores whereas he was a four-year starter at shortstop. After high school Bill continued playing softball, not in the night league but as today in spontaneous pickup games. Thus it was with an experienced eye that he examined the infield. Even though it was not maintained as well as the other diamond, it was in reasonably good condition, and the outfield grass was the same as the other field and mowed at the same time. Sometimes when he had played here before the game would be interrupted by a long ball rolling into their playing field from the other game. If it went this far it was usually a home run, so a player would simply retrieve it and toss it back to the other outfielders. That would be the only interference, and it was rare. Cars from North Street were far enough away not to distract one. And the weather today was perfect—the sky was almost totally blue with only a few wispy clouds lurking near the eastern horizon where five miles away the North Atlantic lay. A slight breeze was welcome on a day prematurely hot with summer's promise.

Dew still glistening on the grass wherever shadows lay made his socks damp as they walked about surveying the field. The dirt of the infield had a strong earthy smell that he liked. They started tossing a ball back and forth to warm up. Lowell said, "This is great," to which he smiled and nodded in wordless acknowledgment. The other guys were expected before nine. There were only going to be five, maybe six, on a side, so they planned to make right field foul territory. But then a pickup truck came into the parking lot and two women got out. They looked over to see Lowell and him but affected to be indifferent.

One was a very tall woman with a thin, angular face and stringy, nondescript blond hair, and the other was a heavyset woman, darker in complexion. They gathered an equipment bag from the back of the pickup and slowly walked over to them.

The short stocky one had a face scarred by acne. She had short brown hair, so short it was more like a man's haircut, and a face already worn, though Bill vaguely remembered her from high school. It looked as if she drank a lot, and yet her face wasn't hard. There was a twinkle in her blue eyes and a certain devil-may-care way she carried herself.

"Good morning," Lowell said politely. "I'm Lowell Edgecomb and this is my brother Bill Paine."

"Hi, guys," the short one said. "Nice day. I'm Tara Wright and this here"—she pointed with her thumb to her tall friend—"is Meg Sirois. We've come to play softball. We could use this diamond. Eight others are coming soon. I hope there's no problem."

Bill exchanged a glance with Lowell, who was smiling bemusedly at the staccato way the stocky woman had fired off her informational volley. "There might be. We have the same plan. We're expecting about the same number of guys to show up any minute."

"Oh, shit. There is a problem then." She looked at her companion, who rolled her eyes. "You've got dibs, of course, but...perhaps we could play you. That is, if you guys are any good." She said this more to herself, as if she were thinking out loud. But before they could say anything, she looked at them through narrowed eyes and asked peremptorily, "Well, you guys any good, or are you weekend wonders?" Despite her belligerent words, she grinned as she asked the question.

Bill exchanged another glance with Lowell, who was now grinning broadly. Here was a girl with attitude, his grin said. He shrugged. "We're okay. We can play the game."

"We play fast-pitch. We throw peas, so if you guys are looking for humpbacked camels, we ain't for you."

"Who's your pitcher?" Lowell asked.

Tara turned and regarded him for a moment. Her eyes narrowed. "Who's our pitcher?" She broke into a grin. "That would be me. I don't want to psyche you, but you'd be facing me."

Lowell returned her grin. "You've already psyched us, but we're willing to give it a go. Suppose we have a test while we're waiting for the others to come. How about pitching some batting practice to us?'

She agreed, and after warming up for a few minutes she told Lowell she was ready. Bill went into the outfield and Meg, who still hadn't said a word to them, stood fifteen feet behind home plate to return the balls. Lowell's first efforts were pretty ineffective—he missed several and fouled off a few more before he got his timing down. Then he started putting the ball in play, some good ground balls and some line drives hit with authority. "I'll have to keep my eye on you, Lowell," Tara said in a friendly tone that showed he had earned her respect, then threw him a change-up that completely fooled him just to let him know she wasn't going to be pitching batting practice during the game.

Bill took his turn but only got four or five pitches to swing at before three cars pulled into the parking lot. He hit everything she threw but not very effectively. He popped up her riser and beat her drop pitch into the ground. Today's game was going to be a challenge.

The guys came over with puzzled looks on their faces. Who are these two women and what are they doing here? their facial expressions asked.

"Change of plans, boys. We're going to play a women's fast pitch team," Bill said, then added after their faces expressed doubt, "I think it will be interesting."

Most of the guys who played in these games were townies, classmates of Bill's who went into the trades or factories after high school. Bill was the only one who went to college. They drank a lot, raised hell, sometimes got into trouble with the law for driving under the influence, disorderly conduct, drug use, or wrecking cars. Two of them, Pat Williams and Denny Genier, had been buddies since grade school. They were good carpenters and last winter had finished Bill's basement for him. Eddie Du Bois was a plumber's assistant and a jovial soul who was the class clown at Courtney Academy. His face bore a remarkable similarity to a squirrel's. He was also a good ballplayer who played the game the way Bill liked to—seriously but with grace. So did most of the other guys, but he was a bit worried about two of them. Bob Hanrahan and Ralph Johnson he didn't particularly like. There's a way to play hard and intensely without arrogance or ego where it was really true that it wasn't winning or losing but how you played the game that was important, but these two had never learned that. They hated losing and hated even more those who beat them. If they started macho posturing and sexist ragging of the women, trouble was going to occur. He'd only known Tara for half an hour, but he already knew she wasn't going to take any crap. He and the others would have to be ready to quiet Bob and Ralph if they started down that trail. But the prospect of having a challenging and interesting game was too pleasant to let him dwell too long on any problems that might occur. With a feeling of elation, he grabbed a bat and started hitting fungoes to the team.

Not long after they started warming up, a car drove into the parking lot, but nobody got out. The car waited there a few minutes before it was joined by two others, and then all the women emerged from their vehicles and gathered together. Tara went over and talked to them for a while. The conversation grew animated and sometimes voices were raised, though he could not hear the words. Obviously, though, some of them objected to playing men. But Tara prevailed, for in five minutes all of them walked over to the infield with their gloves and equipment. Bill was pleased to see that they had even brought canvas bases. Two of them went around the infield and attached them to the pipes buried in the ground at first, second, and third bases.

He recognized some of them. They were freshmen or sophomores when he was an upperclassman at C.A. The black woman, he recalled, worked with his mother one summer as a waitress. He even remembered giving her a ride home with his mother once, but the exact occasion and her name he couldn't recall. Phoebe Waite was the sister of one of his friends. He remembered she was a tomboy and would play baseball with them. He also recognized some others simply as faces he'd seen some time or other in town or in high school and recalled that at least some of them were on the C.A. softball team that won two state championships several years back. Belatedly he remembered that Tara Wright was on that team. She was much heavier now and looked older than her years. He suspected she and some of the other women lived lives not much different from the hell-raising life of some of his teammates.

Feeling friendly and glad to be having a much more interesting game than he anticipated, he went over and chatted with them for a while as they got their equipment out and got ready to warm up. He asked Phoebe Waite about her brother, who was a lifer in the Navy, and said hello to the black woman. She smiled shyly and seemed to recognize him but didn't volunteer any information. Then he went out to the diamond to field fungoes at shortstop. After ten minutes they went out to right field while the women had infield practice. Between shagging flies and fielding ground balls, all the men would steal glances at the women, trying to gauge their level of skill. Bill and Lowell told them that Tara was a good pitcher, but they didn't know about the rest of the team. Pretty quickly, though, they saw that they were going to have their work cut out for them.

"They don't look too bad," someone said, unconsciously using litotes. Bill had a college English teacher who drilled that figure of speech into his head, and he noticed its use all the time.

"Yeah," Eddie said, "I've seen some of these women play before. They are pretty good."

Bill nodded. "They're athletes. You can see that."

Bob Hanrahan spat and said, "None of them throw like girls, that's for sure."

"Times change," Eddie replied. "No one throws like a girl anymore."

"Hey, Tara," Bill yelled, "the guys think you all look pretty good. Hope you'll go easy on us."

Tara looked over and grinned. "We can be merciful," she said, then made a windmill windup and threw a pea to the catcher for their benefit.

Some of the guys yelled back the usual stuff: "Was that your change-up?" "I thought we weren't going to play slow-pitch."

One of the women was hitting fungoes to the outfielders. They watched a latecomer, a husband of one of the woman, dropping easy fly balls.

"You know what?" Pat said. "The worst guy on their team is the guy. What's he doing playing with them, anyways?"

"Every American thinks he can play softball," someone else said.

They watched the infielders gobble up everything hit to them, then throw bullets to first base that made a pop sound hitting the glove.

"What's the story? Have they played men before?"

"Christ, I don't know. I think they could play the Red Sox," Eddie said.

The one named Marilyn came over to retrieve a ball and overheard the question and answer. Bill had noticed her watching him closely awhile ago. He liked the way she carried herself. She was both very feminine and self-confidently an athlete at the same time. She wore tight shorts and had magnificent legs, and of course he like the rest of the guys had observed her mammoth breasts when she ran. She picked up the ball and fired it back to the women. "This is the seventh anniversary of our first state championship game. Does that explain anything?" She asked the question with the same mixture of demure femininity and self-confidence that her body language showed, followed by a mischievous smile that was unmistakably aimed at him. She was regarding him again, sizing him up. The mischievous smile had come after he seemed to pass muster.

"Yeah, I think I knew that. You're going to give us a good game."

"Good," she said with another smile. "I like to give a man a good game."

He was momentarily nonplussed. Her voice, dripping with sexuality, spoke directly to his solar plexis.

Lowell saved him from his mute idiocy by saying, "Maybe we'll need a handicap. We don't have a pitcher."

Tara had finished warming up and had come over. "I'll pitch for both sides, then. My teammates like peas both ways."

"Will you hit?" Lowell asked.

"We can work something out."

The game started with ten on a side, with a short outfielder as in slow-pitch so that everyone could play. The inept husband wisely confined himself to coaching third base for the women. It took the men three innings before they even got a hit off Tara. She struck out five and retired the rest on pop-ups, weak ground balls and lazy flies to the outfield. Only two reached base, one on an error and one on a walk (on the honor system since there was no umpire). The women in the meantime got three runs on three hits and—to the shame of the men—four errors. "We can't blame it on the pitching," Eddie observed with a grin. "It's us, guys." Most of the men reflected this good-humored response to the situation, but to no one's surprise Bob Hanrahan and Ralph Johnson grew noticeably sullen and quiet. Tara didn't help, what with her mouth working as much as her arm. She'd get two strikes on a batter and say, "You're going down now, my man. Here it comes, baby!" and similar remarks, all of which were said with a good-natured grin. She also had the grace to say "Nice hit!" to Lowell when he smashed a line drive right down the third base line which was caught in a great leaping catch by the black woman.

Bob and Ralph, scowling and gritting their teeth after they struck out on rising fastballs, didn't appreciate the banter. In slow pitch they were power hitters who ragged the other team without any trace of the good humor that Tara showed, so Bill actually thought it was good for them to get a taste of their own medicine.

Lowell, not knowing them very well, tried to give them a pep talk. "Hey, lighten up, you guys. You'll get your timing down next at bat."

"Easy for you to say," Bob said. "You would have doubled at least if that black girl hadn't robbed you."

Unfortunately they also struck out their second times around, and their mood grew even blacker. On the bench and listening to Tara good-humoredly rag Eddie when he came to the plate, saying, "The inning's over, girls. Our man Eddie is going to try to hit me," they began first muttering to each other, then speaking loud enough that the woman playing first base could hear them. When Eddie actually got a base hit, though only a dribbler that he beat out, Tara said, "You were lucky that time, Eddie. You know you can't hit my stuff."

Bob positively hissed as he glared out at the mound. "I wish that lesbian bitch would keep her mouth shut. She'll get it smashed if she doesn't."

"Take it easy," Pat said calmly. "She says the same things to the women when she's pitching for us. It's just the way she is."

"And besides," Denny Genier said, "you don't hit a girl, remember."

"This isn't a hitting a girl thing. Smashing a dyke in the mouth is different."

Lowell's head snapped around upon hearing this. His face blackened. "Hey, I don't want to hear shit like that. She struck you out. Take it like a man."

Several others nodded in agreement as Bob stared at Lowell through narrowed eyes. His fists clenched. When Lowell didn't back down, he said, "It's her mouth I'm talking about. After a while it gets rather obnoxious."

"Never mind her mouth. As Pat said, it's just the way she is. She's an exuberant player. She's psyching you, that's all. You know the score—you let your bat do the talking."

Seeing that his teammates weren't going to support him, Bob clammed up, but for the rest of the morning his stony face suggested he was playing under personal protest. Even when in the sixth inning several players got their timing down and tied the game with three runs, he remained unhappy and aloof, having contributed nothing to the rally.

Bill had watched the argument between Bob and Lowell with a strange detachment. Only if physical violence had been imminent and Lowell in danger was he prepared to intervene. The truth was that despite his resolve to monitor the two potential troublemakers on his team, his mind was occupied during the game with Marilyn and, indirectly, Becky. He found himself watching Marilyn at every opportunity. When she played left field he observed her from the sidelines, and between pitches when he was at shortstop he'd constantly steal glimpses of her sitting on the ground with her hands clasping her knees. Her first time at bat she hit a sharp line drive between the left and center fielders that rolled all the way into the playing field of the other game for a home run. "Nice hit," he said as she flew by second base, but he wasn't sure she heard him. Her teammates had all yelled "Timber!" when the ball left her bat. Later he learned that was their nickname for her as the power hitter on their team. He had struck out his first time at bat, not because he couldn't hit the fastball but because he was overswinging in hopes of impressing her with an equally mammoth blow. She was both pretty and plain, which was to say she wasn't pretty in any conventional sense—her nose was too short and her eyes too deep-set—but she was attractive and somehow had mastered the mysterious receptivity to male attention. She knew he was watching her because she was watching him too. Within the larger game they were playing a private game with their eyes. Wordlessly and by those exchanged glances alone he felt himself being drawn into her gravitational field. He kept thinking about her remark about giving a man a good game to such a degree that he lost his concentration a few times, even booting an easy ground ball that made him embarrassed enough to try to dispel her from his mind for an inning or two afterwards, though only with marginal success. And as much as he thought about her, he also tried reasoning with himself about this obsession. He was a married man with two kids, and here was a woman he'd never met before today putting him in danger of forgetting this most salient of facts. And how did he feel about this? Quite pleased, he had to admit. It meant he was still attractive, something Becky didn't seem to believe anymore. He had lost count of the number of nights she had turned away from him. He had been fighting the feeling of being neglected for months, had been struggling against the impulse to explode and become angry. He knew he wasn't being fair to her; almost every night she was awake for hours tending to the baby; sometimes she was so tired she would fall asleep at dinner. Nor did he forget that they had shared dreams together for many years, the principal one being the state of his life right now, living in their own home and having children along with a good job to give them security. So while he enjoyed Marilyn's obvious attraction to him, he was aware of vast reservoirs of shared life with Becky that made him feel safe in indulging in a harmless fantasy that could easily become a dangerous one. But that danger was what made it fun. She was giving him a good game all right.

Because his attention was fixated on Marilyn it wasn't until late in the morning that he realized something was happening between Lowell and the black woman. He had heard their first conversation when he was coaching third base during their rally. Lowell's triple was the big hit in the inning, but sliding into third base he had knocked the black woman down and was very concerned that she was hurt. After she assured him she was all right, they started talking between pitches.

"That was a great play you made on me my first time up. When the ball left the bat I was thinking of extra bases or even a home run because the left fielder was playing towards center."

She smiled shyly. "It was just reaction. I didn't have to think."

"That's why I like third base. When you have time to think there's more of a chance of making an error."

"I know what you mean."

Then a few pitches later she asked, "Are you from Waska?"

"Yes. I've been in Chicago for the last ten years, though. Just came home this spring."

She crouched in the fielding position, and then after a foul ball that rolled all the way to the school parking lot she said, "I've heard softball is very big in the Midwest."

"It is. I played in a night league in Chicago. There's zillions of them. I'm a bit rusty now, though."

"Oh, you play well. I heard someone call you Edgecomb. Are you related to Pat Edgecomb?"

"She's my mother."

"Oh, really? I worked with her as a waitress for a summer job one year when I was in high school. I liked her a lot. She was always good-humored even when we were so busy everyone else was snapping at each other."

"Yeah, that sounds like my mom. She's Bill's mother too," he said, pointing to Bill.

They introduced themselves, each recalling that ride many years ago. Her name was Fiona Sparrow.

That conversation had been simply routine as far as Bill could tell. It didn't register with him that anything further was developing until he started noticing both of them saying a few words to each other at every opportunity. A bit later he also came out of the fog Marilyn had induced in him to notice that she and Lowell were keeping an eye on each other just as he and Marilyn were. The effect of this observation was momentary embarrassment as he wondered if anyone else had noticed him and Marilyn.

When it started getting close to noon someone on the women's team suggested a lunch break. A discussion ensued wherein it was decided that Eddie from the men's team and Bette Curier, who played second base for the women, would drive to Amato's and get Italian sandwiches and drinks for everyone. To no one's regret, Bob Hanrahan and Ralph Johnson took this opportunity to make their excuses and leave. Lowell and Bill would have to leave by two o'clock for the family cookout, and with others having similar plans, they decided to play three more innings after lunch. In the meantime they got two more innings in without any change in the score before Eddie and Bette returned. It was 5 to 3 at the break. With the two malcontents gone, the atmosphere was much more friendly and they went together to the shade of some maple trees to eat. Several of the women had brought lawn chairs, but most sat on the ground. By a not too subtle maneuver Bill managed to sit with Marilyn at a little distance from the rest, and, he noticed, Lowell sat with Fiona, though closer to the main group.

For a while they talked about the game, but both felt an underlying secret tension that wanted to get into the open. He held back, however, until they had finished their sandwiches and the lunch break was almost over. Whatever he felt or wanted to say, he was too much of a coward or—to put his hesitancy in the best possible light—he had too much honor and feelings of fidelity to express it. Yet just as he experienced a mixture of relief and regret that any chance of going forward was slipping away, she began the process of bringing the undercurrents into the light of day. "You work in Portland, don't you?" She affected a too casual tone that confirmed to him that she was as interested in him as he was in her.

"Yes, but how did you know?"

"I've seen you getting out of work on Congress Street. It took me a couple of hours to place you, but I never forget a face—especially a good-looking one."

He grinned, feeling absurdly pleased. "Well, the secret's out. I do work in Portland. Do you?"

She shook her head. "No, I teach school in South Portland, but I do socialize in Portland. Most Fridays I have a few drinks at Tony's. Maybe I'll see you there sometime?"

He looked over at Lowell, who was deep in conversation with Fiona, then turned to see if anyone was behind them. "Hmmm. As a matter of fact I have been known to have a few drinks in Portland." He paused to see the effect of his little white lie. Her face was intent, interested. "Isn't Tony's a rock club?"

"It is later in the night. Four to seven it's just a good place to have a few drinks and meet people."

"Do people wear suits there? Casual Fridays haven't hit my place yet. They expect you to be zoot-suited up. I wouldn't want to feel out of place." He realized that by asking this question he'd already agreed to meet her.

She realized it too. The tension drained from her face and she looked pleased as she explained, "You won't. There's all kinds of people there—three-piece suits to tie-dyed T-shirts, dresses to almost topless. It's a friendly place. That's why I like it. I'm there by 4:30 at the latest."

His eyes had gone to her breasts when she said the word "topless." She saw his glance and for a moment he had the unpleasant feeling he was being manipulated. He nodded, not ready to make the final commitment. He looked over at Lowell again, as if he were a compass and his brother the North Pole. They were leaning against a tree side by side and turning to look into each other's eyes frequently. Sometimes Lowell would laugh and reach over to touch her shoulder lightly as if they had known each other for a long time. Lowell was by nature a quiet man, and his impression of Fiona was that she was shy and unsure of herself, so to see this behavior meant they found each other compatible.

"Tell me something, would you. What's the story with that black girl Fiona with my brother. Who is she? I know she once worked with my mother years ago, and I've even met her before, but I don't know her story."

Marilyn turned and followed his eyes over to the two. She watched them for a while, then smiled in a way that showed she was pleased. "That's Fiona Sparrow. She's my cousin. Her mother is my mother's sister. Her father was a black man from Boston, but he's never been around. In fact, I've never met him. She just graduated from USM and works at a halfway house for schizophrenics in Portland."

"Is she nice?"

"Fiona? She's so sweet she could open a candy shop." She turned and regarded them again. "They look like young lovers," she said as an expression of spontaneous pleasure grew on her face that he had never seen before.

It pleased him very much to see another aspect of her personality. She couldn't possibly have been trying to manipulate him. He stood. "Unless I get caught in the middle of something at work, I'll probably be at Tony's this Friday."

After that conversation Bill had even less concentration when the game resumed. He got a base hit, but it was almost by accident, for he could not clearly remember seeing the ball he hit. All he could think about was Marilyn. When she hit a sharp ground ball her last time up, he fielded it cleanly but was so flustered he threw the ball five feet over Eddie's head at first. That led to the women getting one more run, which turned out to be the last run of the game. At a little before two o'clock they stopped playing with the final score 6 to 3.

Everybody agreed they had a great time, and they made plans for a rematch later in the summer. He didn't get a chance to speak privately with Marilyn again, but he gave her a special good-bye with his eyes while he waited for Lowell to finish talking with Fiona. She looked at him as she got into her car and inclined her head slightly. Even that inconspicuous and inconsequential gesture was enough to send a thrill down his spine.

"It looked to me like you and Fiona were really hitting it off," he said to Lowell as they drove away from the field.

His brother looked at him and smiled enigmatically. "Remember the other day when we were talking about meeting someone and knowing she was the one?"

He nodded as he waited for the car in front of him to make a left turn.

"And that it would be a feeling? One you'd know?"

"What are you saying, Lowell?" He tapped the steering wheel impatiently. The driver ahead had had two chances now to make his left turn, but he was too timid and was waiting until there were no cars in sight.

"Well, just that I have that feeling. I'm telling you, there's something special about that woman. I felt it almost instantly. Then I talked to her for almost an hour when we had lunch, and it only confirmed the feeling."

The way now clear, he accelerated rapidly, going too fast for the residential street. He felt Lowell's uneasiness and slowed down. Lowell was a very careful driver. "Are you talking about love at first sight?"

"That may be too strong a word, but..."

"Well, well, well. This is most interesting. She's a shy girl, isn't she?"

"Yes, I'd say so, but after we started talking she lost her shyness. I think she felt something too."

"So did you make a date?"

"No, it was more vague than that, but still good. She gave me her phone number."

They came to a stop sign, and he stole a glance at his brother. His eyes were looking up into his mind as he stared dreamily into vacancy. "So what did you talk about for that hour?"

They drove on while he thought about Marilyn, trying to convince himself that it was just a lark to plan on meeting her.

"Our lives, I'd guess you'd say," Lowell said after some reflection. "I told her about dropping out of the University of Chicago, my father, how I never felt I fit in, things like that, and she told me she understood those feelings. She said she was the only black girl in Waska. And you heard her talking about Mom. She also said that besides being nice, she always felt comfortable with her. She said she met a woman last week who said to be black in America was to be schizophrenic, that people always had expectations about her and didn't see her. She said Mom saw her. And then she said—get this—that in that regard I was like Mom. She's pretty as hell too, didn't you think?"

Bill conjured up the image of Fiona and thought for a moment. Like Marilyn, she was not stunningly beautiful and she wasn't plain. Her dark eyes were very bright and intelligent, and when she smiled she exposed a sweet vulnerability that was attractive. Her teeth were a bit crooked, though, and her hair was too short for his taste. He didn't really think she was pretty, but he could see how Lowell would think she was. "Yeah, she's pretty—and well built too."

"Yes," Lowell said with a grin. "I noticed that too."

Bill felt himself blushing and quickly checked to see if Lowell noticed. He was still looking dreamily ahead, his mind filled with innocent and happy anticipation. The blush led to a rush of inchoate feelings—guilt, shame, a feeling of duplicity made doubly repugnant because he couldn't tell the truth to his brother, regret that he could contemplate betraying Becky, and confusion because he did not know what he would do or even who he was. He had been thinking of Marilyn's large breasts all the time they were speaking of Fiona. Already he was leading a secret life.

He turned right onto his street, lined with trees just beginning to achieve enough height to be thought of as real trees and not nursery plantings. His neighborhood was a new development, having been built about twenty years ago, and the houses were all small colonials not much different from the white one he lived in. They arrived home to find Becky and his mother in the yard looking at Pat's new car. Pat was pointing at something on the dashboard and Becky was leaning over to look at it. His mother was wearing a broad grin; Becky was politely curious. On the lawn near the driveway the baby slept in the windup crib with the sunshade up to protect his eyes and skin. Johnny was playing with the child-size basketball with the five-foot backboard, but stopped and squealed with delight when he saw his father and uncle. The scene was so Norman Rockwell normal that all thought of Marilyn evaporated from his mind as if she were a mere daydream.

"Daddy! I got three baskets in a row," Johnny said.

Lowell picked up the tiny basketball and took a shot, which banged off the top of the backboard.

"Did you boys have fun?" Pat asked.

"Take a shot, Daddy!" Johnny yelled.

Lowell retrieved the ball and tossed it to him.

"Yes, we did," he said as he squared up to take a long set shot. He let it fly. "Nothing but net," he said to Lowell. "We played a women's fast-pitch team. They were good, so good, in fact, they beat us."

"Mom, do you remember a girl named Fiona Sparrow?" Lowell asked.

"Fiona Sparrow?" She recollected for a moment, scratching her chin. "I surely do. She was a sweet kid. Shy as a fawn, and she needed looking after."

"Did you do that, Mom? Look after her?"

"Well, I taught her the ropes. She was raw, and some of the other workers took advantage of her. They would be told to go down to the basement freezer and get some more French fries, don't you know—chores they should have done themselves—and they'd say, 'Fiona, the cook wants you to get French fries.' The little filly would do it too, that is until I told her she was a waitress, not a kitchen girl. And sometimes a demanding customer would have her running in circles. I told her to be nice to nice people and ignore the creeps. There's a way to walk across a restaurant without seeing people trying to get your attention. I taught her that necessary little trick. I do believe by the end of the summer she could hold her own."

Lowell listened with interest to this story. "She was one of the players on the team we played. She remembered you. She said she liked you a lot. You were always nice to her."

"Hey, ain't I always nice?"

"Someone else has been very nice too," Becky said. She had gone over to the baby and was winding the rocking mechanism. "I mean you, Lowell. I was just telling Pat before you came that when my brother got promoted to vice president of his company a few years ago he bought my mother and father cruise to the Caribbean. I thought that was the best gift any son ever gave his parents until you got the car for Pat."

Pat laughed with delight. "Oh, it is the nicest gift anybody ever gave me. All the girls at the restaurant were saying they wished they had a son like you, Lowell. Ain't I lucky."

Lowell was by the backboard, feeding Johnny the ball after each shot. "It was really no big thing. I got all that money from the stocks. But I'm glad you like it, Mom."

"You're just being modest, Lowell. Really, it was a wonderful thing to do," Becky said. She gave Bill a sharp look.

Bill busied himself collecting the softball equipment from the car and pretending to be uninterested. He went into the house and down into the basement to put the stuff away. The now all-too familiar feeling of being neglected in his own house came over him, and he hated it. He either imagined or actually perceived in Becky's comments an implicit criticism of the way he treated his mother, and after hanging the gloves on hooks, putting the bats in a closet and the balls in a box on a shelf, he lingered for a moment thinking about it.

Before Lowell came home Pat was rarely invited to the house, a situation that he and Becky often argued about, though she would describe the exchange of words as a discussion. She would maintain that with a mother living in the same town, less than three miles away, it wasn't right to see her only on holidays and special occasions. At first he thought she was merely being conventional, finding it improper and a potential cause of wagging tongues, but although she was stolidly middle-class, it wasn't that. Nor was it any deep affection she had for Pat. Orderly and conscientious herself, Becky was the diametrical opposite of his mother. But she believed very strongly in duty, particularly familial duties. Coming from a close and loving family, she had no conception of what it was like to have a parent who, while loving and kind, was irresponsible and incompetent. To her the notion that parents were something to overcome—as if in water struggling not to drown they were a weight that pulled you down instead of rescuing you—was as incomprehensible as living in a tent when you could afford a house. Sometimes to shame him into being a dutiful son, she would ask, "Don't you love your mother?" Yes, he loved her. He knew she had a good heart and never consciously hurt Lowell or him, but he could not forget the way his friends' parents treated him because he was her son: as if he were not good enough. To this day he remembered the insecurity, anxiety and fear he felt that they would be forced to move again or their electricity would be turned off. He knew Lowell felt the same way, for they had often talked about Pat through the years. But here was his brother being praised for filial duty while he was relegated to the shadows. He remembered that the brother who stayed away for almost fifteen years and who would sometimes let three years go by without a visit to Maine was not he. When something was wrong at his mother's house he was the one who would take care of it. Unlike Lowell he couldn't fix things, but he could arrange to get people who could. This reality made him almost resent Lowell, something that was close to impossible since his brother was the one person who had inspired him to better himself when he was young. To the extent anyone had ever been a father to him, it was Lowell.

That thought was enough to shake him out of his funk. He returned to the sunshine under control and resolved to be pleasant. For the next few hours he played games with Johnny and Lowell, helped set the table and cook on the barbecue, and ate the meal, all with a pleasant demeanor and only an occasional dark thought or recollection of Marilyn. Then after they cleaned up and got both boys off to bed for a belated afternoon nap, and as they were sitting in the backyard on lawn furniture, Becky asked Lowell an innocent question that plunged him back into the shadows.

She asked him when he expected to start work on the cottage he was planning to build at the family lakefront property, and when Lowell answered that next week was the target date depending upon whether he got a permit or not, she said, "We did our basement last winter without one. I told Bill that was illegal and could get us into trouble, but he said it didn't matter. What do you think?"

Lowell looked at Bill, clearly not wishing to get between husband and wife, while Bill rolled his eyes to encourage his doubts. He shrugged and said, "Oh, I don't know."

"I told you, Becky, we were just putting walls up. There was no plumbing and only a little electrical work. A permit was just a waste of time."

In the bright sunshine she squinted and shaded her eyes as she looked at him. "If it's a waste of time, why is Lowell getting one?"

She turned and looked at Lowell, who nervously took a sip of beer as he exchanged another glance with Bill. "Well," he said after a deep breath, "it's different at the lake. There's all kinds of ecological and safety concerns. The water has to be protected and so forth. And of course it's a new building, not minor repairs to an existing one."

Bill clucked his tongue in irritation. Lowell had delivered the message he wanted, but instead of letting the matter fade away he suddenly felt he would rather annihilate her argument. "Becky has to do everything by the book, even when it's not necessary."

Ignoring his obvious irritation, she was maddeningly under control. "The neighbors saw those friends of yours doing the work. Sally McNabb told me she saw them drinking beer one day when I wasn't at home. What if the neighbors told the authorities about the illegal work?"

"Come on, Becky. Be reasonable. Neighbors object to things like fences or cutting a tree down that affect them. They don't care about the inside of a neighbor's house. Ask Lowell. He was a builder."

Still looking uncomfortable, Lowell drained his beer. "They might care if some work caused a threat of fire or whatever, but if it was just walls and a hung ceiling they wouldn't. Of course it's always safest to have a permit. The city can force you to undo work if they find out. I've known it to happen."

Pat, who had appeared to be dozing from the effect of her glass of wine, snapped to attention when she heard that. "Oh, Lord, so have I. One of my steady customers, Mr. Talbot, he has lunch every day at the restaurant and runs some kind of investment business or something to do with being a lawyer but not practicing law. Mr. Talbot, anyways, came in one day at his usual time looking like he'd swallowed an elephant whole. You know what he'd done? He'd built concrete embankments at his lake cottage without a permit, and he was found out. They made him tear it all down and fined him five grand. The work to take it down cost another five grand, and it had cost that to build in the first place. When he told me that, I was a bit worried about getting my tip that day. But bless his heart, he left me a twenty-dollar bill under his plate, four times the usual tip. It pays to be a good listener." She threw her head back and laughed heartily.

Lowell had been telling him that she looked like a laughing Buddha when her eyes disappeared into folds of fat. For a moment he noticed the accuracy of the observation; then he felt the bile rising in him. The truth was that he didn't know he was supposed to get a permit until after he hired Pat Williams and Denny Genier to do the work. They assured him it was not important. They rather preferred not having a permit, in fact, since that way they could get cash payment and keep the work in the underground economy safe from Uncle Sam's prying eyes. When he told Becky about this arrangement, however, she immediately suggested they have the work stopped. He didn't think he was ordinarily self-righteous, but to save face he refused. Both Pat and Denny often joked about marriage being the voluntary act of putting your neck into a yoke. He simply couldn't bring himself to tell them to stop the work. That was how the fiction that he knew about the permit requirement but still hadn't bothered to get one was born.

So he was a fool and felt like a fool, but he didn't fight the self-alienation from growing into hostility to Becky. Marilyn's face came into his mind. She listened intently to everything he said, positively hanging on every word.

"Well, it's too late now," he said, still thinking about Marilyn. "What's done is done and can't be undone."

Love and Hate

On their first date Fiona was so nervous her hands shook. They had gone to a movie and afterwards to a bar, where they sat at a table in a dark corner. The place wasn't busy, and the noise of other people and the piped-in music was minimal. They talked in generalities without any of the spontaneity they had experienced together at the softball game the week before. Her face was drawn, her eyes downcast; she did not smile. Just when Lowell was thinking that things weren't going very well and that something must have happened to change the magic he had felt between them a week earlier, he noticed her hands trembling, and then he understood. His heart grew heavy in sympathy, but before he spoke he excused himself and went to the men's room. Afterwards he stood alone drying his hands and thinking. When he got back to the table he told her the story of the electricity being turned off and how his mother had saved him and his brother from terror by saying, "Boys, tonight we get to camp out!" Somewhere in the middle of relating this anecdote he saw the tension drain from her face and her hands stop shaking. They had connected and since then had continued to connect.

During the month of June he saw her frequently, and when he wasn't with her, he thought about her. With construction of his cottage beginning, he spent most days at the lot. The foundation was poured, electrical service was hooked up, the septic tank and pipes installed, the artesian well dug, the rough plumbing was done and the water connected, and Fred McClellen's crew was close to finishing the framing. He worked with the crew and alone all through this process, and it was particularly when he was alone that his mind would dwell on Fiona. Shyness, like the dove of love in a secular trinity, came to mind whenever he thought of her name and face. Shyness was the lack of trust, not only in others but in yourself. Shyness could be outgrown, he knew, because he, once a raw and awkward youth, had done it. You had to trust yourself, but first you had to have positive reinforcement, experiences that verified your validity in the world. The world internalized, you gained faith in yourself. Getting her to trust him would lead to her trusting herself more. She would gain in self-confidence and become more in command of herself. Her hands had trembled because she was unsure of herself, but he was already making her see that she was cherished. He remembered how his heart went heavy, an instinctive reaction, when he felt fear. Empathy made another's pain his own. He remembered Laurie Heinsohn had appealed to him because she was quiet and gentle, and how her concern for the poor boy who was hit by a car instantly attracted him. So it was with Fiona. In a contest between peacocks and fawns he chose the fawns. In high school he remembered the revulsion that he would feel when he saw the star athletes and cheerleaders swaggering about campus swollen with the pomp and self-importance of a marching band. At the University of Chicago he had met many upper-class people who conducted themselves with a sense of entitlement, as if they were owed even more for having been privileged and pampered. We were creatures of flesh and blood; the slightest wrong turn could end in death; subject to disease and gnawing time, we lived in uncertainty; never could we be sure that anything we planned would come to fruition; bounded, limited, weighed down by more than gravity, what in this condition was there to strut about? Only the imagination and love were not limited. His people would always be the exact opposite of the strutting peacocks: people who felt as if they had to apologize for their existence, who were taught to expect nothing from life, who had to dig deep within to find the courage to assert themselves, who felt small, people whose hands trembled when something meant so much to them they felt they would die without it.

As he worked or perhaps paused with hammer in hand and tape measure at the ready to imagine where a door would go or a window placed, he would remember that his love for Laurie began in sympathy and ended in incompatibility. Was sympathy enough? Enough for love? The vulnerability that elicited a protective response in him was at least partially based upon identification. Perhaps he stopped to measure a length of floor and make a notation before Fiona's face again settled in his mind. Love is such a need that in proportion to its depth fears and doubts grow into monsters. There were many bad moments in the time of awakening love. Just as she was not fully formed, neither was he. He was not sure if this was good or bad. More likely you were never fully formed. Maybe that was what being alive meant: to still be seeking, growing, learning and changing. Maybe, though, it meant something darker and more scary. Maybe it meant the tiger prowled and the fawn trembled. He had left Chicago feeling something was calling him home. Bill and Becky he thought, since he was inspired by the kind of life they had; but just as likely because he couldn't find his father in the world, home was the only place to find himself. But wasn't going backwards an admission of defeat? He knew that was irrational, for he had built two successful lives in Chicago as a software engineer and a builder. But for a long time the doubts would not go away. He had to talk himself into the truth. St. George had to slay the dragon. Laurie had begun in the same place he found Fiona. What separated him and Laurie was incompatibility. She knew stability, he only chaos. Fiona had been estranged from life even more than he had. With each successive meeting their compatibility grew more obvious, both intellectually and, more importantly, emotionally. A feeling, nothing but a feeling, had kept him from the final commitment with Laurie. Likewise a feeling told him even more strongly than reason that Fiona was right for him. She in turn was undergoing a similar process, for last week when they had met for dinner in Portland while she was on a four-hour break from a double shift at Phoenix Landing, they had actually told each other of their love. Dinner over, they had walked down to Deering Oaks to spend together the remaining hour before she had to return to work. Their hands had sought each other, the warmth of their palms like a transformer connecting two circuits. The sun was low in the west and the clouds glorious Japanese lanterns of purples, pinks and oranges as they strolled past the duck pond. The beauty of love is that it made you love not just an individual but the whole world, life itself. "I love the evening, the quiet of it, its peacefulness," he had said, and she had answered in a hushed tone, "Isn't the sky lovely?" They had stopped and looked into each other's eyes. He had squeezed her hand. They both could feel love hovering between them like a beautiful butterfly, but first Fiona wanted to make sure no impediment, no misunderstanding, clouded that feeling. Haltingly she said, "Lowell, you know that I am a black woman. That's how I see myself, I mean. It's my identity." He understood her. He told her that it was perfectly all right with him. Although he was of English descent he had never emphasized it much because white Anglo-Saxons were the norm. He explained that racism had never infected him and that he cared nothing for what others might think. He had had black friends at the commune when he was a little boy, and his mother didn't have a prejudiced bone in her body. One of his roommates and good friends at the University of Chicago was a black man, and they had gone to demonstrations together when the Chicago police had brutally killed a young black man. He was glad she was a black woman since it was one of the things that made her who she was. He didn't want to change a thing about her. "I feel happy and content when I'm with you. The sky is lovelier now because I'm with you. I do, you know, love you, I mean. I love you," he had said, feeling some of Fiona's own shy awkwardness as he spoke. And brave Fiona, not shy Fiona, had said, "I love you too."

That was last Wednesday. They had spoken to each other on the phone but had not seen each other until today, the Saturday of the Fourth of July weekend, when they met in Portland. During the vacation season the staff of Phoenix Landing was called upon to work sixty-hour weeks, and Fiona's weekend duties spanned Friday night until two P.M. Saturday. He waited for her at Monument Square, frequently consulting his watch and pacing because he was too impatient to sit on one of the benches. He tried watching the crowds, the people feeding the pigeons and gulls, the traffic, but nothing made him forget the slowness of time, and his eyes mostly concentrated on the corner of the square where he expected to see her. Finally, at almost 2:30, his heart leapt up like Wordsworth's seeing a rainbow when he caught a glimpse of her. She was walking with quick, nervous steps through the crowd of tourists, and when she spotted him her face broke into a smile. She was dressed in blue jeans and a red, sleeveless jumper. He was similarly attired in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, appropriate clothes for a muggy day with temperatures in the low nineties. After shopping for a birthday present for Fiona's mother, they planned to dine early and then meet Tara Wright and Meg Sirois at the gate to see a Portland Sea Dogs minor league baseball game. If the shopping was finished early, they would kill an hour or so having a beer at some bar.

She came up to him, her face flushed. "Did you have to wait long?" she asked anxiously. "My replacement was late."

He shook his head. "What did you have to do today?" he asked, slipping his arm around her back and giving her a little squeeze. Both of them felt uncomfortable with displays of affection in public, so they did not kiss, but both wore happy smiles radiating a contentment and joy to be in each other's company so that anyone would recognize them as lovers.

They started walking towards the Old Port section of Portland with its many gift shops. "I did the week's grocery shopping with three of the residents."

"And that's a part of their training to live in society, I assume?"

They were about to cross a street but stopped for a car. "Yes. If they are to live by themselves, they have to know routine things. This morning one of them, her name is Ann Marie, wanted to buy candy, ice cream, pastries and such stuff. I had to lecture her on being prudent."

Lowell's face broadened into a grin as they hurriedly walked across the street as another car bore down on them. "My mother could have used that lesson. I remember one time we had chocolate waffles and ice cream for supper."

"Oh, I bet she did that to please you kids."

"Yeah, maybe. But she was a kid herself."

They went into the first gift shop, a place that specialized in nature. In the back of the store Fiona pointed to a large gray sculpture of a frog, then smiled in such a way that he knew what she was thinking. Gardening was a recently discovered pastime for her mother. Until Fiona's grandmother died a few years ago, she and her mother had lived in a succession of apartments. Now that they had inherited the house with its large backyard, her mother spent all her spare time there and had begun constructing a rock garden. Fiona's clever idea for a birthday gift was to get her an outdoor sculpture for it, perhaps a Buddha or an animal.

Lowell smiled in turn. "You're thinking this looks silly but in a pleasant way. You're thinking your mother will like it."

Fiona nodded. She reached down and picked up the frog, then handed it to him. "It's surprisingly light. What do you think it's made of?"

He hefted it for a moment. "I think it's some man-made material."

She looked disappointed. "You mean it's not really carved? It's manufactured?"

"Is that bad?"

She grimaced. "Maybe not, but I was hoping for something carved." She walked over to a sleeping fawn and examined it.

It was made of the same gray material, perhaps pumice that had been sanded smooth. "Maybe it is a sculpture," he said as he watched her, but she was concentrating on examining the fawn and didn't answer.

Finally she stepped back and looked again at the frog. "Do you think she'd like either of these?"

Having only met her twice, he didn't know her mother well enough to be sure, but by generalizing to all the rock gardens he had seen and the ornaments they contained, he was able to say that she probably would. Then, while Fiona tried to decide, he thought about her mother. Alice Sparrow was much different than he expected. She was so self-assured and competent, in fact, that she ran the shipping and receiving office at her company, though he gathered she wasn't all that well paid. But Fiona certainly didn't get her shyness from her mother. In one way only did he see a similarity between his and Fiona's mother. Both had left Waska for the larger world and returned home with a child. She had gone to Boston after high school with the vague idea of eventually going to college there. She lived in an apartment in Somerville with three other young women, one of them a friend from Waska and two they had met through the work they got in a place that sold sports memorabilia, particularly of Red Sox players. It was there she met Fiona's father, a tall, athletic black man who had swept her off her feet. She was in love with him and pregnant before she discovered he was an alcoholic and, worse, a mean drunk. When she tried to leave him he stalked her so that finally she had come back to Waska to escape him. That was all Fiona had told him about her father, and as far as he knew all she could tell him about the man who had fathered her. Her mother had never married and had had few relationships with men through the years. Lowell wondered if her experiences had poisoned her opinion of men, but he didn't feel ready yet to ask Fiona if that was the case.

She was very pleasant to him, so he could easily say that he liked her. He did not, how-ever, like shopping. He himself bought Christmas and birthday gifts as much as possible from mail order cataloguers, and when he bought clothes for himself he often ended up with things that didn't fit well or that he had second thoughts about after he got home because he was always in such a hurry to get out of the store. And yet, he thought, as he watched Fiona go from the fawn to the frog in an attempt to come to a decision, there was no place in the world he would rather be right now than here because he was sharing time with the woman he loved. Like the residents, he was willing to have many lessons on how to shop from this particular instructor.

Fiona finally decided they should continue searching. If nothing better could be found, then one of the two sculptures of uncertain material would have to do. They went through several other stores without finding anything remotely suitable so that the chances for the fawn or frog were going up, but a shop closer to the waterfront was more promising. It specialized in imported items from Africa, Asia and South America, and here Fiona was able to find a Buddha about eighteen inches high that was perfect. She bought it using the credit card she just just gotten a few weeks ago and was nervous and awkward signing the receipt since it was the first time she had used the card. Lowell, watching her, remembered her trembling hands on their first date and felt his heart go heavy again.

Outside she was embarrassed as she tried to put the receipt in her wallet while holding the bag. "I can't believe I was nervous doing that. I've watched people do it a thousand times."

"First-time jitters," he said. "Next time you'll be an old pro." He took the bag and carried it for her.

They had plenty of time for a beer. After they dropped the Buddha off at Lowell's car in the parking garage, she suggested they go to Gritty McDuff's, explaining when he crinkled his nose doubtfully that it was like an English or Irish pub where they brewed their own beer in the European way.

He looked at her suspiciously. "What are you smiling about?"

"You. I notice you drink American beer."

"Well, don't they serve that stuff warm?"

"No. It's not cold but it's not warm either. It's cool. I think you should try it. It'll be a new experience, and I think you'll find you like it. Almost everyone I know drinks microbrewery beer now. They call American beer Kool-Aid beer—you know, watered down. It's like American white bread compared to a real bread like French. Haven't you heard these things?"

When he still seemed reluctant, she said with a mischievous smile, 'What's the trouble? Do you have first time jitters? Is that why you're reluctant? If we have a drink with Tara and Meg after the game you can get a chance to have American beer then. That's all they drink—and quite a lot of it."

"Okay," he said, raising his arms in surrender, "I'll try it." He was actually already convinced but had been enjoying being cajoled by her. "By the way," he said as they walked towards the bar, "speaking of Tara and Meg. Are they more than roommates?"

"What do you think?" she answered with a smile. "They've been lovers since high school. You don't object, do you?"

"No. How could I? I believe in love."

"So do I," she said.

His first impression of Gritty McDuff's was favorable. It was moderately busy, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. The atmosphere was gemütlich, the decor, as Fiona had told him, continental. The first thing he noticed after the people who had turned to look at them was the hundreds of ceramic beer mugs hanging from a rack on the ceiling behind the bar. They all had names or emblems that identified them for the regular patrons. A long pole with a hook on the end to snag the mug from its mountain crevice was leaning against the mirror. The bar itself was long and made of dark, highly polished wood. The hardwood floors were worn smooth where people walked across the long and narrow room. Instead of looking grungy, it had a folksy, lived-in appeal. The walls were decorated with posters of rugby and soccer players. The one thing he didn't like was the lack of small, private tables; instead the tables were, like the bar itself, long and narrow, and the seats provided were benches. They had to sit at a table near the entrance to the second, nonsmoking room where two couples had already established themselves. Their conversation was accordingly somewhat constrained; mostly they talked about the baseball game they would see and the rematch of the softball game, the plans for which were going to be finalized tonight when they saw Tara and Meg. The two couples, tourists who had just spent a week at Acadia National Park, were mostly discussing its beauties and contrasting it with Yosemite, Yellowstone and Great Smoky Mountains national parks, on the whole quite favorably. The tourists didn't leave until they had almost finished their beers. Once alone and having the table to themselves, Lowell, feeling less inhibited, began joking about the beer. After his first few sips, which he didn't like, the taste began growing on him. He joked that he had learned his lesson and bowed to her superior wisdom, but stopped when he suddenly noticed her face had become very serious. Concerned, he asked if something was wrong.

She smiled nervously, then took a sip of beer. Replacing the glass on the table, she leaned forward and in a low voice said, "Lowell, I just found out something that is very disturbing. I've been thinking of a way to bring it up all afternoon."

His first thought was a selfish and insecure one. Her serious and deeply troubled tone made him panic and fear that something was going to separate them. Just as he felt his heart quicken, she said, "It's about Marilyn...and your brother Bill," and then after a moment of relief he began panicking in a different way. If Bill, his north star, his vision of normalcy in an insane world, and the main reason he had come home after Laurie had left him, was throwing his life away, what was there to hold on to? And yet he realized that he knew what she was going to say before she said it. He had begun noticing something wasn't right between Bill and Becky ever since the cookout after the softball game a month ago. Last weekend he had not showed up for a promised visit to the lake to see the progress on the cottage and had not offered any explanation for his absence. He also seemed guarded every time they had talked lately.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm not sure. I mean I'm not sure what the situation is. All I know is that Tara told me this morning when she phoned me at work that they saw each other in a bar a few weeks ago and at least once more last week. Someone on the team, she didn't say who, saw them."

Lowell absorbed this information with difficulty. "You mean by design, don't you? It wasn't an accident."

She shook her head. "No, it wasn't an accident."

"So you're saying Bill is cheating on his wife Becky?"

"I don't know that. But what worries me is that I do know my cousin. She's had relationships with married men before, so even if your brother thinks it's something casual, she wouldn't necessarily look at it that way."

Lowell nodded absently. "I'm trying to see what's going on with Bill and Becky. They have two boys, one of them just a baby. I think Becky's concentration is on the boys. She was born to be a mother. But isn't that what Bill should want, a good mother for his sons?"

"I don't know," she said with a sigh. "I have no experience here. None of my good friends are married with kids."

They were both silent for a while. The waitress came over and asked if they wanted another beer, but he said no.

When she left and they were alone again he said, "Do you think I should talk to Bill?"

Fiona finished her beer, then watched a large black man walk into the bar. As he passed by he frowned at her. "One of the reasons I hesitated to share an apartment with Marilyn was because she rarely goes more than a few months without a man in her life. I don't know, Lowell. I think she's a dangerous woman. I like her. She is my cousin, and we've been friends, good friends, for a long time. But I don't trust her. I don't know what you'd call her. If she was a man, she'd be called a Don Juan."

Lowell watched the black man go into the inner room of the bar. He'd seen a few white people look at them disapprovingly and was sure Fiona, with her background, had noticed far subtler looks. This was the first time the tables had been turned and a black person showed what he was thinking. In his mind the danger he felt from Bill's behavior became associated with these strangers who disapproved. Both made him feel uneasy, as if he was walking near the edge of a cliff, and he was not thinking too clearly when he asked, "Has she always been like this?"

She nodded, it seemed almost reluctantly. "In high school she stole the boyfriend of one of the other players one year, and it caused a lot of problems with the team. We even lost two games we should have won. At the dinner when she asked me to be a roommate, she even said that she believed all's fair in love and war. Then she was talking about some teacher at her school. Now a month later it's Bill, I guess..." Her voice trailed off.

She looked down and stared at her empty beer glass. Lowell found himself thinking of his nephew Johnny. How could Bill do something that would hurt that little boy? Didn't he remember his fatherless days? He started feeling angry, but looking up he saw that Fiona had thought of something. "What is it?" he asked. "Do you have an idea?"

"It's only that I was thinking about Marilyn and her selfishness in love. If we can't expect any restraint from her, it all depends on your brother."

"Well, if you'd asked me a month ago I would say Bill and Becky were solid as a rock. But he did seem to have a lot of resentment of her at that cookout. I didn't quite believe what I was seeing, though, because every other time I've seen them they seemed like a perfect couple. I don't know anymore. I don't know."

After this conversation dinner at the Tandoor Restaurant was a somber affair, though it did teach him something else about his relationship with Fiona. Minutes would go by without their talking, but instead of making him uncomfortable, he saw that they were two people who could get along well in silence, and the realization pleased him. During those silent intervals he thought about what Bill's actions would do to his worldview and his sense of self without any clear resolution until the waiter came over to clear the dishes away. A tall, light-skinned Indian with shiny black hair styled in something of an Elvis hairdo, he asked Fiona if she would like some Masala tea. "I remember the last time you were here you liked it." As Fiona smiled, both pleased and embarrassed to be remembered, the uncertainty and uneasiness he had been feeling suddenly lifted. He vowed he would do all he could to make things right between Bill and Becky again, but he realized that the center of his world now was Fiona. Only she could make his world disintegrate, and because he loved her and she loved him, that was not going to happen.

So it was with a lighter spirit that they walked from the Old Port section down the hill to the stadium near Deering Oaks. They arrived early and stood near the main gate, which was their place of rendezvous with Tara and Meg. The Sea Dogs were popular in southern Maine so that the crowd, augmented by tourists, was a large one. People streamed by in couples, groups of single guys, and a surprising number of families with children wearing their excitement like a red balloon for everyone to see. A scalper, if one could call him that for a minor league game where the tickets were not very expensive, came up to them and asked if they needed tickets. Another man, with bored wife and two smiling, excited boys in tow, asked them if they knew where section C was. They told him it was their first visit to the park and did not know. Soon after the family disappeared through the gate and into the stadium, where from the sounds of the crowd someone was putting on a show during batting practice, a man walked by and scowled at Fiona. He had a scar across his unshaven chin that showed up like a white clamshell on a bed of seaweed, and standing over six and a half feet, he clearly intimidated her. She moved closer to Lowell for security. They exchanged a wordless glance that reconfirmed their love. She had told him that her mother used to say, "It's us against the world." The world was mostly benign or indifferent, but when it did show its teeth it could be scary. He wanted to tell her, it's us against the world, but the glance they exchanged had already said that. He put his arm around her back and held it there. He began thinking of Bill, almost amazed that he wasn't central to his life anymore. Bill was betraying love. It disappointed him. It hurt him. It had even momentarily thrown him off stride, but it did not touch his core. He drew her closer to him, now comforting and being comforted. Then he noticed a man handing out leaflets some thirty or forty feet away that were of the same yellowish-orange color that the man who had scowled at them with a look of the blackest hate had had in his hand.

"What's that man doing?" he asked.

She looked across the crowd and shrugged. "I don't know," she said in a quiet, small voice. She was still frightened.

Just then the man turned and Lowell recognized him. The scrawny body, the pronounced Adam's apple, the ratlike eyes, the thinning brown hair: it was Rett Murray. Remembering what Bill had told him, he grew uneasy for the second time today. He watched him intently. Murray said something to everyone he tried to give a leaflet to. Most people refused it without looking. Some others accepted it, glanced through it as they walked along, and then threw it with what looked like disgust into one of the trash bins in front of the gate. A few became angry and said something to Murray. The noise of the crowd didn't allow Lowell to hear the words, but the tone and body language told him that the leaflet contained offensive material, probably Nazi or KKK stuff.

He nudged Fiona and pointed with his eyes. "That's the man I bought my mother's car from. The guy's a Nazi or a Klansman."

They began discussing why Tara and Meg were late, the implicit subtext of their conver-sa-tion being the uneasiness they felt in Murray's presence. The uneasiness was well founded because at some point Murray spotted them. Lowell could tell that he was recognized, but at first nothing happened. Murray went on thrusting leaflets at people's hands and saying something to them. Sometimes he answered angry retorts he would get; sometimes he would simply shrug indifferently. It was clear that he had no expectations of convincing many people of his political opinions. He was looking for the one percent or so who would be receptive. Too late Lowell realized Murray had formulated a plan and was slowly making his way towards them.

He looked up and down the street hoping to catch sight of Tara and Meg, who were now very late, but they were nowhere to be seen and there was no escape.

Finally Murray was close enough to accost them. "I have a leaflet you should read, Edgecomb. It's about the mongrelization of America. By the looks of things you should definitely read it."

"I'm not interested. I'm waiting for some people, and then we're going to a baseball game."

"Don't you have an open mind? You haven't read it and yet you reject it."

"I don't have to read it to know what it says." He could feel Fiona's muscles tensing up and could feel her psychic tension even more powerfully. "Would you please leave. We have no interest in talking to you."

Murray glanced at the people who were starting to gather round to listen to them. He had an audience now, which was probably the reason he confronted them. "Maybe you don't, but I'm part of society. You live in the same society. What you do has an effect on me. You've forgotten that you're an American. Doesn't it mean anything to you that your ancestors came from England to start a new country? Do you think their plan was to make a place where miscegenation became commonplace? I don't, that's for sure. I think you're betraying your ancestors."

"This is ridiculous. What possible business is it of yours what I and Fiona do? Good grief! Why don't you mind your own business and get a life."

For a moment only the muscles in his cheeks twitching indicated he had heard and taken in Lowell's heated remarks. When he spoke, however, he maintained a calm, businesslike tone. "You think your life belongs to you? It doesn't. It belongs to society and to your race. You have a duty to avoid the mongrelization of America."

"Bullshit! Again I tell you, mind your own business. If there's any duty here, it's your duty to respect the rights of others and keep your racist garbage to yourself."

Murray grunted. "Read this leaflet before you shoot your mouth off." Again he tried to hand it to Lowell, who roughly brushed it away.

"I'm not reading racist garbage. Do you understand?"

A wild look of anger flashed across Murray face, but he was a coward and kept his temper. He stepped back and shrugged while pursing his lips. "You know, Edgecomb, I thought at first you were a Jew boy, but now I see it's even worse. You're betraying your race. You're a traitor. Don't think you can get away with it."

Lowell clenched his fists. "Are you threatening me?"

"Just some friendly advice, that's all. I wouldn't care if you and that..." He paused before he said something like "black bitch" and said with a curl of his lips as offensive as any words he could choose, "that woman were lovers if you were a Jew. But your lineage is Aryan. You have responsibilities."

A tall, rather distinguished man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and gold-rimmed glasses resting on a prominent nose had stopped and listened to the argument. He was growing angry and having a hard time keeping himself under control until Murray's use of the term "Jew boy" became too much for him to take. He stepped forward right in front of Murray. "I know you. You're the man who was arrested in front of the temple. Why don't you take your Nazi garbage to the nearest dumpster and while you're at it throw yourself in too, because you're garbage as well, you scum."

Murray held his ground and coolly regarded the man. Although Lowell was sure he was a coward, he was clearly used to confrontation and was not afraid of it. If that was a kind of courage, he had it even though it was the courage of a hissing snake. "You ever heard of free speech?" he asked calmly. "It's guaranteed by the Constitution."

"Yeah, slime, that's typical of you people. You use part of the Constitution to spread your venom and ignore the rest of it, like freedom of religion and equal protection under the law."

They were still face-to-face, only a foot apart. "I'm just standing up for America, mister. The founding fathers didn't plan on making it a menagerie. It didn't plan on the Jews buying up all the media so that all you hear is Jewviews."

A cop had finally come over to see what the trouble was and heard the last part of this exchange. Seeing him, the man with the gray beard said, "This man is trying to incite a riot. he's done it before. He should be arrested before he succeeds."

"I can't be arrested for speaking my mind. At least not until the Jews buy up all the courts too."

The cop was stereotypically big with a red face and pronounced paunch. His dark eyes looked tiny in his massive head. It didn't appear he had much disagreement with the view Murray was espousing, for all he said was, "I can't arrest a man for talking. Why don't we all just go our separate ways and avoid trouble."
As the policeman spoke Lowell saw Tara and Meg making their way to the front of the crowd. He could see that Tara must have heard part of the conversation and had a pretty good idea of what had happened. She also appeared to recognize Murray.

The cop stood between the man with the gray beard and Murray, causing the former to rejoin his wife and begin walking through the gate, but not until he had delivered a parting shot. "I hope you find yourself in jail before many days go by. Either that or an insane asylum. A freak like you belongs in a cage."

Murray ignored him, possibly didn't even hear him. He kept his eyes trained on Lowell and Fiona. The cop gave him a little nudge, saying, "Okay, buddy, move on," but he too had a parting shot. "Remember what I said, Edgecomb. You're being watched now."

"Jesus Christ," Tara said. "That Nazi was at you guys, wasn't he?"

Collectively they turned their back on Murray and joined the crowd surging through the gate. It was almost time for the game to start. Before they got to the ticket collector, Lowell stopped and let people pass. His hand, which had never left Fiona's back, could feel her agitation, and he wanted to give her a moment to collect herself.

"What would you like to do?" he asked.

She looked as if she was about to cry. "I think I'd like to go home," she said quietly.

Tara turned and glared at the retreating figure of Murray. "That dirtball. I'd like to have him come up to the plate when I was pitching. I'd take him out, that's for sure. He said racist crap, didn't he?"

Meg, who was as quiet as Fiona, showed that she had a sense of humor. "Did you ever notice that these guys who talk about racial purity and so forth aren't exactly in danger of being confused with Mr. America? From the looks of that Adam's apple on his chickenlike neck, I'd guess he had a vulture for an ancestor."

Fiona managed a wan smile while Tara grinned broadly. "Yeah, consider the source, Fifi. The guy's a loser."

Lowell, trying to comfort Fiona, put his arm over her shoulder and drew her to him. "Yeah, he is. Do you know him? He's a Nazi."

"Yeah, I've heard all about him. He was at C.A. with us. Fifi," Tara said in a softer tone, "don't let that scumbag get to you. If he ruins your evening he's won."

Unfortunately it looked as if he had already won, for she was crying now. "I'm sorry," she murmured to Lowell. "I'm sorry I caused—"

"Hey, it wasn't your fault," he said quickly. He knew she was going to say that she brought this incident on him, and he couldn't bear to hear her say it. He could feel the loneliness of her humiliation. Murray had addressed only him, but it was her fragile spirit he had poisoned. Something in her eyes told him that she was considering sacrificing her love as the only way to make them safe. He could feel her going very far away from him and he couldn't stand it. He would rather die. "It's not your fault," he repeated. "It's not our fault. That man is unspeakable. He's sick. He's distorted. He won't have any effect on us."

He spoke with ferocious assurance in an attempt to drive his own doubts away. He understood exactly how she felt, robbed of innocence and with choice, and therefore freedom, narrowed. Like her he was confused and afraid, possessed by the feeling that weeds were proliferating in the same soil where the flower of their love grew and were draining its life away.

A Gathering of Like-Minded Men

Rett Murray woke up on Saturday morning feeling hungover. The headache that caused a sharp shooting pain whenever he moved his head was not, however, caused by drink. He had given up alcohol years ago when he committed himself to the Nazi Party and had led a Spartan dedicated life ever since. Whenever he had been tempted to take up drinking again, he only had to think of the example of Hitler, who was a teetotaler, to quickly squelch the desire. Following Hitler had had other consequences as well. He had lost his wife, who divorced him because of what she called his obsession with evil, and he had no social life outside of the party functions he attended. Having never smoked, he could think of himself as one without vices. Yet being a Nazi monk was the cause of his ersatz hangover. He was up until three o'clock in the morning reading a book by the British historian David Irving about the Holocaust. Denying that that event ever occurred was one of the topics scheduled for discussion at the monthly meeting of the party at Len Carter's compound outside of town. He planned to have much to say about certain other topics, things that Carter would not like, and that too was perhaps another cause of his headache.

He swung his feet onto the floor and sat at the edge of the bed waiting for his head to settle. He lived in a one-room furnished apartment. It had a bed with creaking springs and a mattress older than the White Mountains, a bedside table, a bureau, and a kitchen table with one chair for the furniture. In one corner a small sink, counter and cabinet setup and refrigerator made up his utilities. A hot plate on the counter was for cooking, or rather for heating up canned goods, but it wasn't used as much as the small microwave oven in which he heated the frozen meals he mostly ate. A television on a stand with casters, a rocking chair, a radio by the bed and a small bookshelf were his contributions to his domestic comfort, and for personal touches he'd mounted a photograph of his grandfather's farm and a couple conventional prints, one of the German Alps and one of the seacoast of Maine. He'd wanted to mount a portrait of Hitler, but the landlord, Murray Foss, who was a distant cousin and who had found out he was a Nazi only after he had already rented him the apartment, had nixed that plan. "I don't want any Nazi stuff," he'd said. "What you think is your own business, but I might lose a renter if there was any monkey business." That was three years ago, after he had moved out of his house and been divorced by his wife. It was a quiet place with the only disadvantage being the garrulous old man, Tom Belcher, who lived downstairs. Rett was a loner.

After he had breakfast, taken some aspirin, and washed up in the bathroom he shared with two other tenants in the hall, he was just settling down to look over some notes he'd made on the Irving book when a knock on the door interrupted him. It was Tom Belcher, who was just going down to pay the rent and offered to bring Rett's with him. The way he peered into the room told Rett Belcher's actual reason for the visit was to have a chat. He was a lonely old man, a conventional Republican in his sympathies who disliked what he called foreigners. He liked to talk about Hitler, if only to have something to talk about. Rett used to indulge him until he saw he was not going to change the old man's mind much. But Belcher was never one to be discouraged from trying. As Rett wrote his check on top of the bureau, he stepped into the room.

"What do you think of that guy in Austria who's trying to keep foreigners out?"

"What do you think? Of course I agree with him. Don't you?"

A sour look came over Belcher's face. He pressed at his stomach and emitted an eponymous sound. "Sorry," he said with an embarrassed grin. "Breakfast didn't agree with me. But yeah, I can see his point. I used to say to Walt Pingree, the fella who lived here before you did, that too many foreigners were coming here. I agree with you, see? It's just that you go too far. We should pass laws to keep them out, and one to make the ones already here speak English."

"You've got the right idea, Belcher. These spicks come here and expect everything to be in their monkey lingo. Did the Germans and Scandinavians see such a thing? No! And I'll tell you something else, Belcher. It makes me want to puke when they rant about their ethnic pride. They leave an inferior society, one which is a complete mess because of their Catholic medievalism. They come to a superior society and tell us they're proud of their ethnic background. If they're so goddamned proud of it, why'd they leave? Why don't they go back to Mexico, Puerto Rico, and the Dominican Republic, that's what I'd like to know."

Despite his resolve, he was getting heated. Belcher, in the act of sitting down on the kitchen chair for a nice little chat, brought him back to himself. "I'd like to talk more, but I'm in a hurry. I've got a meeting."

Belcher looked crestfallen. He stood up instantly before his butt had hardly touched the seat. "Okay, but I think the problem can be solved with laws. That's the American way."

"Doesn't seem to be working, though, does it?" Rett said at the door. "We added thirty million more people at the last census. It's both new and old immigrants. Once they get here they haul the whole family in behind them, and of course they multiply like jackrabbits. We're being swamped, I tell you."

With Belcher out of the way, Rett gathered his papers into an old leather briefcase and left his apartment. First he walked downtown to buy the morning paper, and then back at his car he spent a few minutes looking it over for any pertinent articles. No stories of particular interest to the Nazi cause could be found, so he put it in his briefcase and drove to Carter's compound upcountry.

It was a cloudy, humid July day, and the open windows of his car made it difficult to hear the country station on the radio. He passed his grandfather's farm where his father had been born. It had passed out of the family three decades ago, and because the developer had cheated his grandfather, no one in the family ever got a cent from it. The old man had been forced to sell because he was in debt, so there wouldn't have been much money anyways. Now ten colonial houses stood where cows had grazed, one of which belonged to a Jewish lawyer in town. Every time he thought about that fact, Rett would indulge in a pleasing fantasy whereby he as a Nazi official with a Judenfrei document would drive that Jewish family off Saxon land. But mostly he was a realist. The work he was doing was on the long road to a pure Aryan America. Even when he thought that it wouldn't be realized in his own lifetime, his work sustained him. He had been a soul lost to alcohol until Len Carter had rescued him for a life of service.

He had first come to the compound about a week after meeting Carter at a bar, where they had talked for several hours. Carter had asked him many questions. One he remembered was about the Serbs. He'd answered that the Croats, Albanians and Muslims were like the Irish in Massachusetts. They moved into a superior society and by sheer numbers alone, not intelligence, not ability, not initiative, they took it over. He answered many other questions in a similar manner as Carter kept buying him drinks while nursing his own scotch and soda. Only next day when he'd sobered up did he realize he was being tested. He must have passed, for a week later Carter called and asked him if he'd like to see a little operation he was setting up.

He had loved the compound at first sight. He remembered the excitement he felt on that day every time he drove up its long driveway. Its self-sufficiency was one appeal. In two locations— a bomb shelter under the farmhouse and a special humidity-controlled room in the barn—there was enough food, water and supplies to keep ten people alive for months. A large fence with sophisticated electronic equipment surrounded the compound. In three different locations, portable electrical generators and large gas tanks were ready to supply power to the compound. Besides the house and barn, the compound consisted of several other buildings, all of them connected by narrow underground tunnels high enough for a man to walk, and one of which was a cinder-block building that housed the Nazi headquarters. It had several phone lines and computers, a small printing press and various office equipment and emergency gear such as shredders, photocopiers, fax machines, short-wave radios and the like. In the back room was a small weapons cache consisting of a dozen 38-caliber pistols, an equal number of high-powered rifles and a few shotguns. Carter, a wealthy man who owned two automobile dealerships and shares in several other businesses, had bankrolled the entire operation, including the weapons, though his innately cautious nature made sure no automatic weapons or illegal explosives were on the property so that he would have no trouble with the FBI or the Bureau of Alcohol, Firearms and Tobacco. He was very disturbed by the troubles of a fellow white supremacist out west who had had all his property confiscated in a civil suit and had made sure he was never in danger of a similar action in Maine.

Rett felt at home here and often wished that Carter would invite him to live on the com-pound. He was the chief's lieutenant, after all, and knew every aspect of the operation. One of the small outer buildings was a cottage, originally built for one of Carter's sons, that was now empty; it would be perfect for him. He had hinted as much to Carter, but Mrs. Carter, a pale, gray, worn-out, old woman who didn't have the gumption to oppose her husband in almost anything you could name, didn't like him, and for some inexplicable reason in this one issue alone Carter deferred to his wife.

Rett was hoping to arrive early enough to have a private chat with the chief, but as he approached the gate he saw that it was already open and that Bobby Maclean's motorcycle was parked in front of the party office.

He found Maclean in the inner office working on the computers. He was a self-pro-claimed skinhead in his early twenties and a college dropout. Tall and skinny, pale, almost albino, with white-blond hair and blue eyes, possibly handsome except for a pockmarked face, a pronounced Adam's apple and a hooked nose from where it had been broken in a fight, he was a quiet, sullen young man, though he would have occasional bouts of motor-mouthing. Today he was in his default sullen mood, for when Rett asked him, "Where's the chief?" he took a long time to answer. He was running some diagnostic utility on the computers, which they had been having trouble with recently, and his eyes peered intently at the screen. Finally he stroked at his blond crewcut with a spiked Mohawk running across the crown of his head and looked up.

"He's talking with his wife about something."

"How's the traffic on the web site?" Rett asked. "It was pretty good last Wednesday."

Maclean was their computer man. He had set up their web site and took care of their three computers. He also trained the men on how to use the computers and how to conduct a chat-room session. Carter paid him a part-time salary for this work, though Rett gathered it was a labor of love. He hated Jews, blacks, Hispanics, and all other nonwhite people. Often he listened to the dreadful racket of skinhead bands while he worked, groups with names like Angry Aryans, Nordic Thunder, and Blue-Eyed Devils. He was so crucial to their operation that Carter, who favored Beethoven and Mozart, let him play that noise. Today, though, he was working in silence for some reason.

His attention went back to the screen for a minute or so; then he looked up. "We've had eighty-five hits since yesterday. Thirty-three downloaded our Mongrelization PDF file."

Rett whistled. "Not bad. Sounds like I'll be busy later today." They opened the chat room on weekends and Wednesday nights, and Rett did a four-hour session on Saturdays and Sundays and ran the Wednesday session on his own. He was a little jealous of the computers since they generated much more action than the recruitment drives using old-fashioned leaflets and talk, which were his purview.

Maclean shrugged. "We're not in the big leagues yet, but not bad."

Rett sat down and started reading the paper, but before long he went back to his notes, and when that too couldn't keep his attention, and when it became obvious that Carter was not coming to the office until the meeting at 9:30, he started thinking about Lowell Edgecomb and the black girl he'd confronted. He had a lot to say about them.

A half hour passed while he sat in one of the leather chairs in the outer office and Maclean worked silently at the computer. Then two cars drove into the parking lot and the other four active members of the party arrived.

Darren French, who with his scar and permanent scowl always accompanied Rett on recruiting and propaganda excursions like the one last week in Portland, was the first one out of the car—a tiny import that barely contained his huge six-foot-six frame. With him was Douglas Douglas, known to one and all as "DD." He was short and portly and worked at the same factory in Bedford where Darren worked. Ted Cummings and Ron Turner got out of the second vehicle, a sporty pickup truck. Ted ran a gun and tackle shop in town. He had gotten into the Nazi world through his work with the National Rifle Association. He was a phlegmatic man about fifty years old, whose sons often joined them at these meetings. They were on a fishing trip to northern Maine this week. Ron Turner was a friend of Ted's and the newest member of the permanent committee. Like Ted he was an outdoors man and a rabid NRAer. He was lanky with huge feet that even in summer were covered by heavy work boots, and he was also non-too bright, which in Rett's opinion was an observation that applied pretty generally to all of them except for Carter and himself.

They, at any rate, comprised the hope of the white race in Waska, Maine. Four or five others joined them occasionally and a couple hundred passive supporters helped with e-mail and regular mail drives to contact Republican senators and representatives, but these were the men committed enough to come to meetings and planning sessions. The first thing they did was to get the coffee machine filled and brewing. Rett had forgotten to do it because he did not drink coffee, but being Carter's lieutenant he was not criticized openly, only with a few glances through narrowed eyes. The men talked about Ted's sons and their fishing trip as they waited for the coffee to brew, and as soon as it was done, promptly at 9:30, Len Carter came into the office.

He was of medium height and stocky. He wore a suit coat and tie during the workweek, and his only concession to weekend wear was to do without the tie. He was about 55 with deep furrows on his high forehead before it merged into his balding scalp, and the lines running from the corners of his nose down past his mouth were so deep that his chin almost looked like a wooden dummy's. But his craggy Yankee face was nevertheless handsome. In his youth he was rumored to have been a lady's man. One thing that was not at first apparent but which was the source of his power over his own sex was an aura of suppressed fury that could be read in his eyes. Most people, including Rett, who had thought about him a lot, were afraid of him. He was wealthy and used to command. Rett called him Len but always with the feeling he was being granted an unspeakable privilege. The rest of the group called him Mr. Carter.

He strode into the room with a sheath of papers clutched in one hand and immediately sat down on the leather chair placed in front of the other chairs. The group, which had stood upon his entrance, waited for him to settle down before resuming their seats.

Maclean poked his head out of the inner office and gave the chief a look.

"The computer problem is fixed, I presume, Maclean?"

"Yes sir. Looks like it was a corrupt font. I've also been reworking the link to the Nazi Party headquarters. It seems they've changed their web site and it doesn't work anymore. I think they've been having trouble with hackers."

"Jewish hackers, you mean."

"Yeah, Hebe hackers. May they rot in hell."

Carter nodded in agreement; then his expression changed and he was all business.

Maclean went back to work. The policy discussion was none of his concern.

"What I have to say is important, so listen up. I've got some papers for you that gives the answers to any question you're likely to be asked in the chat room. I want you all to read them and become familiar with them. Have them on hand when you're manning the lines. I'll go over some salient points now, but remember the thing is this: when different people are on the phones or the chat rooms online, we've sometimes given different answers to the same question. This is bad, very bad. What I want established is an official stance. We don't want to confuse people. To speak with one voice is of the utmost importance."

DD stirred in his seat. An overweight man who had little self-confidence because he had always been teased about his name and his weight, he appeared very ill at ease. "Can I ask a question, Mr. Carter?"

When Carter nodded his head slightly and looked at him expectantly, DD said, "Are we conforming to what the national party says?"

"Yes," Carter answered sharply. "With a few provisos. We're in Maine, so we have a different perspective. For example, we don't have many niggers in the state because those jungle bunnies like warm temperatures. So we don't need to be giving people advice on how to deal with them."

Here Rett felt he should interrupt. "Remember I told you about that Lowell Edgecomb and his nigger girl, Len. We do have a problem."

Carter nodded curtly. "I'm going to ask you to speak about your recruitment drive later. You can tell the others about the matter then." He looked down at his notes. "The main thing today, though, is addressing the problem of the Holocaust. We do have Jews in Maine—too many of 'em—so this is important. As the book says, what we want to say is this: Hitler and the German government knew nothing about the killing of Jews. If someone asked how is it possible for millions of people to disappear, you're to say that in wartime things aren't like a quiet New England town meeting. Things are chaotic. If you want to be clever, remind anyone who challenges you of the missing kids hysteria a few decades back. Kids' faces were put on cereal boxes and milk cartons, and we were told up to a million kids were missing. When the hysteria died down, it turned out nationwide a dozen kids were missing. So tell the caller the numbers are exaggerated hysterically. Emphasize the hysteria of the Jews. They've got a stake in this Holocaust. It's one of the things along with money they've got the U.S. government by the balls with. But you also all read David Irving's book. Remember some of the things emphasized in it. The Nazis were planning on moving the Jews out of Europe, to Madagascar or Israel. At Auschwitz there is no scientific evidence, no proof whatsoever, that gas was used. There are absolutely no traces of cyanide. The so-called death showers have no holes in the ceiling where the gas was supposedly dropped. If anyone says they've seen films of piles of dead bodies, tell 'em typhoid epidemics were the cause. Especially, though, you're to emphasize that it is in the interest of the Jews to say there was a Holocaust. They want the Christian world to feel guilty so that no one notices they're taking over the government. Remember, more Russians, Poles and Germans died than Jews. Any questions?"

Rett leaned forward in his seat. "Only the big one, Len. The one we've talked about before." He and Carter had discussed the matter privately many times. Rett liked the Holocaust and thought it was one of the best accomplishments of the Nazis. Carter didn't disagree, but besides his focus on winning hearts and minds, and beyond his generally cautious nature, he was essentially not a violent man, or at least not violent unless it was the last resort. Rett was trying to voice, in a nonthreatening way, the basic disagreement between them. "When conditions are right," Carter said, "we can talk about getting rid of the Jews by whatever means are best. I don't disagree with you, but we have to be practical."

He spoke in a tone that precluded disagreement, so Rett shrugged to indicate his disagree-ment but with a facial expression that was conciliatory to show he understood the necessity of being prudent.

"Any more questions?" Carter asked.

Ted Cummings had one. He raised his hand. "So what are we to say to a guy who calls or logs on who thinks like Murray? The Holocaust happened and it was good? Let's continue the work?"

"Well, if you're sure of the guy, okay. But it could be a provocateur or a journalist, so I'd be very, very careful. Let me remind all of you why this is important. We're trying to win hearts and minds. The war now is a war of ideas. America is becoming mongrelized. More and more dark people are swarming in. The Jews want them for cheap labor, so the immigration laws are ignored. Now think of it like it's selling cars. You've got to sell them to people who have doubts. Too many people get squeamish about killing. We want to save the white race, and especially the white Anglo-Saxon race. That's our goal. Whites are still the majority. If we could get everyone who's white to work together, we could get rid of all the Jews and darkies. But we've got to get them on our side first. But let me be clear. Of course I don't mean that we mollycoddle the Jews. Say it loud and say it boldly anytime anyone asks: the Jews are evil incarnate, grasping, greedy, hypocritical, arrogant and standoffish. If anyone asks what would things be like when the Jews are completely in control—when they control not only the money and the Jews media but the government and the military as well—tell them to look at the arrogance and inhumanity with which they treat the Palestinian people. That's how they'd treat us if they could."

Ron Turner, with a doubtful look on his face, raised his hand. "Could you explain again how the Jews are behind blacks and other niggers coming into the country?"

Carter thought for a moment, then started on what he called the Socratic method. He admired the ancient Greeks, maintaining they were Aryans and the founders of western civiliza-tion. "The white race is heading towards extinction in America. That's a fact unless we do something. The country is being overrun by spicks, Asians, black, brown and yellow people, many of them not even Christian. Tell me something, Turner. Do you meet many, or even any, white people, white Anglo-Saxon people, who like this, who like it that their country is being stolen from them?"

Turner shook his head. "No, even some liberal friends my wife knows don't like it."

"Uh huh. Mind you, it was bad enough when those Italians, Greeks and Slavs, those people from southern and eastern Europe, came here, but they were at least Christian, though Catholic. But what's the difference?"

Turner smiled at the easy question. "They was white."

"Yeah, they were white. They started speaking English and acting like Anglo-Saxon Protestant people. But how are these black, brown, and yellow people going to do that?"

"They ain't."

"Okay. Now here's the crucial question. If your ordinary American doesn't like being swamped by foreigners, who does like it?"

"I guess the answer is the Jews, but I'm not sure why."

"You're right it's the Jews. Why? Because they control the money. If foreigners come they can pay 'em less. That's the first thing. But the second thing is just as important. The more aliens there are, the weaker the white race is. The Jews always use divide and conquer as their technique. You've read The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, so you know that. The third thing is this: what do people say to you around Christmas time?"

"Merry Christmas?" Turner said doubtfully.

"Your friends do, sure. But what about people in stores when you buy something? What do they say?"

"Oh, I see. They say 'Happy holidays.'"

"There you are. They're told to say that by the Jewish owners of the stores. And in the Jews media that's all you hear, that and Happy Hanukkah. So who's behind it? The Jews, of course. They're jealous of Christians, see? The eternal outsider wants to belong. They've got everyone trained now to be ashamed of Christmas. It's insensitive, see, to wish anyone a merry Christmas. What they want, see, is for us to be ashamed of being Christian. The more nonchristians there are, the better the Jews like it. Does that answer your question?"

While Turner said "Yes, sir," Cummings caught the chief's eye. "I've got another question, Mr. Carter. One of my sons asked me the other day, and I was confused, I admit. He asked what's our position on immigrants fleeing communism. Like Cuba or China or Vietnam?"

Carter listened to the question with a deepening frown which made everyone nervous that he was going to explode, but then he flicked his hand as if shooing a fly away. From his tone of voice when he asked, "What the hell do you mean?" he was obviously trying hard to keep his temper.

"What I mean is, we don't like socialism and communism, but we don't like foreigners either. So when someone asks me, for example, what we thought of Cubans and the Elian Gonzalez thing awhile back, what do I say?"

"What do you say? You say we don't like foreigners and we don't like communism. It seems pretty simple to me. But maybe you're wondering if we should like foreigners who hate communism?"

Cummings nodded nervously. He still looked genuinely perplexed.

"Well, use your common sense. Most people probably don't like communism. It's no ticket to our country if they do. Usually these wars that happen are caused by our Jew govern-ment meddling with other countries to help the rich Jewish businessman. The people who come here after we've made a mess of things are just rich businessmen as good as Jews. Most of those so-called Vietnamese who came here in the seventies were really Chinese who ran Vietnam. Those chinks are called the Jews of Asia, you know. So you got it straight now? We don't like foreigners. We don't like 'em even if they're saints."

Rett was rather inattentive as Carter spoke, partly because he had already discussed most of these points with Carter and even more because he was concentrating on what he would say in a few minutes. What he wanted to accomplish would require tact and discretion, but the strength of will and the ability to convey conviction that he had felt within him last night was more difficult to find as the moment approached. He wanted to disagree with Carter and carry the boys with him, but he could not forget that he owed everything to Carter, his job as a salesman and junior executive at the car dealership from which he made a good salary before the child support was deducted from it, his calling as a Nazi, even his emotional stability. He had been Carter's lieutenant for over five years. They had grown very close, with something like a father-son relationship, since one of Carter's sons had repudiated the old man's Nazi ideology and the other one was more interested in money and being respectable. The one who repudiated his father, a lawyer living in the Boston area, had even married a Jew. He was disowned and never mentioned, but the other son visited home frequently and helped run his father's businesses. But because of this family situation Carter had made Rett his ideological son. Close as they were, however, they were different personalities, and issues had arisen between them. Rett thought Carter had lost his edge. He emphasized winning hearts and minds. The war right now, he maintained, was a war of ideas. Rett didn't dismiss the importance of ideas—Mein Kampf was his bible—but he saw that Hitler was also prepared for action, the Beer Hall Putsch being but one of a series of acts that led to Nazi ascendancy. Sometimes—and last night in the sleepless predawn darkness was one such moment—Rett saw himself as Hitler and Carter as Ernst Röhm, the man who originally organized a private army to destabilize the Weimar Republic and to protect Nazi meetings. Hitler was at first an underling of Röhm's but managed to outmaneuver him and gain the party leadership. Wisely Rett kept these ideas locked securely in his own mind and regarded them even in his secret musings as in the realm of daydreams with only a slight and long-term chance of being realized. The impediment, if this cautious prudence could be called that, that stopped him from attempting to realize his daydream was not the lack of ambition; rather it was his feelings for Carter. He liked and respected him for his dedication to the cause of white supremacy. He wanted to change the chief's mind, not overthrow him. But he also wanted power.

When he got up to speak, standing a few feet to the left of Carter and facing the men, he was initially calm because he talked about his recruitment drive in Portland, the easy part of his speech. The drive was a success, he said, though not because of numbers. New active members were nice, but the purpose of going to the public was to get out the word and create sympathy for their cause. The number of hits on their web site the past week indicated the level of interest that had been created. The success of the demonstration they had staged at the temple last year was of course not matched by choosing a baseball game as their venue, but still it was a success. Two skinheads showed interest in joining the party when he talked to them, but they hadn't contacted him yet. All this information Rett delivered in a matter-of-fact voice, but he felt himself growing nervous as he approached the second item he wished to discuss. He looked at all the men watching him closely and exchanged a glance with Carter. His nerves failed him even before he spoke. But he rallied somewhat after taking a deep breath. He would say it anyways, come what may. "But the most important finding from this event was that we discovered a case of mongreli-zation right here in Waska. That half-breed nigger girl that's been in town all these years and staying out of trouble now requires our attention. As you probably all know, she was seen with Lowell Edgecomb, the son of some hippy and that waitress Pat Edgecomb. I've checked around and they are in fact lovers. The question is, what are we to do about this situation in our own backyard?"

He looked up at Carter to see if he had a green or red light. Carter was listening with an affected nonchalance. "I think we should consider some action—action," he hastily added, "that will have great propaganda value. I think a little visit out to where that nigger girl lives with her mother is in order. I don't mean," he again added quickly when he saw Carter frown, "any violence or any burning of crosses type of business. But I did think we should do something like this: paint on their house 'no mongrelization in america.' Scare them off, you know. And it's bound to make the papers."

"Just a minute, Rett." Carter's eyes were flashing dangerously. "What do you men think of this idea?"

There was a general stirring of chairs and some murmuring, but nobody spoke. They all knew from Carter's tone that he didn't like the idea.

After a few moments, Rett broke the silence and defended himself. "I was thinking of doing it really late at night. It could be something they wake up to. We'd be long gone. I like it because I think it's part of the war of ideas but has a touch of action to it. We'd be making a statement."

Carter leaned back and crossed his legs casually. Only his eyes looked dangerous. "Don't you think everybody would know who did it?"

"But could they prove it?"

"They could if you got caught, if you were seen in the vicinity."

The men murmured their assent to this observation, and Rett felt himself totally defeated. His plan of carrying the men with him so that Carter would have to concede to his idea was beyond him. He hadn't been even remotely able to pull it off the way he imagined last night he would. He wasn't going to be Hitler and Carter wasn't Ernst Röhm. He was a follower and Carter, who with nothing more than a look in his eyes had imposed his will on the men, was a leader. He could only face the facts and accept it.

But it wasn't easy and it hurt like hell. He tried to take comfort from the thought that he was not ruthless enough. He liked and respected Carter, and that's why he couldn't outmaneuver him. It was his human decency that stopped him. For the rest of the meeting he kept trying to convince himself of this conclusion, but he wasn't successful. Mostly he felt like a loser. But when the meeting broke up and the men went outside to their cars, he caught Darren's eye. When the big man came over he asked him, "Do you agree with me or the chief?"

Without hesitating, Darren said, "No. I agree with you. I can see the chief's concern and his caution because he's afraid of being sued, but we'll never make any progress if we only talk to people. At some point we have to do something."

Rett nodded. He watched the door to make sure Carter wasn't coming out. "We'll have to lie low for a while, but then we can figure out what to do. That nigger lover and his nigger girlfriend shouldn't be able to flout their evil."

After that exchange Rett breathed a little easier. His inner Hitler wasn't dead yet.

Secrecy

Other people, particularly women, called Marilyn Prence a predatory female. If they meant to insult her by that epithet, they sadly missed the mark. She didn't care what others thought of her, especially other women. She was a woman who knew what she liked, and she liked sex. It was her way of loving the world she had been born into. Earlier, as a girl, she learned to love the world in similarly direct ways. She was a tomboy who loved sports, especially soccer and softball and in the winter to a lesser degree hockey. She was naturally muscular and strong (a condition that continued into adolescence and adulthood), and she maintained her muscularity without the need to work out much. In softball, which by the time she got to high school was her favorite sport, she was a power hitter and an outfielder with a great arm. But even before she played organized sports, and for as long as she could remember, she loved physical activity, running, skating, kicking a ball, swinging from a tree, or even more elementally she reveled in physically being alive to sensations, the feeling of being a presence in a world that was material: the feel of grass under her feet, the flexing of muscles when she walked, the tightening of her buttocks and crotch when she stood up, the feel of rain on her head, the goose bumps on her arms when she got wet and a breeze washed over her, the taste of ice cream and the feel of the cold slivering down her throat, the urgent and rhythmic sound of waves pounding on the beach. In all these ways her reality was primarily physical even before she found out about sex.

That momentous discovery came when she was fifteen. Her mother had been divorced for several years, during which time she had had a series of live-in lovers. One of them initiated Marilyn into the exquisite pleasures of sex while her mother was at work one day and she had played hooky. This arrangement lasted for several months, a period that seemed timeless in its intensity and which made her old love for running and jumping and hitting a ball seem almost dull. Especially exciting was to be living a secret life, experiencing the most unbelievably intense pleasure during the day while her mother and sister and fellow students were going about their mundane affairs. It ended when her mother confronted her with a dozen forged notes to the headmaster; the truth came out when Marilyn was forced to explain what she had been doing during all those days when she wasn't in school. Her sister Tammy had helped her mother in extracting the information so that ever after that day Marilyn was more or less estranged from her two closest relatives. The man, of course, a lazy layabout plumber of thirty-five with blond hair and a movie-star face, was thrown out of the house and disappeared from her life. She was grounded for two months, and after she was allowed her freedom again she found a boyfriend at Courtney Academy who was her own age. The relationship didn't last very long, however; the boy was an inept lover and afraid of the kind of experimentation she had enjoyed with her mother's lover. It seems her experiences with the handsome plumber were formative in another way as well, for when she began having sex with the boyfriend of one of her teammates on the Courtney Academy women's softball team, she found the sex more intensely pleasurable because it was done secretly. She had numerous liaisons through the years, many of them one-night stands and others conventional relationships that lasted for months, but the best ones were always illicit affairs with married men. Secrecy was a turn-on and a revenge against people like her sister and mother who disapproved of her. The plumber had taught her the importance of protection, so she never got pregnant or caught any venereal diseases.

She was not very pretty and knew it, but she also knew she wasn't plain either and that her best asset was her magnificent body. She was very proud of her large, firm breasts, her almost perfect legs, and her muscular, rounded posterior. Using these attributes, she knew how to attract men and had self-confidence to an extraordinary degree. She loved her body and loved to display it, to make men stare at her and lose all self-control. She knew her body gave her power over men, power that was almost as delicious as sex itself. So her body made her feel invulnerable, and liking that feeling too, she grew hard, vowing that no man would ever control her. She did lose control sometimes, but it was caused by an exhibitionist impulse that in her early years was compulsive. In college, which she attended on a softball scholarship, she got a job as an exotic dancer in a sleazy nightclub and got a rush from sexually exciting scores of men at the same time, some of whom tucked ten- and twenty-dollar bills into her secret parts when she danced just for them. She came back to her dorm room that night feeling exhilarated and would have continued the work if the softball coach hadn't found out about it and made her quit. Other times at parties she caused minor scandals when some man would doubt that her breasts were real and she would display them and allow the man to feel for himself. Women often hated her for these bold acts of exhibitionism, but aside from most of her teammates and some of her relatives like Fiona Sparrow, she didn't care a fig about their opinions. But in time she brought this impulse under control too. She schooled herself to be self-contained in everything except sexual activity itself, and then she was so totally uninhibited that many men told her she was the wildest filly they had ever ridden and therefore the best lover they had ever had. She was proud of that too.

It was, in fact, the basis of her identity and to a certain extent her philosophy. She sometimes said all's fair in love and war to people. Most thought she was being flippant or merely joking, but she meant it. She took life as she found it at an individual level. Abstractions like politics, religion, morality or ethics were of no interest to her. She read women's magazines but rarely books. She wasn't prejudiced, perhaps because she grew up with her cousin Fiona Sparrow, who was half black; but she didn't give much thought to social problems like poverty, racism or injustice; she had only a slight interest in abortion rights, though she did think most antiabortionists were sexually repressed yahoos; and she was indifferent about ecology and pollution. She did watch what she ate, however, preferring natural food, because maintaining her body was extremely important to her. She expected to marry well some day, but to the extent she planned ahead that expectation was not to be seriously pursued until she was over thirty. Now she was young, in her twenties, and didn't the world belong to the young? She was selfish and self-absorbed, but then wasn't everyone? At least she was honest with herself. She knew the score and played to win. These two clichés were also part of her philosophy, though when people asked what her philosophy was she would simply shrug her shoulders and say, "Live and let live," knowing that she was being hypocritical but thinking they didn't have to know it.

Bill Paine had entered her life serendipitously. She had come to play softball with women and had not expected to meet any men, but once there she noticed he looked at her with a hunger in his eyes that she recognized instantly. The other men there, like all men all the time, stared at her swaying breasts and perfect legs as she ran and were mentally undressing her, but Bill Paine's expression was different. He had a need that he didn't know he had. She always recognized it, and especially when the man was good-looking, though even good looks were not always necessary if the man displayed a certain macho self-confidence, she was ready to be receptive. She trusted those glimpses into the inner man; to her they had a validity beyond words. Words could lie, but spontaneous displays could not. The body was a truer guide to reality than what a person said. Words were weapons, she knew, for that is how she used them. The teacher she had been bringing along, Brian Hadley, was still on her mind, but she believed in keeping her options open, and then when she went over to retrieve an errant ball and Bill said, "You're going to give us a good game," she had the perfect opportunity to verify the hunger she had seen in his eyes which he didn't know he had. "Good, I like to give a man a good game," she said.

It worked. The words went right to his groin. Now she was ready for further opportunities. It was a good sign that he couldn't keep his eyes off her during the game, and just as she hoped, they made plans for a meeting at Tony's the following Friday.

She arrived at Tony's early and accompanied by a teacher from her school, who drifted off with a man a half hour after they sat down at a table in the back. A renovated warehouse, Tony's was very spacious, almost cavernous. It had high ceilings that showed the beams and utilities, a long bar perhaps fifty to sixty feet in length, and numerous tables scattered across a rickety wooden floor. Later strobe lights and wall sconces would illuminate the place, but now it was dark with the only light coming from narrow high windows fifteen feet above the floor. She sat facing the door, nursing a beer, and kept away other men who came up to talk to her with opening lines that were supposed to make her rip her panties off from their cleverness. She'd heard them all before, though often she let the men think they worked on her because she liked their looks. But not tonight. Bill came in about quarter to five. Quickly she found that she could read him like a book. When he walked into the bar he was hoping she wasn't there. She could see it in his eyes as he surveyed the crowd. If he walked out she would let him. She was in no hurry. She had been in this situation enough times to know that one simply let events unfold, and she knew that his hope that she wasn't there was actually a good sign. It meant that he was already obsessed with her and was struggling to remain faithful to his good little wifey wife back home with her brood of brats. So she wasn't bothered in the slightest by what she read in his mind, nor did she feel the need to formulate a plan because she didn't have to. Her instincts told her he would need more time than other men to work through his middle-class morality and leftovers from his good little Protestant Sunday school lessons. She didn't respect him less or like him more because he would need time. It made the game more exciting and the sex, when it came, more urgent and intense.

So she waited for him to find her, and if he did not it still wouldn't be a sign. He looked back at the door, longingly, she thought, but still she waited. Finally he caught sight of her and hurried over, his eyes now eager and expectant. Already he had forgotten that he had hoped she wasn't here. She felt herself becoming aroused, glad that she'd turned away men in the half hour she had waited for him.

"Well, hello there, stranger," she said. "I'm glad you could make it."

She had changed from her school clothes to a top with a deep V that showed her breasts to their fullest and tight, body-hugging jeans. She could see him already clouded in judgment as the narcotic presence of her body overwhelmed him.

"Hi, Marilyn," he said, not able to suppress a wide smile. "This place is hopping. Are you alone?"

"Yes and no. I came with Katey Pouliot, but she met someone. That's her over there at the bar." She pointed with her chin. "The one with the long blond hair. She teaches with me."

He got a beer and they talked for a while about their day. She had had a sick child who threw up in the classroom and caused a commotion. Marilyn told the story comically, describing the shock on the faces of the other children as if they had seen a ghost. He told her about some accounts he was handling for a paper manufacturer in Westbrook. Another round of beers came. They started talking about the softball game, but the jukebox was competing with the crowd noise to see which could be more deafening, and talk was difficult now. They finished their beers, and when some couples got up to dance to a slow number, she suggested they dance too. He looked doubtful and glanced at his watch, but already he had trouble saying no to her. They went over to the small, cleared area in front of where the band would play live later in the evening. She used a few pelvic thrusts and crushed her breasts against his chest to get him excited. Afterwards, back at the table, she was sure he would suggest they go somewhere, but he surprised her by saying he had to get home. His sister-in-law and her husband were coming to dinner and he couldn't be late. He promised, however, that he would see her next Friday.

Through the workweek she thought about Bill often, but not while she was teaching. She had an amazing ability to compartmentalize her life. She was a good teacher, having infinite patience with the little ones perhaps because she never had high expectations. In school she herself was not a fast learner, and when she taught eight- and nine-year-old children she remembered that. Her patience paid off, because it got results. It also helped that all the students knew she was an athlete and respected her. This week they were finishing up the school year with the multiplication tables. Except for her friend Katey, no one, and especially not the prim, Baptist principal, Miss Johnson, suspected that she spent nights and weekends among the fleshpots of the world. She dressed conservatively at school and usually kept her private life private. Her attraction to Brian Hadley was partly based on a certain dangerousness of getting involved with a colleague under Miss Johnson's very nose.

She'd been keeping Brian on a line even after her stronger interest in Bill Paine developed and planned to reel him in only if Bill turned out to be a disappointment. In the teacher's room and at lunchtime she would see him. He was always friendly but shy, talking around what was really on his mind. One day he told her about his friend who taught science in a high school in Portland. They had talked about the Cosmic Atom, the tiny point of incredible energy that when it exploded created the entire universe that was still rushing away through space. He held up his thumb and index finger and pressed them together. "Think of it, a space smaller than the space between my finger and thumb held all the matter of a billion galaxies. And that's not all. My friend thinks there are billions of Cosmic Atoms and universes out there." Marilyn wasn't really interested. It was too unreal. To her all that was important was people, people she knew. She only listened with the appearance of interest because she was still interested in him. She suspected that he was close to virginal in his experience and had thought that it would be fun to introduce him to the science of lovemaking. But suddenly he seemed rather dull, and then he was no longer the fallback plan in case Bill Paine didn't come through.

Then things started looking bad because the next Friday Bill didn't show. After waiting for an hour and a half and just as last week turning guys away who approached the table by saying she was waiting for someone, she became angry. Sometimes she ran across men who used her for flirtation and to boost their self-confidence with their wives or girlfriends who were becoming distant, and she always resented being used. All-talk-and-no-delivery guys she called them. Eventually she relaxed and trusted her instincts. Bill might be afraid to cheat on his wife; consciously he might argue with himself for hours upon end that he had to be faithful; but she would bet a year's salary that he wanted her and was obsessed by her. So she decided not to waste her time worrying, and when a guy came up to her with the rather blunt but honest line, "Are those babies real?" things worked out nicely and they spent the night together in a motel making love. His name was Paul, and she gave him her name, but names did not matter. He had to leave early in the morning to go somewhere, but not until they made love one more time. Then she showered and went home, expecting a furtive call from Bill.

Just as she expected, he called her from his mobile phone in the late morning. He said he couldn't talk long because his son was in the car. He'd told the boy Daddy had to make a phone call and was apparently standing in front of the car where he could keep an eye on his son as he talked. He told her he was forced to work late last night and didn't dare call Tony's because there were people all around him. From his tone of voice, which betrayed an almost desperate desire that she not be angry with him, she was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe him. He told her the family vacation was coming up and that he wouldn't be able to see her until late June, and again she believed him. He said that he'd call as soon as they got back and that he would be thinking of her all the time he was gone. She thought of him making love to his wife and thinking of her as he did it and was very pleased. "I'll be waiting to hear from you," she said gaily. And as a tease, she added, "and I'll be thinking of you, especially at night."

She kept herself sufficiently busy during these two weeks, first with another one-night stand with another man she met at Tony's the following Friday and then with moving to Portland the second week. School was out for the summer and she had time to find a place off lower Congress Street about halfway between Long-fellow Square and the Maine Medical Center that was pleasant, roomy enough and reasonably priced. She had been trying to get her cousin Fiona to share an apartment with her for months and tried one last time to interest her in the idea, but Fiona said no. She was seeing Lowell Edgecomb and though she was too embarrassed to say so, Marilyn understood that she didn't want to leave Waska because that is where he lived. Marilyn didn't argue the point; she had already found she could afford the apartment by herself. She wished her cousin good luck and made arrangements to take the apartment, which was empty and available. She was actually pleased to have her own place for the first time in her life. She'd had a lot of trouble with her current roommate because she'd often bring men home for the night—it was in fact the reason they were not renewing the lease and were parting ways. So on the second weekend using Tara Wright's pickup truck and with the help of some of her teammates she moved in. Then she spent a quiet week getting the place just right, buying curtains and the like and decorating the living room and hall with some French Impressionist prints and some softball posters from her high school and college teams. In her bedroom she also mounted three prints of couples making love and several nude picture of herself in sexually receptive poses that had been taken by a male friend in college. She had had both sets of pictures for years but had not displayed them until now because she hadn't had a place of her own. She grew excited thinking that Bill would christen the bedroom with her soon.

When she met him the following Friday at Tony's, he was ready for a frank discussion about what they both had in mind. She had judged rightly that he was now sexually obsessed with her and thought about her constantly during his vacation. Not only could she read it in his eyes; he admitted it to her. With their cards on the table, it became a question of logistics, and here her devious mind came up with a solution. He mentioned that his wife's birthday was coming up, and she hatched a plan whereby she would purchase the set of earrings he planned to get her tomorrow morning and then Bill, telling his wife he was to go shopping for her birthday present, would come directly to her apartment.

The operation went smoothly and next afternoon he was inside her door. They greeted each other quickly and, understanding each other's intentions, went into the bedroom. The nude photographs of her got him excited and within five minutes they were on the bed where she had to call upon all her skill and experience to delay him until she ready to explode. Afterwards they lay on the bed exhausted for a long time. Finally she stole a glance at him. Now that he had sated his lust and his obsession had become a reality, he was feeling guilty. He had a what-have-I-done? stricken look on his face which she had seen before in other men. Most of them got over it, some taking comfort in the statistics that showed over half the married couples cheated at some time or other in their marriage. They were just being human—she'd said that to a few men in her day, though knowing Bill would not be receptive to such a comfort, she decided that silence was the best strategy. He would have to think his way to acceptance, and if he did not the urges that brought him here would soon reassert themselves and be another kind of solution. One thing she was sure of: she wasn't interested in playing nursemaid to his guilty soul. So for five minutes she remained lying on her back beside him until the silence began bothering her. "That was wonderful," she finally said. "Simply wonderful. You were great."

He stirred. "You're very beautiful, Marilyn. You too were wonderful."

Then he reverted to silence, and to get his mind off the guilt and regret he was experiencing, she decided to talk about something completely different. She cast about in her mind for a suitable subject and remembered the discussion she'd had a few weeks before with Brian Hadley.

"A teacher I know was talking about the Cosmic Atom the other day."

He gave her a strange look for bringing up a subject that was the furthest thing from his mind. "You mean the Big Bang, that Cosmic Atom?"

"Yes, that one. A tiny point from which everything emerged."

Bill rolled over on his side and put his arm over her belly. "Well, it certainly gives you a perspective, I suppose. Like we're tiny bugs." He frowned thoughtfully and rolled over onto his back again.

"I don't feel like a bug. I feel like a woman, a woman who took the bare minimum of science in college. I remember Fiona was telling me once something about a drop pitch—or was it a curve ball? Anyways, it conforms to some law of physics. That's all very fine, but it's better, much better, just to whack the ball and start running."

"I get your point," he said after thinking about it for a moment. "But sometimes I wonder if we go to other planets and the stars if it will change us. Would you want human nature to change?"

"Hmmm, I don't know. I don't think so. I do think those sci-fi movies where they show human beings supposedly totally cerebral are idiotic." With a sudden motion she rolled over and straddled him as he lay on his back. "Would you give up this for pure mind?"

He wouldn't, and the second and most reliable of her two alternatives for forgetting guilt was effective.

After the second session he said he had to go. They took a shower together, which led to a third session standing up, and then with their clothes on they talked for a bit.

"Could you get out early next Friday? I'm out of school now and could be here in the afternoon."

Bill took a deep breath and considered. "I think so. At least I could get out at three, tell the boss I had some personal business. Then I could say at home that I had to work late. I wish, though...I wish..."

"You wish you didn't have to lie. I understand. Bill, let me give you some advice. Love is never easy. It's usually hard, in fact. Just let things happen. Go with the flow. You know what I mean? Things will sort themselves out."

"I guess so," he said doubtfully.

"I want us both to be happy," she said, kissing him good-bye.

That was the right thing to say, for he gave her a genuine smile of gladness, but its effect was short-lived, for watching him walk to his car she saw him stop suddenly as if considering coming back to cancel the assignation, then sighing in resignation and walking slowly to his car. She frowned angrily and resolved not to put up with it much longer. She would give him another week, maybe two. She liked secrecy but only if the man was a coconspirator. She understood that guilt and sex did not mix. He was going to have to understand that too.

But a pleasant surprise awaited her next Friday afternoon. Bill was a totally different man when she saw him. He had a carefree bounce to his gait as he got out of his car and he even appeared to be whistling. Then she heard him bounding up the stairs two at a time. "Hi, Marilyn," he said gaily when she opened the door. He took her and twirled her around. "I'm free tonight!"

She smiled. He couldn't possibly have left his wife already? "What do you mean?"

"My wife's mother had a minor heart attack, and she's taken the kids to upstate Maine to be with her this weekend. They won't be home until Sunday night."

"Can you stay over? It would be wonderful to sleep with you."

He shook his head. "That might be too dangerous. The neighbors might notice I wasn't home and tell Becky. But still!"

He was excited. He wanted to go to dinner. He wanted to walk the streets. He wanted, it seems, more than just a sexual relationship; he wanted her to be his girl. Gingerly she suggested that if he was afraid the neighbors might notice his absence, wasn't there also a chance they would be seen together in public? He wasn't worried about that, he said. He told his wife he might work late and eat in Portland, and when she worried that he would have to eat alone, he had said one of his colleagues might work late too and they would go out together. "So if anyone sees us, you're an accountant." He grinned, a boyish grin that pleased her. Innocence had its attractions, especially when it made a guy look handsome.

She had worked herself up waiting for him and was ready for sex, so she made an approach to him, kissing him passionately. For a moment she sensed his reluctance, but when she whispered it was too early for dinner, he agreed. They went into the bedroom and had a session on the bed, then another in the shower, which took longer than expected with the result that the water turned cold on them. They dried each other, laughing all the while at the goose bumps their dalliance had raised and laughing even harder when he reversed the usual joke and asked of her pointed buttons, "Are you cold or just glad to see me?" He was on his knees drying her abdomen. With her hands she took her breasts and rolled them on his face to get them warm while he stroked the towel over her mound. That made them both hot again, but they decided to delay satisfaction and go to the Tandoor Restaurant to eat.

"Let's go to a movie tomorrow afternoon," he said on the way. "That way when I come home late tonight I'll have a story that I went to a movie."

At the restaurant they had a serious discussion, not about themselves and their relationship, but about Fiona and Lowell. Both had heard about the racist attack on them last weekend.

"It makes me sick," Marilyn said, speaking sincerely too—for racism did disgust her. She had had several flings with black men, and the important thing about those flings was that they were with men, male human beings.

"Tara told me Fiona was very upset. I talked to her last night and agree. I think Fiona believes she's brought trouble to Lowell and is considering if the right thing to do is to split up. What does Lowell say?"

"He talked to my mother and me last night. He's upset that Fiona is upset, and he's in a rage against Rett Murray, the Nazi. He asked me if I thought the Nazis could be sued for civil rights violations, but I told him an exchange of words, even an argument, would be a difficult case to make."

"What about the pamphlet they were passing out? Isn't that illegal?"

Bill pursed his lips and considered. "I don't think so. It's a free country."

"What about punching the creep in the nose?" Marilyn asked, taking a sip of Masala tea. "I remember he was not afraid of those two sexist yahoos at the softball game."

Bill shook his head grimly. "Lowell is the bravest guy I know, but he's also nonviolent. It's not his way."

They paid for their meal and walked out. It was a pleasant, cool evening after a boiling hot day, and they sat on a bench in a tiny park a short distance from the restaurant to enjoy the evening air. Here Marilyn made a miscalculation. She playfully asked Bill if his wife liked the earrings she had chosen for her. Instantly his face clouded and he appeared almost ready to cry. His guilt hadn't gone away; it had only been temporarily in hiding.

Shocked, Marilyn was silent for a while. He looked so bad she actually felt sorry for him. "Tell me something, Bill. Do you still love your wife?"

He turned and looked at her, his face still contorted. He was very agitated, having a terrible struggle with himself. He was grasping for certainty, she thought, something the world didn't offer. "Yes, I think so. Yes. But what we have together... I'm so confused. And I wonder if she loves me. All she thinks about is the kids."

Marilyn frowned. She didn't like to think of kids. She couldn't compete with them. But she didn't really want to encourage him. She wasn't done with him yet: she felt their thing together was just beginning. But the sex would be no good if guilt was the third body in bed with them, so she said, "I can live with whatever you decide, Bill. I too think we have something special. But if it stops being special for you, it's no good for me either." She paused, pleased with herself for expressing her position in such a way that the onus was on him. "You decide."

He stared into vacancy without speaking for so long that she started getting very nervous. "Does what happened to Lowell and Fiona bother you to? Is that part of the problem?"

"Lowell?" he said quietly to himself as if remembering something. "He's been like a father to me. He's my older brother. He showed me the way."

Marilyn leaned forward and placed her hand on his knee. "When I was talking to Fiona about her being worried about loving a white man, I told her to follow her heart. This is America. It's the third millennium. You can love whoever you want to. I'll say the same thing to you, Bill. I won't argue with you. You have to do what you feel is right. But here, now, in this land, you can love who you want to love."

He nodded and stood. Together they walked slowly to his car side by side but with a slight space between them.

Refuge

Kevin Blanchette poked his head out of his office, spied Fiona at her desk tallying up the expenses for a field trip to the beach yesterday, and asked her in a friendly voice that was not at all in his official "Dr. Blanchette" manner, "Fiona, Mary is busy filing reports, so could you bring these papers to city hall for me." She was happy to oblige. She made arrangements for Sylvia Kroger to sit in on the residents' lunch and left at 11:30, hoping to see Lucille Durham after she'd done the errand. She'd seen Lucille several times when she came to take Eddie home for the evening or a Saturday, but they had not been able to talk. Two weeks ago, on the Monday after the weekend of her confrontation with Rett Murray, she had made an effort to talk to the only mature and experienced black woman she knew, but Lucille was out in the city somewhere. At that time Fiona was confused and conflicted and so nervous—almost trembling in fact—as she approached the social services office that she'd had to stop to get her racing heart calmed down. She'd been relieved that Lucille wasn't there. Now, after working through the issues that had derailed her with Lowell's help, she should be in much better shape to have a conversation. Should be, and was in fact able to ask Lucille's receptionist if she was in in a calm, self-possessed voice, but when the answer came back that she was, the heavy weight in her stomach, her quickened pulse and a feeling of impending dread came upon her as suddenly as a summer thunderstorm. What she was afraid of she could not clearly say, though she knew she was irrationally afraid that Lucille would disapprove of her loving a white man. Maybe, too, instead of comforting her Lucille would validate the fear she still frequently felt whenever she remembered that night. Thank God for Lowell's understanding and empathy. Her first instinct was to retreat, to hide away, to give up. Lowell talked her out of these extreme solutions, and she loved him for that and for a thousand other reasons. Still, somehow she knew she had to have Lucille's approval to feel free and at ease. She also wanted her to say that racist white men were all cowards. Lowell had told her that, but she couldn't make herself believe it.

Lucille was sitting before a computer screen on one side of her L-shaped desk apparently collating the information on a list on paper and entering the data on her computer. She broke into a broad grin when she saw Fiona. "Just a minute, please, Fiona. I'm glad you stopped by. Have a seat and let me finish updating our records."

Fiona sat down on a leather chair in front of the desk and looked around the office. On each side of the desk were large gray metal shelves filled with black three-ring folders like the one Lucille had open at her desk. The high ceiling was an old-fashioned tin relief painted an off-white, the same color as the walls. On the wall behind her there was a large map of Portland with pins with flags of different colors stuck into what was probably the street addresses where the social workers had clients. The wall to her right consisted of a bank of three windows all with the venetian blinds drawn to keep the sun out. Fiona noticed that while there was air conditioning in the office, it was inadequate. The room was decidedly warm. The wall on her left had a large color photograph of Dr. Martin Luther King and three rows of black and white photographs of white men who were probably Lucille's predecessors. On Lucille's desk she had pictures of Eddie and her two children, a boy of about eight and a girl of five wearing their Sunday best. The girl was grinning broadly and showing gaps between her teeth; the boy, who was much darker than his sister, was also more serious. He stared unsmilingly at the camera. Fiona thought that was because he was uncomfortable with a tie around his neck.

Finally the sound of the laser printer brought Fiona's attention back to Lucille.

"So how's Eddie?" Lucille asked as she gathered the papers the printer spat out.

He was doing much better, going on outings and painting serene landscapes again. There had been no repetition of the rebellion that had led Fiona to get to know his sister. The only aftereffect of that day was that he was still angry and standoffish with her, and even that was diminishing. The other day he had showed her a painting of Monument Square he made and had been quite friendly. They discussed these matters for a while, and then Lucille, punching holes into the printed sheets and putting them into another folder, said, "But I'm sure my brother isn't the reason you've come."

"No, it's not," she said shyly and then explained in a long, rambling monologue how she had met Lowell, who was a white man, had fallen in love with him and how everything was going wonderfully until a Nazi racist confronted them at a Portland Sea Dogs' baseball game. She told Lucille how Rett Murray had said they had no right to pollute the Aryan race, that mongrelization was evil and how they would be watched. "Ever since I've been nervous and uneasy whenever Lowell and I are in public."

Lucille sat at her desk with her arms folded and listened with as benign and compassionate an expression as the Buddha Fiona had given her mother for her birthday. She seemed to understand that Fiona was looking for some reassurance, for in a very concerned tone she asked, "Why are you scared? What do you expect to happen? Is it your personal safety?"

"I don't think so. At the same time I feel scared and uneasy, I feel protected by Lowell. He also keeps telling me that racism is a coward's belief, the majority picking on a vulnerable minority. He says all racists are cowards."

Lucille nodded as she listened. She considered for a moment and then said, "Yes, I more or less agree with him. They're dangerous in a mob like the lynch mobs that murdered so many of our brothers and some sisters, but alone they're less threatening. There is something sneaking and ratlike about racism. Now this Lowell Edgecomb, he doesn't have any deep prejudices, does he? Stereotypes and that sort of thing? Forgive me for asking. I'm just trying to understand."

"Not at all. He was born in a hippy commune in northern California and played with a lot of black kids when he was little. From the moment I met him I knew he was only interested in me as a person."

"Uh huh, I see. Well, then, the uneasiness you feel, is it embarrassment? Is there any sense in which you feel the force of the garbage that racist said? Does the man's ability to publicly humiliate you make you feel vulnerable?"

Fiona felt herself relaxing. Lucille was a good listener who was drawing things out of her and making her think. This is what she wanted. "What do you mean about me feeling the force of that man's words?"

"I mean a lot of black people have internalized racism without knowing it. You get the feeling, if not actually being inferior, at least that you don't deserve happiness or that you have no right to aspire like everyone else. A lot of black people have poor self-images, that's a fact."

"I don't think so. I think I feel like you said—vulnerable. I could be walking down the street and suddenly be the center of attention. I guess it's like not feeling free to be simply human." She didn't explain her shyness, assuming Lucille understood that.

Lucille nodded. "But you do see, don't you, that he has got inside your head? He's internalized his racism and hate and made you the one who is uncomfortable and defensive. Every black person has had this happen in some way or other. It's happened to me. Remember when I was telling you how some white people will expect you got your position or job because of affirmative action? There were times I had to fight that feeling, you know, argue with myself. And you know white people don't have to put up with this. Most don't understand. You say Lowell does?"

"Lowell understands everything," she said proudly. "He was saying the other day that the quickest way to lose your soul is to start identifying with power and wealth. He hates it that Americans tend to blame the victim—poor people for being poor, drug addicts for addiction. Or for another example he once told me it distressed him that most Americans support the Israelis when they bully the Palestinians. He believes to identify with vulnerability and weakness will keep you safe from corruption. He was at the University of Chicago and knew a lot of rich, privileged people. They didn't impress him."

Lucille seemed favorably impressed with this account of Lowell's beliefs and attitudes. She leaned forward, resting on her elbows. "Let me ask another question. Are you afraid he'll be hurt, or maybe get in trouble because he'll punch that racist in the mouth? Something like that?"

"Lowell was mad enough to do that, I think. But he's a nonviolent person, a very gentle man, so that's only a vague worry. I mean I do worry about it, but I recognize it's irrational."

"You do love this man, don't you?" She smiled benignly even as she took a quick glance at her watch.

Fiona felt herself blushing. It occurred to her that no one had ever asked her that question before because she had never been in love before. But she was in love now and felt pleased and absurdly happy at the same time she felt embarrassed to be showing her feelings of pride and happiness. Words failed her and she could only nod and cast her eyes to the floor.

Lucille stood and walked around the desk. "I have an appointment for lunch, Fiona. Let's walk out together."

"You know some black brothers and sisters won't approve too, don't you?" she said as they walked down the stairs.

Fiona nodded grimly. "I've already noticed it a few times. I hope you don't mind." She held the door for her older companion and they stepped outside into the bright sunlight.

"Me? I want our race to be free. You do what your heart tells you to do and you'll be all right."

That's what she wanted to hear most of all. Feeling expansive, she murmured a thank you and said she was grateful for her help. They embraced and parted.

Sylvia had an errand to run and was waiting impatiently for her even though lunch had just started. There had been coolness between them ever since Fiona nixed the suggestion they have a drink together. Fiona, preferring a professional relationship, was not bothered by the coolness or surprised at the impatience. There was something morbid and self-centered in her colleague that she didn't like.

She had lunch with the residents and then talked with Eddie for a while, telling him that she had just had a chat with his sister. Any residual resentment he might have had melted away. He worshipped and loved his sister. She did too, and that sealed the bond.

She had some more paperwork to do; then at 1:30 she went in search of Mary Clarke and Ann Marie Renault. Both had been at Phoenix Landing for over a year; the former was making great progress towards self-sufficiency, but Ann Marie appeared stalled in dependency. The two residents needed their prescriptions for schizophrenia filled. Fiona's task was to accompany them to the drugstore and stand by while they handled the transaction themselves or to intervene if they couldn't. Knowing the two, she could predict how the outing would go before they left, though being an eternal optimist she was hoping Ann Marie would surprise her.

Mary, a tall, thin woman with eyes so light a shade of gray it looked as if she didn't have irises from a distance, and one of whose symptoms was obsessive-compulsive behavior, managed to get herself ready without folding and refolding her clothes countless times before donning them—a small triumph that Fiona could take some credit for since she had been working with Mary for the past six weeks. Ann Marie, however, was upstairs listening to music and had to be persuaded to come. She wanted to finish listening to the CD that was playing on her portable CD player, and when Fiona finally took the earphones from her she took a long time to change. The female pop star she had been listening to featured a bare midriff, and Ann Marie got it into her head that she wanted to achieve the same look. She tied up her blouse under her breasts and pranced around, but she had love handles hanging over her pants that weren't a very pretty sight, though Fiona knew better than to use that for an objection. "You don't want to attract that kind of attention, Ann Marie," she said. "You want to meet a nice boy." When she wanted to know the difference, Fiona explained that a nice boy would like her for herself, while the kind of boy who stared at exposed navels only had one thing in mind. Then when the question of bare midriffs was settled, Ann Marie still delayed by rejecting all her tops until finally Fiona talked Nancy Wagner into lending her a yellow blouse because Ann Marie had frequently admired it.

Half an hour later than scheduled, the three of them left the halfway house and walked through the steaming streets of a July afternoon. Occasionally Fiona would put a guiding hand on Ann Marie's shoulder and hold her hand when they crossed a street, but Mary was doing well, though from the way her face was screwed up in concentration, Fiona figured that she was obsessively going over what she was going to say to the pharmacist. A pang of compassion came over her and made her feel sad.

At the drugstore she gave them their prescriptions, some money and the government chits that covered most of the cost of the medication, and then they made their way to the back of the store to the pharmacy counter. They had to wait for an elderly lady to get her arthritis medicine, during which time Fiona had to hold Ann Marie's arm to keep her from wandering off. Mary kept muttering to herself the words she was supposed to say. She was starting to become nervous, and so was Fiona. She didn't want a scene. But the elderly lady was soon gone. Fiona nudged Mary to approach the counter. "I need my prescription filled," she began promisingly but handed the government chit to the pharmacist instead of the prescription. "The other paper," Fiona whispered, then whispered even lower to Ann Marie to watch closely. Except for that minor glitch, Mary's efforts went fairly smoothly, but Ann Marie refused to speak when it was her turn to step up to the counter. "She needs the same medication," Fiona said to the pharmacist, who was starting to show signs of impatience. "Hand him the smaller paper, Ann Marie." When she remained silent, Fiona had to take it from her and hand it over. After a few more attempts to prod Ann Marie into action, she had to get the prescription filled for her. At some point during this little drama she became aware that someone's eyes were boring into the back of her head, but not until the pharmacist went into the back room to get the pills did she turn to see Marilyn Prence watching her with a bemused expression.

"Marilyn!"

"Hi, Fifi. At work I see."

Fiona introduced her two charges. Marilyn was dressed, not provocatively, but by simply wearing tight shorts and jersey appeared to be. The two residents, especially Ann Marie, stared at her wide-eyed and intrigued. "She's pretty!" Ann Marie whispered.

Marilyn wanted to talk, so as soon as the prescriptions were collected and paid for, they walked over to the cosmetic section where Fiona let her two charges browse while keeping a careful eye on them. Ann Marie was known to shoplift when she had a chance.

"How are you getting to Portland now?" Marilyn wanted to know. "Are you taking the bus?"

"No, Lowell bought a pickup truck so he could haul stuff to the cottage he's building. I'm using his old car."

Marilyn's face brightened. "That's another thing I wanted to ask you. So you and Lowell are all right? I heard about those Nazis."

Fiona looked over to make sure Ann Marie wasn't listening. "Yeah, everything is fine."

"I'd love to show you my new place. Can you stop by after work? Please," she added when Fiona's reluctance showed on her face, "now that we don't drive to work together I miss you."

She wanted to get to the lake as soon as possible and be with Lowell, but it was impossible to resist Marilyn's imploring tone. "Okay, I'd like to see your place, but I'll only be able to stay for a few minutes. You'll be home about five?"

After she left Ann Marie had much to say about Marilyn and the way she dressed. She wanted to know if Marilyn had nice boys for boyfriends, but Fiona said she didn't know and that Ann Marie shouldn't blame a woman for being overdeveloped. Mary asked who she was, and when Fiona answered that she was her cousin, she said, "But she's a white woman." "Well, I'm half white, you see." Ann Marie said she could tell they were cousins because she too had a big bust. That made her laugh and forget about Rett Murray, who had come to mind when she told the two that she was half white. "I'm not in my cousin's league, that's for sure." They were having this conversation as they walked back to Phoenix Landing, but halfway there Fiona saw a flash of gold in Ann Marie's hand and discovered that she had pinched some lipstick. She managed to do it despite Fiona's never taking her eyes off her. They returned to the drugstore and without telling the manager put the lipstick back surreptitiously. A career as a magician might be waiting for Ann Marie, for even knowing she was putting the lipstick back Fiona could not actually see the transfer. Back at the halfway house she showed the two young women a video on self-sufficiency, and then after the daily meeting of the staff left as soon as her replacement came.

He had come early, and as Fiona drove down a very congested Congress Street she thought about what she would say if Bill Paine was mentioned. She started to feel nervous and uneasy and hoped that the subject could be avoided. If Marilyn, who loved to talk about her amours, did bring it up, she decided she would explicitly and emphatically say that the topic made her uncomfortable. Despite the traffic she arrived at Marilyn's new apartment at a little after five o'clock where, after declining an offered drink, she was given a tour. The apartment was airy and pleasant. Marilyn had painted the walls of the combined living room and dining room a golden color with white trim, aggressive like her personality but quite effective, Fiona thought. Some prints of French Impressionist paintings and two large posters of the Courtney Academy championship softball team and her college softball team comprised the wall decorations. In the group picture of their team Fiona was the only one not looking at the camera; instead she was squinting and gazing to the left. She remembered a dog had caught her attention and caused her to look foolish. It was running right towards her, and she had momentarily panicked. She had a copy of the same poster, but because of the distraction of the dog she kept it rolled up and hidden away in a closet.

The furniture was a mixture of aggressive and subdued colors. A rattan couch and matching chair had cushions of bright lavender and shiny black, and the table cloth on the dining room table was checkered bright yellow and red, but a lazy boy recliner was leather, the coffee table had a dark maple finish, and a low bookcase containing her stereo equipment, a collection of CD's and movie videos (but only a few books) was black. On the wide windowsill were three or four new plants to give the apartment a touch of green. They passed the small kitchen with just a cursory glance before moving into the spare bedroom. It contained a great many cardboard boxes indicating that Marilyn was still in the process of moving in and to Fiona's surprise an exercise machine. Remembering Marilyn's reputation as one who didn't need to exercise to maintain her strength, she looked at her cousin quizzically. She explained that she had just bought it after she weighed herself last week and discovered she had put on four pounds. "It's not for strength, see? It's to keep my figure."

Returning to the living room, they passed the bedroom with its door closed. Fiona, thinking they were going to see it now, paused before the door, but with a laugh Marilyn shook her head. "That's my love den. It's not open to the public."

Fiona, feeling embarrassed, nodded. Was it filled with sexual toys? Were the walls lined with pornography? She was glad Marilyn changed the subject and made her forget these disturbing questions.

"As I said earlier, now that I live in Portland and we don't drive to work together, I've missed you. I talked to Tammy on the phone the other day and told her about you and Lowell. Then I wasn't sure of your status because of the Nazi business, but Tammy was hopeful as usual and was very glad for you."

"How is Tammy?" Fiona asked in an attempt to deflect the conversation from any probing of her personal life.

"Busy is the word." She sat down on the rattan couch and with a wave of her hand invited Fiona to sit in the recliner. "She's taking two difficult courses in the summer to get them out of the way and is studying all the time. She remembered how you two always studied together in high school. She says she misses you."

"I miss her," Fiona said. She was already impatient to get home to Lowell and stole a glance at her watch.

Marilyn noticed it. "Tell me, Fiona, are you and Lowell getting it on?"

She frowned and then blushed. She disliked the term Marilyn used, but resented the probing into her private life even more. They were making love—and that was the term for it, the proper term—but it seemed profane to tell her cousin about it when she used such a vulgar expression to describe what she felt was almost sacred. But the blush told Marilyn all she needed to know.

"So you are. Good. I think that's wonderful."

Fiona glanced out the window. "You have to park on the street, I see. That'll be a problem in the winter."

Marilyn shrugged and pursed her lips. "That's when I'll worry about it. But speaking of cars, are you going to Waska or the lake?"

"The lake," she said guardedly.

"So that's why you're in such a hurry. You want to get to your man. Is the cottage completed?"

"Oh no, far from it. Lowell's getting the outside done so that if fall and winter come early the insides will be snug. The roof is done, and plywood covers all the framing. The doors and windows are in, but the inside is hardly touched. Right now we're putting the shingles up. I'm helping Lowell," she added proudly.

"What? You've become a carpenter now?" She seemed to find the idea very amusing.

"Oh no. I'm Lowell's gofer. I get the shingles and nails when he needs them. Sometimes I hold the ladder. I'm certainly no carpenter, but it is fun helping to build it. It means so much to Lowell to be putting down roots in Maine."

"Okay, so you're a carpenter's helper. I bet you find it fun because afterwards..." She paused and a glint came into her eyes. "That cottage is your love nest, isn't it?"

Again Fiona's blush gave Marilyn her answer. They were in fact sleeping together at the cottage and had done so for the last ten days. She was so nervous the first time and several times after that that she didn't enjoy herself. But the blushes that came now in waves, making her face feel hot, were for all the times after those first awkward attempts.

"That means you're certainly over your trauma because of that racist pig. I'm very glad for you, Fiona."

"Thanks," she mumbled. "I am better now."

"I know how it is, how your troubles disappear. Making love is the best thing this world has to offer. I'm seeing someone now, you know."

"I know," Fiona said before she could censor herself. She felt herself panicking and stopped in confusion.

"You do?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You do?!"

"Well, I heard something, that's all. Really we don't have to discuss it."

Marilyn looked surprised but as always hid it almost instantly. Fiona had often noticed that she liked to be in control and didn't like surprises. Nonchalantly she scratched her neck and then busied herself removing a piece of lint from her jersey. "Then you know it's Bill Paine. I imagine if you know, Lowell does too. I suppose you both disapprove?"

"It's really none of my business." She wasn't successful in sounding airily neutral; her distaste came through, and she saw that it was duly noted.

"Love is everyone's business, but the love between a man and a woman is mainly their business alone. If you feel uncomfortable we won't discuss it, but you realize I'm not going to apologize. If a man is attracted to me and I find him attractive, anything that develops is strictly between us alone. You'll be glad to know, though, that there's a better than fifty-fifty chance this won't work out."

As she spoke her voice starting rising. She was prepared to be hostile. But Fiona had heard enough. She was intimidated and resented it, but this time she managed to hide her feelings. "You're right, we better not discuss it. There is something else we should discuss anyways. The softball game rematch."

And so her visit to her cousin's new apartment ended in a friendly discussion of the game that had already been postponed twice because of vacations and now was scheduled for the following weekend.

She thought about Marilyn's potential hostility and the softball game as she drove out of the city. She wasn't looking forward to that game because everyone would be on edge about Marilyn and Bill. It reminded her of the time in high school when the team lost four games under similar circumstances. Now it would be complicated by hypocrisy, with everyone pretending there was nothing going on.

After the city streets she passed through an industrial zone with factories and warehouses, followed by an urban sprawl zone of middle-class houses for a few more miles, and then it was open country with dairy farms bounded by thick pine forest and rolling hills. When she got to the open country she stopped brooding, and the excitement and joy she felt every night as she made her way to Lowell and home possessed her. The car could not, however, speed as quickly as her thoughts towards home, for even the lake district had suburbanite elements now and the traffic was moderately heavy. She passed through a few small towns that consisted of a church, a service station with a convenience store and sandwich shop and one of those ubiquitous movie rental places. Lowell joked that he thought the people upcountry spent the entire winter watching videos. Many of the cars in front of these places had Massachusetts, Connecticut and New York plates, though, so the tourists and summer people also used their services.

When she arrived at the lot Lowell was just finishing a course of shingles. Two sides of the cottage were now completed and a third side close to being done. Lowell, wearing only cutoff dungarees with a tool pouch at his hip and sneakers without socks, walked up to the car smiling broadly.

"Good timing," he said. ""I'm just finishing for the day."

They kissed and hand in hand walked down to the cottage to inspect his work.

She loved it here, positively loved it. Already it felt like home to her, home and a quiet and safe refuge from the world. Even on a bad day at work she instantly put her frustrations aside the moment she could smell the pine trees and see the shining lake serene and peaceful. Of course it was because she was with the one she loved, but she loved the cottage too, even if it wasn't very pretty yet. Inside it was just studding, and the floors were underlayment. The stairs leading up to the loft where their bed was a mattress on the floor were slabs of pine and the banister temporarily constructed of more studding. There was hardly any room because the wallboard, lumber, interior doors, insulation and all the rest of the building material was piled up everywhere. The toilet was installed and operational, but the shower wasn't. Lowell had bought a small refrigerator to keep milk, beer and perishables. That, a hot plate and a coffee maker were their only kitchen appliances; mostly they cooked on the outdoor grill or ate out. There was water both hot and cold in the kitchen sink for washing up, but their baths were taken in the lake with biodegradable soap in the early morning or after dark at night when they could be hidden from neighbors and passing boats. Though the water was generally warm enough, Fiona was a mass of goose bumps when the air struck her naked flesh. Even that was fun, however. She had caught Lowell's enthusiasm for the place almost instantly. Already she was thinking of how much fun it was going to be to decorate the place and choose the furnishings.

They had already developed a routine for her nightly return. First a swim and then a beer on the lawn chairs before supper. As she was taking her clothes off and putting on her bathing suit (Lowell's cutoff dungarees would serve as his swimming trunks), she started telling him about her visit with Marilyn.

"She called the bedroom her love nest and wouldn't let me see it. I don't know what's in there—pornographic pictures or sex toys or what. It was embarrassing and weird. I've never been to a friend's house where the bedroom was off-limits."

"And you say she admitted seeing Bill?"

"Yes."

Lowell was sitting on the pile of wallboard and watching her as they talked. It amazed her that she wasn't self-conscious, but she wasn't and hadn't been right from the start. "So she knows we know. That means Bill will too. How did it come up?"

"She told me she had a new love interest and I blushed and stammered and gave it away." She turned around and he fastened her bikini top. "She can read me like a book," she continued as they walked out of the cottage. "I told her I didn't want to talk about it, but actually for a minute there she was starting to get hostile. 'I suppose both of you disapprove,' she said, then said that it was no one's business except hers and Bill's. She wasn't about to apologize."

Barefooted, they picked their way carefully over the ground liberally strewn with rocks, which Lowell called the gift of the Ice Age.

"It seems pretty obvious that Bill is now cheating on Becky. I never would have believed it two months ago."

She nodded grimly. They were on the dock now and both ran the sixteen feet of its length and dived in. After the sticky heat of Portland's streets the coolness of the water was wonderful. She swam underwater until her breath gave out and surfaced ten to twelve feet from Lowell. He swam towards her.

"Last week when I was at his house helping him move a refrigerator, every time I looked at Becky and the kids I felt almost ill."

"I know. I understand. My cousin can be incredibly selfish."

They began swimming out from the shore, but hearing a speedboat coming their way, they both turned and swam back to shallower water, where they swam a hundred yards parallel to the shore and then returned to the dock. "Are you ready for a beer?" Lowell asked.

On shore he got the beers and some tahini and crackers for hors d'ouevres. They sat down. It was so warm that neither of them toweled off.

"The worst thing is that we're already estranged. He was going to be my gofer up here, yet he's only been here once since the first week. He's probably ashamed of himself. He should be. Of course, I have a better gofer now." He leaned over and kissed her. "But it's still disturbing."

She smiled, feeling happy and contented, and then guilty because he wasn't and Becky wasn't going to be when she found out. "The softball game is on for next week—I forgot to tell you."

Lowell frowned, and they were quiet for a while.

Fiona sipped at her beer, a microbrewery brand she had successfully helped Lowell develop a taste for. He got up and turned on the portable CD player. It repeated a CD of a Scottish folk singer they were listening to last night in bed. Before she met him she only listened to rock music and some hip-hop, though the misogynist lyrics of many of the songs disgusted her. Now Lowell, returning the favor, had got her to enjoy folk music.

"It's going to be ridiculous," she said, breaking the silence.

"What?"

"The softball game. Everyone will know and yet I bet they'll all pretend not to know. Is that hypocrisy or conspiracy?"

"Worse," he said after considering for a moment. He reached for a cracker and dipped it into the tahini. "Bill and Marilyn will know that we know. Ridiculous is the word."

She reached over and touched the corner of his mouth with her napkin. "A bit of tahini," she said.

He smiled sheepishly. "I'm a slob, let's face it."

"No, you're not. Look how neat your work on the house is."

That small act and the smile it gave rise to seemed to shake them out of their funk. By mutual implicit agreement they put Marilyn and Bill out of their minds as the inhabitants of the world that had nothing to do with their life here. Fiona scooped some tahini onto a cracker and ate it. Sipping some beer, she said as she put the bottle down, "Someone was talking about a movie at work today. I forget the title, but would you like to go? She said it was good."

It was the first time she had suggested they go to Portland together since the confronta-tion with Rett Murray. Last weekend Tara and Meg came for a picnic and swim, and the weekend before that together they visited both their mothers.

Lowell's eyes brightened. "Sure. We need more milk, butter, beer and bread, so when we drive up to the store we can pick up a paper and check out the times."

"What about supper? I'd just as soon eat out—my treat." She was thinking of an upcountry restaurant they frequented a couple times a week whenever they were too tired to cook or simply in the mood for an outing. It was one of their evening diversions, along with taking walks or having another swim on some nights; other nights they would sit outside until the mosquitoes drove them inside to listen to music or talk. Occasionally they would try to watch television, but not having cable that was always an iffy proposition. A couple of times they worked on the house for a few hours when Lowell hadn't had time to finish something. At least once a week they would drive to a nearby town to have an ice-cream cone at a shop they had discovered. Always, however, they retired with the birds and other diurnal creatures as soon as it was dark, made love, and slept the night in each other's arms.

She had offered to treat on the supper because lately Lowell's stock had nosedived. He'd sold half the stock shortly after he came to Maine, so he still had a large amount of money in the bank, but still he wasn't as independent as he once thought he was. Not that he worried. Lately he had been talking about using his building skills by working with Habitat for Humanity in building houses for poor people. He said her example of working with troubled and mentally ill young people had inspired this idea. She had been pleased and proud of him when he told her this, but, then, everything about him made her pleased and proud.

Lowell liked the idea of eating out. He said he was tired after a long day of work.

"Yes, you've been working too hard, if you ask me."

He shrugged. "Gotta get things done before it gets cold."

"What will you do after the shingling?"

He turned and looked at the front of the cottage. It was the only side still untouched. He seemed to be calculating the time it would take to complete it, for after musing for a few moments he said, "It shouldn't take as long as the other three sides. It's only one story. There's the picture window and the sliding doors and the regular window. I should finish the shingling in less than two days. Then it's insulating and wallboarding all the outer walls and the ceilings. The place is going to be snug come winter."

The idea of the cottage in winter appealed to Fiona. His adjective "snug" triggered a vision of them snowbound here for several days while outside the snowstorm howled. They would be warm from the woodstove Lowell had already ordered, and with plenty of food and drink stockpiled they would need nothing and no one but themselves. They would be a world unto themselves, he Adam, she Eve. It would be heavenly, a long continuation of her favorite part of the day, the time she felt most truly happy and safe: in bed with Lowell. But she knew why Lowell had been so pleased when she suggested the movie. She tried to hide from him the fear and vulnerability she felt when they were exposed to the hate and chaos of the world, but he saw it. She realized now that what she really wanted from Lucille was the courage to face the world again, to walk freely in public places with the man she loved. And now love had made her brave enough to do it. Hadn't she told Lucille that she felt protected by Lowell? It was time to prove it. She wanted to feel safe, but the world offered no safety, only love did, and then only when it was nurtured and allowed to grow. They could have their refuge at the end of the day and share a sweet, delicious and secret life just for themselves only if she was not a coward and was worthy of his love.

All these thoughts raced through her mind in words and images. She must have given herself away, because suddenly she became aware that he was regarding her with a bemused expression on his face. "What are you thinking about, Liebchen?"

"Us," she said. "It's what I always think about."

Live and Let Live

When Tara Wright got out of the shower on the Saturday morning that the second softball game was scheduled, she was busy wrapping a towel around her and at first did not see Meg washing the kitchen floor. Their apartment was small, with the bedroom and bath adjacent to the kitchen, however, so that just as she was about to turn left into the bedroom, out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Meg bending over a mop.

"What in holy hell are you doing?" she asked. With the towel wrapped around her barely covering her girth, she couldn't put her hands on her hips, but that's what she wanted to do.

Meg, busy scrubbing a stubborn stain, did not look up. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you're washing the floor. But why, I don't know. We've got to get to the field to claim it."

"I'm all ready," she said airily. "The floor will be done by the time you're dressed. Don't worry."

"Don't worry? Hey, girl, you're due up to the plate. It's time for a bat and helmet, not sewing buttons."

Tara was referring to a time when they were going to Meg's brother's wedding and were late. Meg had forgotten everything because a doll she kept from her childhood had lost one of its button eyes and she couldn't stand thinking of it maimed and incomplete. Tara had razzed her all the way to the church about her priorities. "It would be one thing to be sewing a button on a blouse you were going to wear, but a doll's eye!" After that "sewing buttons" became her shorthand for Meg's mania for neatness and cleanliness.

Meg never conceded any mania; instead she would talk about the tribulations of living with a slob. But hearing the phrase now, she merely grinned. "Don't worry," she repeated. "I'm ready. Try to remember to hang your towel after you get dressed."

She promised to try, though she could make no guarantee. Her job didn't lend itself to a sense of neatness: she worked at a quick-oil-change place in Bedford and often came home covered with grease and grime that always managed to penetrate her overalls and get on her clothes and skin. She couldn't do much about that, though her propensity to leave empty beer cans on the table—usually without a coaster so that their tables were all bedecked with ghostly rings—and her tendency to throw dirty clothes in the direction of the laundry hamper with much less accuracy than throwing a runner out at first base on a bunt or a dribbler to the mound were habits that she had much less success rationalizing so that when they argued about these matters she would often simply cheerfully admit that she was a slob. Neat and fastidious Meg was a clerical worker with a local manufacturer. The same precision she used to file invoices and reports was reflected in her personal habits. Sometimes these basic differences led to squabbles, sometimes even to real arguments, but because they did love one another and had settled comfortably into a life together, mostly they led to sharp bantering.

Meg was wrong about one thing. She assumed that because Tara was a slob she didn't care about their apartment. But she did. She loved it, in fact. It was decorated primarily with sports paraphernalia, Red Sox and Bruin posters, a baseball signed by Nomar Garciaparra which was set on a wooden stand under a poster of the shortstop, game balls from championship games of the Courtney Academy softball team, team pictures of those same championship years, a hockey stick on another wall. A few sentimental pictures of children and animals and a doll collection on a shelf behind the television set reflected Meg's taste.

It was through Tara's efforts that they had gotten the place. She always felt a certain delight every time she remembered the day four years ago they first looked at it. Their landlady's first at-bat was a tough out. She had answered the door and frowned at them, which caused Meg to favor Tara with an I-told-you-so look. The ad had specified that the apartment was in a quiet, residential neighbor-hood suitable for a quiet, elderly lady. Meg had argued that it was insane to even look at a place with that kind of a listing. Tara, who had grown tired of searching after two weeks of looking at accommodations ranging from hovels to dives to dumps and who had had a feeling that this place was for them, began to think she'd thrown a wild pitch.

But she didn't give up, of course: that was not her style. "We're here to look at the apartment," she said in her most cheerful voice.

The woman continued frowning. "It might already be taken," was all she said.

Still not very promising, but then came strike one. Tara, noting that the "might" allowed them an opening, introduced herself and Meg to the woman, whose name they learned was Eleanor Fournier, and who upon hearing their names softened a little. "Well, it will do no harm for you to look at the place."

Originally the apartment was built for Mrs. Fournier's mother, with a separate entrance on the second story of the small house and an indoors door now kept locked, they learned as they walked through the place. It had become available after the old lady died. Now a widow herself and needing extra income, Mrs. Fournier had finally decided that a tenant was needed.

It was their names that got them in the door. The strike-two pitch came as they started talking and Mrs. Fournier told them she recognized them and told them her story. It turned out she had played softball at a time when there were few accommodations for female athletes. She played all over New England and upstate New York in a semiprofessional capacity and only abandoned that life when she married at the age of twenty-seven. The marriage was childless, and her main interest through the years was following women's sports. She told them she followed their championship years with great interest and even attended a few games. This conversation was all very nice, but a couple pitches missed the plate, for even with the ice broken and a pleasant conversation about softball going on she still made no offer to rent the apartment to them. Later she admitted to them that she was very suspicious—not because she suspected they were lesbians but rather because she thought that for two young women to answer an ad that specified a quiet, elderly lady, they had to be pulling her leg. With a full count now, Tara's spontaneity came to the rescue and she zipped a third-strike fastball over the plate. Discussing the careers of several of their teammates who had gone on to play softball in college, Mrs. Fournier asked why they hadn't attended college, and Tara had answered, "I can't speak for Meg, but for me the decision was a no-brainer." She'd made a comic face, half-closing her eyes and dropping her lower jaw. "I don't have one."

Mrs. Fournier stared at her for a few seconds, her face locked in a puzzled, incredulous expression, before finally exploding into laughter. The apartment was theirs and had been for four years. They had no plans to leave; in fact, Mrs. Fournier had hinted that with no living relatives she was going to leave the house to them. A thin, active woman of 65 with short salt-and-pepper hair, she looked much younger than her years. Her hooked nose and large dark eyes suggested the deportment of a predatory bird, but though she suffered from periodic bouts of depression where she would grow quiet and withdrawn for days, mostly they had discovered appearances are deceiving, for she was an exceedingly kind woman who took a deep interest in their welfare. They had grown to regard her as a second mother.

Coming down the stairs on their way to Tara's truck, they saw her sweeping the walk. Her neatness and fastidiousness put Tara in the minority at the house. She swept every day and in the winter would make sure not a sliver of ice or snow remained on the driveway or walk. Tara did the heavy work, mowing the lawn and using the snowblower, turning over soil for a planting, and so forth; Meg had a vegetable garden in the backyard, and Mrs. Fournier took care of the flowers in the front along with her cleaning-up routines.

"Hey, Ellie, we're playing those inferior creatures called men again today. You want to come along and watch? You could be our coach. We'll pay you with all the beer you can drink."

She smiled and shook her head. "Tea is more my drink of choice anyways, but, sorry girls, I'm going shopping this morning. You know I'll be at the tournaments next month."

She was referring to the two fast-pitch tournaments the remnants of the team played each summer. They used three or four ringers from the current Courtney Academy team to replace the women from the championship teams who had moved away or no longer played softball. Last year they had come in second at one of the tournaments and won the other one. The games they were playing among themselves and against the men were workouts for these tournaments.

Tara threw the equipment bag into the back of her truck while Meg carefully fastened the cooler to the hooks on the side of the truck bed with bungee cords.

"Well, it's just a tune-up, but we do plan to have fun."

"One thing I've learned about you, Tara—you always have fun," Mrs. Fournier said as she swept the pile of debris she had collected into a dustpan.

They backed out of the driveway and with a wave were off. They hadn't gone two blocks, however, before Tara suddenly exclaimed, "Well, looky there. Finally."

Before Meg could fully comprehend what she was talking about and try to stop her, she pulled the truck over against the curb on the other side of the street where Darren French was walking. They knew him from high school and before but were not then, nor were they now, anything close to being friends with him. He had been a thug and a punk since he was in grade school.

Meg, now seeing exactly what Tara had in mind, was already protesting. "Don't, Tara, don't..."

"Hey, Darren. Yo! I've got something to say to you."

He stopped and, recognizing her, favored her with a contemptuous frown. He was about to continue on his way without comment when she snared him with a cryptic remark.

"Darren, I remember what I learned from you in high school."

He glared at her, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You didn't learn nothing from me in high school."

"Oh yes I did, and you're still showing it to the world. Every time you open your mouth to spew out racist and sexist garbage, you prove that a man can have two assholes. You should be in Ripley's Believe It Or Not."

Darren clenched his fists and took a menacing step towards the car. Tara heard Meg suck in her breath in terror. Her body was tense and she whispered, "Come on, Tara, let's go." But Tara stared her enemy down.

"Listen, you dyke bitch. I could smash your face and no one would blame me."

"You do and I'll see you go to jail. That's where you belong. Let me give you some advice, my boy. Leave decent people alone. Fiona Sparrow and Lowell Edgecomb are worth five hundred miserable scums like you. You're a loser. You can be destructive, but you can't make the world a better place until you shut your second asshole and keep it shut."

He was right up next to the car, and although she was not showing it she was as scared as Meg and ready to gun the engine. Luckily Darren was indecisive, teetering between violence and prudence. Without taking her eyes off him, Tara softened her tone. "Why don't you just keep your nose clean and mind your own business? There's nothing wrong with that. Haven't you ever seen the bumper sticker that says LIVE AND LET LIVE? Do that, Darren, and you might surprise us all and become a good man."

Darren's answer came in the guise of misdirected violence: he kicked the car door, causing Tara to gun the engine.

They were half a block away before Meg stopped screaming. "Did you even look to see if a car was coming!? My God! Why did you say that crap to him? Now you've made him an enemy."

Tara had been saying ever since the night of the Sea Dogs game that if she ever saw Darren French or Rett Murray she was going to give them a piece of her mind. It was no abstract promise either; French lived only a few blocks from their house and Murray was often seen on Main Street. But several weeks had gone by without any chance meeting. She had no real answer to Meg's objection. She had made a promise, seen her opportunity, and taken it—that's all. She drove on in silence for a while, then said, "Don't you think he already was? You think a man like that would like lesbians?"

"No, but you brought us to his notice. You should follow your own advice and live and let live."

A few weeks ago they'd gone up to Lowell's cottage to have a swim. When they were drinking beer and talking afterwards, the conversation had come around to the incident at the Sea Dogs game, during which Meg had said, "Your enemy is our enemy. If these Nazis and right-wingers got their way, they wouldn't stop at one thing they disliked. They'd get the Jews, say, and then turn their attention to the blacks and Asians and Hispanics. Then they'd turn on the lesbians and gays. Next would probably be the Catholics and then the kinds of Protestants they didn't like. At the end that Carter guy and Rett Murray and Darren French would have about ten thousand people left in the country. We're on your side not only because you're good people but because we also have selfish reasons too."

Tara reminded Meg of her speech now, but Meg refused to concede. "You could have said it differently. Calling him was an asshole was a foolish thing to do."

"Are you serious? We're supposed to turn our backs on Fifi? Come on, Meg. I wanted him to know that people notice what he does. He might think twice next time."

Without any further interruptions they arrived at the field to find Lowell and Fiona already there. They were tossing a ball back and forth, their faces shining with a concentration so focused on each other that at first they did not notice that they were not alone. Tara had frequently observed them when they were with company. Then they were reserved with each other. She knew she was witnessing the world of their secret, private love and was touched. "Get a load of the lovebirds," she said gruffly to hide the emotion she felt. "We won't tell them about Darren, at least not now. We don't want to have them disturbed during the game."

"Marilyn will be disturbance enough," Meg answered cryptically.

Lowell was thinking the same thing, for while Fiona and Meg started putting the bases in and he and Tara were bringing the cooler with the beer and soft drinks to the diamond, he said in a voice that betrayed his anxiety, "I only hope Marilyn and my brother arrive separately."

Tara nodded and thought for a moment. When she and Meg visited Fiona and Lowell at the lake they had also discussed Bill and Marilyn. They were very upset about this develop-ment—strangely, it almost seemed they were more upset about it than the racist incident. "Had Bill ever cheated before?" Tara asked. Lowell said he doubted it very much. According to him Bill and his wife were the perfect couple with two beautiful sons. They were, he said, one of the main reasons he had decided to come home to Maine. He was getting very serious and very morose, so Tara had deflected the conversation to Fiona. "But you're glad you found Fiona, aren't you?" she asked, and as expected it got the two of them talking about their life and how happy they were. She rather suspected that both he and Fiona feared that Marilyn somehow endangered their love. "Let's hope people are discreet too. The situation is going to remind a lot of people of what happened in high school." She didn't have to explain the reference to Nicole Tourigny, the teammate whose boyfriend cheated with Marilyn, but she did add, "I'd say Marilyn is respected as our power hitter, but she isn't exactly the most popular person on the team."

Soon just about everybody showed up early, including Marilyn and Bill in separate cars. Tara noticed that Lowell felt uneasy in his brother's presence and tried to disguise it by talking too excitedly about the game. People broke into various groups to warm up, some stretching or running, others playing catch, and after a while batting fungoes for infield and outfield practice. Tara, as usual, warmed up with Meg catching.

During this warm-up period she saw more evidence that verified Lowell's and Meg's separate expressions of their worry. While the guys who came were either indifferent or uninformed about the situation with Marilyn and Bill, many of the women showed how uncomfortable with or hostile to Marilyn they were. Lowell made an effort to be polite when he asked Marilyn about her new apartment, but the effort came through more than the politeness, and Marilyn answered him curtly, "Yeah, it's quite nice." Fiona was quiet, only speaking to her cousin when spoken to and appearing very ill at ease. In contrast, everyone was friendly with Bill in a way that telegraphed their opinion that he was the victim of Marilyn's manipulation. Jane Coffman, a benchwarmer during the championship years and home in Waska on vacation now, had clearly been filled in with all the details of Marilyn's latest caper. She pointedly asked in Marilyn's presence where Nicole Tourigny was now. Everyone knew she had married and moved to California. A bit later Phoebe Waite watched Marilyn with a deepening frown on her face as she drank some water near home plate. She had never liked Marilyn even before the stolen boyfriend business disrupted the team, but now there seemed to be another, more personal reason for the dislike. Her husband George, a tall, gawky man with a narrow face who was a member of the band in high school and who was absolutely in no danger of being seduced by Marilyn, had come along again and was prepared to play if there weren't enough people, even though he was not very good. She was frowning because she could see that he, like most of the men, was staring at Marilyn's body as she ran in the outfield. "That woman," she muttered.

Tara shrugged. "She can't help having those boobs."

Phoebe glared at her, perhaps because she recognized a tone of neutrality she did not share, or perhaps because she was stocky and had small breasts. "No, she can't, but she doesn't have to steal men."

"No," Tara said slowly, "no, she doesn't. But don't you think men have something to do with it?"

Phoebe's eyes narrowed and she looked menacing. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing much, just that the guy could say no. It takes two to tango."

Phoebe shrugged and walked away without another word.

Tara rolled her eyes at Meg but said nothing. While even Meg disapproved of Marilyn, Tara was different and knew it. She alone was not judgmental but rather tolerant. People had to do what they had to do. She didn't choose the way she loved. Why should she blame someone else for grabbing at love? Only because she knew it disturbed Fiona and Lowell did she wish it wasn't so. The wife she didn't know, and out of sight out of mind, though she knew that if she met Bill's wife and saw that she was hurt she would probably feel different. So she liked Bill and she liked Marilyn, but she had to be careful. She didn't want to have to take sides. Back in high school when Marilyn had stolen the right fielder's boyfriend and had divided the team into two camps, she had stayed neutral and organized a team meeting that more or less resolved the issue, though some would say it was Marilyn's growing tired of the boy in question that ultimately solved the problem.

She had been tolerant of human foibles for a long, long time; it was part of her discovery of herself. As a little girl she felt different and did not know why. The things her mother gave her to play with, dolls and plastic cooking pots and such, the dresses she'd wear, the blue bunnies on her pink wallpaper, none of this felt right to her. She preferred her brother's toys and his rough games. When other girls wanted to play house and pretend they had boyfriends, she wanted to be the boyfriend even though she knew it was wrong to feel this way. She was happiest when she played baseball with her brother and his friends. They called her a tomboy, meaning to tease her, but instead it gave her her first glimmering hint of the reality of her life. By the time she was twelve she knew how she was different. It made her simultaneously strong, shy, confused about what to do, and understanding of others who were somehow different. It was in the seventh and eighth grades, the time that she seriously began learning to be a softball pitcher, that she became friends with Fiona Sparrow. Her real life was still hidden, but, strangely, as she gained con-fidence as a pitcher the knowledge of her reality began scaring her less and less while more and more she was becoming herself.

All this was part of an inheritance that made her tolerant, but other life experiences and discoveries made her open-minded and nonjudgmental in different ways. She believed in commitment but not fences. People should love one another until they stopped loving one another. There should be nothing coercive about love. Meg had hinted that she'd like to have a lesbian commitment ceremony, but Tara wanted nothing to do with it. It sounded too mushy to her, and although there was nothing legally binding in such an exchange of vows it still smacked of fences. And yet she loved Meg and planned to spend the rest of her life with her. She hoped Fiona and Lowell would always love one another as well. But if Bill had grown estranged from his wife, if he no longer loved her, then who was she to look down on Marilyn as a sneak thief. These people, her teammates, believed in fences. They were almost forcing her to act like a sneak thief herself because she didn't think Marilyn and Bill were. It was ridiculous.

Something else that became one of her guiding principles she had learned from softball. Years ago when pitching for the team that won the first state championship she would discuss with the coach how to pitch to various opponents. A hitter should be started with a fastball, followed by a drop pitch and so forth. This usually worked, but she didn't become the best woman pitcher in the state until she started listening to a voice inside her that told her to throw a change-up when the situation required a fastball. She started to follow these feelings and pitched two no-hitters in a row. Ever after that she started trusting her instincts, and not just in softball. Meg had shown no signs of lesbianism, but something told her that love beckoned Meg to her. She listened to that voice and found the love of her life. The same with their apartment: they wouldn't have gotten it if she hadn't had a feeling it was for them when she read the classified ad. So it was with Marilyn. The way Tara saw it, Marilyn was just being true to her instincts. To deny her, to turn her back on her, would be to repudiate her own life. She couldn't do that, though she did understand the waters were a bit murkier in this case. To live and let live meant nobody got hurt; if the wife ended up hurt, then she would be forced to join the majority whether she wanted to or not.

She threw one more pitch to Meg and raised her hand.

"Your head has been somewhere else, you know," Meg said. "You sure you're ready?"

"I'll be ready," she said as she turned to Bill, who was returning a bat after hitting fungoes to the outfielders. "Think you can hit me this time, Bill?"

He picked the bat up again and swung it a few times. "I was out at Fun Town last week and used their batting cage. I had three sessions of fast-pitch baseball to get my timing back. You're in big trouble, Tara."

"Ha," she snorted, "that machine ain't me. You don't expect me to feed you nothing but fastballs, do you?"

"All I can say is, I'll be sitting on your fastball."

He grinned so boyishly as he spoke she couldn't help smiling back.

"Well," she said, giving him a friendly pat on the back, "we're going to have some fun, no matter what. If I get rocked I can blame it on too much beer."

Everyone was converging on home plate. There had been some talk about dividing the men and women into two teams this time, but no decision had been reached. It looked as if this was going to be discussed now.

First she wanted to make a point. In front of everyone and rather pointedly, she walked over to where Marilyn was working on the webbing of her glove. "Hey, Marilyn, what's this I hear about you getting one of those exercise machines?"

Marilyn, kneeling on her haunches, looked at Tara and stood up. She patted her belly, which to Tara looked pretty slim and firm. "It's for the weight. I put on four or five pounds, first time that's ever happened."

"Tell me when you've added fifty more and we get on a seesaw together, you skinny thing."

"Tara, you know me. I need a little heft to have power when I swing a bat, but there's more to life than softball."

"Tell me about it." She looked over at Meg. "Hey, Meg! Tell Marilyn what you were doing right before we left."

Meg turned and regarded Tara suspiciously. "You know very well that I was washing the floor where you tracked in mud." To Marilyn she added, "It's like living with a big kid, you have no idea."

Tara grinned. "See? There's more to life for Meg too. There's cleaning. My trouble, Timber, is that for me the 'more' is beer. This"—she patted her jumbo belly and slapped at her ass—"is the price I pay. No exercise machine for me, though."

Her point being made, she turned back to the men and women gathered at home plate and said, "Let's figure out how we're going to play this thing."

The group, particularly the women, decided that the original plan of a rematch of the women against the men would be a better game. George had to play because both Bob Hanrahan and Ralph Johnson were no-shows and the men were shorthanded. He disgraced himself in right field, letting three balls drop in front of him or go between his legs for errors that let in five extra runs and which turned out to be the margin of victory since the men lost 7 to 2. Eddie Du Bois pitched to Tara her first time up and did an outrageously satiric imitation of her mannerisms and taunting. He captured perfectly her habit of circling the mound and pounding the ball in and out of her glove before a crucial pitch, and said things like "You're going down now, my man" and "Get ready for some heat" whereby he'd throw a ridiculous slow arching pitch over the plate. The men's two runs came on an ambigu-ous home run by Lowell with Bill on first base after singling. The ball went over the left -fielder Phoebe Waite's head after she first misjudged it and came in on the ball, but Tara generous-ly conceded that it would have been a four-bagger even if Phoebe had gotten a good jump on the ball. For the second time Tara was that supposed impossibility in the game of softball, both the winning and the losing pitcher. Eddie said that he used to think she was a pretty darn good pitcher, "but let's face it, a five hundred pitcher is kinda mediocre." She answered that the losing pitcher got no support, particularly from the second base man, one Eddie Du Bois.

During the game everything went smoothly in regards to Marilyn. She drove in the only two earned runs the women had with a double and a solo home run and was cheered by her teammates with reasonable enthusiasm, but after the game things got iffy once more. They had only played seven innings because the plan was to have a picnic lunch at Lowell's cottage, followed by a swim. As everyone was collecting and putting away their equipment, however, the first hint of trouble came. While two of the men had already said they had to be elsewhere in the afternoon, Tara was surprised when three of the women, Helen Sapienza, Linda Miles and Adele Sartory, all of them good friends of Nicole Tourigny, said they had other engagements and backed out of the picnic. They managed to sound convincing, but when Phoebe said the same thing, her husband George contradicted her and they went off some little distance and argued for a while. Not much could be heard of their spat, but the phrase "that woman" was said loud enough for everyone to hear and know to whom it referred. He won the argument and they drove up to the lake with the others, but everyone, and especially Fiona, started showing signs of apprehension.

They went in six cars, following Lowell and Fiona. They made their first stop to buy more beer, Italian sandwiches and the like for their lunches, then proceeded to the lakefront property. Lowell gave everyone a brief tour of the work he had done on the cottage before they ate. Marilyn walked through the cottage without comment, but she did give Fiona a strange, knowing smile when she glanced up the stairs at the loft. Fiona, trying hard not to blush, blushed. Tara alone witnessed this exchange. The rest of them were listening to Lowell describe the work he had done. The carpenters Denny Genier and Pat Williams, appraising the cottage with a profes--sional eye, were duly impressed. The outside shingling and the windows and doors were com-pleted. Lowell, with Fiona's assistance, was now wallboarding the insides. The main room and kitchen were completed, as was the ceiling, which Lowell said was done with the help of a couple of professionals last week, but the rest remained bare. Still one could see the final look of the cottage: it was going to be a cozy and comfortable place, with a big picture window dis-playing the lake in all its beauty.

After the brief tour everyone sat either at the table that was waiting to be moved to the unfinished deck or in folding chairs or on the ground and ate their lunch. The conversation was mostly about softball. Some of the men asked about the tournaments the women were entering and then conjectured for a while about getting a men's team together to represent Waska in the men's division, but after some discussion the idea fell flat. Marilyn sat next to Meg and Tara, and Bill sat by Pat and Denny. They were so discreet it was almost ridiculous, Tara thought, but, then, given the signs of hostility already shown, they didn't have much choice. Tara thought Marilyn was growing rather impatient and angry with this enforced hypocrisy and controlling these feelings only with difficulty. She was uncharacteristically quiet.

When after lunch they all changed into their swimsuits and went into the water, at one point Bill and Marilyn swam off a little ways together and talked earnestly and quietly for a few minutes. With Eddie horsing around in the water with an old soccer ball he'd brought, Tara doubted many had taken any particular notice of their conversation.

After the swim they all returned to their seats without changing and broke out the beer. Barbara and Fiona wore bikinis, but the rest of the women, the stocky ones like Phoebe and Jane, and the slender ones like Meg, wore one-piece bathing suits and seemed self-conscious in the presence of the men. Tara herself didn't own a bathing suit and never had. She had gone into the water wearing her playing clothes, a white T-shirt and beige shorts. Usually if time permitted she would let these garments dry out, but Meg always packed another set of clothes in case she needed them. She had swum just long enough to cool off, then was the first one to go on shore to have a beer. She didn't have to worry about pacing herself because Meg was not a drinker and would sip one beer for hours to make sure no one forced another one on her. Tara didn't object to Meg's teetotal ways, for it made her a perfect designated driver. She often said that if Meg drank as much as she did they would have wrapped themselves around a tree long ago. Phoebe and Jane were also pretty heavy drinkers when a party was going on, and Bill's friends acted as if beer was no stranger to them. They sat on folding chairs or the ground and continued talking about the game. Eddie clowned a lot with Tara, going on about pitching as if he were as experienced as she was. "Why do you suppose us pitchers can't hit?" he asked. "We should know what to do with a curve or fastball or drop pitch because we know what they do. But what happens? We swing like an eighty-year-old man. It's a mystery to me."

"You're a second baseman, Eddie. You tell me why pitchers can't hit."

"Come on, Tara. Tell me you've ever seen anyone as intimidating as me on the mound. You know you can't. You were shaking in your sneakers."

Tara could see that Fiona felt a proprietary regard for the cottage but that her shyness wouldn't let her speak of the place as home. Any question about the cottage she would let Lowell answer. When Marilyn asked if the cottage was going to have air conditioning, she looked down in embarrassment. When something about softball or any general topic came up, she spoke readily enough. She wasn't ordinarily shy among her teammates: her new life of love, Tara thought, was simply too private, too important, too new, for her to speak of it in public. But Tara also wondered if she feared the disapproval of Bill's friends, all of them white, working-class guys not noted for their enlightenment. Yet she was pretty sure they were all basically decent. Eddie she knew was. Eddie was something else! She had never been attracted to a guy, but she did like him. For a moment she let herself daydream what it would be like to be married to him and come home to his genial, squirrely face every night, but rather quickly she found the idea ridiculous. Surreptitiously she put her hand on Meg's lower back.

Meg turned and smiled at her. She knew Meg as well as anyone on earth, but still many mysteries remained unknowable behind that sweet smile. Her smile seemed to understand that she was loved and loved in return, but who could be sure? Life was very strange. She looked out at the lake to see the high sun reflected on the water and making it very bright. She squinted and watched a couple of speedboats with water skiers racing across the water. She glanced over at Fiona, who looked vulnerable and apprehensive sitting beside Lowell. She noticed that occasionally he put a reassuring hand on her back in the same surreptitious way she had just touched Meg.

Denny was talking about the basement he and Pat finished for Bill last year. "I don't imagine Bill has been much help, Lowell. He's not too handy with tools."

Lowell, looking embarrassed, shook his head. "No, he's not. I do a lot for him around his house, that's for sure."

Now it was Bill's turn to look embarrassed. Denny didn't seem to know that Bill was supposed to help Lowell with the cottage and hadn't. "I meant to help out," he mumbled, looking at the ground and avoiding Lowell's eyes, "but I just didn't have the time."

With the conversation heading in a dangerous direction, Lowell's face grew tense. "Fiona's been a good gofer, so we've made good progress anyways."

That remark, while making Fiona the third person in a row to feel embarrassed, had the desired effect of changing the subject. Everyone started asking Fiona what she had done to help.

While she modestly explained that she did no more than hold a ladder or fetch a tool, Tara noticed Phoebe staring at Marilyn with an unmistakable look of hatred on her face. Her husband George, like all the guys, had been constantly stealing glances at Marilyn's body, which her skimpy bikini was displaying without much need of added imagination. Unlike Fiona, she had not put on a long shirt to cover herself, but she wasn't flaunting herself either. She was simply sitting on a towel a bit to the left of Meg and some distance from Bill, who was sitting between Denny and Pat. She was more or less alone and spoke very little.

But the hatred seething in Phoebe's eyes wasn't going to acknowledge that Marilyn was faultless. It was plain as the freckles on her homely face that her anger was misdirected, for it should be George with whom she was angry. The one thing that made this another dangerous situation was that Phoebe was drinking her beers very quickly. She'd had three already and from the tilt of the can when she took a swig, she was just about finished with the fourth. Of course Tara was keeping up with her nicely, but then she could hold her liquor, and even when she went over her limit she was a happy drunk. Phoebe, unfortunately, was an ugly drunk.

She wasn't quite in that state yet, so some lazy time passed. As the sun grew higher in the sky, Jane and Marilyn separately sought unshaded areas to work on their tans, and at this point male eyes even more frequently surveyed the contours of Marilyn's body. Then when Bill asked Denny and Pat if they'd been busy this summer, and Pat answered that they had been so busy they could hardly steal a moment for themselves during the work week, Phoebe started the trouble.

"Steal," she said with an ugly curl of the lip. "That's a good word. I steal bases. Marilyn, what are you good at stealing?"

The remark, which seemed to come out of nowhere, surprised everyone except Tara and possibly Fiona, who also seemed aware of the undercurrents flowing through the conversations all day. It caused an immediate hush. Tara saw Bill's face color as Marilyn, who sat up instantly when she was addressed, glared back at Phoebe. She was about to make an angry retort when a glance from Fiona stopped her. Fiona looked as if she was on the verge of panicking; everyone else maintained an uncomfortable silence. Quietly and calmly Marilyn said, "I was not aware that I stole anything. But if the reference is somehow to my personal life, I don't think that's anyone's business but my own."

Phoebe, with her booze-clouded mind, didn't respond immediately, so Eddie took it upon himself to break the silence. "The only time I ever stole a base was when the umpires forget to put them away after a game."

Everyone laughed, not so much at the humor as to release tension.

"Eddie," Bill asked rather too anxiously, "don't I remember you belly flopping into second base once when we played South Portland? Wasn't that a stolen base?"

"Naw. I'd singled to left and was taking second on the throw to the plate when the ball was cut off and I was in a pickle. I managed to slide beautifully into second and was safe. But if you want to call it a stolen base, I won't argue."

Phoebe now turned her attention to her husband. "Suppose you keep your goddamned eyes to yourself," she said in a whisper loud enough to be heard across the lake.

"What do you mean?" George asked in a wounded tone. "I haven't done nothing wrong."

"Don't give me that crap, George. I saw you ogling Marilyn every chance you got."

"What am I supposed to do? Keep my eyes on the ground all day?" His voice had an irritating whine that made Tara wonder what Phoebe saw in the guy.

"If I may interrupt," Eddie said in another effort to be the peacemaker, "it's no secret Marilyn is a fine-looking woman lovingly assembled by a just and benevolent God to be a refuge for sore male eyes." He looked at Marilyn and added, "I hope you don't mind me saying so," while she nodded noncommittally even while not quite able to hide how pleased she was with the compliment. "And maybe you don't know, Phoebe, but when guys window-shop they're not necessarily planning on buying. More often than not it's the little woman back home who gets the new dress—if you take my meaning." Here he winked knowingly. "So if you'll take my advice, you'll see there's no problem."

Bill stood and began pacing nervously.

Phoebe had been exhibiting signs of impatience, grimacing and drumming her heel as she listened to these little observations on life. "As Marilyn, that fine-looking woman, said, my personal life is none of your business. Marilyn is the issue, not me. Marilyn and the team, I should say."

Denny stood to get another beer. Cracking the fliptop can, he said, "Your team is none of my business, of course, but if you're blaming Marilyn for disrupting it because guys look at her, I think you're wrong." He sat down and nudged Pat Williams. "Am I right, Pat?"

Pat grinned. "You're always right, partner."

Phoebe glared at them in drunken disbelief. "Jesus, you guys don't have a clue, do you. Marilyn, tell them about the boyfriend you stole in high school. While you're at it, tell them about Bill."

"I'll do no such thing," Marilyn said angrily. "And Bill can speak for himself."

But Bill, the person in question, couldn't make any answer. A few minutes ago he had exchanged a look with Lowell as he paced, and as if waiting for a prearranged signal, Lowell, after whispering something to Fiona, rose, and they withdrew from the group a few paces where they started talking animatedly to each other. Neither looked angry; rather both appeared deeply troubled. Fiona had told Tara they were very close, and she knew Lowell was distressed by his brother's infidelity. Here was yet another dangerous situation in an afternoon laden with land mines. But right now her principal concern was the potential disintegration of the team if Phoebe's squabbling continued, so with one more glance at the two brothers, who were now walking up the access road together, she turned her attention to the group.

With Bill gone, Phoebe had no inhibitions about telling the guys about Marilyn and Bill. Amazingly none of them knew anything about the relationship. While Marilyn was telling Phoebe to shut up and mind her own business, the guys were making various remarks expressing their surprise and interest. With everyone pretty much talking at once, the situation had degenerated into chaos. It was time for her to intervene.

"Hold on a sec," she said to Marilyn. "Come on, you guys," she said to her teammates. "This is no time to argue. We've been working out all summer to play the tournaments next month. They're coming up in a couple weeks. We've got to be together. We've got to be a team."

"But is Marilyn a teammate? She's nothing but trouble, if you ask me," Jane said, while Phoebe nodded in agreement.

Marilyn leaned forward and pointed belligerently at Phoebe and Jane. "I'll save you the trouble. If they're so hot and bothered by my personal life, they can kiss off. I quit the team, right now, officially." She got up and started gathering her clothes, backpack and small cooler.

"Wait a minute, Timber. Phoebe's drunk. It's the beer that's talking. Don't let a few ill-chosen words ruin a good thing. You're our offense. You know we can't win without you."

Phoebe started sputtering a denial that she was drunk, but both Tara and Marilyn ignored her.

"Sorry, Tara. You're a good teammate and always have been, but I don't want to play with people who insult me."

She turned and walked determinedly to her car without looking back.

Two Serious Conversations

When Phoebe Waite asked Marilyn what she was good at stealing, the trouble that Lowell has been anticipating all day announced its arrival. He saw Bill's face flush and felt Fiona, sitting beside him, tense up. So did he. Ever since Fiona told him about Marilyn and Bill he knew he would have to have a talk with his brother, but a whole month had gone by without an opportunity. It came when Bill stood and nervously began pacing. He caught Bill's eye and went over to join him. "We have to talk," he said in a whisper. Behind him Eddie was jokingly saying something about Marilyn being a sight for sore male eyes, but already they had started walking up the access road.

No words were yet spoken. Lowell was trying to find a way to begin. When they reached the shore road and turned left, he gave up trying to work out in his mind the right thing to say and simply made a statement. "Fiona and I have been very upset about all this. We worry about you."

It was not a good beginning, though luckily Bill's eyes were downcast so that he couldn't see Lowell wince. Partly it was because of the condescending tone he couldn't help taking as the elder brother and partly because he knew he was being disingenuous. His brother was the only person in the world who shared the life that made him who he was. He loved Bill for all they had gone through together. Because of their fatherless life he was like a son to him. When they were boys he always wanted to protect him from the things that hurt him as a kid—the contempt of neighbors, the narrow expectations everyone had for them, the chaos and insecurities of being poor. He could in good conscience say that he was worrying about Bill for his own sake. And yet he knew he worried about Bill and Marilyn most deeply because he felt their illicit affair threatened him and Fiona. The vision of rooted normalcy that his younger brother had given him had turned into an illusion. Lowell hadn't fallen so far from certainty that he feared his and Fiona's love was an illusion, but he did feel uneasy about the direction his brother's infidelity had made him take. He had brooded on the problem a great deal in the last month and had found safety in the conclusion that he and Fiona did not need a model. They were special, unique, different. This conclusion in turn made him feel vaguely apprehensive in a different way: it made him feel isolated and forced to live interiorly. But was that healthy? He wasn't sure.

So his condescending tone hid a whole world of shadowy doubts that he didn't know how to face. If he were honest with Bill, he would tell him of these doubts and then maybe they could help each other. Turning the question into concern for Bill, in the meantime, seemed the only way to proceed.

Bill walked on, still avoiding eye contact. He didn't seem to notice the condescension and definitely didn't see Lowell wince. He acted like a guilty man, and when he finally spoke, saying, "I've made a mess of things, that's for sure. I'm sorry," he sounded like one too.

"I thought you and Becky had a good, solid marriage. Just a couple months ago, right before I met Fiona, you said I'd know when I found the love of my life. You sounded as if you knew what you were talking about. Wasn't it Becky you were thinking of?"

Bill nodded. "It was."

They were walking slowly on the side of the road, neither of them particularly aware of their surroundings, and were surprised when a dog belonging to three teenage girls came up and greeted them excitedly. He was a yellow Lab, not fully grown yet and still displaying his puppyhood. He yipped and jumped up at them, his tail wagging. "Hello, boy," Lowell said, kneeling down.

"He won't bite. He's friendly," one of the girls said. They were all dressed in shorts and bathing-suit tops. Two were barefoot. The one who spoke wore sandals and had large breasts like Marilyn. Lowell could see Bill looking at her and knew what he was thinking.

"I can see he's friendly," Lowell said. "He's still a puppy."

They walked on, hearing the girls giggle about something.

"Then what happened?" Lowell asked.

"About Becky?"

"Yeah."

Bill pursed his lips and a frown passed over his face. For a minute all they could hear was the sound of their sneakered feet crunching into the pressed gravel of the road. Once they heard the dog bark and a high, shrill female voice calling. Then speaking very quietly, Bill began. "There are things you don't know. Becky and I have not been all that close lately. She ignores me. All her attention, all the time, is devoted to Johnny and Trevor. She makes me feel like an outsider."

Listening to this, Lowell remembered all the times women he had known—including Laurie Heinsohn, though of course not Fiona—seemed distant and cold and made him feel again the way he felt as a boy, insecure and inferior. Did Bill also revisit his chaotic boyhood when Becky seemed far, far away? If so, he could understand Bill's feelings, though perhaps not forgive them. He had no Johnny or Trevor in his life, after all. They were different. He felt a pang of compassion for his brother nevertheless. He put his hand on Bill's shoulder.

"I think you have to do something, Bill. Everyone on the team knows about this now. The guys will know about it too, judging from what Phoebe was saying when we left. How long do you think it will be before Becky knows? Have you tried talking with her?"

"A little—not much," he admitted. "You have to realize I didn't plan this. It just happened. It's as if I was moving in a dream. Before I knew it..."

"You know what? I've thought about it a lot too. Especially about the boys. I've thought about fidelity too. It's what kept me from a final commitment to Laurie. I think once you give your word it's forever. Vows mean something even if you don't believe in God. Johnny and Trevor, they deserve a father."

"I don't disagree with you, but I was young when I fell in love with Becky. I wasn't fully myself. She wasn't herself. We've grown apart and she started to be a stranger to me."

"When? When did this happen?"

"When?" he repeated impatiently. "I already told you. When the kids took all her time."

"But wasn't that why you married her? To be the mother of your kids?"

Bill didn't answer.

"Tell me something, Bill. Do you love Becky now at all?"

He stopped suddenly. He had a stricken look on his face and tears sprang to his eyes. "That's just it. I do love her. But I'm like trapped. I did betray her, and I know I'm a shit. But it's happened. I can't take it back."

"You could if you ask for forgiveness."

"If it was only that easy."

"Isn't it?"

"No," he said bitterly. "It isn't."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Right now I'm not sure, but I will do something. I can't stand this much longer, so I will do something."

With nothing more to be said, they turned back towards the cottage. Near the access road leading to the cottage they met the teenage girls again. This time Bill leaned down and patted the dog. "What's his name?" he asked, and the one with the large breasts told him it was Ginger. She looked at Bill in a way that made Lowell realize what they were giggling about earlier. They thought he was cute. Fiona and her teammates regarded Marilyn as a predatory female. He had a hard time picturing Bill as an innocent moth getting his wings scorched, but the way these girls regarded his brother gave him a different perspective. Bill said he wandered into the affair as if in a dream. But then he shook off the notion. People were responsible for their actions. The world happened to them, but they had to take a step towards it before the circuit was completed and the deed done.

"Promise me you'll think about Becky and the boys," he said as they left the girls and turned into the access road.

"I will. I do—think of them, that is—all the time," Bill said with the helpless fatalism of the moth. It didn't sound too promising.

They arrived back at the cottage to find the group in disarray. Marilyn had left angrily. Tara was chewing out Phoebe and calling her a drunken idiot. Fiona was looking as if she wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Bill was upset that Marilyn had left without speaking to him and angry with the women for driving her away. The guys, standing around looking embarrassed and bemused, were giving Bill funny looks. So were the women, though their hostile glances were easier to read. The team had broken up, and the attitudes of the women towards Bill were changing. Before they all saw him as the innocent victim; now he was regarded as a contributing cause of the team's breakup by one side and as an ally of the odious Marilyn by the other. When everyone left soon after their return, Fiona was close to tears as she described the things Phoebe said and Marilyn's and Tara's separate responses.

A bad couple of weeks followed. Sunday night Lowell wanted to go to a restaurant, but Fiona talked him into eating at home. She was too upset to face strangers. On the following Tuesday she had a bad day at work. Three residents had had tantrums in her presence and refused to listen to her. She came home feeling so frustrated and upset that she seriously thought about quitting her job. Lowell talked to her for a long time, trying to make an analogy to some of the problems he had encountered in working on the house and how it was necessary to step away for a moment to get another perspective. "Expecting problems was better than being surprised by them," he said. "I know you can't compare wood and metal to human beings, but the attitude towards the work can be the same. Every time I feel like taking a sledgehammer to some bad carpentry, I find my frustration absurd when I approach the problem as something to be solved." Tomorrow, he said, will be different. He was right about the work, but bad news continued. On Thursday night they went to a cookout at Tara and Meg's. Tara had already told them on the phone that she had made several attempts to talk Marilyn into returning, all without success. Now they learned that it didn't matter anyways. When Phoebe had sobered up, instead of seeing that she had behaved badly all she could remember was that Tara had chewed her out. After brooding over her imagined grievances for several days she quit the team together with Helen Sapienza and Adele Sartory. Tara had no choice but to withdraw from the tournaments. Then later after they had eaten and were sitting in the backyard drinking beer, Tara belatedly told them about her confrontation with Darren French. Lowell, sitting across from Fiona, saw her trying to hide the distress this news engendered. She was too polite to express any displeasure, but on the ride back to the lake she told Lowell her fears that Tara's interference, instead of quieting the racist pair, was more likely to make them more determined. Lowell had a difficult time assuaging her fears since he shared them. "Remember they're cowards or they wouldn't be racists," he said with as much conviction as he could muster.

Visiting their mothers in Waska the following Saturday, they saw Rett Murray at a self-serve gas station. He was walking out after paying for gas when he spotted Lowell at the pump and Fiona sitting in the car. He stared at them insolently as he walked to his car, then brought it around and passed them again, still staring. That incident colored a subsequent event on Tuesday night. They had gone to the ice-cream parlor in the next town after supper and were sitting on the bench in front of the parlor when what Fiona took to be a gang of motorcyclists drove through town. There were about five or six bikes, three of which had a female passenger in the back. Another biker without a woman riding with him wore a leather jacket on which was written If you can read this the bitch fell off. They all glanced at Fiona and Lowell as they rode past, though with their eyes hidden behind dark glasses their expressions could not be read. Probably they were tourists; probably the emblem that Fiona thought might be a swastika was merely some club decal; but the fact they wondered and doubted what they saw was another indication of their general unease in public.

So it was that all the places where they had felt comfortable—Tara and Meg's, the softball field, their mothers' houses, the ice-cream parlor—all became places fraught with either real or potential dangers. These bad experiences made the cottage even more central to their lives, and the cottage, which he had originally envisioned as a way to sink roots into the Maine earth, had become something beyond roots: it was a home for him and his love; it was a place to experience and share life; but it was also was in danger of becoming a prison. For two months as he worked here he was an utterly happy man, but what if this became the only place on earth in which they could be at home? And even if the serpent was not in their garden, he was in the world. The fear of being closed in and suffocating, which visited Lowell sometimes when his mind was not on guard, was like the serpent's first tentative steps into their earthly paradise. He despised the thought, it terrified him, and yet he could see no easy way around its implications.

Except work. Concentrating on the work at hand and building for himself and Fiona pointed them towards the future. On Friday morning, this was the thought that drove the fear away. After gathering his hand tools for the wiring he was starting today, Lowell paused for a moment to assess his progress. The insulation had been done. The wallboard was all installed, mudded, sanded, and primed. This weekend he and Fiona planned to do the painting, after which he would install the molding for the baseboards, windows and doors. Once that was done and the wiring was finished, everything inside would be completed except for some of the plumbing fixtures, laying down the finished floor, and of course numerous details and the decorating. Yesterday he had done the steps and railings for the stairway that led to the loft. That would be stained at the same time the molding was done. Outside the deck still had to be constructed. He had already decided he was going to have to get Fred McClellen's crew to help with that project. The shingles on the house were as yet unpainted, but it did no harm to let them weather a bit. Lots of people, especially those living on the coast, left them to weather so that after a few years they took on an attractive gray patina. Maybe he would go for that look, though Fiona favored a red cottage. The trim boards were primed but needed a couple of coats of white latex semigloss. All in all, not too bad for ten weeks of work, mostly by himself with Fiona's help, and with only minimal help from professionals.

Today, however, was not going to be an easy one. He had most of the receptacles, switches and light fixtures to wire up, a job he was not very good at. Nate Wentworth, the electrician, had installed the electrical panel and run a few circuits to supply Lowell with power and light so that he could work, but most of the wiring as a matter of pride Lowell had reserved for himself. He'd run all the cables before wallboarding, drilling half-inch holes through the studding where needed to run the 14-2 and 12-2 NM cables and mounting the outlet boxes where the switches and receptacles would be. Last week Nate had returned to wire all these cables into circuit breakers. Lowell had decided at the last moment that pride was nice but working on live bus bars wasn't necessarily a wise test of one's pride.

He started with the switch for the kitchen lights. From years of watching electricians with his uncle's company he knew what to do, but the contrast between him and Nate was wide and deep. Nate could peel off the plastic sheathing and strip the insulation from the wires with a few quick motions that took mere seconds. Lowell had bought a tool that slipped over the sheathing and was pressed so that a blade cut into the plastic, but trying to use it he found he could not get the feel for it and gave up. Laboriously he nipped the sheathing with wire cutters. Then, trying to use the same tool to strip the insulation from the wires, he pressed too hard and cut off the copper wire. He had left himself six inches to work with, but a couple more miscues like this and he'd be in danger of not having enough of a lead.

To spur himself on, he envisioned Fiona coming home and trying the switch. This was something he often did. Whatever he was working on he did with the thought that he would show it to her as soon as she came home. Sometimes he would even speak out loud to her, so seemingly palpably was she a presence in the room with him. "Fiona," he would say, "should we have a door for the kitchen or make the entire downstairs one room?" Then he would remember her remarking earlier that she liked the open space of the cottage and would know how she would express her desire. "Whatever you want to do, Lowell, will be fine, but I do like the open look." She would smile broadly and give him a look he loved which said, "You're my man and I'm proud of everything you do."

This time, however, Fiona's ghostly presence did not help. He tried a second time to strip the insulation, only to cut the wire again. He would have to have recourse to other, more mundane methods. He went over to a cardboard box filled with scrap pieces of the cable and practiced for a while stripping the sheathing and insulation until he got a feel for it, then returned to the switch. This time he managed to get the wires stripped properly. He bent them with his needle-nose pliers and affixed them to the terminals on the switch, then tightened them down with a screwdriver. The rest was easy. He pushed the wires into the back of the box and screwed the switch to the outlet box. He wouldn't put the wall plate on until after they had painted, so the first one was done.

He was about to start the next box, a receptacle with the line coming in and a feeder cable to three other receptacles in the circuit when he stopped and listened to what he thought was someone calling his name. He stood listening attentively and this time he heard it distinctly. "Hey, Lowell. Are you home?"

He went out the door and looked up to where his truck was parked and then towards the lake. His uncle, Cliff Dalton, was sitting in his boat with the motor idling and looking up at him. "Hi, Lowell. Are you busy or do you have some time to show me the progress you've made?" He'd come by when the framing was being done, and with his wife, Nadine, had made a visit and met Fiona, but on that occasion they had chatted from the boat while Lowell and Fiona stood on the dock. He hadn't seen any of the finish work on the cottage.

Smiling broadly, Lowell walked down to the dock. "I always have time for you, Cliff."

He caught the rope his uncle tossed to him and pulled the boat to the dock. Once out of the boat, Cliff shook hands. He was short, with just a slight tendency towards being overweight, not from a middle-age paunch but rather from thick legs and a round face framed with gold-rimmed glasses through which bright blue eyes gleamed with a quick intelligence. His short hair and neatly trimmed beard were gray. He was something of a local celebrity in Waska, having written a well-regarded history of the town that was published five years ago.

"Nadine's busy baking some pies, but she's given me strict orders to invite you and Fiona to dinner some night this week. We're up here for a couple weeks' vacation."

"That would be nice. We'd love to."

Cliff tapped him on the shoulder. "Good. We both found Fiona to be a sweet and lovely girl, and we're anxious to get to know her better. What are you working on now?" he asked, changing the subject as they picked their way carefully up the rocky incline to the cottage.

"Wiring."

They paused at the door.

"I hear my friend Nate Wentworth installed the circuit-breaker panel for you."

"He did the panel and ran a couple circuits to give me power to work with. That was supposed to be it, but I decided it was wiser to have a pro do the circuit breakers, so he came back a second time. He's been very accommodating too. Both times he came within a day or two after I called him."

Cliff nodded in agreement as he listened. "I'm not surprised. He loves this lake. You've heard, haven't you, that his wife died about ten years ago?"

"No, I didn't."

"Actually his second wife. His first died in a fire. He's had a tragic life. Anyways, he and his second wife spent their last weekend together at my place. That's why he loves it here. Something special happened, though he won't talk about it." He was surveying the cottage as he spoke and added, " Are you going to paint those shingles or stain them?"

"Probably stain them red. That's what Fiona wants. So poor Nate's had a tragic life, huh? He's always polite and friendly but quiet. I had an idea something bothered him. But come on inside and let me show you the place. Much has been done since you saw Fred McClellen's crew framing it in June."

They went inside where Cliff was favorably impressed and asked a lot of questions. He had built his own post and beam home and took a keen interest in the minutiae of construction. After about twenty minutes Lowell poured them each a cup of coffee and they went outside to sit for a bit. Lowell asked about his cousins.

"They're fine," Cliff said, taking a sip of his black coffee and leaning back as if getting ready for a long stay. "Darlene's married now and living in suburban Boston. She and her husband both teach at the same high school. Mike's teaching too. He got his Ph.D. in ecology at Michigan and is teaching now at a Florida university."

Lowell watched a chipmunk scamper by. When they had food Fiona always fed them, and they had grown quite tame. "That's good to hear. I've kinda lost contact with them through the years, though I do remember Mike was at Michigan. He was going to visit me once in Chicago, but the conference he was going to was canceled or something. Remember the time you took us all to a Red Sox game and he ripped his pants on the edge of his seat going for a foul ball? I still chuckle every time I think of it. His face was crimson."

Reliving the memory, Cliff grinned. "It was Darlene who suggested the solution—to tie his jacket around his waist."

They watched the chipmunk sit on his haunches and regard them for a moment before suddenly and furiously begin scratching an itch on his side. He looked quite comic and both of them laughed. "I wonder if they have fleas too?" Cliff asked. "But how have you and Fiona been? Again I must say we found her a very appealing girl."

"She is. And we've been fine, except..." He hesitated, debating with himself whether he should bring up the troubles that had visited them. He did not share his uncle's interest in the colonial past and Anglo-Saxon culture, though he had read his book, but he knew Cliff was a humane and intelligent man whose instincts were progressive and decent. He was an ardent member of the Green Party and supported numerous left-wing causes despite being from a wealthy Massachusetts family. He certainly wasn't going to mention Bill's infidelity to his uncle, but talking about the racism they had encountered would be a relief.

"Except? Something is wrong then?"

Lowell leaned down to put his coffee cup on the ground, a motion that frightened the chipmunk. With a shrill squeal, it ran off into the underbrush. "Well, it's just that we had a run-in with some local Nazis. A guy from Waska, Rett Murray, and some thug who was with him. Have you heard of Murray?"

The question was rhetorical, for Cliff's face showed that he had. It lit up in recognition the moment he heard the name. "He's the guy who was handing out leaflets denying the Holocaust in front of the synagogue in Portland."

"He's the one."

"I take it he said something of a racist nature?"

Cliff was regarding him with such deep interest that for a moment he felt self-conscious. "Yeah, what was weird about it was that he directed all his remarks to me. He didn't say a thing to Fiona. He hardly even looked at her. He said I was betraying my race, crap like that. This was at the gate at a Sea Dogs game with people all around so that Fiona was mortified. Bill knew him in high school, but I first met him when I bought a car for my mother from him. He was very hostile—very bizarre behavior for a salesman. It turns out it was because he thought I was Jewish."

Cliff frowned in puzzlement. "Jewish? He thought you were Jewish? That's strange."

Lowell nodded and raised his eyebrows while he grimaced. "Bill thinks it was because of my first name and my nose, I guess. But when I saw him in Portland it was creepy. He'd done some research on me and knew then I wasn't Jewish. He mentioned our English ancestors."

"Portland seems to be where he prowls. Nadine was accosted by him once in Portland. He was handing out leaflets on Congress Street, and when she said no thanks and glared at him, he averted his eyes as if he was ashamed of himself. That was before the incident at the synagogue. He's famous, or infamous, you know, because of that. But is he the only one who has bothered you?"

"The only one directly, but we've also experienced subtler forms of racism. Fiona tells me that she's been patronized at various times through her life, but I don't think she has much experience with hostility and hate. She's very shy, a very quiet and unassuming person. That anybody could hate her is beyond ridiculous."

"I agree," Cliff said with some warmth. "Hating her would be like hating a rose or a butterfly. But what about these subtler forms of racism you mentioned?"

"I mean signs of hostility and disapproval on faces that are impossible to miss. We've seen them from white and black people. Sometimes a store clerk or whatever will be brusque and distant and unhelpful. We've had to wait for service for a long time at a restaurant once. These are little things, and I don't think they'd bother us too much if it wasn't for Murray. And of course most people have been perfectly pleasant or benignly indifferent as they mind their own business. But I'll tell you something I learned. When it comes to racism, democracy doesn't count. Ninety-nine out of a hundred people can be fine, but it's the one percent you remember. We feel uneasy in public, and that's the result of Murray's work. The creep! I've spent way too much time thinking and worrying about him."

"You do consider the source, don't you?"

Lowell waited for a loud powerboat to go by. When it was quiet again, he asked, "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Murray is a loser from everything I hear about him." He waved his hand as if dismissing a fly. "The problem nationally isn't so much dirtballs like him as—"

Lowell moved his chair so that he more directly faced his uncle. "Yeah, he's a dirtball all right, but he's still an evil bastard. I had a roommate at the University of Chicago who thought all evil was the result of selfishness, self-regard or egoism, whatever you want to call it. He was a philosophy major and a big fan of Kant. He thought all right-wingers were unspeakable hypocrites because they advocated capitalism and had no sympathy for oppressed people, and they called this view 'moral.' They defended the powerful exploiting the weak in the name of unbridled greed and selfishness and had the gall to call this morality in politics. I used to think he had a pretty good theory. This was the time of the aftermath of Reagan when reactionaries were a dime a dozen. There weren't many progressives at the university, so my roomie and I were just about always on the same side of any issue and always a minority. But Rett Murray bothers me. He's not, from what I hear at least, selfish or greedy. He's a Nazi for ideological reasons. There's no money in it for him, not really much glory either. But I know damn well that bastard is evil and is serving evil. Racism is evil."

"Oh, he's evil all right. Have you ever heard the remark, 'While not all conservatives are stupid, all stupid people are conservatives?' Stupid people can't imagine any other life than the one they can see before their eyes. This Murray is like that. He's stupid. He can't imagine a world where everyone lives together in peace. He can't imagine how it feels to be a black man. I think your friend is right about conservatives, but I'd add that stupidity also causes evil. To some extent he's being manipulated by larger forces he probably doesn't even know exist. There's so much politically correct thinking going on now that people are afraid to have an opinion half the time. One thing the politically correct do to make the situation worse is to see things in black and white. White culture is blamed for slavery, genocide of the Indians and so forth, and by a not-too-subtle equation white people of today are held responsible."

"But aren't white people responsible?" Lowell asked doubtfully. He was afraid the conversation was veering away from the topic. It wouldn't be the first time it had happened when he was talking with Cliff.

"Yes, of course, but the way to heal wounds between groups is to see our commonality—that we all share human nature, both the good and bad that is in it. But see how it is today? Black people and Indians are seen as victims, and as victims are morally pure. White people are tainted with the guilt of their ancestors. They are evil. But a dispassionate review of history will show something else."

"For instance?" Lowell asked politely—for he saw his doubts were accurate and was not particularly interested in the direction Cliff was taking the discussion.

"Well, take the Lakota people, the Sioux Indians. What Custer and the army did to them was cowardly and despicable and could very accurately be described as genocide. But just two generations before Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull the Lakota lived in Minnesota and Iowa. They invaded the Plains Indians who lived in the Dakotas and drove them out. The same sort of thing could be said about African slavery. African tribes caught and sold people from other tribes to the slave traders. The Arabs, who are white people but are regarded as Third-World people, were also involved with the slave trade. Why is this important to remember? Some or most people resist being called evil. In rejecting the label and the guilt, they fight back. Some of them are attracted to political entities like the Nazis or KKK. When ethnic divisiveness refuses to recognize that the problem of human evil is universal and that we all share the same human mind, divisiveness continues. It's not solved, not overcome."

"So you're saying Rett Murray is one of these people who's reacted against the negative view of white people?"

Cliff nodded. "He could be. Probably he is. In an either/or world some will choose the 'or'."

Lowell considered for a moment, folding his arms and looking out at the lake. A smile grew on his face. "Let me play the devil's advocate for a minute. Isn't there some sophistry here? My friend the philosophy major used to talk about how people disengage morally by blaming the victim. You know, instead of seeing street people as people who can't cope because they're mentally ill or from deprived backgrounds or drug addicts, they call them lazy. Isn't saying people who try to right the wrongs of racism are causing racism the same kind of thinking?"

He was afraid Cliff might take offense at his question, but he seemed unconcerned. He shrugged philosophically and pursed his lips. "In some cases I would agree with you. But I'm trying to criticize the way some people go about righting wrongs by being obsessively politically correct. I just think we should remember we all share human nature and remember that all people, all groups, are capable of good and evil. That leads to unity and understanding. Making the victims pure distorts reality. Nazism is a distortion. If you emphasize a distorted view of humanity, you don't rise above it. You don't solve the problem, and you shouldn't be surprised if distorted reactions occur. I'm criticizing an antihumanistic approach to the problem based on an ignorance of history and human life."

Despite his calm beginning, Cliff was bothered by Lowell's devil's advocacy, for he got more and more heated as he went on and almost spat out the last sentence.

Lowell raised his hands in concession. "Okay, okay," he said genially. "I do see your point. But for someone to be a Nazi he's probably already an asshole. That's what made me wonder."

"Okay," his uncle said in the same tone. "I hope you see that my and Nadine's interest in English culture is different from Murray's. I know you do."

"I do," Lowell said with conviction.

"We live in a time of unreason. Remember the Internet poll during the millennium where Elvis got the most votes for man of the century? I really savor the irony of this most 'modern' medium, the Internet, being the medium for yahoos to express themselves. And I really do worry a lot about the self-righteous streak in human nature. When people can believe anything at all, nationalism and overweening ethnic pride are dangerous and evil. The Israelis treat the Palestinians like subhumans, Serbs hate Bosnian and Albanian Moslems, Irish Protestants and Catholics are at each others' throats. I try to love Anglo-Saxon culture because of what it's given to the world—like Shakespeare and Newton, I mean. I don't know what a guy like Murray thinks he's doing. He demeans that culture. If it's any good it doesn't need violence and terror to make it prevail."

"I'm with you on that point," Lowell said. "I think racism is cowardly. I think Murray's a coward. I hope he's not dangerous."

Checking his watch, Cliff rose. "I'd better get going. Nadine will be wondering where I am. But before I leave let me say one other thing. I was going to mention it earlier and then the conversation veered off. It's about a way of looking at black people that's different. It's also about what America means now. The descendants of the English settlers and founders of this nation are every year becoming a smaller and smaller minority. Immigrants from the twentieth century alone are probably a third of the population. What connection do they have to the nation's history? When they say they love America, they aren't talking about a shared culture and history. They love America because it's a place to make a good living. But are self-regard and selfishness a healthy basis for patriotism? What does that mentality know about a commitment to a community or to a shared past? If a better job is offered elsewhere, what would they do?"

"I don't know," Lowell said, not hiding his impatience very well. "I'm not sure what your point is."

"Well, first that capitalistic values are hollow, but the point I want to make is about black people. Racists see them as Other with a capital O, but I see them as a group that shares the nation's history with us. New England Calvinists were behind the abolitionist movement, so our connection goes way back. Not only that, black people have picked up a lot of Anglo-Saxon blood thanks to the evil of slave owners who forced sex upon black women, so just as we're WASPs, black folks could be regarded as BASPs—black Anglo-Saxon Protestants. Their problems, then, are our problems. We share history with them."

His uncle being very earnest, Lowell disagreed in as conciliatory a tone as possible. "I don't think black people see it that way. Fiona doesn't, I'm quite sure."

"No, I'm sure she doesn't, but it is a way to see solidarity and kinship. That was my point." Again, he checked his watch. "If that man does harass you again, I'd call the cops."

He was already making his way to the dock. Lowell followed and helped him get into the unsteady boat before bidding him good-bye. "Remember we look forward to having you over for dinner," Cliff yelled as he gunned the engine for full power and waved in acknowledgment of Lowell's mouthed response.

Standing on the dock and watching Cliff motor away across the lake, Lowell felt a bit guilty. His uncle's abrupt departure may have been because he had lost track of time and had to hurry home; it might even have been because he had talked himself out; but more than likely it was because he read Lowell's eyes as he theorized about history. It wasn't a foible with him, not a propensity to bore his relatives and friends and beg their indulgence; it was the most serious thing in the world. And yet Lowell couldn't help himself. He was uninterested in the discussion. It didn't help him; it didn't clarify what he had to do to be free of Rett Murray. The only practical suggestion Cliff made—to call the police if he was harassed again—was no help at all. What he wanted was not be harassed again. How free was he if a creep and cretin like Murray poisoned his existence with insecurity and fear? Still, his uncle meant well, and he certainly sympathized with him and Fiona. It wasn't as if Lowell didn't appreciate the visit; he forever and always appreciated his uncle for all that he had done for him when young. There are many forms of love. One of them bore his uncle's image.

Cliff disappeared around the bend of the L-shaped lake. Momentarily the lake was free of boats and peaceful as it reflected big, puffy cumulous clouds on its surface. The higher reaches of the mountain that the glacier left behind when it scooped out the lake was purplish in the distance. The lower slopes were thickly green with the boughs of thousands of pine trees. Everything was beautiful, and yet it gave him no peace.

He took a deep breath, which turned into a sigh. With one last look at mountain and lake, he walked back to the cottage to continue the wiring while the biblical and Calvinist injunction echoed in his mind: work, for the night comes.

The Last To Know

Becky Paine woke feeling tired, perceived that it was daytime, then fought the impulse to close her eyes again. Before that happened her instincts kicked in, and she listened to the baby monitor to find out how Trevor was doing. Hearing soft cooing and lip-smacking noises, she relaxed and remembered why she felt so tired. He was suffering from a bad diaper rash and had woken twice in the night to cry out his discomfort. She had changed his diaper and applied the soothing salve, but still she had to hold him for over two and a half hours all told. She remembered the feel of him, tiny and human and in pain that her soft cooing words could not heal. At least now he was sleeping peacefully.

Something, though, was not right. She had to think for a moment before the thought hit her with a shock. She was alone in bed. She listened for sounds downstairs of Bill moving around. Five, ten, fifteen seconds, and yes, there it was, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor and then the faucet turned on. Bill must have gotten up before the alarm and turned it off. He must have showered and dressed without her hearing a thing. Stifling a yawn, she looked at the clock and again almost panicked. It was half past seven, a full hour after the time she usually got up. She swung her legs out of bed and reached for her robe. But where was Johnny? He always wanted to have breakfast with his dad, and yet she could not hear him, the world's loudest boy, downstairs. She looked into his room on her way downstairs, becoming even more perplexed when she saw he was already up.

In the kitchen Bill was standing at the counter going over some papers from his briefcase. He looked up and smiled. "Did you sleep okay? I mean after the two interruptions."

She nodded while anxiously searching for Johnny. "Where's—"

"—Johnny?" Bill interrupted, smiling even more broadly. "The little man is maturing. I told him he had to be quiet because Mommy needed her sleep. He and I had our cereal and talked in whispers. Only once did he forget himself and yell, 'Hey, Daddy!' but it didn't wake you." He looked towards the living room. "Johnny, come say good morning to your mother." To Becky he explained, "The little angel has been looking at one of his picture books of animals for the last twenty minutes as quiet as a church mouse."

"Perhaps it's a miracle," Becky said facetiously, though actually her heart was swelling with pride.

"I even changed his diaper," Bill said with a touch of a different kind of pride. Johnny was just beginning his toilet training, but the process hadn't included any night training yet, so he still wore a diaper to bed. He came into the kitchen with his pajama top on and a pair of fresh underwear for his lower parts. He too was smiling proudly as he came up for a hug.

"Hey, Mommy! I was quiet for you this morning."

"I know you were, honey. I think you were wonderful, and Mommy loves you." She leaned down and hugged him, feeling the usual thrill of pleasure when his little arms reached around her back not quite touching together.

She looked up at Bill watching them with a strange look on his face as if he were stricken with a dread thought. Lately she'd seen this strange expression several times and was at a loss to understand it.

An awkward moment passed when he saw that she perceived the expression on his face, and then he offered to keep an eye on the kids for fifteen minutes so that she could take a quick shower. "One question, though. What should I do if Trevor starts fussing?"

"You could try to soothe him, but don't get him up. He'll need a bath and a change first thing, and I need to apply the zinc oxide for his diaper rash."

By the time she got out of the shower twenty minutes had passed and Bill was showing signs of impatience. After they exchanged a perfunctory kiss, he informed her that he might be late tonight—"no more than an hour, though, so if we eat at six I should be home by then."

He started out the door when she remembered something. "Oh, by the way, I talked to the secretary at the Congregational Church yesterday. Eleanor Smallwood, she seems like a nice person. She told me four is a good age to start Sunday school, though a lot of parents wait until the child is five and in school. She talked a lot about day care and starting now if we were church members, but I let that slide. Anyways, what do you think?"

"You mean if Johnny should start at four? I don't know. Why don't we wait until he's five."

She frowned. Bill was not against Johnny having Bible lessons and going to Sunday school, but he clearly suspected he would be roped into going to church. That's why, she was sure, he wanted to delay. She'd already told him she would go to church alone if necessary. Like him she was not a churchgoer, but she was willing to make the sacrifice to expose Johnny to Christianity. She frowned because Bill wasn't willing to make the same sacrifice. "Okay," she said, "we'll talk about it later."

Watching him drive away, she felt doubly dissatisfied—with him and with herself. With her awake almost every night with Trevor, they were not lovers now and had not been for a few months. She felt the distance between them and knew they were going through a dry period in their marriage, and here when he had made an effort this morning and been so kind, she opened up the lesion again by choosing a bad time to mention the Sunday school business.

But she didn't have time to dwell on it. Delaying her own breakfast, she went upstairs to draw the bath water for Johnny. While they waited for the tub to fill she had another session of toilet training. He only had to pee right now, so she had him lift the lid and told him to aim. She watched him being fascinated by this interesting tool he had and smiled. Unfortunately he saw the smile and turned towards her, peeing on the floor, With toilet paper she cleaned it up. Once he was in the tub happily splashing and playing with his toy boats, she went in to wake Trevor. He was fussing and irritated at first, but he refrained from crying. She brought him into the bathroom to sponge bathe him in a small plastic tub she placed on the counter. Johnny wanted her attention and for a moment she tested the water before telling him to play with his boats. The pediatrician had told her to avoid soap on Trevor's butt since it irritated the sensitive tissue. She sponge bathed his body and then used warm water to cleanse his bottom. Her care was having results, she was glad to see. The ugly red rash was subsiding. With a soft towel she dried him, gently patting his bottom, and then applied the zinc oxide before putting a diaper on him, followed by a full-body jumper. Putting him in his bassinet, she turned her attention to Johnny. She washed his back and neck, then dried him with vigorous rubbing of the towel because he always liked that. He squealed with delight. She wrapped the towel around him to keep him warm while she went to his bedroom to choose his clothes. Although she preferred heather colors for her own clothes, she dressed him in bright colors. His long-sleeve jersey was bright yellow, his trousers purple.

Holding Johnny's hand and carrying Trevor with her other, they made their way downstairs carefully. She had one more chore to do before her own breakfast. She had to feed Trevor. She had breast-fed Johnny for fifteen months, but after eight months with Trevor she had trouble with her milk and had switched to formula. After warming the bottle and giving it to him, she sat at the kitchen table and hurriedly ate a bowl of cereal. She burped Trevor, then put him in the baby seat and wound it up. The swinging always soothed and delighted him. With the baby quiet and Johnny in the living room watching a children's show on PBS, now was a good time to do the monthly bills. Still at the kitchen table, she wrote checks for the electricity, gas, phone, cable and mortgage payments. Occasionally Johnny would yell for her to come see something, so her tasks were interrupted three or four times. Next she rinsed out the breakfast dishes and ran the dishwasher. While that was running she entered all the bills into her home accounting software on their computer, which was on a small desk in the dining room. She kept meticulous records and could give the yearly and monthly household expenses down to the last penny. While at the computer she was interrupted again by Johnny asking her why there were no giraffes in Waska, Maine. She explained that Africa was a long way away and that Africa was their home.

She checked Trevor, and after finding him still quiet she prepared a marinade for the chicken breasts she was serving for dinner. Johnny, hearing the clatter of dishes and utensils, came into the kitchen wanting to help. His children's show was over. She placed him on the high stool in front of the counter and let him shake the soy sauce into the marinade. With nothing else to do he quickly grew bored, but before he returned to the living room to play she told him tonight's supper was going to taste extra good because of his help. That pleased him, and he walked into the living room looking quite proud of himself.

She went over to Trevor and cooed at him for a bit. When the milk agreed with him, which was most of the time, and when his rash was quieted down by the ointment as now, he often spent up to an hour awake yet quiet. His little face became very happy when she leaned down in front of him. She kissed him and said over and over in a soft, cooing voice, "Mommy loves you" until he was gurgling with delight.

The dishwasher buzzer rang. Kissing Trevor once more, she emptied it, carefully placing the dishes and bowls on the bottom of the stack so that everything got used. It was a habit she had learned from her mother, as was also the careful examination of the silverware to make sure each utensil was dry and would not tarnish.

She remembered that her friend Lynn MacArthur and her son Phil were coming for lunch today and that she was serving egg salad sandwiches. She put some eggs on to boil and debated doing a load of laundry before deciding to wait until the afternoon. She had to go to the drugstore to get some more zinc oxide ointment; this would be a good time to get the medication for Johnny's inner ear infection that he had suffered the last two winters whenever he got a cold. If he were to get an early fall cold, she did not want to be caught without the medicine. The prescription was on file at the drugstore, but to make sure there would be no mistake she returned to the computer to look up the medications. Benzocaine for the pain and a combination of antibiotics, Erythromycin and sulfisoxazole, were the names she'd entered into Johnny's file two years ago. There was a note that the medical term for the disease was otitis media and another note saying that if the disease reoccurred this year the pediatrician recommended an operation on the tympantomy tubes should be performed. That note scared her, but she knew she would give her okay if it was necessary. She trusted her doctors. The rest of the material in the medical section contained her records on Johnny's inoculations. She looked that over to see if anything was upcoming, and then brought up Trevor's file for the same information when she saw nothing was. Trevor was also fine for several months, which she was glad to see—he had cried for a long time when he got his first shots and one of them had left behind a hard purplish bruise that was sore for two weeks.

The eggs had boiled now for up to ten minutes; they had overboiled, in fact, as the shells were cracked in several places. She removed them from the heat and left them to cool on another burner. She went over to Trevor and was glad to see that his eyes were growing heavy. He was a very deep sleeper, so with any luck he would sleep through the entire excursion to the drugstore. She hated it when he cried in public and some people, mostly men, frowned their displeasure.

Egg salad required mayonnaise. She went to the refrigerator to check, but before she opened the door Johnny yelled at her. "Hey, Mommy! Look at me! I'm playing ball."

"Just a minute, honey." She opened the refrigerator and peered in. There it was, a jar over two-thirds full.

In the living room she saw that Johnny had gotten hold of Bill's softball glove. At first sight it seemed innocent enough, but looking closely she saw that he had squeezed the pocket to fit his little hand. She did not know much about softball equipment, but she did know Bill was very particular about his glove. He always stored it with a softball in the pocket. In winter he went one step further and tied a piece of rope around the glove so that the softball couldn't move. Once years ago when she had removed the ball while moving the glove he had become very angry. Last night for some reason he had sat on the couch and pounded the ball into the pocket for a long time as he watched a TV show. She'd asked him if he was going to play this weekend, and he'd given her a strange look, as if he'd been startled out of a daydream, and said rather sadly but in a tone that didn't invite any further inquiries, "No, it doesn't look like we'll be playing softball anymore this year."

He had left the glove on the table beside the couch, which was where Johnny found it.

"No, no, Johnny. Don't play with your father's glove." She spoke sharply.

He looked crestfallen. His lip quivered. "Why can't I?"

"Daddy is very particular about his glove. He doesn't like others messing with it." She took it from him and replaced the ball in the pocket. Sitting down and patting the couch beside her, she said, "Sit down. Let me tell you something. You've got to learn to respect other people's property. Your hand, you see, is too small for this glove. Now, what if someone took your truck without your permission and broke it? Would you like that?"

Johnny studied her intently. His face was so serious that she had to stifle the impulse to laugh. He shook his head. "No, I like my truck."

"Well, Daddy likes his glove. Haven't you seen him spending a lot of time getting it just right?"

When he looked doubtful, she said, "You know, when he sits and pounds a ball into the pocket."

He brightened. "Yeah, I've seen that. Is he getting it just right?"

"Yes, that's what he calls it. Now you know your hand is much smaller than his, so when you put your hand in it as you just did, it ruins the pocket. That would make Daddy feel bad, just as you'd feel bad if Phil or Teddy took your truck and broke it. Do you understand?"

Very solemnly he shook his head up and down. "I do."

Smiling, she reached down and hugged him. "Good. Now I've got to get you and Trevor dressed. We have to go to the drugstore."

She returned the books to the shelf, then went out to the breezeway to get the child halter for carrying Trevor when they got to the store. She brought it to the car, using this first exposure to the day to assess the weather conditions. It was in the sixties but a stiff breeze was blowing. She dressed Trevor for warmth and made Johnny put on his jacket before setting him on the kitchen table and putting on his sneakers, which were getting tight. She hoped they would last another month, at which time she would buy his winter boots. It took the usual five minutes to fasten the boys in their safety seats before she could back out of the yard and drive the five blocks to the in-town mall. She parked near the drugstore, unhooked the boys, got the still-sleeping Trevor into the halter without waking him, and took Johnny by the hand.

Inside the store they passed a premature display of Halloween material and had to stop because Johnny was intrigued by a wolfman mask. He wanted to get it, but she told him it was too early. With the pharmacy at the back of the store, they had to pass many other things designed to catch the busy eye of a little boy—a soccer ball, a coloring book of dinosaurs, a wrench, and a selection of crayons, which last item, together with a new pad of paper, she got for him to keep him quiet. Trevor, sleeping through all of Johnny's squeals, was not a problem.

She got the ointment and ordered the medications for Johnny's ear infection, then waited while trying to keep Johnny from darting off to look at whatever caught his eye. Many people walked by and admired her two blue-eyed and tow-headed charges; one old lady walking awkwardly with a cane took a rest beside them and said, "You have two beautiful children, my dear."

Her heart swelled with a foolish pride at the remark, but she maintained her decorum and said with a smile, "Thank you. They're a handful, I must say."

"But worth the effort," the old lady said as she hobbled away.

Johnny was starting to get fidgety at the long wait. She had to constantly yank him back from his attempts to wander. She was telling him that it would only be a few more minutes when she looked behind her and saw Denny Genier. She got the distinct impression that he was in the process of quickly turning away before he was seen. He pretended to have turned to look at some item on the shelf and then to have looked up to see her. But she had already seen his eyes recognize her.

"Hi, Denny," she said and was immediately echoed by Johnny. He had been fascinated last winter when Denny and Pat Williams made a finished room for their house in the basement.

"Oh, hi, Becky. Hi there, Johnny."

Her initial suspicions seemed confirmed by the way he was acting. He appeared embarrassed and ill at ease. He couldn't keep still, and he was afraid to look her in the eye. Confused, she tried to understand his behavior. The only thing she could think of was that he was supposed to be at work and was afraid she would tell his partner Pat she had seen him. It was either something like that or embarrassment about the lack of a permit for the work they had done on the basement.

He asked, rather awkwardly, how she had been, and then was relieved to be rescued from his discomfort by the pharmacist calling her name. He said good-bye and quickly disappeared down the next aisle. She would have to ask Bill if he knew what was wrong with his friend later tonight; with two children, one rambunctious and the other starting to wake up, demanding her attention now, she let the matter drop.

When they got home she put Trevor, who had fallen back asleep after waking briefly in the drugstore, in the bassinet and Johnny before the television. She tidied up a bit, which mostly meant putting Johnny's toys and picture books back on the shelves in the small hallway between the dining room and living room and returning Bill's glove with the ball snugly resting in its pocket back to the breezeway where it was kept. The rest of the house was clean and orderly already. Once again she debated doing the daily laundry now but decided to defer it until afternoon since it wouldn't be completed by the time her friend Lynn MacArthur and her son Phil came for lunch, and she hated to leave clothes in the dryer. When Johnny grew restless in front of the television, she decided to read to him from one of his books. They sat together on the couch to do this. She was beginning to introduce Johnny to the mysteries of the written word. Already he could recite the alphabet through the letter "L." She pointed to a picture of a cat and then to the word C-A-T. He traced the letters with his finger and wanted to write them, so she got the new pad of paper and the crayons, and he made a few efforts, not too successfully, at writing the word. They continued reading, looking at pictures and occasionally trying to write them—he did the word "tree" quite nicely, though she suspected it was still a little too early to expect much comprehension—for another half hour; then Trevor started fussing.

She had just finished cleaning him up, applying ointment and putting a new diaper on him when Lynn and Phil arrived. Johnny announced their arrival. "Phil's here! Phil's here!" he yelled in his loudest voice. He was so excited that he had to run around the kitchen table once just to expel the excess energy.

Lynn was thirty years old. She had never lost the weight she put on when pregnant and as a result her large thighs, lower abdomen and behind contrasted rather incongruously with her tiny head, a condition that was even more obvious because she wore her reddish-brown hair brushed back into a ponytail and flat on the sides. Becky had often thought that with a different hairstyle, with fuller hair on the sides, she would look much better, but she had never dared suggest this to her friend. She was aware of her own blond good looks and didn't want to appear catty or condescending. Nevertheless Lynn's face was still pretty. Her freckled complexion was classically Scottish; her nose was small and delicate, her lips full and sexy, and her dark eyes flashed vivaciously when she became animated. She was a schoolteacher, but like her was taking off five years to be a mother.

They were good friends, though they had very different personalities. Where she was serious and efficient, Lynn was facetious and laid-back. These differences led to much teasing on Lynn's part. Becky, in fact, never saw Lynn but that she expected to be the target of some good-natured ribbing. She had long ago resigned herself to being the kind of person others found impossible not to tease. She knew that she was orderly and efficient to an almost compulsive degree and that others who weren't found her approach to life inscrutable. Even Bill would tease her sometimes about the way she ran the household. Referring to such things as how she knew where everything was all the time, how she could account for every last cent that was spent, how she planned meals two weeks in advance so that if the grocery store didn't have an item one week they would likely have it the next, how she kept phone lists for every utility and every repairman, he would say, "Hey, Becky, you're not running Charlie Davenport's agency anymore." The Davenport Insurance Agency was where she worked when they were first married right after graduating from Bates College. Bill had landed a good job with an accounting firm in Portland, and they had decided to live in Waska. A business major like Bill, she had interviewed at the largest insurance agency in the Waska-Bedford area once they had settled into their first apartment. She started as a junior executive, but very quickly her organizational skills and efficiency were recognized and she was promoted. Within two years she was virtually running the place, and Charlie was able to do what he had longed to do for years, become semiretired and live the life of a gentleman of leisure. Her leaving to become a full-time mother created a vacuum in the agency that necessitated Charlie's return, and that is why every time he saw her he would beg her to come back. She would put him off, saying she needed a few more years before the children were older, but his offer did keep strong that part of her ego that wanted worldly success and recognition. It was because of her boss's respect that she could accept Lynn's frequent and Bill's occasional ribbing about her efficiency with equanimity and good humor. She knew her own worth.

Efficiency was not, however, the only or even the chief target of Lynn's bantering. Her husband was a lawyer who had political ambitions in the Democratic Party. Becky was a Republican. In itself this would not be sufficient grounds for satiric sallies, but two things invariably amused Lynn. First, Bill generally voted Democratic so that their votes canceled each other's. For some reason Lynn seemed to find this hilarious. Her more usual target was what she regarded as Becky's inconsistencies. As a responsible citizen and mother, Becky was very concerned about the environment. She had talked Bill out of buying a sports utility vehicle just last year because they were notorious gas-guzzlers. She was also a fanatical recycler; she approved every scheme to set aside wilderness areas; she opposed drilling both offshore and in Alaska. In her own house she conserved as much as possible. Every bulb was an energy-saver; their furnace was a high-tech efficient unit; all their windows were likewise energy efficient. Lynn, while approving of all these measures and following many of them herself, would ask, "How can you vote Republican and be green? The two don't mix." Becky would answer that the Republican Party stood for individual rights and responsibilities but that many of the party's leaders took this belief in freedom too far on such issues as ecology. It was possible to be fiscally conservative and concerned about the earth at the same time. Teddy Roosevelt was the first great conservation president, and he was a Republican. She was not the only socially progressive and fiscally conservative person in the world; her whole family were the same. "Yeah, maybe," Lynn would say, "but still it must be lonely thinking that way and belonging to a party where the only green that is appreciated is on a dollar bill."

Where they came together and shared beliefs that were the basis of their friendship was in the conception of a mother. Both knew that politics was at best one percent of life; the rest was simply being human. The best politics was to produce decent, thoughtful and tolerant human beings. Their whole life now was focused on raising their sons to be that kind of human being. Both of them felt that being a mother was the most important job in the world. Becky's best friend in high school had bad parents who took little direct interest in her welfare so that she did not feel loved or appreciated, and her insecurity ruined her life. She got into drugs and promiscuous sex with the result that she was pregnant at age twenty. She dropped out of college, got married to another man, divorced him after birthing another child, and lived hand-to-mouth as a single parent of two children. She still did drugs so that the last Becky had heard the state was close to taking her children away from her. Her oldest child, a boy of ten, was constantly in trouble at school, disruptive and violent. There it was: bad parenting ruining a child and that child in turn ruining her children's life. Lynn could tell similar stories. Whatever else they did in life, avoiding these destructive ways was paramount. Their serious discussions were almost always on this subject.

Usually they did not arrive at this seriousness until a great deal of bantering occurred; today, however, Lynn came in the door with a serious, almost grim expression on her face that signaled even before she spoke that teasing facetiousness was not going to happen. The boys hurried into the living room to see the lettering Johnny had done earlier. Before long they began making a racket, and Lynn, wincing as if she had a headache and speaking very sharply, said, "Okay, tiger, quiet down in there." When Becky asked if something was the matter, she appeared embarrassed. She dropped her eyes and explained that Phil had been fussing all morning. She did not know if it was his breakfast not agreeing with him or something else—maybe just nerves because he was excited to be seeing his best friend.

"He had a temper tantrum," she went on. "When I told him he couldn't play a video game his father had got for him because it was too violent, he actually had a tantrum. He's never done that before."

"Boys can be willful," Becky offered as an explanation. She was glad Johnny had never had a tantrum where he screamed at her. "I had a small problem with Johnny today. He was playing with Bill's softball glove—you know how particular Bill is about that piece of leather. Luckily he listened to me when I explained why he must not touch it. He was very quiet. I worry about the day when he does have a tantrum, though. What did you do?"

Lynn laughed nervously. "I'm afraid Phil spent a lot of time-out time staring at the corner. He was calmer after I let him come forth."

"Trevor has slept through most of the morning. I almost wish he wouldn't. It probably means he'll be awake again like he was last night."

After a moment of silence, Lynn asked, "Were you up again?"

She nodded. "Two and a half hours this time. If he doesn't wake by lunch I'll have to get him up. It'll be time for him to eat."

"Any solid food yet?"

"Just starting." Becky watched Lynn. Mostly she was looking towards the living room, which was around the corner, aurally monitoring the boys. But something wasn't right. As they talked a strange feeling began growing on her. It wasn't merely that Lynn was not her usual bantering, facetious self; it was that she wasn't herself period. She exhibited many of the same symptoms she had seen earlier in the morning with Denny Genier. Like him, she was distracted and ill at ease. She did not seem comfortable looking her in the eyes. Becky found this similarity vaguely disturbing. Their conversation, usually spontaneous and nonstop, was labored.

At lunchtime Lynn's behavior passed beyond distracted to something very odd. When she started telling Lynn about feeling bothered at not seeing Lowell and Fiona Sparrow for the past month, Lynn at first became palpably uncomfortable and tried to change the subject. Nervously looking around the kitchen, her eyes seized upon the picture mounted on the wall above the table of Bill with Johnny in his lap and her holding Trevor. "Is that a new picture?" she asked.

Becky put her sandwich down and stared at her. "No, of course not. Don't you remember helping me mount it last spring?"

For a moment Lynn looked close to panic before a mishap with Phil's sandwich allowed her an escape. He had picked it up with his hands holding the top with the result that much of the egg salad fell out onto the table, his lap and the floor. By the time the mess was cleaned up and Phil had been given a lesson on how to hold his newly made sandwich in the middle, she had recovered her equanimity.

The rest of lunch and the cleanup after lunch passed without anything odd happening. They went out to the backyard so that the boys could play on the swing and slide set. With Trevor in his bassinet beside her lawn chair and both of them sipping a cup of herbal tea as they kept an eye on the boys, Becky starting talking about her row of rosebushes. She had planted them from dried sticks she got from a mail-order gardening center, and after a slow start two years ago they had bloomed into healthy plants that were about waist high and had been flowering constantly throughout the summer.

Lynn listened to her not particularly attentively. For a moment she stared into vacancy; then she appeared to come to a decision. "Becky," she said in a confidential tone, "let me ask you something. Have you noticed anything different with Bill lately?"

Becky turned and regarded her for a long moment. She looked both concerned and mysterious, as if she had a secret. "What do you mean?"

Only now did she realize she was staring so intently at her that Lynn was feeling self-conscious. She dropped her eyes. "You know, has he been distant or sullen or anything like that?"

She shook her head and looked towards Johnny on the swing. She thought for a moment and then remembered something. "I can say one thing. I've been at Bill for several weeks to fix the swing. Some of the bolts have become loose so that it wobbles. When something needs fixing around the house—for you know Bill is not very handy—he usually asks his brother Lowell to fix it. But as I started to say at lunch, lately for some reason we haven't been seeing Lowell. That's rather strange because he was over here all the time before."

Lynn pursed her full lips and frowned. Becky could see her mind making connections. Her apprehension grew.

"Why do you think Lowell is keeping away—if that's what he's doing?"

"I do think that's what he's doing. At first I thought it was because Lowell was newly in love with his girlfriend Fiona Sparrow, but I've heard from my mother-in-law that they visit regularly. But, Lynn, you're asking me this because you know something."

Just then they were interrupted. "Hey, Mommy! Look at me! I'm swinging standing up!"

"No, no, Johnny. Don't do that. It's dangerous."

She watched Johnny obediently sit down and continue swinging, then turned expectantly to Lynn.

"It may be nothing, but it disturbed me. My sister-in-law—you've met her, right? Joan Fournier?" When Becky nodded, she continued. "She said on more than one occasion Bill has been seen with a woman in Portland—"

Instantly she understood all the mysterious airs and nervous distraction Lynn had been showing. Feeling as if her trust had been violated, she hurriedly interrupted. "Yes, yes. He's told me that he's eaten out with a female colleague or secretary when they worked late."

Lynn regarded her with a look of pity that caused a wave of resentment to rise up and burn across her cheek, but before she could retort, Lynn stated the fact that changed everything.

"But this was in a bar, a rock 'n' roll club."

She felt too numb to speak. The burning feeling in her cheeks grew more intense. She fought the need to cry.

"He was seen twice. I thought you should know, though I'm sorry, real sorry."

Becky stood and clenched and unclenched her fists. She had a sudden need to hug her children. She needed to feel love, not this terrible desolation that had seized her body and soul. Then she was angry. "I know what you're thinking, but why should I believe the idle gossip of some woman I hardly know. Her poison tongue can say anything and you'll believe it."

Patiently, Lynn listened to her. Now that she had told her secret all signs of distraction, of being ill at ease and nervous, had disappeared. Her face expressed sorrow, and she spoke calmly and with deep concern. "I had a lot of trouble believing it too because I know Bill. But Joan had no reason to lie. Maybe there can still be an explanation for drinking beer and dancing in a club, but I do think it looks bad. I thought I wouldn't be a good friend if I heard this and didn't tell you. I get the impression a lot of people know about this."

"Did you say dancing? He was seen dancing as well?"

"That's what Joan said."

"And that a lot of people know about it?"

"Again, that's what Joan said."

Both lapsed into silence, though this time there was nothing awkward about it and Becky could feel Lynn's concern and sympathy. She still felt the need to hug Johnny and Trevor, and the stinging in her eyes told her she wanted to cry, but before she gave in to tears she came to a decision. "I don't know what to say, Lynn. I don't even know what to think. But before I believe these stories I have to talk to Bill."

Lynn reached across the table and put her hand on Becky's arm. "That makes sense to me."

Trevor stirred and made a little cry. It was enough to justify picking him up and feeling his total need for her. When she did she felt better. She smoothed his thin blond hair and wiped the sleep from his eyes while she carefully kept him out of the direct rays of the sun. Lynn, understanding her need, went over to the boys. Alone, she started cooing to her baby. "Mommy loves you," she cooed. "Mommy thinks you're wonderful." Then the tears flowed, though she kept herself under enough control not to sob.

Lynn maintained a discreet distance and busied herself pushing the boys on their swing seats so that they squealed with delight. When Johnny yelled, "Hey, Mommy! Look at me!" she had cried herself out and was able to join them.

They played with the boys for a while, and then it was time for Lynn and Phil to go. Johnny did not make too much of a fuss; it was time for his nap and he was exhibiting signs of sleepiness. Lynn's parting words were indirect and vague, but still spoke volumes. "Call me if you need to talk later," she said.

She was all right at first because she had things to do, things that could occupy her mind. She put Johnny to bed for his nap and settled Trevor into his swing. He was awake now, but like a cat he slept more hours than he was awake. Soon he too would drift off again and then she would bring him upstairs to his crib. She cleaned up the lunch things, putting the remainder of the egg salad into a plastic container and rinsing the dishes and putting them into the dishwasher. She went into the living room and tidied up the mess the boys had made. Johnny's attempts at writing she saved in a folder which later would go into a scrapbook she was keeping of his childhood milestones. Back in the kitchen, she saw that Trevor was already close to being asleep. She picked him up, which caused him to start fussing, and brought him upstairs. She looked into Johnny's room and saw that he was already asleep. She put the baby in his crib and stayed with him until sleep closed his heavy lids.

She gathered up the dirty laundry in the upstairs basket and brought it down to the basement. Putting the load into the washing machine, she saw on the shelf above a vase she used to put flowers in. It was an ordinary translucent vase of glass tinted blueish, teardrop shaped and about eight inches high. Looking at it, tears suddenly welled in her eyes. It had been a long time since Bill had given her roses.

She started thinking of the first time he had given this token of love. They were under-graduates at Bates College and becoming serious though not yet in "love" when one Saturday night he broke a date. He was supposed to pick her up in her dorm room at 7:00 and never showed. He and two friends had driven to Fryeburg, Maine to help another student move his parents after a fire which had damaged but not destroyed their house. Bill hadn't been able to get in touch with her before they left, and the fire, like all fires, had happened suddenly and demanded speedy action. They went, spent four hours helping rescue items damaged more from water than fire and then left at four P.M. to get back to Bates for the evening. A breakdown on a secondary road in the middle of nowhere marooned them for hours, and they didn't get back to the campus until midnight. The next day Bill found a florist open on Sunday and ordered a dozen long-stem roses to be delivered to her room. She had been angry after a fitful night of broken sleep, thinking he had gone somewhere on a lark and deciding that if he could be that casual he must not love her. The roses showed her doubts to be groundless, and when he shyly knocked on her door an hour later they had declared their love. Ever after roses had been their special flower. Bill would buy them for every occasion or to apologize for sharp words that had been unwisely spoken or when the boys were born or sometimes for no reason at all except to say that he loved her.

The thought, the wish, that tonight he would come home with roses...

Yes, they were going through a dry period, all her time taken with the two boys, his boys as much as hers. But what if what Lynn said was true? A chill of horror, of despair, crept up her spine. Momentarily her knees felt watery, and instinctively she reached for the top of the washing machine to steady herself. She stood leaning against the machine with both hands, perfectly still and staring at the empty vase, while she thought about Bill. She saw him waving at her with his face bisected by a happy smile and mouthing the words—for he was across campus too far away to hear—"I've got to get to class." She saw him as they exchanged their wedding vows looking handsome and manly in his tuxedo. She remembered the tears of joy he shed after Johnny was born. She thought of all the times they kissed long and deep simply because they were going to work and would not see each other for nine long hours.

She couldn't imagine life without him at her side.
Just then she heard Johnny calling from upstairs. "Hey, Mommy!" the voice said, so insistent, so sure of love and response. No, she would not believe it. It was impossible. Even Lynn didn't quite believe it, did she? And, besides, wasn't there an explanation? Didn't he say he was working late and might have to grab a bite to eat with his secretary on those nights the rumors spoke about? Gossips are always malicious and ready to exaggerate, always changing details to put the darkest possible shade on innocent actions.

Passing the phone in the kitchen on her way up to Johnny, she saw the phone list tacked onto the bulletin board on the wall above. She stopped and looked at it while uninvited her mind played her a succession of images, the strange stricken look on Bill's face she had seen lately, Denny Genier's awkward discomfort, Lynn's face while she spoke of events in Portland. Among the numbers for doctors and tradesmen and friends, her eye went to Charlie Davenport's name, and she realized what she was thinking before she actually thought it. If Bill and she separated, she would probably have to go back to work. To have this thought, to need to have it, was too much for her, and she had to fight a mighty battle so that when she got to Johnny's room he would not see his mother crying.

Meeting Secretly

With his wife Natalie Feldman, Edmund Carter was sitting on a bench in Monument Square in Portland, Maine on a pleasant mid-October day. It was Friday, and they had both taken the day off from work so that they could meet Ed's mother. Ed, just graduated from law school last June, was working as a public defender in Boston; Natalie was counsel for an ecological action group. She had graduated a year ahead of Ed and was, from his perspective, already an experienced lawyer. He had only this week made his first court appearance defending a man accused of shoplifting. He was clearly guilty; his only defense was the pathetic story he told. A scrawny, nearsighted man, he lived on the streets where he was preyed upon by the strong. He told Ed that the only time he had private space was at the shelter when he closed his eyes and listened to his pocket radio through earphones. When it was taken from him by a street thug, he was so desperate that he shoplifted another pocket radio. Ed managed to get the sympathy of the prosecutors before a jury was impaneled and to arrange a plea bargain for probation and time served since the poor man had no record. During the car ride from Boston they had talked about the case at length, but now in Portland their minds dwelled on the reason for their surreptitious visit. If she was open to the idea, they were going to offer refuge to his mother. Disowning his younger son for falling in love with a Jew was only a symptom of the way his father conducted himself as head of the family. He was sternly authoritarian and opinionated and tolerated no contradiction. As a father he was a martinet; as a husband he dominated his wife to such a degree that her spirit was crushed. Having hinted on their last visit that they were willing to help her become free and finding her either purposely acting obtuse or actually obtuse (since all their hints sailed over her head), they anticipated her reluctance to break free from her bondage. Natalie thought she exhibited many of the psychological characteristics of a hostage. She identified with her captor and rationalized his behavior. One thing only was stronger than her wifely thralldom, however, and that was mother's love. Although forbidden to see or even speak to her son on the phone, she did acquiesce to secret visits—today's was the third—and once or twice a month she would call them from a public telephone so that the call would not show up on the home phone bill.

"I think she has a good heart," Natalie said, picking up their conversation after a long silence. "It's like she's a woman under the Taliban when they ruled Afghanistan. She wears a psychological burka."

Ed nodded. His mother was late, and he was starting to feel tense. His eyes constantly scanned the crowds looking for her.

"She can use you as a model for how to break free."

He shrugged, telegraphing his doubts, and when she didn't understand his nonverbal message, he said, "I don't think it will be easy. I'm not even sure it will be possible."

"But you'll try, Ed, won't you? For her sake?"

He nodded grimly, his eyes still scanning the crowds of people.

Silence reigned again, each thinking his or her own thoughts. It was Natalie who especially wanted to pursue this scheme. For Natalie his mother's situation was not only personal; it was a left-wing cause. He drummed his foot.

An elderly lady, spry and walking with her back erect and who had a kindly grandmotherly air about her, came up to the bench. "Excuse me. Could you tell me where Exchange Street is?" She addressed Natalie.

"Oh," she said sorrowfully through narrowed eyes and a sad shake of the head for emphasis, "you're asking the wrong person. This is only my third visit to Portland." Then she favored the elderly lady with a sweet smile and turned to Ed. "But help is at hand. Ed, tell this nice lady where Exchange Street is."

He stood and pointed. "Walk to the end of the concourse and go left. Cross the street—the parking garage and movie theater will be right in front of you. Then bear right to the corner. Go left past the other side of the movie theater for about a block and you'll be at Exchange Street."

While the lady thanked him for his businesslike directions, Natalie stood and asked, "Isn't that what they call the Old Port section, Ed? Where all the shops are?"

It was, and she said to the lady, "You must be shopping. I've been to Exchange Street and done some myself."

The lady smiled at this invitation for female discourse. "I'm looking for Christmas presents for my grandchildren. I thought of sweatshirts or T-shirts with Portland, Maine. They collect such things. They have them with universities, towns, states, everything."

"Oh, I just saw someone go by awhile ago with a sweatshirt that had Portland, Maine and a gull emblem on it. I bet that's what you're looking for."

The woman's face lit up. "That's exactly the thing I'm looking for."

"Is this your first visit to Portland?"

"It's our first visit in over twenty-five years. My son and his wife got a cottage on a lake this summer. We're visiting them for the weekend at the cottage. We came early and have been to L.L. Bean in Freeport. We're meeting them tonight at the lake."

"How old are your grandchildren?"

"Nine and seven."

"I have nephews six and seven and a niece who is four. They're quite active little devils, but I love them."

Ed, still searching for his mother while listening to the conversation, found his tension had abated. Natalie's capacity for making instant friends had long ceased to amaze him—he'd seen it too many times. He started watching her face and body language, feeling as he regarded her a wave of warm love wash over him. She spoke with her whole body. When she said "Oh," her mouth went round, her eyebrows were raised, her hands sculpted the air in wide circles, and her dark curly hair bounced on her shoulders. He thought she was the sexiest woman in the world. She was very short, five feet nothing, well shaped, and while some might not regard her as pretty, no one would call her plain either. She had a long face, an olive complexion, a big nose, and dark eyes. Today she was neatly dressed in a short skirt with her shapely legs covered in tan hose and a lavender V-necked top. The word that described her was vivacious. Being at ease with herself, she had a real knack for making others feel at ease, but it went further than that. She was genuinely interested in other people—that was her secret. The way she was making this grandmotherly lady feel like a friend was the same way she had befriended his mother. Within minutes of meeting her she had put his mother, normally reserved and guarded, completely at ease with a series of questions and statements about her jacket. Is your jacket Polartec? I've heard it's a wonderfully warm material. Do you know it was made from recycled plastic soda bottles? I love that shade of maroon. It makes your blue eyes even brighter. Do you prefer practical clothes or do you go for fashion? This jacket is both.

By the time she had exhausted the conversational potential of his mother's jacket, she had made a friend for life. More importantly, his mother had made a friend in Natalie. His wife had naturally met his mother with uncertain expectations. She was a Jew, his mother the wife of a Nazi. Thanks to Natalie's social instincts they had met human being to human being. The result had been to create enormous sympathy in Natalie. She saw his mother as a victim of oppression and took it upon herself to try to liberate her.

When the grandmother, after further talk about shopping and children, was on her way, Ed checked his watch. "She's twenty minutes late. Perhaps she couldn't get away safely."

They sat back down on the bench. Ed's leg began drumming again.

A few minutes passed, and then the mobile phone rang. Natalie answered it and made a series of staccato responses: "Yes, okay." "I see." "Yes." "Yes, of course." " Okay. Bye." It was his mother calling to explain that she was delayed. Her husband had come home to get some papers from his home office. He was in the process of signing the dealership in Kennebunk over to Len Jr., Ed's older brother. She called from a phone booth on the way and would be in Portland in about fifteen minutes.

Thinking that this was a good time to try to dampen Natalie's expectations, Ed said, "Remember, Natalie, your idea won't be easy. She's a very dependent person. My mother has never worked a day in her life. She's not in any way what you would call a modern woman. She's never even done charity work or anything that would give her a sense of accomplishment. Except for deciding what's for supper and buying clothes for my brother and me, she's never made a decision in her life of any consequence. My father rules the house with an iron hand. She's learned to obey, that's all."

"But she's seeing us today. She made that decision."

Yes, she had, and it was the basis of any hope he had as well, but for self-protection he wasn't going to think too far in that direction. He put his arm around her shoulder. "Well, we can hope. Just don't have any expectations."

Calm now since the tension he had felt arose from the uncertainty of her being able to get away, not from anticipating problems trying to talk his mother into escaping, he leaned back on the bench and enjoyed the sun. Occasionally one or the other would remark on something they saw or thought, but like him Natalie was content to simply sit and enjoy the day. He watched some pigeons and gulls three times the pigeons' size competing for some bread an old man had strewn about a little ways from their bench. The old man was dressed shabbily, and it occurred to Ed that he had never seen a well-dressed middle-class person feeding the pigeons. Maybe, he thought, poor people had a better understanding of the kind of life that was the pigeon's lot. He was glad to see they were holding their own against the larger gulls.

Turning from the pigeons he started watching the people walking through the square. One of them, a young and pretty black woman, caught his eye, and as she passed she smiled shyly and said hi. She was with two women a little younger than she, perhaps in their late teens or early twenties. As the black woman passed on they heard her say to the plumper of the two young women, "Remember to have your chit ready, Ann Marie." The woman answered her, speaking animatedly, but already they were out of earshot.

"Who was that?" Natalie asked.

Ed gazed at his wife and back at the black woman. He put his arm around her again and grinned. "She's the reason we're married, that's who she is."

For a moment Natalie seemed nonplussed. She frowned thoughtfully as her eyes followed the retreating figure of the black woman; then after a quick look into Ed's eyes to see if he was serious, suddenly a light came into her own eyes, "Was she the one? The black girl you told me about?"

He nodded, still watching the woman now a block away. "That's her. Fiona Sparrow."

Perhaps he was exaggerating when he said she made their marriage possible, but not by much. Something had happened to make the son of a Nazi fall in love with a Jewish girl and get disowned by his father, and Fiona had played a catalytic role in his liberation from hate and prejudice.

He was very quiet in high school. He lacked self-confidence, didn't date much, and took part in no clubs, activities or sports. He was a good but not great student—he ended up with a B+ average, with math and science costing him a higher academic status. His father was already a Nazi, and though he hadn't done much publicly yet, he was in the process of constructing his paranoid compound. Ed was always afraid other students would learn about his father; that was the reason he tried to keep in the background. Already he hated more than loved his father, but the hatred was born of fear. More than anything he was afraid of his father, but because all his life he'd heard him rail against Jews, blacks and immigrants, the poison was endemic in his system. Blacks were lazy, shiftless, dirty, ignorant, violent, welfare chiselers; they were human beasts, criminals, sex-crazed, filled with hatred and jealous murder lust against the superior white race. This is what he constantly heard, and having had no experiences that refuted the ugly things he heard, on an unconscious level he was probably as racist as his father.

Then one day on his way to class in the main building of Courtney Academy he had accidentally been jostled by Fiona, causing him to drop his books and papers. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. He looked at her and was surprised to see fear in her eyes. He saw that she was afraid he would be angry, but how could he be? It was a small thing, an accident, and besides, she looked so vulnerable and defenseless that he was moved to a moment of recognition. She too did not want attention drawn to her; she too was afraid of nameless faces whispering or staring at her. "It's all right," he said kindly. "It was just an accident." Responding to the kindness of his voice, her face relaxed and her mouth curled into a tentative smile. "I guess I wasn't looking where I was going." They both bent down and gathered up the books and papers; then she apologized again and they both hurried to their classes.

That was the extent of their interaction. He saw her occasionally at school or on the street after that incident, and they always exchanged a shy smile and a short greeting just as they had today, but they had never had a conversation. The accidental encounter was something so seemingly trivial that the numerous students passing by on their way to class either ignored them or were merely slightly inconvenienced in having to walk around them, and yet almost instantly Ed recognized that for him it had been a momentous discovery. He saw that she was human and he saw that his father was wrong. The following semester in social studies class he studied Dr. King and the Civil Rights Movement, and his eyes were opened further. Black people weren't lazy, shiftless welfare cheats or sex-crazed maniacs filled with murder lust against whites; they were oppressed people subject to outrageous and arbitrary rules and laws that stifled them. Having been brought up under a private oppression, he understood their feelings and sympathized. He became a new person, and that person married Natalie Feldman.

Natalie was delighted to have seen this iconic figure in her husband's life. "And such a pretty girl," she teased. "I had no idea I was in danger of meeting you only after it was too late." She talked and conjectured about her for several minutes, but the one sentence they overheard about showing a chit mystified them. Ed said she looked more confident and fulfilled, and yet that smile, he said, "was the same smile she showed me when she saw I wasn't going to be angry. She's still shy."

Before Natalie could conjecture on the meaning of this observation, Ed spotted his mother walking towards them. She hadn't yet seen them and was looking around nervously. He nudged Natalie, then stood and waved. "Over here, Mom!" he shouted.

Like Natalie his mother was very short, but here the similarities ended. She was matronly plump, wore her straight gray hair short, just below the ears, and her dress hung shapelessly on her. Ed had heard someone describe her as pale and worn-out, and he had to admit the description was apt. He always felt upon seeing her after a long absence a little sad, probably because the aura of reticence and unassertiveness reminded him of her life of bondage. He was sure Natalie noticed the same thing and felt the same way, which was the reason she wanted to rescue his mother and make her whole. His mother always warmed up after a while—after she was treated with respect and dignity and saw that she could safely be herself—but their initial greeting was subdued. He kissed her on the cheek while the two women smiled at each other and said hello. He asked her where she had parked, and after finding out it was in the municipal parking garage, he said that was where they had parked as well. After this awkwardness they started walking. Since noon was drawing close, he suggested they go to a nearby sandwich shop and have lunch.

At 11:45 they were early. Only one other party was in the place, so they had their choice of tables. Ed chose one in the back as far away from the window as possible. The waiter, a clean-shaven nervous man who dropped the fourth setting as he was taking it away from the table, got tea for Natalie and his mother; Ed ordered apple juice.

After they had ordered their sandwiches, Ed asked about the Kennebunk dealership, and his mother said that all she knew was that plans were being made to assign ownership to his brother Lenny. Apparently she assumed the legal business was motivated by fatherly love; she didn't seem to have any idea that it might be a way to protect assets from legal proceedings. Ed wondered if his father was doing this now because he anticipated doing something that could lead to a lawsuit, but decided it was unlikely. His father was so cautious and so greedy that he was unlikely to endanger his business empire. Probably the transfer has something to do with taxes. For sure it had nothing to do with him.

He sipped his apple juice, finding it tepid. "By the way, Mom. While we were waiting for you I saw someone from the past. Do you remember Fiona Sparrow, that black girl I knew in high school?"

Instead of ruminating as he expected, she said straightaway, "Yes, I do. It's rather strange because of course I had forgotten about her, but just this week I heard her name mentioned at home."

"You did? How's that?"

"Well, it wasn't from your father, for he never discusses these things with me—I've asked him not to. It was from Darren French."

"Who is he?" He was frowning, he knew. He didn't know Darren French, but the context of the remark told him what sort of a creature this man was.

"He's one of the party members. He's a very big man, and Len asked him to come to the house to move a freezer in the basement for me. It seems that Fiona is going with a white man now and the party doesn't like it. You know, they have a name for it. Mmm...?"

"Miscegenation?"

"Yes, I think that's the word they use. No. It's mongrelization. Anyways, Darren was boasting about it. If you knew him you'd know that's the kind of man he is. I said to him, see, 'I see you from the house from time to time.' I was just trying to be friendly since he was helping me. But of course I don't mix with party business, I told him. 'I wouldn't understand all that computer business anyways. Those things scare me.' He said kinda boastfully, 'Ah, computers ain't hard to use.' He must have seen that I was rather doubtful about that because I remember once that Len said he didn't like French using the computers because he made a mess of things. He gave me a look, anyways, and that's when he mentioned Fiona. 'We ain't just playing with computers and putting out pamphlets. We've got a case of mongrelization right here in Waska. It ain't right and we don't like it.' He sounded like he had some scheme up his sleeve. But you know what Len says about him?"

They both raised their eyebrows.

"That he isn't too bright."

Their sandwiches arrived, egg salad with chips and a dill pickle for his mother and Natalie, a turkey club with french fries for him. His mother asked for more tea; he still had his apple juice and Natalie, as usual, drank water.

"This place has a pretty good reputation, I hear. They make their own bread."

"Hmm," Natalie said, "this sourdough is good. Nothing ruins a sandwich more than bad bread. American bread." She reddened, remembering too late that was what his mother had specifically requested.

The remark, however, passed without comment.

"What do the men use the computers for?" Natalie asked.

His mother finished chewing a bite of her sandwich before she answered. "All I know is they have a web page for the party. Oh, and they run chat rooms too." She gazed at Natalie, a pleased smile on her face. "It looks like married life is agreeing with you, Natalie. You look wonderful, happy, healthy and pretty."

Natalie smiled in return. "I don't know if marriage did that, but Ed can take the credit for my being happy."

His mother emitted a long sigh. "I still feel bad that I missed your wedding."

"You didn't miss much, Mom. It was in front of a judge and took about ten minutes. Afterwards we went to a restaurant in Cambridge with two other couples from law school and had dinner. That was our honeymoon."

"And don't forget, Mrs. Carter, we were fair. My parents didn't come either."

"Call me Ellie," his mother said, turning towards Natalie. "It's not only that, it's..." She looked down, embarrassed. "Well, it's just that I couldn't be there to see the son I gave birth to, nursed, and raised, take that final step."

"Well," said Ed after a moment of silence, "I am sorry about that. But that's the way things are." His father hadn't wanted him to go to Boston University. He called it Jew U and B Jew and said it was no place for his son. Ed had argued that it was a Methodist university and that the president of it was a Methodist. Remembering that exchange now, he felt his anger rising.

His mother noticed it. "Is something the matter?"

"Oh, nothing really, It's just that we both know the reason you couldn't come to the wedding."

"Don't be too hard on your father, Ed. He's a stubborn man, but he does what he thinks is right."

Natalie, watching his face, decided this was a good time to change the subject. "Are all of your husband's associates like Darren French, Ellie? You know, boastful brutes."

For a moment she looked offended, perhaps taking the characterization of French as a comment on her husband. But she let it pass, and the cloud cleared from her face. "Some of the men are pleasant enough fellows. A lot of then, you know, are outdoorsmen, hunters and fishermen. They came into the party through the National Rifle Association. But Rett Murray is different. I do dislike that man." She looked at Ed. "Did I ever tell you he wanted to live at the compound?"

When he shook his head, she looked surprised. "Well, he did. He had his eye on one of those cottages that were built for..." She stopped herself and blushed. The cottages she was referring to were meant for Ed and Len Jr. and their families. His father had envisioned making his sons his lieutenants and passing on the torch to them, but as this never happened the cottages were never used. Ed knew this, so the blush must have been caused by his mother's awareness that Natalie might be hurt, insulted or made uncomfortable by this reference to family history.

"...one of those cottages your father built," she went on. "But when Len mentioned it to me I said I did not like him, and for once your father let me have my way." She took a dainty bite of her sandwich and chewed with a pleased, faraway look in her eye as she relived her triumph.

Ed felt embarrassed for her. She didn't realize her pride in such a small thing was an implicit acknowledgment of her childlike state of dependence. It most ways she was a slave to her husband, not a partner. Ed didn't know Rett Murray very well, but he was sure the reason he didn't get the cottage was because his father didn't like or didn't trust him enough, not because he was acquiescing to his wife's wishes.

While these distressing thoughts were flitting through his mind, Natalie, whose eyes told him she felt the same pathos in his mother's pride, was quick to hide it. "What is it about him you dislike, Mrs. Carter?"

"You must remember to call me Ellie, my dear. He's sneaky. I don't like the look in his eyes. I don't trust him." Nervously she adjusted her napkin on her lap. "Of course I know many would say all of them are bad men, but he's worse than the rest. Those of them who are outdoorsmen don't have the look of..." She rubbed her lips with her index finger trying to think of the words. "It's like his eyes are the eyes of a trapped animal. Dangerous eyes. Scary eyes. He's not right in the head." She turned to Ed. "Your brother doesn't like him either."

If that was supposed to clinch the argument, it didn't work. He was not fond of his older brother. Never having been particularly close to him as a boy, he had not forgotten how he was frequently the victim of his brother's petty manipulation, getting blamed for things Len did, and generally being a male Cordelia to his brother's Goneril and Regan. Lenny wasn't a Nazi, but he wasn't much better. He was a shallow, self-serving man absolutely without principles; if conditions were different and Nazism wasn't disreputable, he'd be running to the head of the parade. While Lenny didn't go so far as to also disown him when his father did, he made it quite clear that he wanted to keep his father's good opinion so that he wasn't really welcome to visit. Ed rather suspected Lenny didn't like Rett Murray, not because the man was a rat but because he was afraid Murray would horn in on their father's business interests.

"How are Lenny's kids, Mom? I haven't seen them for over two years."

The grandmother took over in answering this question and was very appealing. "Sarah just lost her two front teeth. You should see her smile! She thinks the tooth fairy is her best friend. Bob is playing soccer now. His mother has become a regular soccer mom. And Michael, the dear boy! He runs up and tells me he loves me the moment I'm in the door. He does the same when he sees your father."

"Do you think your husband knows you see us occasionally, Ellie?"

Natalie's question surprised her. "I don't know," she said. "He's kinder than people think. He loves his grandchildren very much. The values he's fighting for is the American family. I've heard him say a mother's love is one of the sacred things in this world. I think it was his principles, not his heart, that made him disown you, Ed."

"So you're saying he loves me still?"

She put her hand on her breast, her fingers splayed. "As long as he doesn't know, yes."

Natalie questioned him with a slight rise of her eyebrows and tilt of her head upon hearing this bizarre answer. With his mother busy finishing her sandwich, he shook his head. She was worse off than he thought. Directly confronting her might seriously endanger her peace of mind.

But Natalie was not going to be deterred. "Of course, I don't know your husband, Ellie, but surely that can't be right. He disowned his own son."

His mother glanced at Natalie and then looked away towards the street. "You must think Len is a terrible person. But I've seen him before he got obsessed with race and Jews and immigrants. I know he believes some terrible things. I know he's stubborn and mean and horrible to Ed, but he isn't really a bad man."

"Would you like some dessert or more tea, Mom?"

"No, thank you, dear. More tea if you're having coffee, otherwise nothing."

He caught the waiter's eye. When he came over he asked for the bill.

"How did he get this way?" Natalie asked. She was not willing to give up.

"I'm not sure. You have to realize that years ago I asked Len not to bring up Nazi stuff in the home. He doesn't always do that, but still I don't know much about the operation. He never mentions business to me, you see, and I asked him to regard Nazi stuff as business. I know you'll think it sounds absurd, but if he wasn't a Nazi he would be a wonderful man. He's a Yankee, you know, and Yankee men can be cantankerous. But I remember one thing that set him off. He had business dealings with a Jewish lawyer who cheated him. It was after that he started railing against the Jews."

Natalie gave her an enigmatic little smile and said, "I've heard that excuse before. I always wonder why when the lawyer is a WASP or Scotch or, say, Italian, people don't react the same way."

Mrs. Carter glanced at her Jewish daughter-in-law and then looked down at the table as she considered how to answer. "Of course you're right. I suppose it doesn't prove anything. Len's father was very hostile to immigrants, especially French-Canadians, I remember. I guess he inherited his hatreds."

"But you don't share them, do you, Ellie? How is that?"

"Mom has always been a live-and-let-live person, haven't you, Mom?"

"I have," she said, then colored. "But..."

"You're so different from him, Ellie. Have you ever considered leaving him and starting a life of your own?"

A look of surprise growing into panic seized his mother's face. "No, that thought has never crossed my mind."

"If it ever did, we would take care of you," Natalie said in a low voice.

"We would, Mom," Ed said with conviction.

She frowned and looked frightened. "I didn't mean to imply anything when I mentioned your father's hatreds. Really they have nothing to do with me. I married your father for better or worse. You may not see it, but there is some better. He's really a wonderful grandfather, for instance. He always brings a treat or a toy when he visits the kids. They love him."

I'm sure he is, Mom. But sometimes he doesn't treat you with the respect you deserve. Ed formed these words in his mind before immediately censoring them when he saw his mother's face. Her lips were tightly drawn, and she had a defensive, beleaguered look in her eyes. So he backed off and in a casual tone said, "Well, Mom, it was just an idea, nothing more. We both want you to be happy."

She relaxed a little and managed a grim smile. "I understand."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like some dessert? They have a peach cobbler here that's really delicious."

But she didn't. She wanted to leave. Her body language yelled it out loudly. She kept looking at the door, and she clutched her pocketbook with both hands. With a pang he realized clearly and unambiguously that if she had to choose she would choose her husband if a line was drawn. She wouldn't want to make the choice, but she would make it.

Natalie, signaling that she too saw their mission was a failure, began talking about different kinds of tea.

He hardly listened. Family, in Robert Frost's famous definition, was the place where you went and they couldn't turn you away. Where, then, was his family? Of the other members of his family, whom did he care for? A couple of elderly aunts and a couple of cousins with whom he played as a boy and of whom he had good memories even though now they had moved to Michigan and North Carolina so that their relationship was reduced to an exchange of Christmas cards. His niece and two nephews had a place in his heart but were cut off from any contact. His brother was a worm, his father a tyrant, his mother like an abused child.

He had spent last Fourth of July with the Feldmans. They all possessed the same social skills and vivacity Natalie displayed, and he was made to feel comfortable and at home. He watched a baseball game with Natalie's brothers and her father. Professor Feldman, who taught at a small college, had a benign face and a twinkle in his eyes that confounded Ed's inherited notion of a father as a stern, emotionless man who jealously guarded his prerogatives and expected deference and obedience. Natalie's father, in contrast, insisted that Ed call him Gerry, asked him to choose the wine for the meal, questioned him about his job as a public defender, and took a deep interest in his life. In their conversation they discovered that both voted for the Green Party or socialist candidates whenever they were on the ballot. After the meal Gerry wanted a cigar, which meant exile to the backyard. He asked Ed to join him. Ed rarely smoked, but Gerry so obviously enjoyed his cigar that it would have been impolite to refuse. Puffing away together, they discussed the American two-party system and agreed it was a corrupt lie comprised of two conservative parties that did the bidding of big business and ignored the people. By the time the cigars were finished and they rejoined the others in the living room, Ed felt as if he and Gerry were fellow freedom fighters for justice. Equality had replaced hierarchy in his notions of a father. In the living room everyone joined in a discussion of Israel. All the Feldmans were secular Jews—the only visible emblem of their ethnicity was a mezuzah on their front door, and that was there because it was a family heirloom inherited from Natalie's great-grandfather in Russia, not for any religious significance. They all had a certain emotional attachment to Israel but hated the right-wing governments that abused the Palestinian people. They were in favor of a two-state solution and a dissolution of all the Jewish settlements on the West Bank and Gaza Strip. Listening to the Feldmans speaking about these issues, Ed recalled his father's frequent rants about being true to our Anglo-Saxon ancestors and wondered if his father could even conceive of a mind that could transcend group identity and self-interest and be true to what was right. Before he left, Vera, Natalie's mother, took him aside and gave him an expensive watch that had belonged to her brother. He had died young and unmarried and had been very fond of Natalie. He wanted the watch to go to the man who married his beloved niece.

After that day he was filled with admiration and respect for Natalie's family; the comfortable warm feeling that he carried away was like the embers the Indians took with them on hunting expeditions so that they could quickly make a fire. It was security; it was safety; it kept the beasts of the night at bay. After meeting with his mother today he realized that it was something even more: it meant that the Feldman home was the place where he could go and not be turned away.

End of the Affair

After the disastrous breakup of the team in August, Marilyn hoped that Bill would leave his wife and move in with her. It would be sweet for its own sake, and better for being a victory over those so-called teammates who accused her of toying with the man. But when the day came that he did leave his wife and come to her, it happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, and he was so distraught that she was not able to savor her triumph over either the little conventional wifey-wife or her hateful teammates. On Thursday afternoon she talked with Bill on the phone about making plans for a rendezvous at her place for a session of "working late" on Friday night. The original plan was to have the session on that night, but a late afternoon meeting at school had been unexpectedly scheduled. Their conversation was brief and businesslike, and after it was over she resigned herself to a routine day of work and rest. At home that night she worked out on her exercise machine and then had leftovers for supper. At seven o'clock while she was going over her lesson plan for the next day, the phone rang. It was Bill calling from his mobile phone en route to her apartment. She picked up as soon as she heard his voice on the machine. He had two suitcases with him and asked if he could spend the night. He was upset and somewhat incoherent, and when she asked him what had happened he said he would tell her when he got there. The packed suitcases told her the main theme, but when he arrived she wanted to know the details.

All he would say was that Becky had found out about her and there had been a terrible scene. He offered no further explanation and would only answer her questions with a yes, no, or a noncommittal shrug. His attention would frequently wander; sometimes he looked shell-shocked, sometimes sick to his stomach. He looked puzzled and apprehensive when she asked him if he wanted something to eat. It was as if he had forgotten that food was a necessary adjunct to life. Things were looking very bad. Too nervous to sit, he was pacing like a condemned man awaiting execution from the dining room table to the window and back when turning and almost tripping over his suitcases he stared vacantly out the window and muttered to himself, "Well, it's over, it's over." It was the first glimmer of hope she saw. It meant that the weight of deceit, ambiguity and doubt had been lifted and he was beginning to sense the possibility of freedom.

Truth to tell, she had been growing very impatient with him. Other lovers had left their wives to find refuge with her, and the result had led to good times, nights of wild sexual celebration. His moroseness promised no such denouement, and she was forced to try to soothe him. It wasn't a role she was used to, but when he uttered those words that promised a future, she grew excited thinking that maybe being motherly could add an entirely new dimension to her sexual repertoire. She would soothe his pain, nurse him back to health, and his gratitude would lead to a new kind of sexual pleasure, tenderness combined with passion. She had the distinct impression she was growing and learning, and for the first time in her life the thought of marriage was seriously entertained, not as something that would happen when she was over thirty but right now when she was at her sexual peak in her mid-twenties.

The first thing she thought of to soothe him was the philosophical observation she had shared with him on his first visit to her apartment. "Remember I told you once that love was never easy and that time would sort it out. You're here now. Something has been sorted out. Right now you feel awful, but you won't always feel this way."

He took it well, grimly nodding and pursing his lips, and in his eyes, barely discernible, shined the glint of hope. She was able to get him to eat something after that and to speak more calmly about routine things. He said that if he stayed he would want to pay for half of every-thing. He was duty-bound to pay for the mortgage on his house and support for his kids and wouldn't have much money, but he could do half of the expenses.

No sex occurred that night—he was still too upset. Nor did he sleep much so that Friday night after an apparently terrible day at work where he had fouled up some account, he continued to be noncommunicative and was so tired he fell asleep in his chair. So a second night passed without sex. But before she fell asleep that night she formulated a plan. There would be tenderness, but first he needed something to jolt him out of his misery and make him remember that the sun still shined and life was there for the grabbing.

On Saturday morning she got up early and made scrambled eggs and toast while he slept. Turning the eggs to low, she crept by the bedroom and tiptoed to the closet in the exercise room to get a costume she'd used only once about three years ago. In the kitchen she removed her T-shirt and panties and donned the costume, which didn't take long since it consisted of a tiny apron that just barely covered her crotch and a large red bow tie that fastened around her neck with Velcro and bore on the two bows the name of a Las Vegas casino. She turned the eggs up to complete the cooking, poured a small glass of orange juice, and buttered the toast. Putting them on a tray, she went to the bedroom door and knocked. The door was open, so she carefully hung back in order to make a dramatic entrance once he was awake.

When Bill sleepily said, "Yes? Marilyn?" she walked in and said in an official voice, "Room service, sir." She really had to concentrate not to smile. His eyes were wide open and staring at her.

She walked over to the bed. "Eggs and toast just as you ordered, sir."

He sat up and grinned broadly for the first time since he'd been in the apartment. It was going to work, though to be really effective she had to continue the illusion.

She leaned down, letting her breasts brush against his shoulder and arm, and placed the tray on his lap, which she also brushed in an accidental manner. "Eat your breakfast, sir. Coffee will be available later, and at this hotel the management also offers a special breakfast dessert, but you must eat first."

"Please sit down, maid," he said, patting the bed beside him. She followed orders, primly keeping her legs pressed together.

He ate the eggs and toast, though he had a great deal of trouble concentrating on the food, while she made dutiful remarks such as "Do you require salt and pepper?" and "I hope you are enjoying it, sir."

"It's fine," he said, "though I find I'm thinking more of the dessert than food."

She stood when he finished and maneuvered herself so that her breasts brushed against his face as she removed the tray. "I must warn you, sir, that management has a strict policy. I must never remove my clothes in a gentleman's room."

He reached over and flipped up her apron. "I can live with that rule," he said huskily.

So it was that well over an hour later when they were having coffee and reading the morning paper he was a happy and contented man and she was a very happy and very contented woman. Their lovemaking had been torrid and yet tender. Her patience and motherly concern had been a complete success.

After that morning they went through a period of establishing routines and making adjustments to each other. They ate at home about half the time, at restaurants on other nights. This was partially because Bill didn't cook, but when they did eat at home she discovered he had been well trained by his wife to do the dishes and clean up after a meal. They both vacuumed and dusted on weekends, and Bill took care of the waste disposal. The adjustments they made were fairly evenly distributed, with Marilyn perhaps bending a bit more. Bill was in the habit of picking up the phone whenever it rang, while she always let the machine screen calls unless she was expecting one, and after a week or so he deferred to her, even though he would hover by the phone and listen to the message. His propensity to bury himself in the sports page at breakfast was at first a minor annoyance. She liked to have her men pay her all their attention, but not generally used to having a man about the house on weekdays, she soon grew accustomed to this foible. And while she wasn't neurotic about it, she disliked clutter around the house so that Bill had to make a conscious effort not to leave his jacket, shoes and the like about. Apparently his little wifey-wife had picked up after him in the past. When she made it clear she wouldn't, he got the hint. Her least favorite sport was football. When during the fall she happened to be home on a weekend afternoon, she would look for a soccer match to watch or even a track meet, never voluntarily football. But Bill was a Patriot and a college football fan, and so she pretended to be interested in the sport whenever he watched, though always hoping for a one-sided game because on those occasions he could be persuaded to desert the television and indulge in her favorite sport in the bedroom.

Over time she learned that there were a few topics he did not want to talk about. His wife Becky was one. He didn't like to have her and Marilyn in his mind at the same time. Since she didn't like his wife and had no desire to talk about her, it was easy to respect his wishes. The second person he didn't want to talk about was Lowell. She had heard enough about their childhood together to know that emotionally he regarded Lowell as his father, and knowing that his brother disapproved of Marilyn, he felt guilty as if he had betrayed a trust. Marilyn thought Lowell was a sanctimonious puritan. She was very glad Fiona had found love, but sometimes she wished it was with someone else. Fiona was one of the few people in the world she really loved. Not being able to see her she regarded as a real sacrifice. But with Bill looking as if he had swallowed vinegar whenever Fiona's or Lowell's name was mentioned, for the time being she was willing to forgo her cousin's company.

Once the ground rules were understood and adjustments made, they lived together a reasonably comfortable life through the fall, even while various complications arose. The principal problem was Bill's weekly visits to see his sons. On his return he would be either manic, talking excitedly about something his older boy had done or learned or said, or—and this was more often his state of mind after seeing his boys—he would return subdued if not downright depressed. At such times she discovered that sex was of no use and that to bring him out of his funk she had to nurture him just as she had the first night he came from his wife. She used various techniques. Sometime she merely listened to him patiently for what seemed hours on end talking about his kids while doing her best to hide the boredom she felt—boredom because she was only interested in being motherly to the extent she didn't actually have to be motherly. Other times she would distract him by talking about things like a movie they had seen or were about to see, about something Tara or someone else had said, or by getting his help with some household chore or errand that had to be done. Eventually he would come out of his funk, and as time went by it even became easier to get him from dwelling on his sons and family. Here, though, it may have been that he simply was learning to hide his thoughts. Several times when she thought he was in perfectly good shape mentally and they were reading or watching a television show, she would make a remark or ask a question only to discover that he was a million miles away. He'd look up panicky and disoriented momentarily, then ask her to repeat what she had just said. Sometimes she would not be able to repress the surge of resentment she felt, and they would have sharp words if not exactly an argument. Mostly she would remember that he required mothering and merely repeat her remark.

The fact that the times when she discovered his entire attention wasn't focused on her did not lead to any serious arguments made her realize things were different with Bill. She never tolerated such behavior with other men she had lived with. Many times Bill would show his appreciation of her with flowers or special attention. These were good signs, and because to be whole he needed her, needed her love even more now that he was isolated from his family, she began to think that this is what love was. All the other men she had had protracted relationships with were self-contained; it was because they didn't need her anywhere but in bed that they stayed together. She saw that she had been missing something vital, interesting, and intensifying when affection was not present. It wasn't that sex wasn't enough; it was that sex was better when this need was present. She knew that she didn't need him in the same way he needed her, but still she thought it might be love that held them together, That's why thoughts of marriage came to her mind unbidden. When he didn't think of his wife and kids and lived in the present, he was very appealing, her fair-haired all-American boy. He had a certain boyish charm and enthusiasm, an earnest naiveté the very opposite of the cynical manipulation and selfishness she saw in most men, a puppylike desire to please and a fear of causing pain—all this, and he was good in bed too. These qualities made him special.

She saw Bill at his best at Thanksgiving. At first a crisis appeared to be in the making, but that was averted by her clever idea. A week before the holiday he began brooding more than usual. He knew it was impossible to be with his wife and kids—they were in fact driving upstate to be with Becky's parents—but he couldn't help feel a remorse and regret that even she could understand. Then Lowell called to invite him and Marilyn to the cottage, but she heard Lowell's voice on the answering machine and could tell that he really wished to have Bill alone. After saying that their mother would be there and that the dinner would be a christening of the cottage as well as a Thanksgiving dinner, he said, "I hope you can make it for this family celebration. If you can come, ask Marilyn too." It sounded innocuous, but his voice modulated at the end of his statement in a way that was unmistakable. Even Bill caught the implication. He looked at her and shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. Their other choice, to go to her mother's house, had no appeal. Even when unencumbered by another, her visits to her mother were awkward and unpleasant. It looked as if they were going to have to rely upon themselves. For the next several days Bill was not the only one who brooded; she did too. The prospect of being with him when all he could think about was his family was galling and even painful. She looked about for an escape, and just when she was beginning to conclude that she should send him on his way to Lowell and his mother, she saw an advertisement for a ski resort in Maine offering a Thanks-giving special. Bill had skied in college, and she skied once or twice each winter, but neither were very proficient. They used the beginning slopes at first and the intermediate on the third day, but skiing was only a small part of their escape. With the clientele comprised mostly of young people, either coming as couples or groups of singles looking for action, every night there were parties and dancing. Bill was too busy to brood, and they had a wonderful time, the best time they had ever had together. Freed from the social constraints of home, Bill was wonderfully at ease and partied like a college boy. She was so happy she seriously started thinking about marriage again. Though she kept the thought to herself, never even hinting that she entertained a long-term commitment, she was more and more convinced that he was the one. When they drove back from the mountains, they sang along with the rock songs on the radio, laughed easily and smiled every time they exchanged glances.

But it didn't last; the magic of the getaway weekend dissolved within three days. They might have built upon its foundation, she was sure, and the closeness and spontaneity would have continued and grown, were it not that the Christmas season followed immediately after Thanksgiving and reminded Bill again of his family. On the Wednesday night after they returned they were walking to a restaurant about five blocks away and talking gaily about the ski trip when they came upon a Christmas tree business in a lot that was usually vacant. Bill looked at it and without thinking said, "We usually go upcountry and cut our own" before he stopped suddenly. Even in the dark of a late November night she knew his face turned red. She could feel it. Hers did too—with a flush of anger. "Who's 'we'?" she asked sharply, and when he didn't answer she too reverted to silence. When they began talking again in front of the restaurant they were both matter-of-fact and determined to let the remark be forgotten. And they did have other good times, particularly in bed, but never again did they share the spontaneity and joy of the ski trip.

As Christmas got closer and Bill grew more morose daily, Marilyn ceased trying to be motherly and nurturing; she had grown tired of the effort and had given up thinking about marriage. While she wasn't yet ready to give up on the relationship completely, she followed her own advice and was letting time sort things out.

She had already reluctantly agreed that he should spend Christmas morning with his sons and was feeling misused when she made her traditional Christmas visit to Tara and Meg on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. She had called ahead and had already heard that Tara was suffering from a cold, so she was not surprised to find her red-nosed and puffy-eyed lying on the couch with several pillows propping her up. She wore an old sweatshirt, and a blanket covered her legs. Meg had placed a box of tissues within easy reach on the coffee table and a small wicker wastebasket on the floor for the used tissues, which Tara tossed without much concern for accuracy, judging from the number of tissues littering the floor beneath her. On the TV was one of the innumerable college bowl games that littered the airwaves from Christmas to New Year's as randomly as Tara's tissues. Tara had interpreted the advice to drink plenty of fluids when you had a cold to mean beer. She was working on her second one when Marilyn first arrived. When she remarked about the choice of beverages, Meg rolled her eyes and put up her hand in a stop sign as if to say, "Let us not discuss that." First they opened the gifts they had gotten each other. Marilyn bought a baseball digest for Tara and a pair of gloves for Meg. They gave her a workout outfit and a basket of fruit. They talked about Tara's cold and Meg's difficulties as the nurse to a difficult patient, and then Tara said, after blowing her nose with a sound reminiscent of the mating call of a walrus, "We're going bowling next week. Want to join us?"

"Will Phoebe Waite be there?"

Tara shook her head emphatically. "Nope. Now we're her enemies too, it seems. She was heard calling me a fat pig, if you can believe that." She started laughing, which brought on a coughing fit.

Marilyn tried not to show how much she savored this good news. "She's grown pigheaded, I'd say."

"Yeah," Meg said, "we hear she's having trouble with George too. They aren't getting along well. It started that day at the lake."

Marilyn, remembering how George was ogling her in her bikini and Phoebe's frowns, experienced a deeper moment of satisfaction. Don't get even, get revenge, as the saying had it—and best when you didn't have to exert yourself.

"How about you and Bill? You two doing okay?" Tara asked.

Meg looked uneasy, as if she thought this was an unwise question.

Feeling a little defensive, Marilyn said, "Yeah, okay. You sound doubtful. Any reason?"

Tara shrugged. "No, just that I hear things."

"Like what?"

"Just stupid rumors," Meg said as Tara blew her nose loudly again.

Ignoring Meg's caution and casually tossing the tissue aside where it floated by accident into the wicker wastebasket, she went on, "Oh, you know. Bill misses his kids. He's ashamed of himself."

The first was undeniable. The second squared with what his behavior told her sometimes, and while she always resented the idea she could at least understand it. "He's had to make adjustments. From marriage to me, you know, and none of his friends give him much support."

Tara nodded, though Marilyn noticed it was a rather noncommittal gesture, neither agreeing or disagreeing, merely acknowledging that she heard it. "I also heard that when Becky threw him out of the house, Bill—"

"—Wait a minute. Did you say his wife Becky threw him out?"

Tara's eyes narrowed; then she looked down and appeared embarrassed. She turned to Meg, who was staring at the floor, not daring to look at Marilyn. "That's what Fifi told us, right, Meg?"

Meg answered that she wasn't sure and said she had to go to the bathroom.

Tara watched her walk out of the room, then drained her beer. "What does Bill say?"

Bill had never said anything about it, but Marilyn, not liking to be surprised, equivocated. "He doesn't say that." She felt her face go red, but if it was from embarrassment it quickly changed to anger. She remembered all the times Bill was evasive, all the times he didn't want to talk about Becky, the times his mind would be a million miles away. They only made sense if what Tara said was true. Did she and Meg see her as the second choice? Or even worse, was she Bill's second choice? She struggled to control herself.

Luckily Meg returned from the bathroom, and Tara said, "Hey, Meg, get me a beer, would ya." With Meg's and Tara's attention deflected, she had time to compose herself.

From the open refrigerator Meg called to Marilyn. "Want another beer, Timber?"

"No thanks, Meg. I'm still working on the one I've got. I can't keep up with Tara."

"Nobody can," Meg said with a sigh as she handed the beer to the invalid.

Tara grinned, pleased with what she took to be a compliment. "Drink 'em as fast as I throw 'em in softball—that's my motto."

Neither she nor Meg showed any inclination to continue the conversation about Bill. Instead they talked for another fifteen minutes about their plans for Christmas Day. They were going first to Meg's mother's house and then later to Tara's brother's place for Christmas dinner. Because of the information she had received, Marilyn's plans were now up in the air, but she talked about her mother and her sister, who was coming home for Christmas.

Driving back to Portland, she went over in her mind all the signs of Bill's reluctance to be with her. She particularly thought about the times he would be disoriented and panicky when jolted out of a reverie. Now she knew exactly where his thoughts had been, and by the time she got home she was in a high fever of wounded pride and resentment.

He was watching ESPN when she walked through the door. He looked up and said, "Hi, babe. How were Tara and Meg?"

She put the gifts from Tara and Meg on the dining room table, removed her winter coat and hung it in the closet without answering his question. Calmly she folded her arms across her chest and faced him. "Would you mind turning that thing off." She pointed with her chin to the TV.

He gave her a puzzled look, then shrugged. He picked up the remote and clicked the TV off. "Well?"

She walked the few paces across the room towards the window until she was sure she was in perfect command of herself. Again she turned and looked at him.

"I'll tell you what I think. You didn't walk out on Becky—she threw you out. I also think you've tried to get back with her several times since that night you came here, but it was her who kept saying no. Do you know what that means?"

He listened to her with a stricken look on his face. He grew edgy and nervous, sure signs of guilt. "It doesn't matter who did what," he started to say, but she cut him off.

"I asked you if you know what that means?"

He glared at her. "No, I don't know what you mean." For the first time his voice expressed hostility.

She turned her back on him and, her arms still folded across her chest, looked out the window. A pickup truck was backing into a narrow space across the street, and a woman was signaling to the driver how much space he had. She held up her hands about a yard apart. "It means I'm your second choice."

She heard his chair creak as he shifted his weight. "That's not the way to put it. When you're married and have kids, it's not the same. I grew up without a father, you know. What kind of a man would know how that feels and not care about his sons? I don't want to let them down."

As she listened she searched his words for signs of contrition and hints that she was his first choice. She found nothing. Deflecting attention away from Becky and her to his kids was sneaky, dishonest, manipulative—that was her quick conclusion. She turned and looked at him. Body language, always more reliable, told her he was guilty and evasive. He looked down, scratched his knee, then rubbed his eye. He was tense, leaning forward, not relaxing into the padded back of the chair.

"Bill, let me ask you another question. And I want an honest answer. Are you happy?"

"What do you mean?" he asked defensively.

"I mean exactly what I said. You've left your wife and are living with me. Are you happy about that?"

"Yeah," he said with patent evasiveness, "I'm as happy as can be under the circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"Well, okay. As I said, I do miss my boys. That's honest."

It was like pulling teeth. "But what about Becky? Do you miss her too?"

He didn't answer, which in itself was an answer.

"Bill Paine, you've been playing me for a fool. I've been patient with your moods—more than with any other man I've ever known. And what do I get for my trouble? Being used, that's what. We both know you've tried to get back with your wife. You'd have left me on a dime if she was fool enough to have your sorry ass back."

"You don't know anything about it, Marilyn. Being used"—he repeated it with a nasty curl of the lips. "I like that. Isn't it more realistic to say I've been used being your boy toy? You've been manipulating me since that softball game last summer."

Without a word, Marilyn walked over to the closet by the front door. She opened it, moved a few items, then located his two suitcases. One after the other she seized and threw them out of the closet without looking. They crashed into the dining room table and tumbled to a stop.

"There's your goddamned luggage. You know what to do with them."

And with that hostile remark came the end of their affair.

Snowbound

The storm forecasted for Wednesday night made its first surprise by starting early. By mid afternoon when three inches of the predicted two feet had already fallen, Kevin Blanchette suggested to Fiona that she had better leave early. She had been nervously watching the big flakes falling while the wind started driving them at a forty-five degree angle and was relieved. Quickly she told Anne Marie and another resident to read the brochure on personal hygiene, wrote a note for Sylvia about trading days if she could not get back to Portland tomorrow, and left. Already the traffic was crawling. It took her over an hour and a half just to get out of Portland and environs. Luckily Lowell's old car had blown a head gasket in November and instead of repairing the engine he bought a four-wheel drive Swedish station wagon for safety and reliability on snow. She had no trouble negotiating the streets, but because other cars were spinning out or getting stuck, she was driving very slowly. Once out on the country roads, however, things got worse instead of better. The snow was coming down at an horrific rate, and the wind gusts were so strong they actually shook her heavy car at times. Visibility was so bad the road could not be seen, only the tracks of cars in front of her. By this time she had broken into a cold sweat and gripped the steering wheel as if her life depended on it, as it perhaps did. There were fewer cars in the country, but that was scarier. If she got to a point where there was not a car in front of her, she might easily go off the road. Cold sweat and white knuckles turned to terror. She was not an experienced driver even under the best conditions. She relaxed a little when she got behind a jeep and followed it for miles without any problems. The jeep turned off at a general store about two miles from the cottage, and with visibility worsening and the snow up to eight inches already, the terror returned. She proceeded in second gear at about ten miles an hour and hoped she didn't have to stop. Even a four-wheel-drive vehicle could get stuck in heavy snow. She didn't relax until she told herself that even if the car did get stuck she was close enough to home that she could walk to safety.

But she didn't have to. The station wagon performed just as Lowell had said it would when they bought it, and she was able to drive it right up to where the truck was parked. For a moment before she turned the ignition off she sat in the car and felt thankful. She wasn't religious, but if she was this would be the time for a prayer of thanksgiving. She took several deep breaths instead before looking up and seeing Lowell beside the car.

He had come out the door the moment he heard the car turning into the long driveway. He had obviously been waiting anxiously, though he tried to hide it. He knew she was on her way because he had called Phoenix Landing. It was he who announced the second surprise of the storm. Three and a half to four feet of snow were now forecasted. It would be the biggest storm in over twenty-five years.

With the hour of daylight remaining, dim as it was, they made preparations for the storm. Lowell brought extra wood in from the woodpile. From the shed he had built in early November after the cottage was finished, he got their two shovels and brought them inside. He had already talked to the man who plowed their driveway—at over three-hundred-feet long, really an access road—and they had agreed it would probably be two days before he could get to them. They got candles, flashlights, a portable radio, extra batteries, and two oil lamps from the closet to have them handy. If they lost electricity, they'd lose water since the pump for their well was electric, but the hot-water tank was fired by propane gas and they could drain it for water to wash. To be on the safe side, however, they filled several plastic gallon jugs with water. Their kitchen stove was also fired by propane gas, but Lowell, trying to anticipate every emergency, also bought a Coleman camping stove with extra gas cylinders so that they could cook under the most extreme conditions. The wind reminded him that the one thing he had not anticipated was having plywood to cover a broken window, but even in this case he had partially anticipated a disaster. Their windows were high-tech glass that was very strong. A tree would have to score a direct hit to smash the big picture window. A branch should bounce off. Examining the geometry of the situation, they decided no large tree was close enough to do any damage to the picture window. They would be safe.

They also had a large cache of emergency supplies to keep them going if snow-bound—canned soups, canned fruits, tuna and chicken; dried goods like rice, pasta and nuts; spaghetti sauces in jars; baked goods like cereal, cookies and crackers; tea and coffee; a couple of cases of bottled water and a large assortment of fruit drinks; beer and wine. In addition they always kept a week's supply of perishables in the refrigerator, milk, fruit and vegetables; a bushel of apples was kept in the coolest place in the cottage, in the closet on the other side of the cottage from the woodstove. They also had powdered milk as a backup. In the freezer compartment they had three pounds of hamburger and two large chicken breasts, enough meat for five meals.

They both had cellular phones so that even if the phone lines went down they could call for help in an emergency. They were prepared, and being prepared they were both excited. After Lowell got the wood put away and all the emergency gear was inventoried, they had a beer. They sat side by side on the couch facing the picture window and looked at each other with shining eyes. "Look at that snow come down," he said, pointing at the window where whiteout conditions were in effect—the lake was invisible. "I think you're going to get your wish. We're going to be snowbound."

She smiled, feeling deliciously free and happy. She leaned over and kissed him passionately. "I'm so excited," she said, "so happy."

The rest of the evening passed quietly. They cooked supper together, ate it together, and cleaned up together. They had another beer as they sat on the couch and talked about the storm. The tuner of their stereo system was set to Maine Public Radio for weather updates. The National Weather Service was still saying the storm would be the biggest northeaster in a quarter of a century. Cliff Dalton called to ask Lowell to check his vacation home when he got a chance to make sure there was no storm damage. They both called their mothers to make sure they were okay. Tara called to ask if they needed to be rescued by sled dogs. They watched TV for a few hours, then went to bed and made love. All this was fairly typical of their nights; the one thing that was anomalous was that they didn't discuss Bill and Becky, nor were the phone calls on that subject. It had been their obsession for the past several weeks, but tonight the storm dominated their thoughts.

She fell into a deep and contented sleep after they made love. At some point in the night she woke to utter darkness. The night-light beside the bathroom door and the LED displays on such things as their clock radio and microwave oven, which usually spread a dim light throughout the cottage, were out. She listened to Lowell's quiet breathing and heard at the same time the howling wind outside their snug and well-insulated cottage. The woodstove had died down so that the air was very cold, but under the blankets was perfectly warm.

She started thinking about the expression on Lowell's face when she first got home after the traumatic drive from Portland. The anxiety he was feeling had not yet been completely effaced by the relief at seeing her safe. He had obviously worked himself up into a state of dread, which he partly admitted when he said, "I was really worried that the snow was too much and you would be trapped in the car," but his face showed plainly that he was afraid something much worse had happened and he would have to face life alone without her. To be loved that strongly was wonderfully new to her. Sometimes she had to figuratively pinch herself to be reminded it was true.

A year ago she had not known this man existed, and now he meant everything to her. She recognized the look on his face because it spoke the same love she felt for him. She too loved him more than life itself because without him life would be unbearable. Outside the wind howled angrily as if it was a monster that was frustrated it could not reach these lovers in their warm bed. She luxuriated in the warmth and security she felt. Waves of happiness pulsated through her body as she rolled over and matched her legs and belly to Lowell's fetal position.

Things had certainly turned out differently from the adolescent dreams of love she had envisioned. In high school she fantasized falling in love with a handsome black man who was a leader of his people like the men she learned about in civics class who led the civil rights movement. As the only black person in Waska, Maine, her daydreams had only the most tenuous connection to reality. Now that she had gone beyond fantasy and found love, she still felt black, but she saw blackness itself differently. Black was one way of being human, and being human was most important. She had enough self-confidence now to laugh at how she worried about losing her blackness and going to see Lucille Durham, the strongest black woman she knew, as she was falling in love with Lowell. She knew now it wasn't so much for validation but from insecurity, from fear of losing her identity. Life with Lowell had taught her that she could be both black and white; she could resolve the schizophrenia that Du Bois had identified as the lot of the black person in America because Lowell had said that he loved her blackness because it was a part of her—said it and believed it. That was only one of the ways he made her feel special. He understood self-doubt and shyness and the feeling she did not belong, that she was different. In his life he had experienced the same estrangement and alienation; he knew all about self-doubt. Thanks to him she could sing the lines from Langston Hughes's poem "I Too Am America" and feel at home. The confidence she felt when they went into the city she owed to him. He was such a good man too. He always wanted to do what was right. He had a lot of money, but he was completely indifferent to it. He was glad it enabled him to make a home in Maine, but he wanted to give back to society and to people more than anything. Now that the cottage was completed, he told her he wanted to help others enjoy the benefits of a home. In the spring he was going to volunteer his skills and knowledge about building and work for Habitat for Humanity. She was proud of him at the same time she worried that he might leave her for months on end. She had made him promise he would work in Maine. They had seen plenty of very poor people who lived in hidden byways upcountry. Portland also had its poor. If he worked locally she could join him on weekends; she could share his vision and they could be as one. Fantasizing about their working together on a house somewhere, she drifted into a semiconscious dreamlike state where she handed him tools and shared a drink of cold water on a hot summer day. Before it went any further she fell into a deep sleep.

They woke to a clear day of arctic air from Canada replacing the storm. They heard that on the portable radio Lowell had had the foresight to bring upstairs to the loft last night. He too had awoken in the night to discover the electricity was off. They lay in bed for a while listening to the news tell them the temperature was below zero but expected to rise to the high teens by midday. The cottage was still quite dark even though the sun had already risen. They found out why when they got downstairs. The wind had blown snow almost to the top of the picture window. They marveled at that for a moment before turning their attention to surviving. Lowell got wood chips and logs and started the fire while Fiona boiled water on their gas stove for coffee. She had to take the plastic filter holder from their coffeemaker and slowly pour the hot water by hand, but she preferred that to Lowell's suggestion that they use the camping method of boiling the coffee grounds and the water together.

The radio also announced that the entire state of Maine was paralyzed with almost no roads cleared. She called Phoenix Landing to verify that Sylvia was doing all right and received the report that though they were shorthanded the guests were behaving marvelously. Through the other window fronting the lake and the top of the picture window they could see that the stupendous storm had left behind it the gift of a ravishingly lovely world. The portions of the frozen lake that the wind had swept clear of snow glistened in the low sun with veins of aqua blue. The branches of pine trees both on their lot and across the lake that had been out of the wind hung with pure white snow so heavy it made the trees look more like columns than cones. The sky was perfectly blue above the mountain (actually a glacial moraine, Lowell had told her, but everyone called it a mountain). The shadows on the mountain were blue where snow lay and purplish-green where the green boughs of pines were exposed. An aura of perfect peace and unspoiled perfection was everywhere. Everything she could see was more than usually distinct and individual, existing for itself and yet part of a perfect whole. No sounds of distant vehicles could be heard. Last summer while the roar of boats and jet skis thundered in their ears they had read a newspaper article that stated there was almost no place on earth—whether the poles or an out-of-the-way South Sea island—that went a day without hearing the roar of some engine, be it boat, plane or vehicle. And yet here in the early morning there wasn't a sound to be heard. No vehicles were out, whether on the secondary road that led to their cottage or on the main road a few miles away that connected all the upcountry towns and villages, not even snowplows. She felt a thrill of pleasure that had to be shared. She turned and hugged Lowell, who had to put his full coffee cup down. "It's so beautiful," she said. "It makes me feel free."

He grinned. "Like playing hooky, isn't it. But after breakfast we have work to do."

In fact something besides the woodstove had to be attended to before breakfast. Lowell was worried about the two water pipes where they came from the pressure tank and split off, one going to the hot-water heater and the other to the faucets and shower of the house plumbing. Unlike the flexible polyethylene plastic pipe that came from their water pump deep underground, these two pipes were copper, and after they split at the pressure tank were exposed to the air in the crawl space for about four feet. They could freeze. He had foam insulation covering them and had added additional protection by wrapping them with electrical pads that turned on when the temperature went below thirty-two degrees, but with the electricity off there was a definite danger of a frozen pipe bursting. He put on a work jacket and gloves and went down the trap door in the kitchen, bringing with him an old blanket to offer further insulation. Fiona, standing above the open trapdoor, could feel the frigid air through her slippered feet. She wondered how even with gloves he could work in such cold air.

In about five minutes he came out of the trapdoor with some cobwebs in his dark hair, which she brushed off while teasing him by saying, "You're showing some gray in your hair, I'm afraid." They had breakfast of cereal and sliced banana with milk that was still cold. Fiona suggested they fill the camping cooler with snow to keep the milk and other perishables cold, and they discussed other things they needed to do as they ate their cereal. First up was a substitute for a shower. He got three gallons of hot water from the tank, and they washed each other in the shower, after which they were a mass of goose bumps as they dressed near the stove since its heat hadn't permeated the cottage yet. Lowell said that he hoped the downed lines were major ones because they were fixed first. If it was their own line it might be a week before they had power restored. It made Lowell, who liked the idea of self-sufficiency, think that they ought to get a portable generator or look into solar panels. It was a moot point now, however, first because they could see through the window that their line looked okay, and secondly because they couldn't do anything about the downed lines themselves. He estimated that depending on whether the downed lines were major or secondary, they would go two to four days without electricity. That meant the frozen food in the freezer compartment would be spoiled. Fiona, however, had a solution, which was to cook up the hamburger, chicken, and frozen vegetables. Cooked food could be refrigerated in the snow and would last much longer. The freezer compartment was still very cold, so it could be a problem deferred. For now she took one pound of hamburger out. Later they would make a batch of chili.

The massive drift covering their deck like the glacier that thousands of years ago covered this land was more pressing. They bundled up and went out to do some shoveling. Both wore heavy sweaters under their coats and stocking caps pulled over their ears against the frigid temperature. Lowell, wearing a pair of high boots, went first into the waist-high snow. Fiona, with boots covering only her ankles, cleaned up the path after him. It was hard work that had the advantage of raising their body heat so that they forgot the cold. After shoveling a path to the woodpile and then backtracking and shoveling to the front of the cottage, they took a rest as they examined the huge drift. The outer posts of the deck were eight feet high, and yet the snow scaled the deck and went on a slope six feet further against the walls and window. While Lowell thought the posts and deck could hold the weight—especially since it was a solid mass below and above the wood—he was less sanguine about the snow they could see on the roof. He proposed shoveling the deck, then going up on the roof with the twelve-foot stepladder and pushing the snow off. Fiona did not like this idea at all. She was afraid he might slip and fall and be unable to go to the hospital for all the broken bones he would have.

He scoffed at that, calling it the worst-case scenario. Then she asked, "Wasn't the roof built strong enough to hold the snow?"

"Probably," he agreed, "but it's a ton or more of snow and why take the chance?"

They compromised by shoveling the deck, an operation that took almost two hours, and then, after a coffee break, shoveling a path to the shed from the front door, which was much easier since this area had been out of the wind. From the shed Lowell took the twelve-foot stepladder and a heavy rake (that was the compromise), and after putting the ladder against the roof from the deck, he raked the snow down as far as he could. In this way most of the snow was removed, though they had to reshovel the deck and throw the snow further and further distances to find a place for it to not fall back onto the deck. The work was made less onerous by Fiona teasing Lowell and calling him the snow creature from the Maine woods as they worked. He had come down from the ladder covered with snow and with his eyebrows encrusted with ice.

When they finished they had a lunch of soup and crackers, then rested for a while before finishing with the shoveling. They made a path to the cars and swept them off. By this time their muscles were sore and their arms tingling, but before going back inside they surveyed the lake by sliding down the snowdrift from the deck. The only sign of human habitation was the smoke they could see from a half dozen cottages. Out of the hundreds that lined the large lake, only about thirty were used as year-round residences. Lowell had some cross-country skis belonging to him and Bill when they were boys and suggested that tomorrow they go exploring. "If my muscles have recovered," was all Fiona said.

Inside they cooked up the large batch of chili. When it had cooled they put it in two plastic containers and then into the camping cooler, which in turn they placed outside the front door. Lowell didn't think there was much danger of an animal disturbing it, but just in case they placed two heavy rocks on the top. A brief nap followed and then they had a beer before cooking chicken breasts and a rice mix for their supper. For a salad Fiona made a Waldorf salad of apples, walnuts and raisins. After cleaning up they had another beer, the last of the day since generally they limited themselves to two a day. Almost always now it was microbrewery beer they drank. Lowell had passed from skeptic to fanatical fan of these beers and scoffed at the taste of watered-down American beers as if he'd been raised in Europe. They played a couple games of checkers by the light of an oil lamp while listening to classical music on the portable radio. This was a newly developed taste for both of them. They had even started buying classical pieces they heard on the radio and liked. The last time they were in Portland Lowell had bought Rachmaninov's second piano concerto and Beethoven's seventh symphony. When the radio played the waltzes from Richard Strauss's Rosenkavalier, they spontaneously decided to dance to the music, turning the oil-lit cottage into a Viennese palace and their dungarees and sweaters into formal attire—or so Fiona imagined until she looked into Lowell's eyes and realized the reality was better. She rested her head on his shoulder and said, "It would take years to explain how much I love you." "I know," he said softly, "let's make sure it takes the rest of our lives." Soon, too soon, the waltzes were over and so was the classical music. It was followed by a news program and inspired them to go to bed even though it was only 8:30.

The next morning the electricity was still off, and this time Lowell made several efforts to phone Central Maine Power, only to get a busy signal every time. He did get through to the wife of the man who plowed their drive. She told him her husband would probably get to him by late afternoon or early evening. The main roads were cleared now, and he was starting with customers who lived on these cleared roads. Fiona called Phoenix Landing and talked to Sylvia. She had been there for thirty-six straight hours, having also substituted for Mark Lewis last night because he could also not get into the city. Fiona knew that meant she would have to do the weekend shift that included being on duty Saturday night. Momentarily it dampened her spirits until Lowell reminded her they still had today and tonight. The phone calls had lowered the battery level of his phone, so before breakfast he brought it up to the car and charged it from the charger that attached to the cigarette lighter. They ate breakfast and then cleaned up the paths they had shoveled yesterday. Last night's wind was nowhere near the winds of the storm in velocity but still had blown enough snow to fill the paths in places. Once they were cleared and the phone put away, they got out the skis and inexpertly waxed them. Lowell's first thought for a goal was his uncle Cliff's place on the far end of the L-shaped lake, but with skiing requiring different muscles from those used for walking and running, they decided a shorter trip was more sensible. They would head for the near end of the lake where the main road was.

The other side of the lake was swept free of snow, so they made their way parallel to their own shore. Because of the drifts it was often difficult skiing, rather like going across a hill perpendicular to its slope so that their legs were at uneven heights. Another problem was the depressions they would suddenly come across, little hollow valleys in the snow. If they were smaller than the length of their skis, they could cause a fall. Fiona, hardly ever being on skis before, fell more times than she could count. She was even finding it difficult on relatively smooth surfaces. Still the air was bracing, and even though they could hear snowplows in the distance, it was quieter than any normal day. Except for the occasional smoke from a chimney, they saw little evidence of human presence. With nobody else out and about, the lake was their private domain. In a day or two the ice fishermen would return and snowmobiles and iceboats would reclaim their spoliation rights. Occasionally they would see signs of the more permanent residents—squirrels and flocks of chickadees and woodpeckers—all of whom survived the worst of conditions and gave perspective to their snowbound condition. She saw Lowell regarding a band of chickadees and knew from the expression on his face he was thinking the same thing. For now silent communion was enough, for they talked very little. Only when they approached the north shore of the lake and could see an occasional car on Route 5 did they stop and confer.

"Do you want to go up to the road or turn around?" Lowell asked.

They had gone little more than a mile and already Fiona's front leg muscles were tired, but if the chickadees could endure, so could she. "What do you think?"

"Let's turn back. Maybe at home we could ski up the access road and have a look around."

So they turned back, this time going a bit closer to the shore. They still were proceeding athwart the slope, but here they avoided the depressions. About a quarter of a mile from their cottage they were hailed by an elderly woman from her back door. She was about a hundred yards away so that they could not see her face clearly. They could see she was elderly by her white hair and a certain air of frailty she projected. "Excuse me, do you know anything about plumbing?"

They had to ski closer and have her repeat her question before Lowell said, "Yes, some. What's the problem?"

"We have frozen pipes and no water."

She was even older than they thought, easily in her eighties. She said her husband had had two hip operations and was infirm. She was trying to be casual, but both could hear the desperation and fear she was trying to hide. They exchanged a glance.

"You must have town water up here. Where we are a well is needed. But, yes, it sounds like your pipe is indeed frozen. Often, even usually if there's a turn of direction, they burst. If that's the case, I can't do much. But I'll be glad to have a look for you."

The skied up to the stairs, removed the skis, and made their way carefully up the unshoveled stairs. Inside they saw an old gentleman sitting in an easy chair with a blanket covering his legs. The skin on his skeletal face was tightly drawn and transparent. Bluish veins and red capillaries were visible on his face and up into his bald head. His thin nose was similarly crisscrossed with visible blood vessels. He was unshaven and seemed distracted behind the thick black-rimmed glasses he wore. He looked at them momentarily through narrowed eyes that grew into a deeper frown. Unlike his wife, he did not seem to be happy to see them at all.

It was cool in the house. Fiona could see Lowell's eyes surveying the woodstove where only a few logs were stored beside it.

"Do you have more wood outside, ma'am?"

"Yes. I've brought some in, but they're heavy and I don't manage well. Usually we have a man who does these things. He comes once a day, but with the storm..."

Her voice trailed off, and she struggled to compose herself.

"I'll get you some," Lowell said in a kindly voice. "Just point me to the woodpile."

While she went to the front door and pointed to the side of the house, Fiona stood awkwardly near the man, who remained silent and did not look up.

The woman returned, but while Lowell brought in several loads of wood she was as uncommunicative as her husband. She was very uncomfortable, but remained quiet herself. It would have been even more uncomfortable trying to make smalltalk.

After the fourth load Lowell fed the fire and got it blazing.

"You're new here, I see."

Lowell closed the firebox and stood up. "Well, my family has owned a lot here for ages. Judge Edgecomb was my grandfather. Do you remember him?"

"Oh, certainly. His cottage burned down some time ago. He lived in Waska, didn't he? When we were young we used to see him. He used to take a walk every morning at seven o'clock when he was here on vacation. He would still wear a coat and tie, the only person up here who did."

"Was he friendly? I don't know much about him—he died when I was a baby."

The woman looked at her husband, waiting for him to add a comment, but he was staring at the floor and apparently uninterested. "He was polite, as I recall, but I wouldn't say friendly. Even then he was a judge, you see."

Lowell nodded. If he was disappointed, he didn't show it. "Do you have a flashlight? I'll take a look at the pipe now."

She went over to a drawer in the kitchen to get the flashlight, a heavy, black old-fashioned one. "The trapdoor is under the rug." She pointed.

He smiled. "I should have guessed. It's just about where ours is too." He went down the ladder and disappeared.

Fiona had moved into the kitchen while this was happening.

"What's your name, dear?"

"Fiona. Fiona Sparrow."

"I'm Madge Henderson, and my husband is Donald. Your young man is very helpful."

Fiona smiled proudly. "Yes, that's the way he is."

The topic of their discussion poked his head up out of the trapdoor. "Good news. The pipe hasn't burst. I don't imagine you have anything to heat a pipe with, do you?"

"Would a candle be enough? It's one thing we have a lot of."

He shook his head. "You can use a towel soaked with boiling water, but it would be better and quicker to use a soldering torch. I have one at home. We're only eight or ten cottages up from here." He clambered out of the trapdoor by putting his hands on the floor and pushing up, swinging his legs around, and then following that with a hip roll like a gymnast, he was on his feet.

"Mrs. Henderson," Fiona asked, "is there anything else we could get for you. We stocked up on supplies just in case we were ever snowbound, so we have plenty."

She looked nervously at her husband, then back at Fiona. "I don't know. Do you think it will be long before we get electricity back?"

"It's hard to say," Lowell said. "Maybe a few more days. How about your phone? Does it work?"

She shook her head. "It went out the same time the electricity did. Aren't they connected?"

"Not necessarily. The lines are carried by the same poles, though. So indirectly they are. I'll bring you our cellular phone when we get back. There are probably calls you'd like to make."

Mrs. Henderson's face softened with relief. "That would be wonderful. My sister is probably worried sick about us."

As they left, Fiona added one other suggestion. "We can bring some water bottles too—in case Lowell can't get the pipe fixed."

They returned with full backpacks. Lowell turned the faucet on in the kitchen and immediately went down into the crawl space with his soldering torch. In about five minutes the faucet spat some air and water with a loud hissing sound, and a few minutes later water was flowing. Fiona smiled proudly as she watched Mrs. Henderson's amazement. When Lowell came back up he suggested she get her man to put insulation and electrical heating pads around the pipe. He had to explain what he meant, and then to make sure he wrote down the information. As a stopgap measure he said he had wrapped a couple old towels around the pipe and taped them in place.

Fiona took out the water bottles and suggested Mrs. Henderson keep them just in case. She also brought half a dozen apples, which were reluctantly but thankfully accepted.

Lowell offered one final suggestion. "Keep the faucet dripping a bit. Flowing water won't freeze unless it's extremely cold." He reached into his pocket and handed her the cellular phone, and when she looked mystified he dialed it for her.

She called the handyman first, who told her he would be able to get to her tomorrow. He had talked with some of the men who manned the plows, and they had told him secondary roads would be cleared by tomorrow morning if not earlier. This was news to Lowell and Fiona too. She knew now she would definitely be at work tomorrow and experienced again a feeling of regret.

Lowell asked Mrs. Henderson why her handyman hadn't got them prepared for the storm by bringing in extra wood and so forth.

Mrs. Henderson, not understanding what Fiona saw—that indirectly Lowell was volunteering to take care of these old folks—defended the man. ""He said he was relying on early forecasts that said the storm would start late. By the time he found out it came early, he himself almost got stuck doing a small carpentry job. He feels awful, he told me."

Next she called her sister in South Portland, again with Lowell dialing the number for her.

"Lilly, it's Madge."

"No, we haven't had power for two days."

"No, a neighbor brought his mobile phone. I'm calling on it."

"He's been wonderfully helpful." She looked at Lowell as she said this and smiled.

"Not really," She looked at her husband. "A little."

"Yes, well maybe." She put her hand over the phone and said to her husband, "Lilly thinks we shouldn't be here. It's too much."

Mr. Henderson frowned and looked out the window at the lake. "Seventy-five years," he said to himself softly.

"Just a minute, Lilly. I'm talking to Don. What's that, Don?"

"Seventy-five years ago I first saw this lake as a boy. Lilly thinks we're too old, doesn't she?"

"Well, maybe we are."

He turned his face away, but not before Fiona saw the tears rolling down his cheek.

When they got home it was those tears she wanted to talk about. "Lowell, don't you agree that when we've been in public since last fall we haven't had any problems—you know, of a racist kind, I mean."

Lowell, busy hovering over the stove waiting for the tea water to boil, turned and regarded her. "Yes, why do you ask?"

"Only because when Mr. Henderson was sitting in his chair, saying nothing and looking angry and distraught, my first thought was it was because I was there. I thought he might be a racist."

He raised his eyebrows. "Hmm, I didn't think that."

"Then you were right. The poor man was feeling helpless, useless and thinking the nursing home was staring him in the face, and I stupidly assume it was because of me. It makes me feel ashamed. I didn't see his pain. That's what disturbs me."

The water was boiling now, and Lowell walked over to the cabinet to get cups and tea bags. "Well," he said with his back to her, "I don't think I can say I did either. What kind of tea do you want?"

"Earl Grey."

He reached for the box and took out two tea bags. "Me too. We had a situation where those people needed our help, and my mind was in a problem-solving mode. It was only after the phone call to her sister that I understood. Those tears of the poor man—that's when I saw he wished he didn't need us. So maybe you did feel hostility but for the wrong reason."

As usual he made her feel better. She started to get the kettle, but before she did she gave him a hug. "Everything's so perfect, I'm so happy, but then seeing Mr. Henderson reminds me I can't be blind to the pain of others."

"You mean Bill."

"Yes, when I saw what was causing Mr. Henderson pain, I thought of your brother." She turned and poured the water. Both of them bobbed the tea bag for a bit, then she put half a teaspoon of sugar into her cup. Lowell drank his without.

"With him I see no easy solution. I can't thaw a frozen pipe in his case. You hungry? We could have some cookies."

She wrapped the string around her tea bag and gave it a final squeeze. "No, I just want something hot in me."

They sat on the couch facing the lake. In the high sun the shadows of the depressions in the snow on the lake and distant mountain were bluish. The pines had all lost their burden of snow and gleamed green in the sun and purplish green in the shadows. A lone crow flew across the frozen lake, looking for food. The clear deep blue of the sky was empty of clouds and promised spectacular stars. Here away from the city lights they could see the Milky Way every cloudless night and sometimes the northern lights put on a show. This was the world of ancestral familiarity that existed apart and alone and which the city forgot existed. It gave peace but also a curious longing, the need to understand. Looking at those stars some nights she had tried to conceptualize infinity and eternity, but it was no use. One had to accept the longing and know that it was shrouded in mystery.

Lowell broke the silence. "Do you think we should try to convince Becky one more time?"

She sipped her tea. "The last time I talked to her she told me she wanted him back. She isn't trying to punish him. It's just that she feels betrayed and hurt and wants him to show her that she can trust him. Sometimes I think that only time will convince her."

"So you're saying no?"

"No, I think we have to try. It's only that we have to realize they have to do the changing."

They lapsed into silence again, something that when it happened was never uncom-fortable. She started thinking about Christmas Eve when Bill came to them from Marilyn's. He was strangely calm, even relieved that he and Marilyn were through, and his face showed that he wanted Lowell's approval for what he had done. He seemed hopeful too, though this was harder to discern, a glint in the eye, a bounce to his step. But when he called Becky at Lowell's urging and awkwardly explained the situation to her, his mood quickly changed. He listened to her for a long time, occasionally interjecting a "yes" or an "okay," before hanging up. He told them he was going to spend Christmas Day with Becky and the boys, but otherwise grew uncommunica-tive and pensive. That phone call had been the beginning of their life as go-betweens.

Lowell, putting his teacup on the table, brought her out of her reverie. She looked at him.

"I still can't understand Becky," he said. "To me it's obvious Bill did a terrible thing but that it will never be repeated. And the fact she still blames me for not telling her shows a rigidity of mind most unattractive. She's holding a grudge if you ask me. She wants to punish him, not see that she can trust him."

The sarcastic way he said the word "trust" did not please Fiona, but she understood it came from frustration. Because Becky's feelings of betrayal included Lowell, they found it best for her to deal with Becky while he dealt with his brother, who was now living with their mother. On weekend visits to their mothers, Fiona frequently made time to visit Becky. They had talked enough for Fiona to feel that she understood the feelings of a betrayed wife, and she listened with sympathy so that they had become friends. She had tried to explain to Becky the impossible situation into which Lowell was placed; she told her how Lowell had tried to talk Bill into doing the right thing; but the result was that while Becky forgave Lowell there was still a certain coolness between the brother- and sister-in-law. It was that coolness that was behind his sarcasm.

"Don't forget she was terribly hurt, devastated really. Suddenly and unexpectedly the foundations of her life were taken away from her. I know Bill told you that when they talked at Christmas and when he visits the kids she is icily cold to him and that he wishes she would yell and scream to get the pain out of her system. But I think I know why she is cold—it's for self-protection, to keep her from bawling like a baby. She doesn't trust him anymore, but she doesn't trust herself either. She's confused, conflicted, but I think she still loves him deeply. And remember what her mother said."

Lowell frowned. Becky had told her about her mother's opinion of Bill just last Saturday, and when she told him about it he was very angry since it also applied to him to some extent. Before she and Bill were married they had dinner with her parents and Pat Edgecomb. Later her mother told Becky of her conclusions. She warned her that Bill had obviously had an irregular life, and because he was so handsome things had come to him too easily. He had never been tested. She wasn't quite suggesting that Becky not marry him, but the disapproval she felt certainly implied it. Becky told Fiona that she had been angry with her mother for saying these things, and because they didn't come true and their marriage was a happy one she had almost forgotten them until Bill did betray her. For the five years of their marriage she had always believed he was sweet, loving and considerate. Even after her neighbor told her about the rumors she had heard, she would not believe he was capable of betraying her. But he had betrayed her, and now whenever she felt herself yielding to the impulse to have him back, her mother's frowning face would loom in her mind and make all her distrust and doubt smother the impulse to love and forgive. Fiona had tried to soften Bill's sin by telling her that her cousin Marilyn was very manipulative and predatory. Nobody but her could have seduced Bill. Becky's answer to that was to say that if he was the man she thought he was nobody could seduce him.

Lowell, after brooding for a while, said, "That woman has been destructive."

"You mean Becky's mother?"

"Yes. Even Becky admits it's her mother who stops her from reconciling with Bill."

"Well, I don't disagree she is a factor, but we have to remember Bill did betray her. He has to accept some of the responsibility."

"I know that. But look what's happened. He denies it, but he's started drinking heavily. And him the son of an alcoholic. And why is he drinking?"

He was starting to get agitated. His arms pounded the air. She didn't dare reply; instead she waited for him to go on.

"I'll tell you why. His guilt and shame have made him think all the feelings he had inherited from our life are true. He doesn't think he is worthy of Becky. When we look at it that way, what he needs is support. Testing his worthiness is the most destructive thing she could do. Mother and daughter—their principles can go to the devil. It's wrong, that's all. My poor brother."

As often was the case, his worrying about Bill had got him into a state. He couldn't see Becky's viewpoint, not because he was callous but because his brother was in pain. It suddenly occurred to her that the same solidarity she felt for black people he felt for his brother. Class was another of life's estrangements, another wall that separated people. But that led to another thought, one much more sanguine. For her and Lowell walls had tumbled down. There was nothing absolutely unbendable in the separation of the estranged man and wife. Now snow-bound no more and back in their normal world, she knew they would continue trying to give love, love that redeemed, its second chance.

Girls' Night Out

Phoebe Waite looked at her almost-empty beer glass and considered. Another one or not? She'd had two already and knew from experience three was the point of no return. Drink that third one and it wouldn't stop until she was drunk. Not that she had any plans or commitments that required her to be sober. George, her husband, had gone to a Bruins game in Boston with two buddies, and when she told Jackie Fraser that she was free, her friend suggested they have a girls' night out. They asked another woman, Tammy Duclos, who worked with them at the department store at the intown mall in Waska, to join them, but she had a date. Three would have been a party; two was just a couple friends having a beer. They had talked about going to a movie if nothing was happening at the Keltic Pub, the usual drinking hole for young people in town, so the choice was between either having another beer followed by many more or a movie. Giving fleeting consideration to the hangover she would have tomorrow, she decided to put the decision on Jackie.

Draining her beer, she said, "What's it going to be, a movie or more beer?"

Jackie surveyed the bar. It was a little before seven, and the place was starting to fill with new clientele taking the place of those who had come for Friday Happy Hour after work. Many of the newcomers were unattached males. "The hell with the movie. Another beer!" Her eyes came back to the table. "Did you see those new sweaters that came in today? I've already used up my employee discount for the year—and it's only March—but I'm still tempted."

Phoebe was eying the waitress, who finally glanced their way. She raised two fingers. "No, what's so special?"

"They're light spring sweaters and have a deep V-neck that really would display my boobs nicely and the colors are fantastic."

Phoebe frowned at this reminder of the curse of her life. She was homely, stocky and flat-chested. "Well, are you going to buy one?"

"Or two even. I was looking at a lavender one and a light blue one. The blue would match my eyes, and the lavender would accent my brown hair."

She nodded. Clothes were not as interesting to her as they were to Jackie, who, though plain, used clothes and makeup to be as attractive as possible. Phoebe's husband George was no prize, but he was a husband. She was out of the hunt and always wore jeans and loose blouses and sweaters. Jackie had on her usual outfit, a short skirt and a tight sweater.

The beers came. Danielle St. Croix, the waitress, was getting married this spring, and Jackie asked her how things were going. "Good and bad. My parents wish I'd elope—they don't have the money for a big wedding."

"What are you going to do?" Phoebe asked.

"Phil and me said we'd pay for a lot of it. I'm working twenty hours more each week to get extra money. Feel free to leave me a big tip. It goes into my favorite charity, The Danielle St. Croix wedding fund." She smiled broadly, then said, "Gotta go" when she saw someone impatiently waving at her.

"Sounds like a good cause," Jackie said to her retreating back.

"When do you plan to get married?" Phoebe asked.

"As soon as I meet Mr. Right. Maybe he'll come through the door tonight." She looked in that direction, but nobody appeared.

"Will your parents be able to help—you know, more than Jackie's can? My parents didn't give us a cent."

She shook her head emphatically. "No, but I don't care. Just as long as it's a man standing beside me at the altar."

Phoebe emitted a scornful laugh. "That reminds me. Someone told me Meg Sirois wants one of those lesbian commitment ceremonies, but that dyke Tara doesn't want to."

"You say your father didn't help at your wedding?"

"No. He was just coming down with the emphysema that caused him to have to retire early. He and my mother hardly have enough to live on themselves."

Jackie's face softened. "I'd forgotten about your father's illness. That's too bad."

"Yeah," she said dismissively. She didn't particularly like her parents. Her adolescence was one long battle against rules and their attempt to control her. They didn't like George, they didn't like her playing softball to the detriment of her studies, and they didn't like her rowdy friends. Her father drove a delivery truck for a local bakery and her mother worked at a laundry. She used to think their emphasis on education was absurd. Only the last few years when the only job she could find was clerking in a store for a pittance, and when it seemed she and George were never going to be able to afford a house, did she see that they might actually have had her best interests at heart. Even so, the memory of those adolescent battles was so strong she was still not ready to forgive them. She rarely visited.

"What are you thinking about? Tara?" Jackie asked.

"Nothing. So you heard me?"

"About the commitment ceremony?"

"Yeah. What do you think? Ridiculous?"

"I guess so. I can't really understand why someone would prefer a woman to a man, so the commitment bit isn't any more stupid than the other stuff."

"What I can't understand is her friendship with that bitch Marilyn. She's a nymphomaniac and would screw a fire hydrant if it had a dick. She's the most self-centered creep I've ever met. She thinks she's God's gift to the world."

"And you're still mad at Tara?"

"Damn right. She made the choice. She sided with Marilyn and called me a drunk. You're damned right I'm still mad at her. She's no longer a friend of mine. And that goes for Meg and Fiona too. They all made the choice."

"When she called you that, you were drunk, weren't you?"

That fact being beyond dispute, she nodded.

"So what's the problem?"

Remembering how George was stupidly ogling Marilyn, she bristled. "It was the way she disrespected me, that's what. It wasn't just the word. It was years of being regarded as just another player. You know, the way she'd look at me if I struck out at a key moment in a game, or how she would be cool if I did get a hit and drive in a run. You could tell she didn't think much of me. You can only take that shit so long, and then... Well, I've had it with her and those on her side."

"It's too bad. It was fun going to those tournaments and rooting for you guys."

"Yeah, but you know how aggravation can happen at work and you can't do anything about it because you need the job? It was getting like that with the team, except since it wasn't a job I decided I didn't have to put up with it anymore."

"That reminds me of something that happened today. Some old lady returned a toaster. It burns the toast, she says. I looked at the settings, and she's got it all the way over to the darkest setting."

"Did she know that?"

"Are you kidding? She didn't know anything about settings. She kept saying her old toaster never burned her bread. I tell her it's because her old toaster was set to medium. But she says—"

"Let me guess," Phoebe interrupted. "She claims there were no settings on her old toaster."

"You got it. Nothing I could say would convince her otherwise."

"Well, it's never the customer's fault—that's what Bill Ricker says."

Jackie made a face like she was gagging. "Don't remind me of that creep."

"He's my boss too. There's nothing you could say about him that would surprise me."

"If he isn't the biggest phony in the world, I don't know who is—some politician probably."

"Or Marilyn."

"Marilyn," Jackie said. "At least she's getting some action. See that guy standing by the door? He looked over here twice. I'm telling you, I haven't been with a man for two months. If he came over, do you—you know, mind?"

"Mind? Why should I?" She grinned, then self-consciously covered her uneven teeth by looking down at the table. "Jackie, if you get laid tonight, more power to you. When you get married, you'll find it isn't all that exciting."

"Well, it's not going to be that guy. He just met some woman." Her eyes scanned the room looking for another Mr. Right.

Phoebe started to say something about there being plenty of guys in the place, but a group of people a few tables over suddenly became very loud, so she turned, threw her arm over her chair and looked over the crowd. For the first time she became aware that shamrocks and leprechaun decorations for St. Patrick's Day were taped above the bar and on any empty spot on the wall, which were mostly filled with sports posters.

"Hey," Jackie yelled over the noisy louts, "who's that blond guy at the bar?"

She looked to see Bill Paine sitting on a stool with Denny Genier standing beside him and another guy whose name she couldn't remember sitting on the other side of him. "Him? I know him. He was a friend of my brother's in high school. He was two or three years ahead of us. Bill Paine's his name."

"Don't you think he's a hunk?"

She shrugged, giving nothing away. "Yeah, he's okay."

"Okay! He's handsome as hell. Blond hair, blue eyes, great bod—he's an all-American boy."

"He's not my type," she lied. In high school she had had a crush on him. One time when he was at the house waiting for her brother to get ready, she walked by him in her new bathing suit pretending she wanted to show it to her mother. He was reading a magazine and didn't look up until she spoke. "Have you seen my mother? I want to show her my bathing suit." He glanced at her and said, "I think she's in the backyard," then went back to his reading. She could still remember the stinging feeling that hurt so bad she wanted to cry at his complete indifference. She got over him, but what she learned that day—that she wasn't pretty and no movie-star faces would be gathered around her—was still with her. George was her only prize in life, George, who was no prize.

The recollection of that day made the bile rise in her, and it was only with great effort that she could say something neutral. "I don't think he's available anyways. Remember I told you about Marilyn Prence stealing another woman's man for the hundredth time? Well, Bill was the guy. I heard a rumor that the affair is over now, but I'm not sure it's true."

Jackie kept staring at him. His two friends were talking a lot, but Bill would only say a brief word now and then. He looked unhappy, so maybe the rumor was true.

She verbalized the thought, and Jackie, wetting her lips with her tongue, said, "I'd be glad to make him forget his unhappiness."

For a moment a cruel thought shot through her mind, You're dreaming, Jackie. He wouldn't be interested in you. But luckily she censored herself before it spilled out and said something safer. "When a guy's down like he looks, I don't think he's looking for action."

"Oh yeah? Wait till he gets drunk. Then he'll forget everything." She giggled and added, "That's when I forget my Sunday school lessons."

A minute or two went by and suddenly she grew serious when she saw Bill coming towards their table on his way to the men's room. "He's coming this way," she whispered.

Phoebe looked up just as he spotted her and said, "Hi, Phoebe. Heard from your brother lately?"

"Hi, Bill. He wrote my parents a few weeks ago. He's in the Caribbean on a cruise."

He nodded and continued on his way.

"Why didn't you introduce me?" Jackie asked with just a tinge of anger in her voice.

"Because I can tell he's not looking. He's either with his wife—which I doubt because he is out with the boys on Friday night and also because he doesn't look happy—or more likely getting a divorce. Either way he's not interested."

"If he's getting a divorce he would be."

"No. Everyone I've seen getting a divorce needs time before they play the field again."

"Oh yeah? What about the ones who're getting divorces because they played the field?"

"Guys like that wouldn't be in a bar with the guys. My guess is Marilyn dumped him and his wife won't take him back. Marilyn's done it before and has done it again, I bet. The bitch never stays with a man for long."

Jackie frowned as she pondered this information, but all she said after her big think was, "We need another beer." Her hand went up and waved at Danielle.

When the waitress came over, Phoebe said, "We need two more. What's the story with Bill Paine?"

"The guy with Pat Williams and Denny Genier? He's had some affair and his wife won't take him back. At least that's what I heard. He's been in here frequently lately and drinking a lot." She took their two empty glasses and went up to the bartender.

"You're quite the detective," Jackie said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You sure you're just guessing because of how he looked?"

"Yeah, and because I've seen what Marilyn has done before. You see what I mean when I say she's a bitch. She broke our team up in high school when she stole Nicole Tourigny's boyfriend. The strange thing is this time all the weird members of the team are on her side."

"What do you mean by that?" Jackie asked, her eyes wide with interest.

Their beers arrived. Phoebe said, "Don't work too hard, Danielle," to which the waitress answered, "As long as it leads to my wedding, I don't mind."

"I mean the two lesbians and the black on the team. Everyone who was normal was on my side."

"What about Fiona?" Jackie asked and repeated when a loud laugh burst forth from the rowdy table. "I remember in high school she was quiet as a church mouse, shy and harmless."

"Well, she's Marilyn's cousin, and besides, that was then, this is now. I used to think she was all right. If you asked her in high school who she dreamed of marrying, she'd always say a leader of the civil rights movement. That was okay, but what happened? First chance she gets to get a white boy, she shows her true colors."

"Isn't the guy rich?"

"Yeah, he made a lot of money in computers or something."

"And he's Bill's brother, right?"

"His half brother."

"Well, I never had anything against her. I hope she's happy."

"I'm sure she is—happy with her white boy."

Jackie lit a cigarette and inhaled. "If they love each other, what's the harm?"

"So you think it's okay? You like the idea of blacks and whites marrying?"

Jackie pursed her lips, then freshened them with a swallow of beer. "I probably wouldn't like it if everybody did it, but I don't see any harm in Fiona. As I say, I never had anything against her."

"And I say, I didn't either. Not till now. You let one do it, and the doors are opened. What's wrong with being white anyways? Nowadays we're supposed to feel guilty about our superiority."

Jackie wasn't listening. She was looking at the door. "There's a guy I know," she said.

Phoebe followed her eyes to the front of the bar to see Darren French standing by the door and looking around for a place to sit. The place was completely filled with people now. "Darren French," she said. "I know him too. He wouldn't be Mr. Right, though."

Jackie laughed. "It doesn't have to be Mr. Right after a certain point. Any man will do when it gets late."

He had caught sight of them and walked over. "Mind if I join you?" he said, already pulling the chair out from under the table.

After greeting each other, Jackie said, "We were talking about blacks marrying whites awhile ago. I bet you have an opinion on that."

"So what were you saying?"

Danielle came up and took his order.

"We were talking about Fiona Sparrow, the black girl who played softball on Phoebe's team."

"Jackie thinks it's okay she's going with a white guy."

"I didn't say I liked the idea of whites and blacks marrying all the time," Jackie said defensively. "But Fiona's already half white, and besides, she's harmless. It's worse when black men marry white women."

"Yeah, I agree with you," Darren said. "She's harmless."

For a moment Phoebe thought he was putting them on. "Didn't you have a run-in with the pair? Tara Wright told me something."

"Yeah, we did. But it was no big deal."

"Tara said it was."

He shrugged, perfectly unconcerned that she was trying to contradict him. "Tara never liked me. We're fighting for the principle of America for Americans. Sure, we prefer the white race, but don't you?"

Phoebe nodded. "Put that way, sure I do."

"Because, you see," Darren continued in a lecturing tone, "the Democrats and Republicans ain't doing diddly. Rett Murray says it's because the big boys want the immigrants—it keeps American workers down. He says the big boys who run companies and the government, and especially the ones with big noses, they like to get spics and blacks and Asians looking for jobs. That way if a white man wants a raise, he can be threatened with the loss of his job."

"Do you really think that's true?" Jackie asked. She was starting to slur her words. She pronounced "true" as "twoo."

"Yeah, I do. A lot of people think Nazis are hatemongers and evil, but we're just trying to help regular folks like you. I bet you've had trouble with your boss?"

"Have we ever! We was just talking about him awhile ago, weren't we, Phoebe? He's a real creep. Bill Ricker. Do you know him?"

Darren took a big swallow of beer and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Can't say I've had the pleasure. He ever threatened you?"

"Not with an immigrant taking our jobs, but I bet he would if he could. One Cambodian family and Fiona is all he'd have to work with. No, he does stuff like take credit for ideas we've had, and he's a sexist pig."

"I know the type. The guy I work for does the same thing. A guy I work with thought that the bar code on boxes should tell the quantity inside instead of having it written any old place on the box, which makes us have to look for it. That way we could instantly know the number from the bar code reader. It was a good idea—so good my foreman told the boss he thought of it."

"That sounds just like our boss. Hey, Darren, where do you work anyways?"

For a moment Darren appeared embarrassed, and Phoebe knew why. Whenever high school classmates who'd gone on to college and were on their way to a professional career came into the store and saw her working there, she could read in their eyes the condescension they felt.

"The distribution warehouse for You Save supermarkets. But I regard my work as the stuff I do for the party. The warehouse is my job." He drained his beer. Earlier Phoebe had seen him checking out the crowd, but now he seemed quite comfortable with them. "Can I get the next round?" he said.

They offered no resistance to the idea, and in a few minutes Danielle had delivered three beers to their table. Jackie lit a cigarette and offered one to Darren.

"No thanks," he said. "I'm tempted, but my boss—I mean Mr. Carter—thinks we should live clean lives and doesn't approve of smoking."

"No kidding. Phoebe's never smoked because she was an athlete, but not to smoke to be a clean liver, that's a new one."

Darren shrugged modestly. "We should be an example. Show people we're not the monsters they think we are. You don't think I'm a monster, do you?"

Jackie laughed. "No, of course not. I've known you since we were five. Fraser, French—you sat behind me in every homeroom at Courtney Academy." She looked at Phoebe.

She had never thought one way or the other about it. But Jackie expected an answer, so she said, "Neither do I."

"Because I'm not. I'm just a man trying to make our country better."

She considered this remark for a moment. Something wasn't quite right about it, but Jackie wasn't the only one whose head was getting foggy. "You surprise me, Darren. People sometimes say things about you that aren't very nice."

For the third or fourth time that she had noticed, he shrugged philosophically. "I've come to expect it, but really—live and let live, that's my philosophy. Don't you think that's the way? I'd only interfere in someone else's life if they were hurting people."

Jackie, trying to stub out her half-smoked cigarette, pressed too hard on the ashtray and tipped it over. Cigarette butts and live embers scattered across the table and onto the floor. Darren jumped up and stomped on the embers, then kneeled down and with the napkin from under his beer gathered up the butts. Briefly Phoebe caught a look of disgust on his face and wondered again if he was handing them a load of bull, but the idea slipped away.

When everyone had settled back in their seats, she said, "My husband George doesn't like immigrants. In what way are you different from him?"

"Only in one way. He doesn't try to do anything about it."

"That sounds like George," Jackie said, then looked embarrassed. "No offense," she said to Phoebe.

"Where is George, by the way?"

"He and two buddies went to a Bruins game in Boston. It's girls' night out," she giggled.

"Hmm. I haven't seen him around much lately. Haven't seen Fiona Sparrow either. I take it she's moved?"

"Not far. She lives with her boyfriend Lowell Edgecomb at the lake. He built a new cottage himself."

"Is that so? Sounds nice. I bet it's pretty there."

"Yeah, I guess so. I was up there with the softball team last summer."

"They have a good view of the mountain?"

"Yeah, they're off the East Shore Road right across from it."

"Sounds great. I was at a guy's cottage awhile back. That was off the East Shore Road too, but he still didn't have a good view of the mountain."

"Lowell's place is two cottages up from where Bobby Wilcox's family used to have a place. Remember the big party on graduation night where the bonfire caused the cops and firemen to come and about six people got arrested?"

"I remember hearing about that, though I can't say I was invited to that party."

"Neither was I. But Lowell's place is just two cottages from there. It has the same great view of the mountain."

"So Fiona's turned into a nature girl?"

"Did you know her in high school?"

"No. I don't think she knew I existed."

"That's because of softball. That was her main interest."

"What was your interest?"

"The same. Then you can add beer."

"And boys!" Jackie said, speaking loudly. "I didn't care for sports."

"Me, I regret not playing sports at C.A.," Darren said. "I played football freshman year but didn't like it—it took too much time. Has Fiona's boyfriend really fixed the place up nice?"

"Oh, yes," Phoebe said. "He's rich, you know, so it's very nice."

"Probably expensive wood siding, huh? None of that cheap vinyl stuff."

"Oh, no. It's wood shingles, natural, not painted."

"Yeah, that's a popular look. Any other fancy things? I dream of having my own cottage some day."

"Not that I remember. Oh, wait, there is something. The sign at the beginning of his road not only has his name but also a pine tree painted on it. It was real fancy. I really liked it."

"I can understand that. I think we all have an instinct to decorate and beautify. I had a car in high school that I fixed up. I spent way too much time and money on it, but I wanted it to be the most beautiful car in the world. It was a souped-up, twenty-year-old Pontiac with a new engine, dual carbs, painted fire-engine red, black leather seats, white ivory steering wheel, great sound system. I worked two jobs to pay for all that stuff. With all that working, I didn't study much and wasn't a good student." He sighed and his eyes went far away.

"Do you regret it now?" Jackie asked.

"I do. I wish I had studied more, become educated, you know. But it's too late now."

"It's spilled milk, Darren," Jackie said with drunken solemnity. "I almost got married three years ago but then had cold feet. I thought he wasn't Mr. Right. Now sometimes when I start regretting that, I stop and say 'spilled milk' to myself."

They continued talking about cars and high school and spilled milk, but it all began getting foggier and foggier for Phoebe. At some point she thought Darren left, but then it seemed he was still there. She had a vague recollection that Darren gave her a ride home and drove off with Jackie, but whether it was in Jackie's car or his, she did not know. Nor had she any recollection whatsoever of getting undressed and crawling into bed, not even of the bedroom spinning, which in these situations she usually could recall. In the morning when she woke to bright sunlight, a pounding headache and the vague feeling that she had done something wrong, she chalked the uneasiness she felt to her guilt for drinking too much. George was in the bed snoring with his mouth open, so he must have gotten home sometime in the night, though she either slept through his arrival or lost it in the alcoholic haze. Later when he would ask her what she had done last night, she would answer that she and Jackie had a girls' night out and leave it at that. Now, after rising to take some aspirin washed down with a glass of orange juice, she just wanted to go back to sleep and hope that when she woke again she wouldn't feel that she wanted to die.

Losing the Way

For the six weeks following his meeting with Becky at Christmas, Bill understood that he was on probation. Becky told him his betrayal had made her lose trust in him. She still loved him, she said, but without trust the love could go nowhere. She wanted to see him prove himself. Being in no position to argue, he submitted to her conditions and was patient, understanding and unassertive. He realized the enormity of his crime, and though Becky carefully kept her feelings under control, he knew he had hurt her dreadfully. He was to come on Wednesday nights after the boys were asleep so that they could talk, and on Saturdays he was allowed to spend the day with Johnny just as he had when he was living with Marilyn. He took his son sledding and skating or to outings to stores, and once or twice for a visit to see his grandmother. He saw signs that Johnny was less forthright with him and studied the boy's face for any indications that he felt deserted or betrayed. He thought he saw them, which added to his burden of guilt. That Johnny was not as confused about the new arrangements as might be expected, however, was owing to Becky's careful schooling. She told Bill that last fall she had explained to Johnny that Mommy and Daddy loved him very much and always would, but Daddy had some things to work out and wouldn't be around all the time. The precocious Johnny had asked her if she was mad at Daddy, and she had answered, "That's not the right word. I disagree with the way he is behaving."

As time went on and she continued disagreeing with the way he had behaved, frustration began. Sometimes in their Wednesday talks he would have to struggle to keep his temper when nothing seemed to change despite his religiously following all her hints and wishes. Everything she said was spoken from behind a veil; she never lost her cool self-command. In one thing only, his feelings towards Marilyn, did she seem inordinately curious, but even this he perceived only indirectly. She never mentioned her rival's name; rather she would asked generalized questions such as whether there was anything that complicated his full acceptance of being a husband to a wife. Other times she asked him if he had any regrets. To that question he answered, "Only one. Everything about the last six months." In truth he had no regrets about Marilyn's absence from his life whatsoever. At Christmas when he saw her fangs bared and the extraordinary egoism she displayed, he realized she had been manipulating him from the very start. He even remembered the first day he met her how she had mentioned women practically topless coming to Tony's as a way to draw attention to her two best assets. From that little trick to her last melodramatic posturing as she got his suitcases and threw them on the floor, he saw a long chain of calculated steps designed to keep him enthralled. Now freed from her bondage, he was amazed that he had ever seen anything in her. She was shallow, selfish, a megalomaniac who wanted to control him totally. She never understood his need to see his boys because she could not understand a love that was not sexual.

He told Becky most of these conclusions, only avoiding mention of his sexual thralldom, and still she didn't seem convinced of his sincerity. The first time he lost his temper was because of Marilyn. "Jesus Christ, Becky! What in hell do I have to do to convince you that I made a terrible mistake and that I will never do it again."

"I hope for your sake you won't," she said in that maddeningly calm way of hers whereby she would refuse to get angry or lose control. It was so exasperating that he could only sputter, "I don't know what to do."

She was back working for Charlie Davenport three days a week while Lynn MacArthur watched the boys, but this was no real factor in her independence and self-reliance—she had always been that way. He enlisted Fiona's and Lowell's help, but they too were unable to budge her from her iron position, even though Fiona did offer a few helpful insights. She and Becky had unexpectedly hit it off and had many woman-to-woman conversations. It was she who told Bill that Becky's supposed coldness was a way of protecting herself and that losing control was not mere middle-class propriety. She was hurt badly, Fiona said, and was often a half inch away from bawling like a baby.

If that was true, why didn't she surrender to love? He was learning that without love life could be terrible; why didn't she need love as desperately as he did? It was so inscrutable. He began doubting at first that she would ever take him back, and then—far worse—he began doubting himself. He began wondering if he was worthy of forgiveness. Knowing that he was in danger of losing the way, and remembering what Fiona had told him, he formulated a plan to get her angry enough to lose control. When the tears came she would be vulnerable and maybe they could love again. He had a late meeting at work on the Wednesday of the week he made his plan, so they rescheduled their weekly talk for Friday. This suited him since if it failed and he became very upset he wouldn't have to go to work the next day. He arrived at eight o'clock when the boys were already in bed, and after some tenuous and directionless conversation, he asked her point-blank what he had to do to break down all the barriers she had placed between them.

"It's not barriers; it's you," she said. "You have to change."

"This is ridiculous," he said, trying to goad her. "Tell me how I am supposed to change when I've done everything you've asked and you do not change. Tell me what I have to do to prove I love you. You are not being fair to me."

"You weren't fair to me, remember. You were as unfair as a husband can be."

"I've admitted it. I've told you how sorry I am. How many times can I tell you that? How many times can I say it won't happen again?"

"I have only your word. I have to know."

"For Christ's sake, Becky. This isn't the first time in history this has happened. You have to trust me. It seems to be you're neurotic. This thing is all one-sided. You're irrational."

She didn't speak for a moment, and he studied her face to see if he should continue the attack. She certainly didn't look her usual prim, self-possessed self. "A good human being trusts. A bad one is irrationally distrustful," he said, then stopped, sensing how ineffectual a follow-up this was.

"All right," she said, recovering her calm self-control, "you call it irrational. But I'm acting not just for me. I mean, I worry not just for my own sake but for the kids. I had a friend in high school who had bad parents. It led her to take drugs. She was pregnant at seventeen and didn't finish high school. She married some other guy, a druggie who beat her and sold whatever he could find in the apartment. She had more kids. She divorced and married again, then had lovers. All the time she kept taking the drugs until finally the state took her kids away from her. She's been in and out of jail. Her oldest kid is deeply troubled and gets into trouble with the law, so the cycle is going to continue. So you see, it's not a casual thing with me to make sure of you."

"Jesus, you think I don't love Johnny and Trevor? You think I wouldn't do anything for them? I don't think it's fair to call me a bad parent."

"I didn't say you were, though I have to ask, does a good parent set an example by betraying his wife and having an affair with a floozie?"

Johnny stirred upstairs, and she went up to comfort him. He waited a few minutes, then crept over to the bottom of the stairs to listen. He heard her say, "Not now, Johnny. Mommy and Daddy are trying to talk. Go back to sleep, sweetie, I'll be up in a while." Her voice was gentle and motherly, and listening to it he felt his mouth go dry. There was only one parent in the house.

When she came back into the kitchen, he said, "I could have done that." He spoke too loudly and his voice broke. Instead of understanding, she only hushed him. The mother lion protecting her cub. "Don't raise your voice. You'll scare Johnny and wake Trevor."

He stared at her. "You want to drive me away, don't you? We've been talking for six weeks, and still I don't have the foggiest idea what you expect from me. You're cold and indifferent to me and won't meet me halfway. You owe me an explanation."

She seemed to recognize the justice of his request. Still she hesitated. She started to speak, then stopped and thought some more. He could hear the kitchen clock tick-tocking, the sounds of their breathing, and the low hum that was the drumming of her leg. "I want to trust you, Bill. Really I do. But my mother said something to me once that turned out to be right, and now I have to be absolutely certain. You say it will never happen again. I ask, why did it happen even once?"

"What did your mother say?'

"If you must know, it was something she said when she and my father came to Waska to meet Pat." She was referring to a visit made a few weeks before their wedding. Suddenly he became very tense.

"She didn't tell me not to marry you—if that's what you're thinking. She liked you, in fact, though not your mother. But she did have her doubts."

"And you believed her?"

"Not at first. I was angry with her for saying it, in fact. Then when this happened I remembered her words."

"What? What did she say?" His heart was pounding. "This" was Marilyn, and the way Becky spoke she implied her mother had predicted he would cheat on her. It suggested her mother saw something in him that he didn't recognize himself.

"She said that she could tell you had had an irregular life. She said because you were handsome, things had come to you too easily and that you had never been tested."

"And you believed that crap?"

She raised her hand. "As I said before, not at first. You were always loving and kind and a good father. I thought you'd proved her wrong. Even when Lynn MacArthur told me about the rumors, I didn't believe them. That you would betray me? I thought that was impossible. Then when they turned out to be true, I remembered what my mother said. Now you know why I have to know I can trust you."

He stood and walked over to the sink. He turned and leaned against it. "You mother is full of crap. Marilyn had nothing to do with my so-called irregular life. If anything, I was vulnerable to that woman's manipulation because you had been ignoring me, neglecting me. If you'd just been a little more concerned and noticed I was troubled, I wouldn't have given that woman the time of day. But she was kind to me, concerned about me—or at least seemed to be—I think now she only cared for herself. But again I say your mother is full of crap. What happened had nothing, I mean nothing, to do with my past. It was you and me."

"That I deny. I wasn't the one who violated our marriage vows. You were."

"It's all my fault, is that what you think?"

She frowned and in that frown was her answer.

They talked for another half hour without getting by her thinking her mother was right and his thinking she was full of crap. He learned what held her back, but it only clarified her inertia, and instead of the breakthrough he had hoped for he saw his chances of regaining his life more hopeless than ever. He left angry and bitter and with only a cold good-bye, but once outside in the cold night air he began to feel scared. He saw how easily he could be defeated and his life ruined. With anxiety added to his fear, anger and bitterness, the prospect of his mother's empty house and lonely television had no appeal. He needed relief, bright lights, people and forgetfulness. That meant a bar, so he drove up Route 1 to the Keltic Pub.

The tables were all filled with the usual Friday night crowd, but there was room at the bar. He took a seat and ordered a beer. A man he knew slightly in high school started talking to him from three stools down. It took awhile for him to remember the man's name, which was Myron Hastings. Bill bought a round, and in accepting it Myron moved into the seat beside him. He was divorced and started telling Bill about his troubles. It's the kids that make it complicated, he said. He had two, a boy and a girl, and the child support cost him so much he couldn't afford a new car. He owned a service station in Bedford, and if it wasn't for his mechanics keeping his car going with masking tape, glue and a prayer, he'd be walking everywhere—which last observation was followed by a harsh laugh that Bill found unpleasant. He had already decided he didn't like a man who regarded children as an encumbrance, not beings to love. But he wondered if it was divorce that made people insensitive and self-involved—and if it was going to be his fate. The thought depressed him, which made him want another beer. Then as the beer started loosening his tongue, he began telling Myron about his own marital troubles. He said he was separated and working on a reconciliation, which he said was quite likely even while a little man somewhere inside his head grinned grimly at that lie. That double awareness was one of his last lucid thoughts, the other being vaguely aware of the time when he looked up at the clock above the bar and saw it was eleven and thinking he really should be getting home, and then, knowing that home was his mother's house, clearing his throat and running his tongue across his lips as if he had tasted something bad. Becky's frowning face appeared and made him feel sorry for himself. His irregular life—his mother, who had not brought him up properly, and his father, who had deserted him—was the reason he was sitting in a bar talking to a stranger and blotting his mind out so that he did not remember leaving the bar or driving home.

Nor did he remember to set the alarm. He was supposed to be at the house by nine o'clock, but when he woke at 8:45 to a banging, throbbing headache that felt as if a drum and bugle corps wearing jackboots was marching in his head, the physical agony was nothing compared to the psychic jolt he felt when he realized he was about to let his son down. He sprang up, dressed without showering, ran downstairs past his mother's bedroom where he could hear her loud snoring, and only stopped in the kitchen long enough to take three aspirin washed down by a glass of orange juice that revolted his stomach before driving the six blocks to the house where he was paying the mortgage. The first lucid, unpanicked perception he had was the look of utter disgust in Becky's eyes. "You're late," she said before a look of surprise was quickly followed by the frowning disgust. She stepped back to let him in. "You look like a derelict. I hope you don't plan to take Johnny out in that condition."

"Yes, I do," he said with a stupid, male belligerence that even he found revolting. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Why shouldn't you?" Her lip curled and her eyes narrowed unpleasantly. "You'd want people to know you're a father? Why don't you show some self-respect?"

He sat down, glancing at the coffeepot. "I could use some of that. But if you must know, your friendly and wifely remarks last night drove me to drink."

"That's obvious," she hissed. "Obvious and disgusting."

Johnny's face was peeking around the corner. "Hi, Tiger."

"Hi, Daddy." He spoke hesitantly, shyly, and seemed scared. He looked at his mother.

"Johnny, go back to your TV show. I have to speak to your father."

His face disappeared, but not before Bill could see the growing fear and confusion. Becky did not know it, but she could have called him the lowest form of pond scum, and he would agree. If she thought they were going to have an argument, she needn't bother. It was already won.

"Thanks," he said softly as she handed him a cup of coffee. He was ashamed to look at her. "What do you propose to do?" He heard his own abject defeated voice but felt disconnected from it. He couldn't turn into his own father. He couldn't. He took a sip of coffee and then sighed. Self-pity came as a relief.

"Well, I don't think you should take Johnny sledding. I think..."

She paused and he finished the thought for her. "You think I'm a loser, is that what you think?"

She folded her arms under her breasts. He could hear her foot tapping under the table. She clucked her tongue.

"Why try anymore. It's useless. I'll never live up to your absurd expectations."

"Self-pity doesn't become you. I was going to say I think you should play games in the basement."

Which is what they did, two hours of playing tennis basketball or putting on the carpet into the cup that spat the golf ball out when one sank a putt. He was haunted throughout by the look of confused fear he had seen in Johnny's eyes. It was hidden now even though he still felt its presence. It reminded him of times when he was a fatherless boy and caused feelings long suppressed and half-forgotten to swim into his mind. Once when he was ten he walked over to his friend Kenny Delaney's house to play after supper, but as he got to the stairs to their porch he stopped when he heard Mr. Delaney speaking to Kenny and Mrs. Delaney. "I'm not sure I like you playing with those Edgecomb kids. They're dirty and undisciplined. I don't think they're the kind of people we want in our neighborhood. They'll be in trouble with the law in a few years, and if we're not careful they'll drag Kenny along." He backed away while feeling a cold chill go down his back and a heavy, lonely-sad weight in his stomach. At first his eyes stung and then real tears followed as he ran home. Lowell was shooting baskets in the yard when he came up the driveway and caught sight of him. He bounced the ball to him and said, "Come on, Billy. Let's have a game of pig." Then he saw the tears, and when Bill explained, he said, "Don't you believe it. We're as good as anyone else, and we'll prove it when we grow up."

But was he proving Lowell right or Mr. Delaney and Becky's mother right? And was this cold horror that gripped your heart and made you feel hopeless being passed on to his son? Finally, when he couldn't stand it anymore, he hugged Johnny, and then got down on his knees so that he was at eye level and said, "I know things aren't right now, Johnny, but I love you just like I love Mommy and Trevor. You are the best little boy in the world."

After coming home he still felt too awful to eat. His mother was lying on the sofa watching a science-fiction drama on TV. She must have noticed how down he was. For the first time she asked him how things were going with Becky.

"Not too good. She doesn't trust me."

She sat up, pulling at the armrest as she settled into a sitting position. "Billy, I wish I'd told you to avoid gals like that Marilyn when you were a little shaver. I've seen 'em get their way just about every time. This waitress I worked with at the Lobster Central Restaurant years ago went through just about every man that worked there and half the customers, married or not. She was a looker and made men putty in her hands. If that wife of yours had any sense, she'd understand any man who wasn't on his guard can be plucked by that kind of filly."

"But she doesn't, Ma, so just drop it. It happened and can't be changed."

"No, I s'pose it can't," she agreed as she reached for a chocolate. "But I'm telling you, no sensible person who understands these things would blame you. Lowell doesn't, does he?"

"Well, there you're wrong. He does. I mean, he's on my side, but he still thinks I was at fault. And you know what? I was. I've told Becky that a thousand times, and I've told her it will never happen again, but... The issue isn't me and Marilyn. It's me and Becky."

He took a nap, and when he woke his mother had already left for the restaurant. One good thing about living at home again in a house filled with bad memories was that with her on the night shift six days a week he didn't see much of her. He took a shower, and no longer feeling the effects of the hangover, had a ham sandwich and a beer. He turned the TV on and watched basketball while he ate; then feeling restless at the prospect of lonely hours at home, he called Pat Williams and suggested they go out. Pat was already planning on going to the Keltic Pub so didn't need any persuading. He and Denny were at a rock club in Portland last night where Denny met a woman. It would be just the two of them.

He went planning to leave early and hoping to enjoy himself. They sat at the bar and watched college basketball. He had a hamburger and fries and munched peanuts. It wasn't nirvana but he did find himself relaxing and not brooding so that when eleven o'clock came and he had another short debate with himself, the beer and companionship won out and he got drunk again. Sunday was okay. He watched more basketball and drank a few beers while Pat was out shopping on her day off. When she returned they ordered a pizza for supper.

A bad week followed. He didn't drink and as a result didn't sleep well. He had trouble concentrating at work because of sleepiness and worry—not the best state of mind for an accountant poring through intricate financial records. Even with a calculator and computer spreadsheets he kept having to redo his figures and correcting ridiculous mistakes. The following weekend he was out with the boys again and feeling much better. Denny's escapade last weekend was a two-night stand, so it was a threesome just like in high school. Both Denny and Pat had already learned not to mention Becky; though after booze loosened his tongue again, he gave them an earful on her cold, calculating ways. "Marriage—put your head in the yoke," Denny said. "It's the real wedding ring." Bill laughed but didn't mean it. His head in a yoke, he would be saved. This life was no life. But he had another beer, and then another, and life was not so bad. Still he forced himself to stop at eleven and go home, setting two alarms, the radio and a clock, to make sure there was no repeat of last week. He was at his house, freshly showered and shaved, at nine o'clock. It was a cold, rainy day threatening to turn to snow, so Becky's suggestion that he take Johnny to the basement again didn't seem like an infringement of his rights. She was colder than usual after last week's confrontation—they had missed their Wednesday talk not because he had a meeting but because they both realized time should go by and they should gather their thoughts before attempting another talk. When he left he surprised her by saying, "I want you to know that I still love you and always will."

She nodded, with her face tense and the color drained from her cheeks.

Her eyes wavered as if she was on the verge of surrender, but no words followed. He closed the door behind him filled with doubt, so that night it was once again Denny and Pat and hard drinking, this time at a rock club in Portland. He got home at 2:30 in the morning, drunk, so he slept well.

Lowell and Fiona came to visit Pat on Sunday afternoon. Fiona had talked to Becky on the phone twice this week, but had nothing new to report. When Pat was in the bathroom, he told them what Becky's mother had said about him. It made Lowell frown, but he didn't say anything. He had been tense and uneasy all through the visit, and when he had a chance to be alone with his brother, Bill found out why.

"I hear you've been drinking a lot," he said in a hurriedly whispered hiss.

"Maybe. So what?"

"For Christ's sake, Bill. You're the son of an alcoholic, Don't do that to yourself."

He felt defensive and then angry. The only thing that gave relief from the nightmared darkness, the only rest from the anxious, roller-coaster light, and Lowell was as judgmental as one of their Calvinist ancestors. He thought, Even my brother is turning against me, and got angrier. "Mind your own goddamned business," he snarled. "You want to change someone, change Becky. It's her fault. I'll thank you to remember you're my brother, not my father."

"I don't think you should blame Becky here," Lowell said, speaking in a quiet, even voice. "But I'll say no more."

And no more was said. For the rest of the visit they were polite to each other and said good-bye as always when they left. The difference was that once alone he felt twice as lonely.

The next week the late February blizzard that dumped three and a half feet of snow on the state confined him to the house where he watched junk TV and avoided his mother as much as possible. It was the tiring physical labor of snow shoveling that allowed him to get through the days and sleep at night. On the second day the city streets were cleared enough so that he was able to go over to his house and shovel them out. He saw Johnny and Trevor but talked little with Becky.

Partying with the boys continued on the weekend. With the situation with Becky remaining stalled, and with Lowell keeping his distance after the hard words they had exchanged, his spirits continued falling. Sometimes he felt numb and indifferent to everything; other times he became anxious. The result was that he started drinking a six-pack every weekday night as he watched television at home alone. He would be in bed by the time Pat returned from the restaurant at 12:30 and was always careful to put the beer cans in the trash container in the garage so that she wouldn't see them. But on Friday night when he left the Keltic Pub at eleven to make sure he would be able to wake up for Johnny in the morning, he had a bad break. A state trooper followed his car from the parking lot and after six blocks had seen enough to pull him over. He wasn't even drunk according to his criterion since he was lucid enough to know he would sleep poorly, but he flunked the breath-analyzer test and got cited for driving under the influence. He was able to avoid a night in jail only because he knew several of the cops, who released him under his own cognizance, but even without jail he knew he had done something that would confirm every one of Becky's doubts. The arrest would be in the paper Monday morning. On Saturday morning he walked to his house and was glad Becky asked no questions about why he used his legs instead of a car. Probably she took it as a sign that he understood the visits were to be confined to the house. His time with Johnny in the basement had a bleak, dark finality to it that made him a poor companion. He was so nervous his hands trembled when he tried to shoot the tennis ball at the tiny basket, and his good cheer when Johnny got a shot was forced and unnatural. Johnny was old enough to notice, and several times looked at his father as if he was a stranger. It killed a little more the thing dying inside him, not just hope—for weeks hopelessness had been a familiar of the day and a bedfellow at night—but more basically faith in life. He felt numb despair every time he thought of Monday's newspaper. He worried what would become of his sanity. He wondered if ever again he would wake up with the feeling that he had control of his destiny, if he would ever recover his self-confidence. It seemed to him the period of probation was over and he had proved Becky right. Self-loathing became another of the liquids he was drowning in. He deserved the public shame and humiliation that awaited him.

Monday at work he found no relief. Distracted and haunted by the image of the local paper going through the press, being distributed and delivered to homes in the Waska-Bedford area, and worrying about what Becky and Lowell would think of him, he couldn't concentrate and made foolish mistakes on the Ferguson account, one of his firm's biggest customers. He was even aware that the figures didn't make sense, and yet he let it pass up to the executive office anyways. At the time it just didn't seem to matter. After driving home with Darren Bolt and being very tight-lipped (in the morning he had already explained why he wouldn't be able to take his turn driving for a while but otherwise made it plain he didn't want to discuss it), he waited for the phone calls to come Monday night. He didn't drink in case Becky called, but when no phone calls came he felt even worse—as if he was not even worthy of a tongue-lashing. His mother was up earlier than usual in the morning and mentioned that someone at the restaurant had asked if it was her son whose name was in the paper. "Why didn't you tell me you'd gotten into a bit of a scrape?" "Because it was no big thing," he lied. Darren had also seen the item, so the want of phone calls last night wasn't because the news wasn't abroad. Tuesday was a repeat of Monday, a day of distractions and no phones ringing at night. Momentarily he relaxed, thinking that the lie he told his mother was closer to the truth than he had thought. Maybe everyone understood that being stopped for drunk driving was something that could happen to anyone—irresponsible behavior certainly, and a bad thing for sure, but still as much a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time as it was of bad citizenship. He went back to his six-pack of beer that night and slept fairly well, and he had another weekend of heavy, successful drinking and sleep.

But when he came into the office on the following Monday, he was not prepared for what followed. Andrea McCullough, the receptionist, told him Mr. Buckmann wanted to see him. Andrea was a plump, motherly woman who had been with the company for over thirty-five years and was approaching retirement. Never had he seen her anything but efficient and cheerful, and yet when she delivered her message her lips were tightly set and her eyes radiated a compassionate concern. Mr. Buckmann likewise glanced at him with the same kind but stern countenance. A few weeks earlier when his boss had spoken to him about the declining quality of his work, Bill had explained that he was separated from his wife and not himself. He had promised that the minor mistakes that had been the topic of their conversation would not happen again. When he repeated this explanation again, Mr. Buckmann reminded him that Ferguson was one of the firm's oldest clients and that all he could do for him was talk the CEO out of firing him. "Effective immediately," he said, "you're on a leave of absence without pay. That's the only alternative Mr. Autiello would accept. I also had to talk him into allowing you to keep your health insurance. He was very angry. It's likely we are going to lose the Ferguson account."

Two bleaker, more benumbed weeks followed. Early signs of spring went unnoticed because Becky told him they had nothing to talk about and that she was ashamed of and disappointed in him. Lowell continued to keep his distance after their cold, unbrotherly words; his mother attempted to cheer him up by telling him she had been in trouble before but she had found troubles were like a belly ache that passed after a good belch. Denny and Pat helped him out by giving him gofer work at some of their jobs. He worked two days the first week and four the next. That kept him from brooding during the day, but then he would drink with them at night. The third week they had nothing for him, so he cleaned his mother's house on Monday, a chore that took all day because his mother had let things slide. On Tuesday he looked at a photo album he had given his mother for her birthday last year. Mostly it was filled with pictures of the boys, but others, like one of him and Becky smiling and arm in arm at Reid State Park where they'd gone camping in the first year of their marriage, first brought tears to his eyes and then a fit of sobbing so long and breath-wrenching only exhaustion dried the tears. He hadn't cried like that since he was a little boy. It scared him because he did not know what was happening to him anymore. There was nothing left when even his sanity was being taken from him. Only self-pity, which justified his drinking, brought him any relief. Then that night Lowell phoned and asked him for his help in removing some fallen trees from the lake lot on the following Friday, and in having an engagement to look forward to he was able to get through the rest of the week.

Lowell had arranged to pick him up by saying he had to come to Waska to rent a chain saw and a come-along. Bill rather suspected that was Lowell's way of avoiding any unpleasantness about the loss of his driver's license. When he saw that the trees that had blown down in the winter storm were in the patch of woods parallel to the access road, their unobtrusive location made him further suspect his brother was actually using them for an excuse to spend the day with him. If it was deception, however, he was glad to be deceived. He wanted to talk to Lowell as much as Lowell wanted to talk to him. But talk did not come right away. As they worked their conversation was businesslike. Lowell would cut branches off and then further saw them into firewood lengths. Occasionally the come-long was used to winch a large branch or trunk into position for cutting, and the smaller branches had to be gathered into piles. For much of the morning that was his particular chore while Lowell sawed.

At noon they went into the cottage to have lunch. It was a cool, early April day, and they warmed up some soup Lowell and Fiona had made for supper last night and had egg salad sandwiches with it. The work and the outdoor air had given him an appetite and he ate more heartily than he had in months. He mentioned that fact, and it became the entrance into the conversation they both knew was the reason he was here. "I looked into the mirror last night and hardly recognized myself," he said. "I'm skin and bones."

"I noticed. You've had a lot on your mind lately."

He nodded grimly. "That's an understatement. Listen, Lowell, I'm sorry I said you're my brother, not my father. The statement was factually true, but it's more true to say you were my father. I don't think I would ever have gone to college if it wasn't for your example. I'm sorry I've been letting you down."

Lowell appeared to be deeply moved. His face twitched as he struggled to control himself. "That's the wrong way to put it, Bill. You can't let me down. You're my brother and always will be. Except for Fiona there's no one I feel as close to, and you know we went through those years together when we were young, so in that way you're the closest person in the world to me. No," he said emphatically, "you're not letting me down. It's that I've been worried sick about you."

"I'm worried too. I've been knocked off track. Sometimes I feel like I did when I was a kid and it seemed everyone else had a head start in the race. I've come to see through the years that Ma was good-hearted and did love us, but I can't forget she was not a good mother and that she's still not a good human being. You know what Becky's mother thought of her. I think she is the reason Becky won't take me back. She thinks the way I acted is the way the son of Pat Edgecomb would be expected to act. And living at home now is doing me no good. Too many reminders."

"Remember Ma did show that she was capable of great effort for us. When Grandmother Edgecomb told her she'd pay the down payment on a house if Ma would work at a steady job and keep up the mortgage payments, she did it. She worked at that factory until her mother died and she could pay off the house. I have the same feelings you do about her, but I do remember things like that. Sure, she's a lazy, self-indulgent hippie still, but she has a loving heart."

"Sometimes it seems so unreal to me. A year ago I was living in a good house with a wife and two wonderful boys. I had a great job. Everything was going my way. People thought I was lucky."

"That's true. I was one of them."

"I know. When you told me one of the reasons you came home was because I inspired you, it freaked me out."

Lowell frowned. He reached over and touched him on the shoulder. "Freaked you out? Why?"

"Because you had always been my inspiration. I guess I felt uncomfortable at the role reversal."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't mean to put pressure on you."

He put up his hand. "No, no. I'm not blaming you. But there were things going on at home that, that..."

Lowell waited.

"Well, Becky was so involved with being a mother she had no time for me. I was unhappy about that. I felt neglected. So it wasn't pressure that freaked me out. It was unreality. Because a lot of people, not just you, told me I was a lucky guy and I didn't feel lucky, I was confused."

"You'll get back your life," Lowell said with conviction. "You'll be a lucky guy again."

"Right now I feel like I've stepped off a cliff. I didn't think a year ago that I would be where I am now. A year ago I never dreamed you'd be in Maine."

"A little over a year ago I was still thinking about it. At first it was a crazy idea, but then it grew on me. I went to Chicago, you know—I mean Chicago was a place I was interested in because it was where my father came from. But I never found him, though Uncle Bob is a great guy."

"My father's in Bangor last I heard. But the last time I saw him was the last time you saw him—that morning of the day he left. He didn't even say good-bye. We got home from school and the drunken bastard was gone."

Lowell took a deep breath, then put his hand on his forehead. He looked deflated, sad. "We haven't been lucky that way. But we've got each other. What can I do for you? How can I help? I guess that's what I want to ask. Could you use some money? I've got lots of it, you know."

He shook his head. "No, I'm okay. You know, I haven't drunk anything all week since you called. I think it's because of you. I felt so bad about our argument and my stupid words. Sometimes I wonder if I've inherited my father's depression. Sometimes I feel just numb, like nothing matters. But one thought I had shook me out of it. I thought if I drove you away, I'd have nothing at all. I'd be lost."

Again he saw strong emotion on his brother's face. His eyes glistened. "You'll never drive me away. I'll always be here for you. If you're ever tempted or just want to talk, think of me. If you ever need a place to crash, to collect yourself, if Ma ever gets to be too much and you need a break, come here."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'd just be in the way."

"No, you wouldn't. Well, I don't mean a stay of a month. But really, you need a week to collect yourself and get away, come up here. You are absolutely and totally welcome. Your name is on the house with mine, and I've talked to Fiona about the idea and she's all for it."

The idea of a refuge appealed to him, and to cover his own emotion he made a weak joke. "In a month I'm going to lose my license for at least a year, so if I ever came I'd be here until you drove me away."

"Do you think they will? Take your license, I mean?"

"Yeah, I do. They're pretty strict about that now." The he caught his breath at the thought of Becky again being ashamed of him when the court proceedings appeared in the paper. Suddenly he needed a drink, but he didn't dare ask his brother/father for one. Icy-cold despair gripped him, which he tried to shake off. "We'd better get back to work," he said.

Roses

They had gathered together on a Sunday afternoon of a beautiful late April day to plant rose bushes. The idea was born last weekend when Fiona and Lowell visited his mother. He had been trying to get Pat to exercise more for her health, and the day being warm and pleasant, they had succeeded in talking her into an outing. The Edgecomb house was in a neighborhood that forty years ago, just as the town entered into a prolonged growth spurt, was a country road on the outskirts of town. Their split-level house was typical of the neighborhood; in fact there were some half dozen others of the exact same architecture along with a scattering of ranch houses on their street. Further down the road where newer colonial houses built within the last twenty years were prevalent, Pat saw a house which had a hedgerow of roses. Their house had neither fence nor hedge; instead the rather unkempt and patchy lawn simply went to the gravelly shoulder of the road and petered out. Pat said that someday she would like to have a row of roses like the one they were admiring, and Lowell, who loved having projects, started talking about what would be necessary to do to put a hedge of roses in. By the end of the walk plans were hatched and scheduled for this day.

As they made their plans through the week, Fiona suggested that Bill and Johnny be part of the project. She and Lowell had discussed at length the remark Bill let drop casually when he and Lowell removed the fallen trees at the lake—the interesting idea that perhaps he was suffering from clinical depression. With her social science background, she thought the symptoms he had described might very well be depression. She had talked to Becky about this development several times and to remarkable effect. Having a name for his behavior changed her attitude instantly. She began regarding the way he behaved since he met Marilyn to be the result of illness. In this manner she could love him and dissociate the way he had acted and the things he had done from him. At first both Lowell and Fiona were glad but also uneasy at the sudden swing in attitude, but they underestimated her. She had always loved him; now she had a reason for it. She was still her old, prudent self, however; she placed two conditions on their reunion: he was to stop drinking and he was to see a psychiatrist. With this being the current status of their relationship, Fiona thought a family project with Johnny would do both of them some good, and Bill, whose days of idleness and isolation were wearing him down, was happy about the idea as well.

The following Sunday after an early lunch Fiona and Lowell took the pickup truck and drove to a garden center in South Portland to get all the materials—the bushes, bonemeal and compost for fertilizer, along with the shovels, wheel barrow, measuring tape and other equipment they got from their shed—and arrived at Pat's house at about one o'clock. Pat, wearing an old pair of shorts that did nothing to hide her strange bowling-pin body, was already outside bringing the garden hose to the front lawn when they pulled into the driveway. With her were Bill and Johnny, excited and feeling important to be part of the project.

Bill, examining the root balls bound in burlap, instantly showed his good spirits by commenting on the head start the new hedge would give them and joking about the way Becky had planted rosebushes three years ago.

"I'm telling you, we put sticks in the ground and rosebushes sprang up from them." He grinned broadly and put his hands in front of him about two feet apart. "Sticks this big looking as dead as a doornail and they turned into living rosebushes."

Lowell smiled. It felt good to see his brother his old self again. He was still thin, but his color was much improved, his posture was not the disheartening slump that apologized for existing, and his eyes shined with pleasure as he spoke. Johnny wore a similarly happy face.

"I've seen that technique," Fiona said. "You got those roses from a gardening catalog, right?"

"I think so. Becky ordered them."

"That's an ancient way of reproducing a plant—a cutting. Tara and Meg's landlady put some in years ago. I remember we watched her while Tara's mouth was going a mile a minute saying they'll never come up, it was impossible, they were dead branches. She went over to a dead branch on a maple tree and snapped it off and asked, 'Think we can get a tree out of this?' Finally Meg said, 'Tara, will you shut up!' It was hilarious, but Mrs. Fournier proved her wrong. They did turn into rosebushes."

"How is Tara?" Bill asked.

"Raising hell as usual. Her bowling team just won their league this year and they celebrated till dawn last week. When she woke up in the early afternoon next day she said the last thing she could remember was graduating from high school."

With the tape measure and green garden sticks that were usually used for peas but which they employed as site markers, Lowell and Bill measured the forty-two-foot length from the corner of the driveway to a clump of three birch trees on the corner of the narrow lot and marked the places to dig holes every three feet for the fifteen plants they had bought. Next Lowell began digging the holes while Fiona removed the burlap from the root ball, gently shook off any loose dirt and carefully teased the roots apart. Bill added a mixture of bonemeal and compost to each hole, after which Fiona would place the plant into its new home. With this done, filling the hole became the next stage and here Bill gave fatherly instructions to Johnny and let him do the filling—or rather let him think he was helping.

"See? You hold your hands sideways and push the dirt in. See how I'm doing it to make sure the dirt fills in evenly? Now try it and pat it down."

Johnny would do as he was instructed and Bill would do a final pat-down. They would fill about a third of the hole; then Fiona would water the soil and they would repeat. In this way each hole took about ten minutes.

Johnny was vocal during these procedures. "Hey, Uncle Lowell. I'm filling the hole."

"That's good, Johnny. I see you've learned well—you're pushing the dirt in on all sides.

"Press it down to get the air out of it, but don't pack it too tight," Bill said.

Pat, for whom the work was being done but who merely observed all this activity, asked how long it would take for the row of bushes to grow together to form a hedge. She had brought a lawn chair from the backyard out front and was sitting in it.

"Judging from the size of our plants, about three years, I'd guess," Lowell said. "I've never done landscaping but I've talked to guys who do. I think that's about right. Do you agree, Fiona?"

"Yes, my mother put some in our backyard smaller than these bushes and they grew together in four years. There was a gap where one of the bushes died, but in another year or so even that gap was filled."

"There you go, Ma. In four years you can be watching one of your shows before going to work and look out the picture window to see a perfect hedge of rosebushes."

Pat leaned back in her lawn chair. "That reminds me. I thought I'd seen everything on those TV talk shows—girls who are only interested in men who are hairless, women who only sleep with their sisters' husbands, guys who are turned on by painted toenails—but last week I saw one that takes the cake. It was a guy and gal who only got turned on if they were standing up to make love. Not only that, but they had to be outside." She threw her head back and laughed. "Good thing they lived in southern California. In Maine they'd have quiet winters."

Lowell could see a scowl growing on Bill's face as Pat related her observations. He was becoming agitated and finally couldn't remain silent any longer. "Ma! Do you you mind?" He threw a sideways glance at Johnny, who, while understanding something was going on, was quite mystified as to what. He kept looking from his father to Pat to Lowell.

Pat made an oops! face by raising her eyebrows, drawing her mouth into an oval and putting her hand to the oval. Then as quickly as this charade was enacted it passed. "Lowell," she said, "what are you going to do in that group that builds houses for poor people?"

"Habitat for Humanity? I think I'm going to be a site manager. I went into the interview planning to work as a carpenter, but when they heard about my experiences as a general contractor in Chicago, they said I was just the type of man they needed. So I'll be spending a lot of time overseeing the building, but I also plan to do carpentry. That'll be fun. Training volunteers will be work."

"Like me," Fiona said. "I'll need a lot of training."

"So you're going to do this too?" Pat asked. "What about your job?"

"I'll be a weekend wonder."

"And she won't need much training, Ma," he said proudly. "She did good work at the cottage."

He dug the next hole and the process was repeated. After a few more he suggested they should start spreading bark mulch over the dirt. Pat had two bags of it in the garage, so it was the one thing they hadn't needed to bring with them. He and Bill went to the truck to get the wheelbarrow, then into the garage.

"I take it things are going pretty well with Becky?"

"Are those big plastic bags the mulch?"

"Yeah, that's them." He pulled one of the bags to a standing position, then took out his pocketknife and slit the top of the bag.

"Pretty good actually, to answer your question. At first I didn't think it was a good idea when you told me Fiona had told Becky about the depression, but really she's a different person now."

"You should tell your boss Mr. Buckmann too."

"I will, but first I should be diagnosed."

"When's your first appointment?"
Johnny came running into the garage excitedly. "Hey, Daddy, look what I found!" He thrust out his hand to show them a dead beetle.

"That's a beetle. Where'd you find it?"

"It was in some dirt Fiona dug up."

"Last year's model," Lowell said, leaning down to observe the black insect. "It's too early for many bugs to be out."

"Well, we saw ladybugs in the winter, didn't we, Johnny? We saw them in the basement, remember?"

"Yes, they came into the house to get warm."

With his eyes wide, he moved his head up and down so solemnly that Lowell had to smile. "What did you do?" he asked.

"We let them stay because they needed to get warm."

"That was good of you, Johnny."

"Mommy doesn't like bugs in the house, so it was our secret." He looked up at his coconspirator, who grinned at him.

"Well, throw the beetle back into the hole. You can give it a decent funeral."

He hurried away intent upon his business and yelling, "Hey, Fiona, we've got to bury this beetle my daddy says."

Bill watched him fondly for a few moments, then turned to Lowell. "The appointment is in three weeks. Apparently there are a lot of troubled people in the world. A month was the quickest appointment I could get." He started lifting the bag. "Jesus, these things weigh a ton," he muttered. Together both of them lifted the bag so that it could be poured into the wheel-barrow.

"I'm glad you're doing this. I think it will help to see a psychiatrist."

"I hope so. Becky hopes so too. It's made a difference with her, I'll say again, so I'm all for it. Do you think one bag will be enough or should we break out the other one?"

"No, one's probably enough. And you're not drinking?"

His face became serious, and he looked uncomfortable. "I had a little slip the other day, but..."

Lowell, not knowing how to handle this bad news, tried to look as nonchalant as his brother. Neither were doing a very good job of it. He could see Bill looking right through him.

"It's Ma, you see. Sometimes she drives me crazy."

"Like she did awhile ago? I noticed."

"Her language was inappropriate in Johnny's presence. Sometimes I think she doesn't have a clue."

"Come on up to the lake," Lowell said. "Take a break."

"We'll see. But we better get this mulch out there. It looks like they'll be needing it pretty soon." He took the wheelbarrow handles and rolled it out to the edge of the road, and they got back to work. With mulch now available, Pat had something to do. Lowell got her a shovel from his truck, and she started spreading it over the circle of wet dirt below each bush.

With the hard work, no breeze and a hot sun for April, they all needed a break when they'd planted ten of the fifteen rosebushes. They went out to the picnic table in the backyard. It was in the shade by the house, and as they drank the lemonade Pat brought to them Lowell had occasion to see the peeling paint on the siding. The house had last been painted eight years ago when he was in Maine for a two-week vacation. In a few weeks it would be warm enough to do exterior painting. He suggested the idea to Pat and asked what color she'd like the house. It was a pale yellow now.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe something a bit brighter, but whatever is cheapest."

"You can change the color, Ma. Color doesn't add anything to the cost. And besides, paint is something you don't want to get at basement prices. And double besides, I'll buy the paint for you."

Pat grinned so that the happy smiling Chinese Buddha appeared on her face. "You're too good to me, Lowell. If that's the case, how about a golden color with white trim. That would advertise my personality."

"We can do that." He turned to Bill. "What do you think? Are you ready to do some painting?" Bill had helped him eight years ago on his college summer break.

"As long as you do the detail work again. You know I can't paint very well."

"Can I help, Daddy?"

"You can watch. Painting is messy and you have to go up ladders. Your mother wouldn't like that. It's not something a little boy can do."

Johnny looked crestfallen as he picked up his glass with his two little hands and sipped at his lemonade. Bill, watching him, looked distressed.

Lowell exchanged a glance with Fiona. She nodded slightly, showing that she had understood his eyes. Bill was too worried about being a father and a friend to Johnny and too insecure about his role. Becky would have said no without invoking the absent parent's opinion.

Pat, oblivious to this dramatic undercurrent, said, "Billy, you'll have time this year. Remember you had to go to some college thing last time and Lowell had to finish the house alone."

Bill didn't take the remark in the benign if inept spirit it was made. He reddened and his fingers drummed at the table. "Yes, Ma, a leave of absence from work means I'll have plenty of time on my hands. Thanks for reminding me."

"Now, Billy, I wasn't accusing you of being lazy. That's my department. Your department is, what do you call it? Gofer?" She reached over for a handful of potato chips and began munching.

Instead of placating him, the remark made him even angrier. Lowell remembered explaining to Pat last week on their walk what Bill's duties as a gofer to his carpenter friends, Pat and Denny, entailed, but Bill seemed to take the remark as another dig at his situation. "What do you mean by that?" he asked, his eyes flashing.

The atmosphere was charged and getting dangerous.

With her mouth full, Pat said, "I'm not used to having a man around, gofer or not. I just feed my face and let things slide." She slapped her belly. "With this result. You've got to remember I'm the oldest hippie in Waska."

"It's the snacks that get you, Ma," Lowell said. "Those chocolates, the cookies, the chips."

"Sweets to the sweet, they say." The smiling Buddha arrived on her face. Lowell wondered how anyone could think she was mean-spirited or hostile. "When I lost interest in men, it became my only vice."

Bill's face still wore a pained scowl, though he was fighting to regain his composure. The problem was that the anger came from so deep inside and from such long duration that it could not be easily sloughed off. After Bill Paine Sr. left, Lowell could not remember another man around the house; he supposed after two disastrous relationships with unstable men who abused alcohol and drugs, one of the smartest things their mother had ever done was to perceive she had no genius for picking men. Unlike Bill, he also thought that it was the best thing she could do for her sons. Is no father better than a bad one? He imagined she asked herself that question. It was soon after Bill Sr. deserted them that Pat's mother challenged her to knuckle down and work a steady job to pay the mortgage. Therefore he did not begrudge her her snacks—nor her soap operas and bizarre TV talk shows, which Bill had told him last week drove him crazy. Thanks to Fiona and to his years he was mellowing. Love and security gave him the necessary perspective to take a larger view of human frailty. Bill's attitude, from this viewpoint, was a bad sign. But if it took love to open an avenue to older connections and to find acceptance for old transgressions, then Bill even with his renewed hopes could not be expected to feel so benign. To understand is to love and to forgive, but it takes freedom from the effects of those old transgressions before one sees this. Until his life with Becky was restored, Bill was not going to see his mother's frailties in anything but a hostile light.

Even so, Lowell made an effort to smooth things over. "I don't think Ma meant anything. She knows a gofer is one who is learning on the job. You just admitted painting is not one of your strengths."

Bill silently acknowledged him with a reluctant nod, but when they went back to work he did show that he realized his touchiness was throwing a pall over the gathering and made an effort to be cheerful. Pat, whether consciously or accidentally, also managed not to push any buttons, and as a result the work proceeded in a reasonably pleasant atmosphere.

Becoming sleepy as the time for his usual nap passed, Johnny stopped helping and sat on his grandmother's lap. Though sleepy, he was till chatty. As they worked on the final three bushes they could hear him telling Pat, "Phil saw a toad in his backyard. I've never seen one."

"Who's Phil?"

"Phil's my friend. I stay with him when Mommy goes to work."

"And he's seen a toad and you haven't?" Why, I bet there are some in my backyard. I see them all the time. Would you like to go look with me?"

He would. "Hey, Daddy! I'm going to see a toad!" he yelled excitedly. He was wide-awake now.

"If you do, don't harm him," Bill said. "Just look at him, okay?"

That was satisfactory to the little naturalist. Pat took his hand and they walked around the house. They could hear Pat asking him if he knew what color a toad was and him answering pink or purple. Pat started explaining they were green with bumps on their backs as their voices disappeared.

Bill grinned when Lowell looked at him. "I think he's colored them pink in his coloring book."

"Next time he'll use green."

"Aren't frogs green? I thought toads were more brownish-green," Fiona said. Daryl Hendricks put one down my back in the third grade. I remember brown. And Pat's right. They do have bumpy skin."

"You're right," Lowell said. He put the shovel aside. "This hole's ready. One more and we're done."

"Fiona, thanks for all your help talking with Becky. I really appreciate it."

"I'm glad to help, Bill. I like you and I like Becky. I want to see you back together again."

"These past nine months seem like a dream now—either that or a nightmare. But thanks to you and Lowell, I think I'm starting to get my life back."

Pat and Johnny returned from the backyard. Their faces showed they weren't successful.

"Did you see any toads?"

Johnny shook his head slowly. With the excitement passed, he was growing sleepy again.

"Mommy will be here to pick you up in half an hour. But you look tired. Do you want to go onto the couch and take a nap?"

He shook his head more vigorously. "No, I want to see the rosebushes finished."

Lowell looked up to see a car coming down the road going very slowly. As it drew closer he could see Rett Murray driving and Darren French beside him. They in turn were spotted, with the result that the car went so slowly it was almost not moving. The two Nazis didn't say anything; they just stared with insolent, hard expressions on their faces that invited comment. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fiona shrink fearfully behind Pat. He went over to her. "It's all right," he whispered. "They're just being punks."

Bill, being closest to the road and nearest to the pair, put his arms on his hips and returned the stare. "What are you looking at?" he asked with a sneer.

"I'm looking at you. Is there a law against it?" French turned and whispered something to Rett Murray and the car came to a stop.

"Shove off. This is a respectable neighborhood. We don't need trash like you polluting it."

Listening to this ridiculous exchange not much above the level of teenage macho posturing, Lowell felt dismay and apprehension for Fiona's sake and—he had to admit—shame for his brother. He should have just ignored them.

"You've got quite a mouth, bike boy."

"You've got a tiny brain, butthead."

"We're just driving by and you yell insults. But consider the source." He turned to Murray, and the ridiculous adolescent tone continued as he said loudly, "A fine stable of thoroughbreds. Poor white trash, nigger lovers and a nigger working overtime for the mongreli-za-tion of America."

Hearing Fiona's gasp at the hateful words, Lowell felt a surge of blinding anger. Bill was about to retort, but he rushed over, stepped in front of him, and then went right up to the car. "You lowlife dirtball. Get the hell out of here. You know what you are? You're cockroaches floating in a bowl of soup. You make cowardly insults from the safety of your car so that you can run away when it gets too hot."

For a moment the two Nazis appeared uncertain what to do. Murray whispered something, but French shook his head.

"What the hell is the matter with you people? We're all human. What does it matter if one person has blue eyes and another black? It's so trivial, so stupid. We've got more in common than differences. If you weren't so destructive and evil, you'd be seen for what you are—jerks, idiots, morons. Get a life and leave us alone."

French scowled at him and rocked back and forth as he considered his move. Behind him with his hands clenching the steering wheel Murray looked scared. "Come on," he said, but with a sudden motion French threw open the car door and stood before Lowell with his fists clenched. "Who you calling a coward, nigger lover?"

Lowell tried shoving him back into the car but only succeeded in making him lose his balance and fall against the top of the car. He pushed himself off and swung wildly at Lowell, who ducked the blow.

Then Bill stepped in and punched him in the belly. A surprised look of panic came over his face as the air left his lungs. He gagged for a second and then went for Bill. In the meantime Fiona's high-pitched and panicked voice screamed, "Stop it! Stop it! I'm calling the police." Pat was also screaming something and Johnny added to the cacophony by starting to cry.

Murray got out of the car, not to fight but to try to stop it. He and Lowell found themselves allies as they tried separating the two belligerents. "Listen, Darren, calm down. It's not worth the trouble. She's got a cell phone." He stood between the two while Lowell with his arms on Bill's shoulders marched him backwards.

Presently both were calm enough for the two peacemakers to prevail. French turned and pulled open the car door. "If you want to feel comfortable, my advice is to stick to your own kind."

"And I say mind your own business."

They drove off. When they disappeared around the curve in the road, Lowell went back to Fiona. Putting a protective arm around her shoulder, he could feel her trembling.

"Those damn yahoos," Bill hissed as he leaned down to comfort Johnny, who was even more upset than Fiona and still crying. When Bill picked him up, he threw his arms around Bill's neck and hung on tight. Lowell could see him whispering comforting words, but he could not hear them.

Turning to Lowell as he repeatedly patted Johnny's back, he said, "Those men are dangerous. I think we should call the police. There must be some civil rights law against harassing people. They were looking for trouble. At least I don't think they came by accidentally."

"You're right about that," Pat said. Her face was filled with concern for Fiona and Johnny. "I think I've seen them before. One time with the big guy alone and another time with both of them."

"When was that?" Lowell asked.

Pat rubbed her chin with a pudgy index finger while she considered. Her eyes looked up into her brain. "Last week and two weeks ago on a Saturday. I had no idea they were the Nazis you've mentioned."

"Are you sure, Ma?"

She grinned weakly, which was more of a grimace, for this was the serious Pat. "I'm never sure of anything, but I'm pretty sure. It was the same gray car and was going slow just like today. That's what made me notice it. I was on my way to the restaurant one time and was in a hurry. I didn't think anything of it until today."

Bill, finding Johnny comforted and starting to squirm, put him down. "That's all the more reason we should call the cops. It's like they're stalking us."

Lowell asked Fiona what she would like to do, but she seemed paralyzed with indecision and just shrugged.

He took the phone from her. "Okay. I agree. I'll call them."

He told the man who answered the phone that he wanted to report a racial incident, an harassment. After a long silence which seemed so long he started feeling foolish, he asked, "Am I speaking to a police officer?"

He was. The man identified himself as the desk sergeant. "What do you mean by a racial incident?"

Watching Fiona's hurt face, he explained what happened and said they knew who the men were—Rett Murray and Darren French, local Nazis.

The desk sergeant seized upon one detail with a note of triumph in his voice. "You shoved this Darren French? You initiated the violence?"

"No, I did not initiate the violence. The man is a Nazi, and he used vile racist words—nigger and nigger lover. He was looking to start something. All I tried to do was get him to go back into his car."

Fiona had winced when he repeated French's racists epithets. Now as she listened she looked sick to her stomach.

"But you were the first to use violence, see?"

The voice droned on officiously, indifferent to human pain and fear, so that Lowell's next statement was an angry retort. "But he used verbal violence, and it was he who came to our property."

"Did he go on your property? Did he trespass?"

"No. This happened on the street, a few feet from our property line."

"You didn't say, but I take it if he said nigger there was a black person there?"

"Yes, of course," he said impatiently. "These people are Nazis and—"

"Just a minute, sir," the sergeant said, and before Lowell could reply he was put on hold.

He looked up. Bill was standing with his arm around Johnny's shoulder. His mother was rubbing her hands together absently. Fiona was looking more and more stricken. He remembered her reaction to the first racist incident last year. Her face had the same shocked, violated look she had then. It made another flash of anger shoot through him like an electric shock, but before thoughts of violence and revenge could formulate themselves, he took a deep breath.

"I'm on hold," he explained.

"What's the problem?" Bill asked. "It doesn't sound like they're being very cooperative."

"They're not. He seems to find it a big thing that I touched French first." He heard a click on the line and listened.

"Look," the sergeant said, "if it happens again let us know. But as you describe it it sounds like a personal altercation. People got mad and started name-calling."

"You'd get mad too if you were called those names. And besides, it has happened before. They harassed us in Portland last summer."

"Portland? That's not our jurisdiction."

"So you can't help us?"

"I understand you're upset, sir, but we don't think it's a matter for the police." He said good-bye and hung up.

"Did you hear that? They aren't going to do anything. They say it was just a personal altercation."

"We're not through yet," Bill said. "I know some of the cops. They went to C.A. with me. I'll talk to them. We'll get justice yet."

Lowell nodded, his eyes on Fiona. He knew what kind of justice she wanted. She wanted to be left alone and be allowed to live her life, and she was feeling the world would not let her do that. For the third time he felt a surge of anger. The world being too abstract to be the object of his wrath, he saw in his mind the hateful faces of French and Murray. "Damn them to hell," he muttered out loud, and when Bill, his mother and Fiona looked at him, he said, "You know who I mean."

Trapped

Rett Murray sat down on the thin padding of his rocking chair and reached for his book, only to have his hand come to rest on its cover as he surveyed his shabby room with a feeling of disgust and dissatisfaction. He was lonely and for a moment almost wished his busybody neighbor Belcher would stop by to gossip before that thought added depression to the disgust and dissatisfaction he already felt. The air in his upper-story room, oppressively atticlike even in the middle of May, caused his shirt to stick to his sweaty back. Add uncomfortable to the list, he thought in a wry attempt to smile at his troubles and defeat them. It didn't work, there being nothing funny about the trap he had gotten himself into, and after a moment of numbness where despair and frustration augmented his lists of woes, he tried to force himself to read, but it was no good. Every time he read of the Führer doing something decisive and führerlich, he stopped and felt the whole catalogue of his troubles cascade over him. Reading about Hitler used to be a luxury of self-indulgence wherein he would place himself in der Führer's shoes and daydream about becoming the national leader of the party. Now even Hitler could not capture his mind. After a few more minutes trying to read he stopped and stared blankly at the wall in front of him, brooding about Darren French, the source of his disgust, dissatisfaction, depression, despair and discomfort, and the one who made his former dreams seem pathetic and delusional. Darren had told him (told him—the phrase made him gag) he might be contacting him tonight after he checked and verified some intelligence he had gathered. Secretive and filled with self-importance, he would elaborate no further. All that was required of Rett was for him to wait. That second outrage was more oppressive than the heat that baked him in his squalid room. Did Hitler ever wait for anyone? Did the world come to him or did Hitler make his own world? And yet Darren told him to wait and he was waiting!

Yes, yes, yes, he thought with his hand pounding the thin armrest of his rocking chair with every iteration of the word, he had made a mess of things and had only himself to blame. Voluntarily he had gone behind the chief's back on that day last summer when he had made a secret pact with Darren to act upon the case of mongrelization in town. From that original sin, all else had followed. And yet, how was anyone to know that a small betrayal could lead to self-betrayal? There certainly was no hint of trouble at first or for several months after the secret pact. He and Darren had spent many hours last fall looking for Fiona Sparrow and Lowell Edgecomb, and they had discussed many ideas and schemes on what they would do when they found them. Sending threatening letters, publicizing their relationship on the web and in letters to the local newspapers, spray painting slogans on their vehicles or the houses of their mothers, baiting them and then getting a restraining order when their anger turned to violence—these were just a few of the many things they came up with. They learned at one point that the pair was staying at the lake, but unable to find out exactly where, and seeing the pair only occasionally in town in situations not suitable for the implementation of any of their schemes, they went through the fall and into winter without any confrontations, and winter was an even quieter time—so much so that Rett sometimes went days without thinking of the pair. During these months in every particular Darren was appropriately subordinate to Rett, and he had only occasional misgivings about betraying Len Carter.

Then came the spring, and everything changed. Messages from Nazi organizations around the country called for action. There was a big demonstration in Skokie, Illinois, a Chicago suburb with a heavily Jewish population, and an attempt to burn down a synagogue in Atlanta which was foiled only because of quick action from the fire department. That action was still deemed a success because the Torah in the temple was badly burned. Carter, in discussing these and other incidents at the meeting, conceded that their organization should plan something like another demonstration at the synagogue in Portland, though he spoke without enthusiasm, and his customary caution was the real message that came through to his underlings. But it was at this point that a sea change occurred in Darren. After the meeting he began to see the national call to action as a mandate that superseded the chief's cautious authority. Without explicitly admitting it, he had lost respect for Carter, and since the deference he had paid to Rett was borrowed currency minted from his status as the chief's lieutenant, very soon Rett was subjected to Darren's bullying insistence that they do something, anything, as long as it furthered the cause and made their enemies uncomfortable. Rett, taken by surprise at this unexpected bullying, found he lacked the wherewithal to categorically refuse to do any unauthorized action. So it was that frequently during weekends in April he reluctantly cruised the streets of Waska in Darren's tiny car looking for Edgecomb and Fiona Sparrow at their mothers' houses, which they were known to visit on weekends, and even more reluctantly becoming involved in the fracas that followed their coming upon the pair planting roses at Pat Edgecomb's house.

A distaste for violence was one thing he shared with the chief. He thought Darren had acted shamefully and unprofessionally, more like a teenage punk lacking any sense of the dignity of their cause than a freedom fighter. For the first couple of minutes after they drove away he had no chance to express his opinion since Darren was letting off steam in an expletive-filled monologue. Only when he paused for breath did Rett finally say, "Well, that was a complete disaster."

He made no attempt to hide his Schadenfreude, but Darren denied his premise and ignored his glee. "No, it wasn't," he said. "We've got them agitated and uneasy. They're finding they have to pay for the evil they do."

"You don't think it was disastrous? They're probably calling the cops right now. We'll probably be charged with assault and battery. Remember that the idea was to get them in trouble with the law, not us. I'm telling you, this is a disaster."

"Hey! I didn't make the first move. That nigger lover shoved me. I'll tell you what. Even if they do call the cops, even if we're arrested—which I doubt very much—they're not going to win in court. They have no case."

He spoke sharply and angrily, and Rett found himself intimidated. He had weakly objected that the courts would not be friendly places for Nazis, but when Darren cut him off without even listening to him, it was at that moment he realized he was no longer even a colleague. In Darren's eyes he was a lackey.

"The swine!" he said. "I'd like to have another chance to smack his face. And that brother! He sucker punched me in the belly. If we're going to get in trouble with the law, I'd like to have it for something worth getting in trouble for."

"You're crazy. What will the chief say when he hears about this? He's going to be pissed. He's going to chew us out royally."

Darren waited for a couple of cars to pass before he took a left turn. Turning sharply and flooring the accelerator, he said, "I don't see why. We were driving by. We slowed down when we recognized them. Then they started name-calling. The chief can't blame us for that."

"He can if he knows we were looking for them."

"That's just what he won't know. We'll tell him we were driving by—it was an accident."

Rett watched a police car approaching them and grew apprehensive, but the cop didn't even look at them. "What will we say is the reason we were on the road?"

"We'll say we were going to take a ride upcountry and coming from the south side of town that road was the quickest way to get to Route 101. And if he asks us why we were taking a ride, we'll say we were discussing the party. You worry too much, Rett."

"That's because I know the chief."

"So do I. As long as he thinks we came by accidentally, he can't object. Let me do the talking."

He swallowed that last piece of Darren's effrontery without a word. To contradict him and claim precedence as the chief's lieutenant would simply lead to an unseemly squabble which he was by no means sure he would win. Another factor also kept his tongue from wagging. Without actually admitting to himself that he was afraid of Darren, he was afraid. He was, however, more afraid of the chief than of Darren so that some small comfort could be derived from the knowledge that the one who did the talking would also likely be the one who endured the chief's wrath. Nevertheless a bad night followed. He was only able to sleep by remembering that the SS was a separate outfit from the political wing of the party. Okay, he thought, Darren's the man of action; I'm the thinker. Okay, then, okay, okay. I'll be the intellectual. Let him be the goon. This strategy worked well enough to hold himself together up until the following night when they met with Len Carter. Then he made the biggest miscalculation of his entire career as a Nazi, one that he was not sure he would ever recover from and the main reason he was sitting in his room meekly waiting and experiencing his quintet of wretchedness: disgust, dissatisfaction, depression, despair and dis-comfort.

The chief, having already learned about the case and knowing no legal action was going to happen, listened to Darren's explanation without betraying any emotion. He nodded occasionally and didn't even ask what they were doing driving by the house. He simply accepted—or seemed to accept— Darren's story that it was serendipitous. All he said when the tale was completed was to be careful.

It was too much for Rett. Having expected Darren to be put in his place and order restored, he positively trembled with indignation, disappointment and frustration, and emoting rather than thinking or calculating, and worst of all in a whiny, high-pitched tone that vibrated like a violin string with the hurt he felt, he said, "I tried to stop him from getting out of the car, Len, but he wouldn't listen to me. I think—"

The chief regarded him through narrowed eyes. He chewed at his lower lip for a moment; then his eyes widened and the glint of suppressed fury that made all who knew him want to seek the safety of a bomb shelter threatened an explosion. Seeing it, Rett stopped in midsentence and waited. But the fury passed, and with a wave of his hand the chief said in a tone at once dismissive and contemptuous, "The matter is closed. As long as you don't instigate violence in a way that could lead to legal problems, you're all right. I expect you to use your judgment."

He knew instantly that the chief had seen what he was doing and had lost respect for him. Like a younger brother asking his father for support, he was trying to get the boss to back him, and the chief had seen the implicit admission of weakness. Nor was he imagining this. For the past three weeks Len had been noticeably cool to him.

It was like losing love, like being an orphan, like freezing outside and not being able to get in. It was horrible, and all of it was Darren's fault.

He went over to the bed and stretched himself out. He closed his eyes, not to sleep or dream, but to be miserable and think again of everything that fell into place after the secret pact had been made. He wished he had never met Lowell Edgecomb and Fiona Sparrow. He wished he had never met Darren French. Anything but this misery, misery, misery. But he did not wish he had never become a Nazi. What would he be without the cause? The question caused physical pain, a tightening in his chest that choked the heart, an emptiness that made life a morass of sorrow. He clenched his fists, fighting the need to cry. Would he ever recover that sense of purpose and meaning?

A half hour later came the knock on the door. He knew it was not going to be Belcher, but that was his wish.

Darren was dressed in the military fatigues he had lately been favoring. The expression of pleased self-importance he wore above the ugly scar across his chin was as much a part of the uniform as the clothes. He swaggered now rather than walked. Even standing there in front of him and fixing him with a look of arrogant condescension, he swaggered like Mussolini. Uninvited, he strolled into the room, and without so much as a greeting he said cryptically (another one of his new affectations), "Here's our chance."

Rett, after glancing out into the hall, closed the door. He turned and faced his unwelcome guest, who stood in the middle of the room. He didn't offer him a chair. "Chance for what?"

"Edgecomb and the nigger girl are at a party tonight. Their cottage is empty."

"How do you know that?'

"I have my sources."

"Oh?' He arched his eyebrows. "And how do you know where the cottage is? The same mysterious source?"

Sarcasm was wasted on Darren. He was too full of himself. Flashing a pleased, self-satisfied grin, he said, "I found out that information a couple of months ago."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"There was no reason to." He spoke airily, as if to a child.

Infuriated, Rett took a breath and looked out the window at the back of the drugstore on Main Street. It was illuminated by a streetlight that had just gone on. There was only one car parked in front of the back door. It was near nine o'clock, closing time. "Even if you do know where they live and have been informed they're not at home, are you sure you can trust your sources?"

"Absolutely. They're at a party at that dyke Tara Wright's house. I drove by and saw their car before I came here. It's not a question of trust now. It's verified information."

"But..."

"But what?"

"Well, what is our objective? What do you plan to do?"

"You're afraid of another confrontation, aren't you? Listen, they're not going to be at home. Don't worry. We can do many things. We have choices."

Rett continued looking out the window at the shadowy night. Choices were a luxury for someone trying to come up with a way to say no without being bullied or called a coward.

Unbidden, Darren sat on the bed and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. He stared at Rett, forcing him to drop his eyes. "We want to do something, am I right?"

Rett nodded slightly, the only means he had to express his resentment.

"Because action is demanded. Am I right?"

Again he offered a noncommittal nod.

"And the national movement is asking for action. Well, we have gift wrapped right here in town the very thing we're dedicated to fighting. The chief doesn't have the stomach for it. He's an intellectual. But do we want to be intellectuals, effete and ineffective? I don't."

"Now look here. I'm the chief's lieutenant. I can't be going behind his back." He stopped, realizing he was again trying to borrow the chief's thunder. His mouth went dry. For the first time in over five years he yearned for a drink.

Darren hadn't missed the vulnerability Rett exposed and took instant advantage. With surgical precision he pressed at the weak point. Rett could see what he was doing but was helpless to counter it. "Let me ask you something, Rett. We both know the chief is too cautious. He doesn't like confrontation. But you, in contrast, admire Hitler, right? Did he act when it was necessary? We've been planning on doing something since last summer. Nine months have gone by and it's time for this baby to be born. Keep in mind that for almost a year we've done nothing. Even the chief admitted last month that we should do something to generate publicity for our cause. You yourself have said there are fewer visits to our web site and chat room lately. We'll look like fools if we fight mongrelization with pamphlets and web pages while right in front of our noses we let evil go on."

When Rett said nothing, Darren leaned back on the bed with his arms straight and his fingers splayed. Look at me, his gesture said. Admire the grandeur of my self-possession. Consider the strength of a will that can move mountains. Listen to me. Obey me. "The most activity, the most interest we've ever had, was after the temple business. The press attacked us, but I ask you, was that operation bad publicity for us?"

"No, of course not," Rett said emphatically. He was proud of that operation and regarded it as his best contribution to the cause.

A grin passed over Darren's face as he read the pride in Rett's voice. "Then what are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything. But an operation has to make sense. Wouldn't this just be a prank? Would Hitler do something like this?"

He shrugged and pursed his lips. "Hitler would do what was necessary. Doing nothing, what does that get you?"

"But what good will it do? Isn't it just petty harassment? You want to do something just to do something. It's not too smart."

"That's where you're wrong. By harassing them we can make life so unbearable for them that they'll split up. Then when we do we can write it up on our web site as a blueprint for other organizations." Grandly he added, "That could be your contribution."

Rett, thinking he heard a noise in the hall, raised his hand. "Quiet," he whispered, "I think someone is outside." He crept to the door, but the ancient floor creaked a warning with every step. When he opened the door the hall was empty.

He turned back to look at Darren. He sat on the bed calm and unconcerned. "Didn't you hear something?"

He shook his head. "No, you must have imagined it. Who would be there anyways?"

With a final survey of the hall and stairs, Rett closed the door. "I have a busybody neighbor. An old man. But maybe I was hearing things."

"Is he the guy who lives across the hall?"

"No, he lives downstairs. There're two other rooms up here. One's empty and the landlord's having trouble getting a tenant for it. The other one has a young guy, but he's rarely around."

Will Dubuque was his name. He played rock music so loud that Rett's walls vibrated from the giant woofers of his sound system. Mostly Rett endured the noise, but sometimes it was so unbearable he would walk across the hall, pound on the door until he was heard and ask Will to turn the volume down. Grudgingly he would do as requested so that for a while things would be quieter. Invariably, however, the volume would be turned up by degrees so that half an hour later it was louder than ever. Night after night, week after week, this pattern was repeated. Finally Rett was forced to ask Murray Foss to issue an ultimatum. The landlord did so as grudgingly as Will turned down his volume, with the result that Will was looking for a new place and Foss would have another empty room on his hands. Right now Rett was not a popular man in his building. The landlord always assumed a wounded, martyred look whenever he saw him, and the young noisemaker had for several weeks refused to even speak to him. The sordid history of his neighborly problems had no relevance to the matter at hand, but before dismissing it from his mind, Rett did make a connection: Darren had no more respect for him than his neighbor did.

Darren stood, startling Rett out of his reverie. "I don't think that old fellow could sneak up here unheard, so it must have been your imagination. But lemme use your bathroom, would ya."

"It's across the hall."

His mind began racing when he was alone. He tried to think of an objection that Darren would accept, but his mind was as frazzled as if it was assaulted by Will's rock music, and he could think of nothing.

Too quickly Darren returned. He came into the room looking at his watch. "Okay, Rett, the time is right. Are you with me or not?"

Rett's answer was a frown and a slight tilt of his head. He would go, but nothing was going to make him like the plan.

"Okay, good," Darren said as he critically appraised Rett's clothing. "The first thing— you're going to have to change that white shirt. Wear something dark."

For the sake of his dignity, Rett refused to change his shirt, but he did put on a dark blue jacket, which together with his brown pants would make him suitably obscure in the dark. That satisfied the fatigue-clad Darren, who swelled with self-importance as he led the way downstairs. The light was on in Belcher's room as they passed. They could hear the muffled sound of his television. Darren pointed with his thumb at the light but said nothing.

Darren's car was parked around the corner on Main Street, a short stroll away. Unlike his uncomfortable third-story room which held the day's heat for hours after sunset, the night was seasonably cool and had the effect of making him feel expansive and free. Momentarily he forgot about his doubts about their enterprise, even his wounded and tattered self-respect. A few blocks down on lower Main Street he could see Ray's hot-dog stand, the only downtown establishment open at night. Many times when he felt lonely or hungry or both he would walk down to get a hot dog late at night and feel human solidarity. On such occasions he rarely spoke to anyone or lingered amongst the men and women who frequented the place, but still he always felt better when he returned home, even grateful. He liked his town, a place his ancestors had lived for well over three hundred years, always as obscure toilers. He regarded the work he was doing for the Nazi Party as his way of making the town better and honoring his ancestors. He used to think frequently and with deep satisfaction that he was going to be the first distinguished member of his family. In that mood he would also daydream of his wife coming to regret that she had divorced him and taken his two daughters out of state to be away from him. Maybe those feelings and those dreams could be salvaged from the wreck if tonight's work was successful.

Darren got into his car and then reached over to unlock the passenger's door. This simple act had the effect of crushing at once his foolish optimism by reminding him of the passivity of his role in their scheme. He was in a sullen, brooding mood as they drove through the town to the road that led upcountry. Neither of them spoke much. Not even as pretense now were they friends. At first the lights from the homes of country folk and the dairy farms suggesting a cheerful and cozy homeyness comforted him, but when no cars passed and they drove through stretches of thick pine forest he marveled at how dark the world was outside of the city, an effect that was even more emphatic when the quarter moon was hidden behind fast-moving clouds. The darkness made him feel uneasy again. He suspected his partner had no specific plan and would do what he thought he could get away with. But distinctions had to be made. Spray painting a slogan was malicious damage, but still only a misdemeanor. Anything beyond that would stretch into felony.

He broke the silence. "Tell me again. When we get there, what exactly do you plan to do?"

"I told you. We'll spray paint a slogan or two. If things look okay, we can trash the cottage."

"Wait a minute! You didn't say anything about that before. I think we should keep it a prank. Trashing would be a felony. It's too dangerous, too risky."

"Rett, you're too damned cautious, Was Hitler cautious? Didn't he dare to take chances?"

That trick was getting old. "Hitler has nothing to do with this. How do you plan to get in? Breaking and entering is also a felony."

"Would you relax. We'll play it by ear. We won't take unnecessary chances. I have a crowbar. We'll either force the lock or break a window. Or we won't—it depends. Maybe we'll just spray paint outside. As I said, we'll play it by ear."

"How long will it take? If we make a noise, a neighbor might call the police."

"The nearest neighbor is over three hundred feet away. Don't worry. I've scoped the place out."

"Sounds travel at night. Three hundred feet isn't that long a distance."

"Don't worry. Trashing a place can be done quickly—if we do go inside, that is. Scratching furniture with a knife doesn't make any noise. That could be done first. Maybe the last thing we do is kick in a television or break dishes or some artwork. We're going to park a long ways off and go through the woods, so we'd be long gone before any cop got there."

"What if our fingerprints are found?"

"Again, don't worry. I've thought of everything. I've got some latex gloves for us."

They were approaching the lake now, but before they got to it Darren slowed down and turned onto a secondary road. They passed two or three houses. At the last one a man was just getting out of his car and looking at his wife, brightly illuminated at the open front door. They drove another quarter of a mile past mixed pine and deciduous woods before again Darren slowed down. He appeared to be looking for some landmark. He drove very slowly while craning his neck to look across the road, not in front of him. Finally he muttered, "There it is," and making a quick left turn he went across the road into a little clearing in the woods and then drove the car behind a thick clump of small pines. He cut the lights before coming to a full stop.

After shutting off the engine and pocketing the key, he reached to the floor of the back-seat and pulled out a bag of equipment from which he began distributing its contents into the many pockets of his fatigues. In the dark Rett couldn't see what all the stuff was, but there was a lot of it. "Okay," Darren said finally, getting out of the car, "let's get going."

In the moonlight the scar on his chin took on an exaggerated grotesqueness that looked like an open wound. He was all business, acting like a commando officer issuing final instructions to his men. "We're going to walk through these woods. On the other side is the shore road. When we get to that point we'll have to walk down it for several hundred feet. If a car comes, be prepared to drop into the shadows of the woods and don't move. There's going to be a truck parked in front of Edgecomb's cottage. It doesn't mean anything. They use their other car, a station wagon, when they travel together. That's the vehicle I saw in front of Tara Wright's house. No talking once we get into the woods. Understood?"

The quarter moon in the now cloudless sky allowed them to see as they made their way through the semiopen woods, though it wasn't bright enough for Rett to feel comfortable. Light-colored things had a strange silvery tone that was disorienting; shadows were black holes of nothingness. These patterns of light and dark made it difficult to distinguish a leaf from a rock. More than once he tripped. Then nearby he heard an animal crunching through the leaf litter and felt a chill of primordial fear. He was following Darren, who seemed to know his way and never once tripped or lost his balance. He wanted to ask him what kind of animal he thought it was but didn't dare violate his instructions not to talk. It was probably a good thing he kept his mouth shut—he was shaking he was so nervous and knew his voice would betray his fear and earn Darren's contempt. He had hardly been in the woods at all since he was a boy. His father, who worked in a tannery and brought the smell home with him every night, watched TV and guzzled beer when at home. He was only interested in sports on TV and never had much to do with him or his brother and sister. That's why his uncle, his mother's brother, invited him and his brother to go camping at a state park with him and his own boys. At first he thought it was going to be fun, but he found the darkness and the sounds of the night scary, and then when he finally fell asleep he woke to rain so torrential it swamped the tent, causing them to retreat to the car. There, shivering and cold, he decided he hated nature. The experience was enough to keep him out of the woods for the rest of his youth and into his manhood. That made him a rare exception for someone who had grown up in Waska, where the Maine woods began where the houses ended on the outskirts of town. Ron Turner, Ted Cummings and DD and the other members of the National Rifle Association always regarded him as a queer bird because of this antipathy. Perhaps they also thought he was queer in the slang meaning of the word, but he wasn't. He regarded himself as a Nazi monk, one who worked in society and had no business in the woods. After this night, he decided, he was not going to have anything more to do with Darren. He was cold and scared again, just as he had been when a boy.

Suddenly Darren raised his hand. He waited for Rett to come up beside him and then pointed to a clearing in the woods ahead of them. "There's the road," he whispered. "Remember, hide if a car comes."

Darren started down the road, at first walking quickly, then picking up his pace to a slow run. Rett followed, feeling foolish as he realized Darren was forcing him to playact being a commando. Once at the drive leading to Edgecomb's cottage—Darren pointed to the sign that also contained a painted pine tree under the name—they walked. The drive was rocky and pitted with gullies. Approaching the lake now, it was also downhill. Rett concentrated on not tripping. Presently they could see the shadowy form of the cottage ahead of them and glimpse the silvery lake through the aromatic pines. Darren pointed to the truck parked a hundred feet from the cottage. He shook his head. Keeping to the shadows, they approached the cottage. Thirty feet away they stopped, still in the shadows, and examined the cottage carefully while at the same time surveying the lake. Darren took out two pairs of latex gloves and handed one to Rett with the whispered instructions, "Put these on."

His survey revealing no hidden dangers, he walked across the open space to the door. Rett followed. From his pocket he took out a small crowbar, but first he tried the door to assess the strength of the lock, and here he was surprised. He emitted a low whistle, turned and grinned at Rett. "This is going to be easy. The door's not even locked."

"Maybe that means someone's at home," Rett whispered, trying to quell the panicky feeling in his belly. "Maybe we should get the hell out of here."

"Do you see their car? Get a grip, would ya. All it means is that air-headed hippie either forgot to lock it or doesn't lock it. But if it makes you feel better, I'll knock." He rapped on the door three times lightly and then again louder.

"That satisfy you? But wait!" He cupped his hand over his ear and pretended to listen closely. "Do you hear someone saying 'come in'? I believe I do." He pushed the door open and stepped in.

His bizarre jocularity scared Rett. "I don't think this is anything to joke about. We're on a mission, remember," he whispered as he followed Darren inside.

"I do." He took a flashlight covered with a red lens out of one of the pockets of his fatigue jacket and shined it around the room. The cottage was one large room with a kitchen area opposite the door. The bathroom was in the corner by the kitchen, and above this area was the loft. On the other side of the room facing the lake was the deck. Sliding doors on the kitchen side led to a breezeway with screening on three sides. The furniture in the living room consisted of a couch and some chairs with a coffee table in front of the couch and two smaller tables beside the chairs. A desk was situated in front of the small window on the lakeside (the other one was a large picture window). A television, a shelf with books and a sound system, and a kitchen table with four chairs rounded out the portable accommodations. A woodstove stood to their left in front of the fireplace.

"What do you want to do first? Spray paint?"

"No, let's check out the place to be sure first."

Just to spite him, Darren took out a can of spray paint and began spraying the words NO MONGRALIZATION IN AMERICA on the wall above the fireplace.

Rett, deriving some small satisfaction in seeing the misspelling, said, "Okay, they'll get the message from that. Let's go."

"What? And refuse to take full advantage of their hospitality?"

He swept the room with the flashlight, pausing on a carved bird on the shelf with the sound system. He walked over to it, knocked the carving to the floor and then crushed it under his foot. He regarded it with satisfaction for a moment, then took from his pants pocket a jackknife. He opened the blade and ran his finger lightly over the edge of it to assure himself it was up to the job, then cut several welts into the shiny finish of the table. He turned back to the coffee table, swept a pile of magazines and a book from it and repeated the same ugly operation on its surface.

"So far so good," he said. "Anything you'd like to do?"

"No thanks. You're doing a fine job."

"And it's not finished yet." The desk had caught his attention. He went over and looked through the drawers and some letters in slots on the desktop. Finding what looked to be financial papers in one of the drawers, he examined them one by one, after which he ripped them into shreds.

Rett waited, prey to a thousand fears that settled in his stomach and gave him cramps, but Darren was not quite finished with the desk. He put the flashlight down and urinated into several drawers before his supplies were depleted.

Disgusted, Rett was about to ask if that was really necessary when suddenly he heard something that sent a chill of horror through him. A sound, distinctly human, as of one asleep and mumbling to himself, came from the farther end of the cottage. "Did you hear that?" he asked, forgetting to whisper in his horror.

Darren had heard it. He too looked frightened momentarily before he recovered. "Yeah, but it's probably nothing."

"Nothing? It sounded human to me." He remembered to whisper, but it came hoarsely.

Darren frowned. He pointed towards the breezeway. "Do you agree that's where it came from?"

When Rett nodded, Darren said sarcastically, "Well, let's go put our minds at ease."

He was more worried than he let on, though, for he crept across the floor very cautiously. Both of them were on tiptoes as they approached the open sliding door. Darren directed the flashlight beam into the space, which revealed a chair with several articles of clothing hung haphazardly on the back or crumpled upon the seat, then moved the beam to the right to reveal a low bed or cot upon which a sleeping figure could be seen. His mouth was open, he had a heavy beard, and he appeared very unkempt. At first Rett thought that by some extraordinary coincidence someone else had broken in and—but before his mind could take flight and conclude this piece of luck would throw suspicion off them, Darren spoke in a low voice.

"Jesus," he gasped. "It's Bill Paine, the nigger lover's brother."

Rett in return also gasped in horror. "Let's get the hell out of here."

He turned to leave, but Darren grabbed his arm. "No, wait a minute." With the flashlight beam he pointed to an empty whisky bottle on the floor beside the bed. "See that? And smell it? He's dead drunk."

"So what. He could still wake and identify us."

But Darren was thinking, not listening. "Back at the desk I saw some paper. We could really cap this operation off with a sign." He chuckled gleefully, contemplating his idea.

Nervously Rett followed him out to the desk and watched, ready to bolt at the slightest sound from the breezeway, while Darren located some tape, a pen and a sheet of paper.

"What are you planning to say?"

"I don't know. How about 'Nigger lovers are trash and I'm the proof'? Yeah, I like it."

He laid the flashlight flat on the desk so that its beam weakly and only partially illuminated the paper and started writing, but Rett, hearing a different noise, interrupted him in panic.

"Jesus, is that a car I hear?"

Darren listened, cocking his head. "No, it's just going by on the road. You said yourself sounds travel at night."

"No, I don't like it. To hell with the sign. Let's leave right now."

But Darren wasn't listening. He turned towards the door, his face screwed in concentration.

Rett heard it too. His heart started racing past panic, past terror even. For a moment he thought it would stop and that he was dying.

Now the voices were even closer. "Bill left the door open," a female voice said.

With nowhere to go, trapped and empty of panic, Rett experienced a moment of the most acute hatred and anger for Darren and his idiotic plan and then, with another sudden change, a quite different emotion. He had recognized Fiona Sparrow's voice and never felt more stupid, more ridiculous, more embarrassed in his life. He felt his face going red at the same time his heart, which surely must have stopped for a minute, started thumping in his chest and neck as the chill of horror returned. There was nowhere to hide now that Fiona and Edgecomb had con-founded all Darren's stupid plans and come home early.

Darren's face showed he was going through similar stages of realization, but his instinct was to act, and pushing Rett aside he turned to face the door defiantly.

By now the couple was in the room. One of them had thrown the light switch. While Rett blinked at the bright light, he saw them both stop abruptly. Edgecomb's eyes darted from Darren to him to some of the damage done. He seemed to take in the situation instantly, while Fiona seemed simply dumbfounded. But then he said, "What the hell are you doing here?" in a voice more surprised than angry. It was almost as if he was speaking to an old friend he hadn't seen in a long time. Then he gathered himself together, and with a frown clouding his face as he read the slogan spray painted above the mantle and then saw the latex gloves on their hands, he asked imperiously, "What are you doing in our house?"

"The door was open. We came in looking for you, that's what."

"Where's my brother?"

"Your brother is dead drunk and sleeping. You can smell the booze from here."

His face registered disbelief. "An open door does not mean you have a right to come in. You're trespassing." He looked at his feet where Darren had left his crowbar. "You were planning to break in, weren't you? I see you've already done a lot of malicious damage. You're quite a pair. I'm calling the police."

The black girl all this time looked terrified and was cowering behind Lowell. She looked as if she wanted to run but didn't dare make a move.

"I wouldn't do that if I was you, Edgecomb. We came to teach you a lesson in how to be a white man."

"Kiss my ass, you creep. Just get the hell out of here. You need a lesson in how to be a man." He reached in his pocket and drew out his mobile phone.

But Darren trumped him. He reached into the inner pocket of his fatigue jacket and pulled out a handgun. "Nobody move," he roared, pointing the gun. "Keep your hands where I can see them. Put that goddamned phone down." When Edgecomb was slow to respond, he waved the gun recklessly and screamed even louder, "Drop it or I'll shoot!"

The phone dropped to the hardwood floor with a loud clatter, then bounced a few times before coming to a stop. Edgecomb watched it go through these motions, then looked up at Darren. It was obvious he wanted to calm him down. "This is not necessary," he said softly, evenly. "Don't let things get out of hand."

"Just how are things out of hand?" Darren sneered.

"I mean I see what you've done. You've done a prank. Let's keep it at that."

"He's right, Darren," Rett said. "Don't make things worse. Put the gun away. We can leave."

Darren scowled so savagely at him that for a moment he feared the gun was going to be trained on him, but just then a noise caught everyone's attention.

They all looked towards the breezeway.

"Lowell, is that you? Paine repeated.

"Hey," Darren yelled, "come out here now."

"Who's that?" The voice sounded sleepy, confused.

Darren pointed the gun at Edgecomb. "Tell him to come out."

"Bill, come here. Be careful. Don't be surprised. We've got a situation here."

He looked like hell, his eyes bleary, his clothes wrinkled, his gait unsteady. Walking seemed to cause pain, probably because it jolted the headache the booze had given him. As a former drunk, Rett knew all the symptoms.

He stopped, still in the kitchen. "What the hell's going on?" he asked in the loud voice of the drunkard. His eyes were too stupidly unfocussed to look surprised.

"We have a bit of trouble. Some uninvited guests."

Darren backed up towards the fireplace so that he could see all three of them. He waved the gun recklessly. To Rett it seemed he was barely in control. "Suppose you move your ass over to where your brother is."

"Yes sir, Mr. Man. Whatever you say." Unsteady afoot, he made his way slowly across the living room, stumbling against the desk, while Darren glared at him dangerously.

"I smell piss," Paine said, then stupidly looked at his pants. "Jesus, did I...?" The thought seemed to bring on the next inevitable stage of a drunk's progress, shame. He began whispering an apology to his brother. Rett could hear the word "sorry" repeated several times.

"Hey! No whispering! What are you saying?"

Paine glared at Darren. "I was apologizing to my brother for drinking half a bottle of whisky I found." As he spoke his eyes started clearing: he was sobering up as the reality of his situation hit him.

"I've heard you've turned into a drunken bum, Paine. Were you drunk when you sucker punched me three weeks ago?"

"No, I wasn't. But put your gun down and we'll go another round, if that's what you want." It wasn't the booze speaking either; it seemed that instantaneously he was sober.

"Yeah, sure, that's likely with two of you. Both of you have big mouths."

He began waving the gun again, recklessly, dangerously. Rett's stomach was twisted into knots. He was close to puking, and he couldn't stop trembling he was so nervous. Darren was nervous too. He was sweating profusely and his eyes were wild. Nothing human could be recognized in them. "Come on, Darren. Put that gun away and let's get out of here."

"Shut up," he snarled, not taking his eyes off his victims. "One way to stop mongrelization permanently is to kill a mongrel. What do you think, Rett? She's already polluted with her nigger father. Shall we put her out of her misery?"

He pointed the gun at her. The girl's mouth dropped and her eyes widened in terror. The two men tensed.

Edgecomb said, "You're full of crap. She graduated from college with honors. Why don't you listen to your partner and leave? Finish trashing the place if you want. We won't stop you."

The gun was still pointed at Fiona. Rett watched her undergo a transformation. She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed hard, and when she opened them again she had a look of brave determination in her eyes, as if she'd gone through an inner struggle and conquered some demon. Nobody else was looking at her. The two men never took their eyes off the gun, and Darren looked at them as they exchanged retorts even though the gun was still pointed at her. He admired what he saw and, unbidden, the thought came into his mind that she was a good person. But the thought was swallowed in darkness as his own insistent terror overwhelmed him. If Darren went over the edge, he would take him with him as an accessory.

"Darren, no! This is not politics. What are you doing? Don't be stupid."

He was ignored. Darren pointed the gun directly at Edgecomb's head and said, "You're in no position to stop anyone, nigger lover. Maybe you'd be a better target."

"You'd just get into trouble. I'm not worth it."

He spoke coolly, putting on an act. Rett could read the uncertainty and fear in his body language. He turned back to Darren, whose eyes glowed devil-like with fury, drunk with the power the gun gave him. He had to try to stop him. "Darren, stop pointing that gun. It's too dangerous. Let's just leave." Then he added, looking at the three victims, "I didn't know he had a gun."

"Rett, would you be so kind as to shut your sniveling little trap."

All day he had endured insults both in the world and in memory. He was past endurance. "You crazy bastard! You planned this, didn't you."

Darren glared at him, and for a moment it looked again as if he was going to point the gun at the fourth victim. "What I planned for was every possibility. That's how a mission should be planned."

"A political mission does not require a gun."

"You really are an amazing fool. This is a military mission. This is war and they are the enemy! I'll prove it!" He cocked the gun.

What seemed a long moment of stillness followed, and then everything became confusion and chaos. Someone, maybe Fiona—or was it his own voice?—screaming, everyone except Darren starting to move, Fiona, her back turning, beginning to run, one of the men lunging at Darren, the other jumping to his left. Rett looked into the fire burning madly in Darren's eyes, sweeping all rationality before it, and knew it was going to happen. "Don't do it, Darren! Don't!" his voice screamed out as the shot was fired. He panicked on top of his panic. He was wild with terror and horror. He grabbed Darren's arm while the madman looked at him with panic also growing in his eyes from what he had done. He pulled at him. "Come on, let's get out of here!" Then he began running, alone at first before becoming aware of Darren running too and overtaking him as they ran up the hillside. He could hear Darren's labored breathing and feel his own lungs burning, but still he ran. He ran down the road and through the woods towards the car, not afraid of nature now, not even noticing, simply running and knowing that from this time onward that was all he could ever do.

The Fatal Shot

Fiona woke to the sounds of someone walking across the living room below. Still half asleep, she was slow to realize she could feel Lowell pressing his body against her in the cool of a Saturday morning in early May. When she did, she panicked at the alien sound. Her heart started thumping and she had to suppress a cry of terror before her mind cleared. She took a deep breath and turned to Lowell, whose eyes were wide-open and whose face broke into a smile. "Hi, chipmunk," he whispered and then kissed her. "Bill's been pacing," he said, still whispering. "He's still in a bad way."

On Monday, two days from now, he would have his first appointment with the psychiatrist. Although last month when Becky's attitude changed he had been glad to think his behavior was attributable to depression, the closer he got to the day of reckoning the more apprehensive he became and the more he was prey to irrational fears. Living in a house filled with reminders of his chaotic past was obviously contributing to his problem, and when Lowell learned of his deteriorating mental condition, he talked him into coming to the cottage. That was last Sunday. Since then he had been mostly quiet and uncommunicative, resisting their attempts to soothe his hurt, but last night they had talked until midnight, with Fiona and Lowell acting as dual therapists.

One of the irrational fears he did articulate was that he was afraid if he was clinically depressed, medication wouldn't work for him. He had read that some people were impervious to its effects and immediately concluded that he was one of them. Fiona had tried to explain that almost always it was severely afflicted people who resisted the medication, which was not his case, and she pointed out that not one of the residents of Phoenix Landing who suffered from depression was impervious to it. Lowell, always levelheaded and sensible, had pointed out that the depression might very well be normal. He had made a big mistake (Lowell meant the adultery), and it had led to his life becoming a mess. He had separated from his wife, lost his job, and was uncertain about his future—if these weren't reasons to be depressed, what were? But talking to a psychiatrist and sorting it all out, including the baggage he carried with him from his childhood, was bound to make him see his way clear. This advice, or perhaps more importantly, the reassuring tone in which it was given, made Bill feel better, and they had all gone to bed feeling hopeful. But hearing him pacing when they woke up told them it was only temporary relief they had administered.

In bed they exchanged a glance in which they communicated perfectly: neither was going to give up, and both understood that if they could just get him to the psychiatrist in one piece the rest would take care of itself. "I have a few ideas," Lowell whispered as he swung his legs to the floor. "He needs to keep busy." He pulled on his pants to augment the T-shirt he wore to bed while Fiona, also dressed in a T-shirt and her underwear, donned a bathrobe—something she did only because Bill was in the house.

Bill had heard them stirring and had stopped pacing. He was sitting at the table composing his face as they came down the narrow stairs from the loft, but he wasn't doing a very good job of it. He looked for all the world like a guilty child caught snitching cookies.

Lowell's greeting, a hearty "Morning, Bill," was too forced, but that was because he had noticed Bill's shocking appearance. Overnight he had deteriorated in every way, and that was on top of a week of decline. He sat slumped in his chair, worn down, defeated. He hadn't showered or shaved for several days. He looked unkempt and seedy, like the street people she saw in Portland most every day.

Seeing their reaction, he tried to rally. "Hi, Lowell. Hi, Fiona. Coffee's on." He spoke with a false cheerfulness disheartening to hear.

"I know. I can smell it. How are you doing this morning?" He went over to the counter to pour himself a cup.

"Not so hot. I didn't sleep well last night."

Lowell, his back to his brother, turned after mixing some milk into his cup. "Same reason?" When Bill didn't answer, he added, "As I said last night, soon you'll feel better."

This time Bill gave a slight nod for an answer.

During the week they had developed a strategy for dealing with his troubled state. There was a time to thrust, a time to parry, and most commonly a time to back off. Fiona's instincts told her this was one such moment. "I'm fixing a bowl of cereal and a banana. Same for you, Bill?"

"Yeah, thanks, Fiona."

Lowell raised his eyebrows as she passed him on the way to the kitchen. He took his coffee to the table and, showing he was on the same page as she, started talking casually about the weather and the beautiful day.

She didn't listen. While she prepared the breakfast she thought about the vulnerability she saw in Bill's eyes. It was more than not wanting to let them down, though that was part of it. He had stolen no cookies, but the guilt was real enough. It was the guilt of being alive, of being small and in pain and believing he deserved to be in pain. Every time she caught a glimpse of his soul, it brought her back to the roots of her own consciousness of a self living in the world, back to the terrible times she had to endure after the girl whom she had accidentally knocked off the swing took her revenge by calling her a stupid nigger. The days that followed that event, the saddest, most unhappy days of her life, still were never very far from her consciousness. She could summon up the loneliness and isolation crushing her every moment simply by seeing someone else in pain. The girl that was she had only her mother to trust; shy, afraid of being hurt, feeling different, and forced to hide herself away, she thought her life was always going to be this way. Then she discovered another's pain. One day in the same school yard a group of boys were teasing Gary Lewis, an awkward, homely boy with a huge Adam's apple that made his long neck look like the snake that swallowed a mouse in a nature film shown in class. She'd heard kids taunting him about that before, but on this day it was his shabby clothes that were the object of the boys' taunts. He stood humiliated and defenseless surrounded by the thoughtless and ignorant boys. Suddenly she recognized in his eyes the same emotions she felt. He too was different; he was lonely; he was shy; and probably he thought no one else felt as he did. He was blaming himself for his family's poverty; in some perverse way he was even thinking he deserved their taunts. But he didn't. She knew he didn't. She saw that he was a victim of injustice and cruelty, and in bringing the lesson home she saw she too was the innocent victim of injustice. The insight opened doors for her into a future of hope and promise. And she had been right. Even though her life at the time remained pretty much the same, she had grown into a future of self-sufficiency and fulfilled love. But when she saw that wounded and lonely vulnerability in others' eyes, she did not forget that not everyone saw an open door. They were the ones who lived on earth as strangers. They were the street people and drug addicts, the criminals and the suicides, while those who saw connections and had doors opened might become the poets and prophets if they connected to humanity and did not forget the isolation. Or if not that (for she was no prophet, no poet), they had a chance to become something almost as rare: a good person. Bill was a good person, but he did not believe it. She felt he was a brother, not just because he was the brother of the one she loved, but a brother in solidarity and humanity. As much as Lowell did, as urgently, she wanted to save him. She thought she saw what was at risk even more than Lowell did. He loved Bill so wholeheartedly that he could not contemplate failure.

When she brought the cereal to the table they were talking about the Red Sox. Lowell had become a Cub fan during his years in Chicago, but now back in New England his apostasy had come to an end and he was following his boyhood team again. He actually got Bill out of himself for a while discussing Red Sox pitching, but it took an effort just as eating his cereal was clearly a matter of will, not desire. They both could see he had no real appetite and was eating only not to cause concern.

With his coffee finished, Lowell rose to put some bread in the toaster. While he waited he watched two fishermen going by in a boat close to shore. "Look at the fishermen," he said. "I thought I'd see them right after ice-out, but these are the first two I've seen."

The two men were young, in their early twenties. One, with blond hair under his cap, was standing and casting; the other, a darker man, was trolling and controlling the small motor from the aft seat of the boat. The motor was essentially noiseless as it propelled the boat slowly through the water. Bill, after a noticeable pause during which he searched for something to say, asked, "Was there much ice fishing last winter?"

"Quite a bit. One time we had to help a guy who got his boot wet when he saw the red flag go up. He ran to the hole so quickly he slipped and one foot went into the water. We dried his boot and gave him a new pair of socks." He had returned to the table as he was speaking and now started buttering his toast. He smiled at Fiona. "I'd say that was the big event of our quiet winter, wouldn't you?"

"Except for being snowbound. Don't forget that."

"Yeah, and the storm that blew down all those trees. That was big doings."

"I like it here in the evening," Bill said, responding to their light banter. "It's so peaceful, so quiet."

While Lowell chewed at his toast, she could see his mind working. He was searching for a way to awaken the old Bill whose presence was momentarily in the room. He drained his orange juice. "Hey, Bill. You used to fish when you were a kid. I take it you haven't lately."

"Not since I got married. Not that Becky had anything to do with it. It was just a matter of time."

"I was thinking of getting a boat this year. Maybe just a canoe because I'm reluctant to add to the noise on the lake."

"You could get one of those little putt-putts like the fishermen had. They don't make much more noise than a kitten."

Fiona saw Lowell's face lighting up at Bill's response. It was the most interest he'd shown in anything the entire week. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Johnny and Trevor would love boat rides too. And maybe combine the ideas—get a canoe, but a big one with a straight back that can be both paddled or have one of those little motors. So what do you think? Do a little fishing this summer?"

But once again Bill's internal devils seized him and he answered flatly, "Yeah, maybe that would be fun." Then, realizing he was causing pain, he apologized. "Sorry, I'm just too down. A minute ago I forgot myself, but..."

"You'll have many more minutes like that, hours, days, weeks," Lowell said, speaking with conviction. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "That doctor is going to make everything better. And then you won't have to forget to feel good. Life will be good, just like it used to be."

Bill managed a weak smile. "Sometimes when I think of Becky and the boys it seems like a dream. If I'd only remembered that when..."

He stopped before self-pity lowered him to pathos. Several times Fiona had seen him trying to avoid going in that direction. But the temptation towards it must mean that he found relief in self-pity, and that couldn't be good.

He turned from where he was sitting and looked out the window, studying the light of the sky on the smooth lake. "But 'if only' doesn't mean diddly. It's my own damn fault, the mess I'm in. I have no one to blame but myself."

Lowell turned to him. "Like I said last night, you made a mistake. It led to consequences. But it can be undone. Becky loves you."

"I don't know why. Sometimes I think I don't deserve her love."

Lowell frowned. "Of course you do. You've made something of yourself. You haven't lost it. It's just misplaced. Fiona and I have noticed that everyone on the softball team likes you. Why? Because you're likable. You are a good guy, a good man. You think of others, even of insects—"

"But I didn't think of Becky when I betrayed her with that woman."

"That was the mistake. Fiona says that woman could seduce a saint."

"That's true, Bill," she said, for the first time feeling she wasn't intruding upon the brothers. "She knows every trick in the book. If anything, we should have warned you about her. I should have warned you. She's my cousin and I knew how she was."

"But I made the choice. I made it and have to live with the consequences." He was clinging to the only thing that gave him dignity in his own eyes—accepting responsibility. She respected him for that but wished he would relent and find the middle ground between self-pity and self-blame. It would be like wiping the slate clean and starting over. His dignity was making him unable to move.

Lowell saw it too and tried to move him past the sticking point. "You've done that, Bill. You've paid the price. All I'm trying to say is that you're going uphill now, but soon things will be easier. I know they will. As sure as I know Fiona and I love one another, you and Becky will be a pair again. And you'll be a good father to the boys. They'll grow to manhood through you. You've suffered a lot of pain, but pain makes you wiser. It deepens us. Johnny and Trevor will be complete, whole human beings. They'll have substance. Not like those shallow rich kids I knew at the University of Chicago. You'll be the reason."

Just as he had last night, he was speaking with conviction and in a soothing tone that seemed to calm Bill. He ended in what in inflection sounded like a peroration. Bill whispered or mumbled something she could not hear, but it seemed to satisfy Lowell. He nodded and then began clearing the table. Bill took his and Fiona's cereal bowls to the sink, where they began washing the dishes.

Fiona went into the bathroom for a shower. When she emerged the brothers were outside. Up in the loft she dressed carefully. They were attending the orientation meeting for Habitat for Humanity in Portland in the afternoon where Lowell was going to greet and assess the crew that would help him build the house. It was a casual affair, but being nervous at the prospect of meeting new people, she chose jeans for their casualness and to make sure she made a good impression, one of her better silk blouses. Looking into the mirror, she had second thoughts about its appropriateness and debated changing to a T-shirt before deciding that it would do. Then she spent some time drying and brushing her hair. When in high school she discovered black history and began proudly identifying with the heroic civil rights movement, she used to wish that she had kinky hair that would allow her to have an Afro, but now she was pleased that her soft and wavy hair was easily manageable.

Downstairs she heated water for her tea. While she waited for it to boil she went out to the deck to discover the brothers were working on the dock. It was the last remaining structure from the days of Judge Edgecomb and was in need of much work. They were replacing eight or ten boards and all the hardware. She did not offer to help, however, since she had work of her own to do. A state inspection of Phoenix Landing was occurring next week, and she had to get all her resident profiles, progress reports and work sheets updated and in order. Usually she did these tasks at work, but Anne Marie was very disruptive and stubborn on Friday, and she had had no chance to do her paperwork. She typed the data and made her corrections on the new Macintosh Powerbook Lowell had gotten her for her birthday last month. In the middle of the morning the brothers came in for a break. She had already surmised that the renovations on the dock was what Lowell was referring to when he whispered to her in the morning that Bill needed to be kept busy. As they drank apple juice and ate a granola bar, she learned Lowell had other plans as well. While Fiona was working at Phoenix Landing tomorrow, they planned to put the dock into the lake in the morning and in the afternoon go shopping for a boat or canoe. Lowell's plans seemed to be effective, for Bill appeared to be in good spirits.

After the dock was finished, she found out why when Bill casually let drop that they planned to ask Johnny to come with them when they shopped for the boat. She wondered if at least part of his deterioration today was because he wasn't seeing Johnny as usual. His son was attending a birthday party. She had spoken with Becky in the middle of the week. Becky had called her at work to ask about Bill. During the conversation she had said that he was showing a lack of confidence as a father. He used to insist upon his rights to see Johnny and Trevor, but after his drunk-driving arrest he became erratic, sometimes manic, sometimes quiet and moody. He knew his behavior confused Johnny, which made him even more tense and which Johnny also sensed. They discussed various ways to get around this problem, but as always could only settle their hopes on the psychiatrist.

While Lowell was showering and she and Bill made tuna salad sandwiches for lunch, she broached the subject. She asked him if Johnny could swim, if he had ever gone fishing, and if he had ever been in a boat before, and when he said no to all three questions, she said, "It will be wonderful to see him experience these things for the first time."

"Yes, it will." His eyes went far away, but this time he was not looking into the dark places: his eyes shined.

"You love Johnny very much, don't you?"

He nodded, then a stricken look passed over his face. "I don't want to let him down. That's what I keep worrying about."

"That's not possible," Fiona said softly. She reached over and touched his arm. "He loves you very much too. That I know for a fact."

But she had made a tactical error and she knew it. The shine left his eyes and in its place she saw a dullness, like a spiritual cataract. As always he tried to hide it. He turned away and began looking out the window. There were no boats to see, no people, only earth and water and sky. But he was not looking at them either.

She had no chance to undo her mistake. Lowell finished showering, lunch was quickly eaten, and they departed for Portland so that they could arrive in plenty of time to be at the one o'clock meeting. They repeated the invitation for Bill to join them, but again he declined. Last night he had refused by saying that not being part of the organization he would be out of place at the meeting; today he had a new and better excuse: he said he was tired after sleeping little last night and from the work he did in the morning. He would rather watch the Red Sox game on television and maybe take a nap.

His presence was, nevertheless, with them in the car. His troubles and ways to help him comprised a large part of their thoughts and conversation lately. They both agreed that this morning he was in the worst condition they had seen. She thought the symptoms he displayed were strong evidence that he was clinically depressed; Lowell was not willing to give up on his theory that it was natural depression; and both agreed his symptoms were the result of intensified worrying because he regarded his appointment on Monday as a day of reckoning. All in all, then, they were merely repeating themselves. But Lowell did add a new piece of evidence. He said that while they were working Bill was in good spirits. For him that was proof he was going to be all right. And then he added another comment. "I love you all the more for letting him stay with us."

"I think of him as a brother," she said.

They drove on, past farms, cool, shaded wooded areas, and the houses from the suburban invasion for a while before Fiona broke the silence. "I hope we're doing him some good. It was very distressing to see the way he looked this morning."

"So you're glad he's with us?"

"Yes, very glad. I only miss one thing."

He looked at her, then went back to the road. "I miss making love to you too. It's only a few more days."

She remembered thinking of Bill as a street person, the only difference being that he had a family to love and support him whereas the lost souls of the street almost never did. He was worth the sacrifice. "I'm not complaining. It's our duty to help him as much as we can."

"Besides," Lowell said after thinking for a moment, "it's good he's there for another reason. I've felt uneasy ever since we had that run-in with Murray and French last month."

She felt a stab of panic. "You mean you think they'd come to the cottage just like they came to your mother's house?"

He stopped for a red light. They were approaching the city now. "I doubt it. I don't think they even know where we live. I just meant I feel better knowing Bill is there as an insurance policy. We should get timers too so that lights go on if we're out to a movie or something some night. Bill won't be there much longer."

When the light changed a car taking a left shot in front of them. Not seeing him at first, Lowell had accelerated and then had to slam on the brakes. The shock made her panic, which subsided into a tense nervousness. Ever since those Nazis interrupted their rose planting she had been possessed with an irrational feeling of foreboding. Bill's troubles deflected her attention but had not allowed her to forget. Perhaps Bill even made her fears more intense since they were a constant reminder that things were not right. Her panic upon waking this morning was one result. But she had real fears as well. That these two men had not driven by accidentally meant that they were targeting Lowell and her. Another symptom of her foreboding was the return of her shyness and discomfort at the prospect of meeting new people. She had talked to Lowell about her nervousness in public, though not about her dreading the Habitat for Humanity meeting. She knew her fears were irrational since the kind of people who would volunteer for such an organization were not likely to be racists, and she knew no one would ever say anything regardless of their personal opinion; but with the ugly word "mongrelization" bouncing constantly in her head, she feared seeing in someone's eyes the look that killeth. Thus as they drove through the streets of Portland she grew quiet and answered Lowell's remarks with a brief yes or no. He seemed to understand, for after he parked the car he put his hand on her knee and told her he knew she was nervous but that she should remember her shyness was an appealing quality that made people like her.

Of course her were fears were groundless. She met many wonderful people at the gathering, including a black carpenter from Philadelphia who was genial and friendly. His name was Amos MacDuff. He had retired early because of some unspecified syndrome, but twice a year, in the winter in the south and in the summer in the north, he and his wife spent two months building houses—though he said with a chuckle, his wife's contribution was to have dinner ready for him at the end of the day. She'd been married to a carpenter for thirty-five years and still didn't know the difference between a hammer and a sawhorse. He also told Fiona about the civil rights movement in Philadelphia in the 1960's where his parents had organized a renters' strike against slum landlords and he, a boy, helped by handing out leaflets and picketing. Fiona felt comfortable enough with him to tell him how the civil rights movement had inspired her with pride when she was in high school. She spent a long time with Amos since Lowell was busy learning the levels of skill of the people who would be working on his project. She felt that she had made a friend.

The meeting went to 4:30, after which a conversation continued on the sidewalk outside the door with a group comprised mostly of the foremen for the project. While Lowell discussed plans, Fiona talked with the wife of one of the company representatives. They had chatted earlier, and the woman had found out Fiona worked at Phoenix Landing. She had a niece, her sister's daughter, who, she thought, might be a candidate for the halfway house. She described the girl as sweet and loving until her junior year in high school when she started doing drugs, become estranged from her parents, had an abortion, and dropped out of high school. Shortly after she was diagnosed as a manic-depressive, she ran away from home in Fryeburg, Maine and came to the streets of Portland where the girl's mother and this woman had searched for her several times. A few weeks ago they had finally discovered her panhandling on Monument Square. They had talked to her and given her money, but she refused to come home with them, even though both of them saw something in her eyes that wanted the safety that home provided. She wanted to know if this girl, now a young woman, would benefit from the programs at Phoenix Landing. To Fiona this story was a familiar one; many of the residents had nearly identical experiences. She told the woman that entering the program voluntarily was the best guarantee of success. Maybe this girl was not ready yet, but there seemed to be grounds for hope. Her answer seemed to please the woman, who gave her a hug when Lowell came over to collect her for their walk to the Old Port section of town where they planned to have a beer at Gritty McDuff's and then go to dinner.

He was feeling elated. He was never happier than when he had a project, and after the cottage was finished he had many days when he would look for things to do. Now his plate was full and he was happy. While they walked toward the waterfront and then at the bar, he talked about the people, sharing with her his assessment of all of them and the procedures he would use to make building the house efficient. All the volunteers had provided a self-description of their skills and knowledge level when they submitted their applications, and Lowell and an official from Habitat for Humanity had probed deeper this afternoon. Most of the volunteers claimed at least rudimentary skills in carpentry and painting. There were two electricians and a roofer from the company donating the shingles who would oversee their installation, and the driveway tarring and vinyl siding were similarly to be constructed with donated material and people from the companies to oversee the work. The project was weakest in plumbing, with only one retired plumber with professional knowledge; he was going to have to train a couple of the volunteers to be helpers. Lowell had already decided he would do all the finish carpentry, window and door installation, and the final mudding of the wallboard. He was very pleased with the enthusiasm of the volunteers and considered them all eminently teachable. Fiona asked about Amos and was pleased to learn Lowell had decided to make him his right-hand man. Amos was a pro and knew everything about the art of building, he said, and he had an easy way with people that would make the work go smoothly. In fact, he too would be entrusted with much of the finish work. Learning this, she found herself weaving scenarios in her head wherein Amos and his wife would come to dinner at the cottage and they would talk deep into the night about life. She was as excited as he was.

At dinner in a new Thai restaurant in town where she ordered Pad Thai and he got a chicken red curry, the talk about the project continued. The only other subject discussed was the food. Fiona was very pleased with the Pad Thai, but Lowell had trouble with his meal. The green beans were so lightly stir-fried they squeaked as he chewed them and caused shivers to run up and down his backbone. Fiona, after laughing, suggested the only remedy was to avoid eating such a dangerous vegetable.

She was aware—and was sure Lowell was too—that Bill had not been mentioned for over five hours. It was enough that he was there lodged in the back of their minds, loved and cared for; nor did she forget the Nazi poison they had to endure, which came to consciousness whenever someone would look at them peculiarly for a moment before turning away. But they had a life to live and a right to live it; when they were happy each to the other was world enough and time.

In that happy and positive frame of mind they drove to Waska for Meg and Tara's party, arriving at 7:30, a fashionably half hour late as Tara observed in greeting them. The party was an annual event to plan the softball season. It was always held in May, sometimes like this year in the earlier part of the month, sometimes nearer to Memorial Day. The determining factor was their landlady Mrs. Fournier's annual tea party, also always scheduled for May, where she and her lady friends discussed roses and other gardening delights. This year she had invited her friends to come on the weekend before Memorial Day. A running joke among all those privileged to know both Mrs. Fournier and Meg and Tara was the contrast in the parties. One had much libation and loud rock music, the other tea and perhaps a string quartet by Schubert. While in her capacity as their landlady she always asked that they keep the noise to a minimum, in her capacity as their quasi mother she was indulgent. Often she would even make an appearance at the affair, drink one beer and chat for a while.

Tara greeted them wearing an old-fashioned man's hat with a wide brim and a small red feather in its band. She wore khaki shorts and a T-shirt that showed a softball pitcher winding up with more arms than Shiva to indicate the ferocious speed being generated. Below her were the words HIT THIS ONE, BABY! It was a Christmas present from Meg. She was already in party mode, with her glove hand clutching a beer.

"Hey, you guys, it's almost a year since you met. Think of it, Fifi. Because of softball you met your honey."

Lowell grinned. "We'll always regard you as our fairy godmother, Tara."

"Yeah, that's what everybody says. But don't expect any cash if you lose a tooth." She ushered them into the apartment, but before closing the door she peered down the stairs. "So where's Bill? Did he bail out because he knew Marilyn was coming?"

Lowell exchanged a glance with Fiona. Even with Tara and Meg they didn't want to share too much information about Bill's state. "Well, maybe, but I don't think so. It's just that he isn't up for a party now."

"That's too bad. I bet I could cheer him up."

"I bet you could."

"And how about you guys?" Meg asked. "I mean about those Nazi creeps. Are you feeling better about it?"

"Oh, no," Fiona said. "I'm still bothered plenty. Wouldn't you be?"

"I would and I am. I wish something could be done."

Tara, as always, had an opinion. "If you ask me, I think some of those cops are Nazis. Why else would they do nothing? There's supposed to be civil rights laws to keep yahoos from bothering people. And, hey! Wasn't Bill going to see some of the cops he knew and ask them to look into the matter?"

Fiona began feeling uncomfortable. Her fears, never very far away, became conscious.

Lowell, lightly touching her back, comforted her. "Bill didn't get a chance to do anything. I don't think it would have made any difference anyways."

Meg too noticed her discomfort. Her response was to change the subject. "Fifi, what do you think of the absurd hat Tara is wearing?"

"It certainly is something else," Fiona volunteered. She turned to Tara. "Where'd you get it?"

But Meg answered for her. "Oh, we were helping Mrs. Fournier clean out her attic. It had belonged to her husband. Only when she put it in the junk pile did Tara claim it."

"Correction," Tara said, "I liked it from the moment I saw it, but I thought Mrs. Fournier wanted to keep it for sentimental reasons. When it was available, I took it. It was like rescuing a stray cat."

"Cat! You're allergic to cats."

"And you're allergic to this hat. Admit it!"

"It's not dignified, Tara."

"When did I ever worry about my dignity?"

"Not tonight, that's for sure," Meg said. "But come on, you guys. Come meet the new members of the team."

They walked through the kitchen to the living room where the other guests were sitting. With the hostile and purposeful absence of Phoebe Waite, Helen Sapienza, and Adele Sartory, and with a couple other members of the team regretfully absent, it was a small group. Tara's brother Ted and his wife Charlene were there, as well as Bette Curier and the new members of the team whom Tara had recruited from recent C.A. teams. Marilyn was not present but expected momentarily. They were already talking about softball. Tara had signed them up for three tournaments this summer, and they were discussing the level of competition. One of the new recruits, Hester Johannson, a tall and powerful blond Nordic goddess of a woman, was a third baseman. That being her position, Fiona gracefully offered to play the outfield and cede third base to the newcomer, but Hester refused. She said that when she played at Courtney Academy Coach Seaver always complimented her by saying she was the second-best third baseman to play for the team. Fiona Sparrow was the best. As Fiona felt herself blushing and a wide grin spread across her face, the rest of them clapped and hooted loudly.

She had never heard that the coach thought so highly of her. When she played for her, she would be heavy on criticisms meant to make her a better player and very miserly with her praise. The unexpected compliment put her in a good mood for a party. She relaxed and listened to some of Tara's tales, enjoying not the stories themselves—for she had been present at the scene of most of them and had heard Tara repeat them dozens of times—but the laughter of the three new members of the team. One of Tara's tales was about the time she hid Meg's clothes when she was in the shower after practice. She had dressed a dummy used to demonstrate CPR in health class with Meg's things and placed it on a bench outside the gym, which is where Meg, dressed in a ragtag potpourri of an old sweatshirt, her uniform pants and a pair of rubber flip-flop sandals for the shower, found it after a lengthy search and many accusations hurled at Tara. As always in telling the story, Tara imitated the limp mannequin slumped on a bench with a blank face and claimed nobody could tell which was the real Meg and which the dummy.

They were all laughing at Tara when Marilyn showed up with her new boyfriend, a muscle-bound, tall, dark man with matching black eyes and hair. His name was Tony, and he was pretty full of himself. Fiona saw him stealing admiring glances at himself in the full-length mirror above the bookcase, and as he was introduced to people he acted like a rock star mixing with the hoi polloi.

Marilyn, wearing skintight slacks and a revealing, low-cut sweater that displayed her cleavage, had waved at her and Lowell as others in front of them were being introduced to her new beau. Then she got sidetracked talking to Meg about something for a long time before she finally brought Tony over to be introduced. By this time Lowell was engrossed in a conversation with Ted Wright about building houses, so she was alone.

When Marilyn introduced her, saying she was a cousin and old friend from childhood and the softball team, he nodded casually and looked at her for the merest fraction of a second, then rudely stared across the room at Hester Johannson. "Marilyn, who's the tall blond. She looks like she's in great shape."

He was so patently rude that it had to be purposeful. She felt hurt, followed by a new emotional response to this common event of her life: anger. She was, in fact, seething with anger. Lowell was still talking to Ted and hadn't noticed Tony's boorish racism. She was on her own. Unpracticed in put-downs and rejoinders, however, she could think of nothing to say.

Marilyn identified the tall blond as one of the new recruits and then turned to Fiona. She too had noticed the affront and tried to make up for it. "I hear you and Lowell were snowbound during that February blizzard. Did you have food and stuff? Were you okay?"

"Yeah, it was fun actually. We had planned for an emergency and had all kinds of stuff—more than we needed actually."

"And you had each other. That must have made the love nest cozy." She leered when she said this.

Fiona made no answer, but just then Ted went to get another beer. Marilyn took the opportunity to introduce Lowell to Tony. He nodded curtly to Tony, indicating that he had seen the rudeness and was paying it back with interest. Very soon they found an excuse to drift off as Marilyn followed Tony over to Hester where they began talking loudly about physical conditioning.

In the meantime she and Lowell found themselves talking to the third woman Tara had recruited. Unlike the other two, she was not a C.A. graduate. She was from Bedford and had met Tara when she got her oil changed at Tara's place of employment. She also had not played high school softball; instead she had spent four years in the Midwest where she went to college and there had played on a women's fast pitch softball team in the night league in Des Moines.

Marilyn and Tony continued talking to the Nordic goddess. Then as if by some unseen signal people starting circulating. The conversations were mostly about softball, but other topics came up. One of them became the occasion for Fiona to get some vicarious revenge on Tony. All the put-downs and comebacks she was too shy to say were not beyond Tara's ken. When she heard Tony railing against the price of gasoline, she whispered to Fiona, "Socially Unacceptable Vehicle—SUV, that's what he drives. Let me jump him through a few hoops." She turned and asked in a loud voice that caught everyone's attention on their side of the room, "Hey, Tony, what do you think causes the price of gas to go up?"

"Think? I know what it is. It's greedy, slimy A-rabs."

Tara's face brightened. She was going to enjoy this conversation. "Oh, really? How's that?"

"They pump the oil because we showed 'em how to do it. Now they've got us over a barrel."

"Well, it's their oil, isn't it? Can't they charge what they want? If we don't like it, we don't have to buy it."

He shook his head. "That ain't the way it works. There's a better solution. If you ask me, we should invade them A-rab countries and take their oil. They've cheated us long enough. We give 'em all kinds of help and what do we get in return? Terrorists. I've had it up to here with those towel heads. They need a dose of their own medicine."

Tara's eyes widened as she was about to deliver a rejoinder, but she was interrupted by Meg. "Tara, where's the Beatles' greatest hits CD? We have a request."

"It's probably there on the shelf somewhere. I was just listening to it the other day."

"Of course you couldn't put it back."

"I forgot. Will never happen again." She turned back to Tony. "What about Nigeria, Venezuela, and Canada?"

"What about 'em?"

"They sell us oil too. And at the same price. You going to let them off the hook?"

Tony's eyes narrowed. "I know you're pulling my chain, but hell, no. Canada's all right, but the others need to be whipped into shape too. They all have to learn not to mess with America."

"Hmm, I see," Tara said with exaggerated thoughtfulness. She put her thumb on her chin and tapped her nose with her index finger in such a way that Fiona had all she could do not to giggle out loud. "I suppose your vehicle gets about the same mileage as a tank? That two-story SUV out in front of the house is yours, I presume."

"Yeah, it's mine." He glared at her belligerently, folding his arms and raising his chin into the air like Mussolini as if daring her to challenge his right to drive whatever he wanted.

"And you see no relationship between the car you drive and the price of gas?"

"What I drive is nobody's business, especially some A-rab's. It's none of your business either."

Tara shrugged. "You sure have an interesting foreign policy. Maybe later we can discuss your ideas on domestic policy. I'm sure you'll have some valuable thoughts on that too." She turned. Not having found the CD, Meg was calling her again. "Okay, okay," she said. "I'll find it."

Fiona had watched Marilyn as much as Tony and Tara throughout this exchange. If she was embarrassed at his buffoonery, she was hiding it. She actually seemed to think he was holding his own. All she said after Tara crossed the room was, "That Tara's such a tease."

"I know she was pulling my chain" was Tony's final comment before heading off to the bathroom.

Marilyn watched his back, not fondly but lustfully. It was his buns she was eyeing.

Embarrassed, Fiona asked about him. He was a professional body builder at the gym in Portland where she worked out, she said, and a real stallion in bed. She went on extolling his virtues, though Fiona was thankful she spared her the details.

When he returned from relieving Marilyn's treasure, Fiona made an attempt to engage him in conversation. "Marilyn tells me you're a bodybuilder." She paused and licked her lips, but her mouth would generate no moisture. The unease she felt in the presence of potentially hostile strangers, made worse by his demonstrative rudeness and the hint of racism, caused her tongue to feel glued inside her mouth as she filtered her words through a dozen worries. Does he notice my uneven teeth? Am I saying something stupid? Does he hate blacks? She was also afraid Marilyn would embarrass her by referring to the love nest or by mentioning Bill. Somehow she managed to add, "So you met at the gym?"

But his self-absorption was too complete for him to notice any of her imperfections. That would imply that he thought about other people. She had asked him about his favorite topic, and on that he was glad to speak. He made no secret of the fact that sparks flew when he and Marilyn first met, and Marilyn interrupted to add that they still were. He went on to say that many people thought he should compete in muscle shows, but, he said, he didn't develop his body for judges but for the ladies. As long as Marilyn appreciated his efforts, that was enough.

Tara returned with a plastic bag in one hand, causing him to frown and suddenly clam up. An awkward moment passed before Marilyn asked if Phoebe was going to play softball this summer. "I'm assuming that she's not here is a good sign. If she plays, I don't, you know."

"Don't worry," Tara said. "Neither she nor Helen and probably not Adele either are planning to be on the team."

"No loss," Marilyn sniffed. "With the new recruits we'll have a stronger team." She turned to Fiona. "You'll play, right, Fifi?"

"If I can. But I'll be helping Lowell a lot of weekends building a house for Habitat for Humanity. I can definitely make night games, though."

Marilyn's eyes narrowed. "You'd rather bang nails than hit a softball?"

She didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"Well?"

"Well, I want to do both, but if there's a conflict I want to be with Lowell, so I might miss a few games. We'll see."

Tony was decidedly cool to Tara. He had turned his back when she came over to them. Now Marilyn took his arm and they drifted away. Tara raised her eyebrows, and looking at the bag she was carrying, said, "Gotta empty this." She went out the door and down the stairs. Fiona watched Tony and Marilyn. She thought his lack of a sense of humor and his inability to laugh at himself were very bad signs. Who could like such a man for himself? She was sure he was a racist. When he was near she sensed some of the same invisible hostility she could feel in the presence of Murray and French. It meant Marilyn and he didn't have a human relationship. Only sex was left. For the first time in her life she felt sorry for her cousin. She had always seemed so controlled, so in command of her destiny, that she made Fiona feel inadequate. Now in love with Lowell, she saw how hollow Marilyn was. She could be destructive, she could satisfy her lust and selfishness, but she could not be creative; she could not make the world sing.

Lowell, who came up to her and put his hand lightly on the small of her back, could tell she was thinking of Marilyn. He glanced at her and Tony. The latter was looking bored as he listened to Bette Curier talking about one of the championship games. "That man is a cretin. What does Marilyn see in him?"

"That's what I was wondering. Do you know what I think? She doesn't relate to people. Everything is sex. She was just using Bill."

"I think he would agree. In fact, he told me something like that."

"That she was using him?"

"That it was only sex. He said he was stupid to think it was anything more. But you're unfair to Marilyn in one way. I can name two people I think she genuinely likes."

Fiona glanced at her cousin. She was making a gesture as if swinging a bat and saying something about a fast ball right over the plate. "Who are?"

"You and Tara. She likes you both. I can tell."

She nodded at the justice of the observation. "You're right. And I can't really dislike her either. She has been supportive. Tony's different, though. He's a racist."

"I would guess that's just one of dozens of things wrong with that guy."

Tara came back up the stairs. "What's with you two standing apart and not partying? How many beers have you had?"

Lowell smiled. "I'm ashamed to admit it to a champ like you, Tara, but we've only had one."

"Well, have another. There's plenty of beer and plenty of time. It's not even ten o'clock yet. The party's just starting."

Fiona exchanged a glance with Lowell. She tilted her head slightly. "We were up late last night and have had a long day. Actually I think we'll be getting home."

"Oh." Her face showed her disappointment. "Can't you stay another half hour?"

Lowell shook his head. "Too bushed."

They said their good-byes as briefly as politeness allowed. Marilyn said she would give Fiona a call. Tara suggested they have a beer when they got home. Meg told them to ignore such a ridiculous suggestion.

After the late night yesterday and the activities of the day, both were sleepy on the drive back home. They talked a bit about the surprising revelation of her coach's high opinion of her, but many miles went by in silence, and they arrived home with only the thought of their heads sinking into their pillows. The cottage was dark, which meant that Bill was already in bed. That was good. A repeat of last night's therapy session would be out of the question.

Arm in arm they walked down the path, partially illuminated by the quarter moon and the Milky Way. "Except for Bill, this has been a great day, and such a beautiful night to end it." Lowell spoke in a hushed voice, as if paying reverence to the mystery of the universe. She pressed his back in response. The stars in the clear sky shined brilliantly. She sensed the double awareness of peacefulness and perplexity, but her mind did not dwell on them. Closer, here on the earth, was another mystery—a reddish glow in the window of their cottage that moved in a darting, furtive way. Lowell, concentrating on where they were walking, did not notice. At first assuming it was the reflection in the window of a passing boat's running lights, she was slow to realize she didn't hear the roar of an engine. She looked around for another possible source for the strange light, but again her mind jumped when she noticed their door was partially opened.

"Bill's left the door open," she said. "That's strange."

Lowell swung it open and they stepped inside. He reached over and switched the light on, and then she gasped. She saw a military man dressed in fatigues. It didn't make sense that the army—but the thought remained incomplete when she recognized the man in fatigues and the other one. So it was happening. They were here. Still it wouldn't compute, and she had no words. Darren French, with a dark scowl on his scarred face, stared at them. Behind him Rett Murray looked ashen, as if sick to his stomach.

Her fear, beginning as a tingling in her lower back, radiated upwards, making her head feel light and her mouth dry. Then her stomach became heavy and her legs willowy. She began trembling and was afraid she was going to faint, though even this was not a clear thought because she could not think. She wanted to run but could not. Her breath was coming in gasps.

Lowell was speaking, and she struggled to clear her head and attend to what was happening. Instinctively she drew closer to him for safety, standing slightly behind him. Her hand clutched the back of his jacket.

Now Lowell's sounds cohered into words. "What are you doing in our house?" She followed his eyes. Over the fireplace was written NO MONGRALIZATION IN AMERICA. She noticed the misspelled word.

"We walked in—the door wasn't locked."

"Where's my brother?"

"Your brother is stinking drunk. You'll find him sleeping over there." He pointed with his thumb towards the breezeway.

"If that's true, I'm sure he didn't invite you in." Lowell's voice dripped with angry sarcasm. It scared her because it could make French angry in return. A vision of the fight in front of the rosebushes flitted through her mind.

"You're trespassing. Even if the door was open, you have no right to come in. And this"—he pointed to a crowbar beside the door he had just noticed—"means you were planning to break in. I see you've already done a lot of damage. I'm calling the police."

"Don't do it, Edgecomb. We came here to teach a nigger lover a lesson in how to be a white man."

"I don't need any lessons from cretins like you. Just get the hell out of here."

When he took his mobile phone from his jacket, French simultaneously reached into the inner pocket of his fatigue jacket and pulled out a gun, causing her to gasp out loud. Again she sent the command to her legs to run and again they would not obey. Instead she flinched and would have lost her balance if her hand hadn't been holding Lowell's jacket. She felt him flinch too, but he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. It didn't work. She could feel—or was it hear?—his heart thumping.

"Put the phone down!" French shouted. "And don't make any sudden moves." When Lowell started to lean down to place the phone on the floor, French screamed hysterically, causing his spittle to spray the air. "Just drop it! Now!"

The phone clattered on the hard floor, jangling her already shattered nerves. Then amazingly Lowell, despite his fear, despite his racing heart, was able to speak calmly. In a soft, soothing voice he said, "This is not necessary. Don't let things get out of hand."

"Just what do you mean by that?" French sneered. "Everything is under control as long as you do what you're told."

Lowell shrugged. "I see what you've done. You've done a prank. Let's keep it at that."

For the first time she could remember, Murray spoke. "Yeah, he's right, Darren. Put the gun away. Let's just leave."

French turned and glared at his partner, but before he could speak Bill's voice came from the breezeway. "Lowell? Fiona? Is that you?"

"Jesus," French muttered. "Hey, you, come out here where I can see you." He backed up against the fireplace, looking towards the kitchen and then back at her and Lowell. He was very nervous. His eyes went crazy.

"Who's that?" Bill asked.

"Bill, you better come out here. We've got a situation here. Don't be surprised."

There was a stirring and a little crash as something was knocked over, and then Bill appeared in the kitchen. He looked sleepy and unsteady on his feet. He frowned when he saw French and Murray, then blinked. "What the hell are you doing here?" Fiona was quite sure he hadn't see the gun.

Still calm and in control of his voice, Lowell said, "We have a bit of trouble. Some uninvited guests."

In contrast, French was almost hysterical. His eyes were demon eyes. Beads of sweat checkered his forehead. He waved the gun. "Don't stand there stupidly. Get your ass over to where they are." He pointed with the gun.

"Yes sir, Mr. Man. Whatever you say." He slurred his words and showed he was in fact drunk by the unsteady way he moved across the living room past French and Murray. When he stumbled against the desk, he said, "I smell piss. Jesus, did I?" He looked down at his pants.

When he got to them he started whispering an explanation. "I'm sorry, Lowell. I drank some whiskey this afternoon. I meant to have just one drink to help me sleep, but I didn't stop. I'm sorry, really sorry."

"Hey, what are you whispering? Cut it out," French said.

Bill stared at French, forcing him to drop his eyes. "I was just apologizing to my brother for drinking his whiskey."

"Once a drunken bum always one. Were you drunk when you sucker punched me last month?"

Bill's eyes were clearing, but he still wasn't thinking straight. "No, I wasn't. You want to go at it again, put the gun down. I'm ready."

She felt a flash of anger. It was the booze in Bill speaking, and he was only making a very dangerous situation more dangerous. Now with two men recklessly out of control, what was needed was a calm approach. Too afraid to speak herself—it might egg French on to do something rash—she looked to Lowell to speak softly as he had done earlier.

But French had passed the point where he could be reasoned with. He was in control of himself now, but in a scary way. Something cold and inhuman possessed him, and drunk with its irrational power, he waved the gun. "Two against one—you like those odds, don't you. Forget it."

Murray still looked ashen. "Come on, Darren. Put the gun away. Let's just leave."

"Shut up. I''ll decide when we leave, not you." Then he grinned and pointed the gun at her. "One way of stopping these mongrels from taking over is to kill a mongrel. What do you think, Murray? She's already polluted with the blood of her nigger father. We should put her out of her misery."

"No, don't even think it. Don't joke about it. This is not politics. Don't be stupid."

"The mongrels are the stupid ones. They weaken the breed."

"You're totally wrong," Lowell said, his voice not calm but rather betraying his desperate urgency. "She graduated from college with high honors. Why don't you just leave. Trash the place if you want. I don't care."

"You don't care." He repeated Lowell's words with a sneer. "You don't make the conditions, nigger lover. I do."

From the moment Fiona saw the gun, she understood that the physical fear that had been paralyzing her was because she was afraid French was capable of what he had just threatened to do. She had feared this danger and lived with it for a long time, yet she had always dismissed it as irrational. Now that it was real, she was possessed by the horrible feeling that she had fallen into her destiny. She was so nervous she wanted to cry. All her life she had fought against the feeling of being a helpless victim of circumstances, and here she was with her life endangered just for coming home early. She was more helpless than she had ever been in her whole life. It was intolerable. This man hated her because she was black, and nothing she could do would make him change his mind. Instinctively she understood that to survive she had to be calm. A sudden move might cause him to pull the trigger. Any sign of weakness to his bullying and sadistic torture might also fuel his madness. She had to find the strength to control herself. Lowell had done it; she could too. Before tonight what was hateful about feeling like a helpless victim was that when she thought of her blackness as exteriorly imposed upon her, it alienated her from her own identity. It made the schizophrenia that Lucille Durham and Du Bois spoke of real. And now it was real.

"Should I shoot me a nigress?" the fiend asked. He looked insanely out of control. He didn't see her. He saw her blackness. His eyes not human eyes. They were what made her think of destiny—a cold, impersonal thing, unstoppable, indifferent. But quite suddenly she discovered the calm place inside she was searching for. She knew it might be a psychological defense, but it calmed her and she concentrated on strengthening it.

I am black, she thought. I am a black person. Not the skin, not the thick lips. Me. Black, black, black.

She looked at Lowell. He was staring at French angrily, hiding his fear. His fists clenched and unclenched. How lucky she was to love him, but the thought caused a chill of horror and her panic tried to surge up. It might be the last time she could think of him. The man was capable of murder. She had seen it in his eyes.

Lowell had not returned her gaze; his mind was working, even as his eyes remained fixed on the gun and the trigger finger. Then with a gesture and a guttural sound, he deflected French's attention.

French turned. When his eyes moved, so did the gun. It pointed at Lowell's head.

"Maybe a nigger lover would be a better target."

Lowell shook his head. "You'd just get into trouble. I'm not worth it."

Then once again Murray tried to stop him. "Darren, put the gun away. It's too dangerous. Let's just leave." Then he looked at Fiona and said, "I didn't know he had a gun."

His confession infuriated French. "Rett," he snarled, "shut your goddamned little trap, or I'll point this dangerous thing at you."

Murray's face reddened. "You crazy bastard. You planned this, didn't you?"

"When you're on a mission, you've got to plan for every possibility."

"But this is a political mission. A gun is not necessary."

French laughed a dry, hoarse laugh. "You really are a fool, Murray. But you're a bigger fool if you think your sniveling can stop me."

Then everybody knew. Bill and Lowell exchanged a glance wherein they seemed to understand each other, but she had no time to ponder its significance. Her eyes went to the gun. She saw French's finger start to squeeze the trigger, and she let out a scream. Everything became a confusion of action without words. She found her legs and turned, whether to duck or to run was unclear to her. Lowell lunged towards French and Bill jumped in front of her. The loud report of the gun stunned her ears even as Murray screamed "No! Don't!" and she fell to the floor. From there she looked up to see French with a look of horror on his face and paralyzed with uncertainty. Murray was next to him grabbing the arm with the gun. Someone groaned in agony. Everyone's breathing came in gasps, louder, it seemed, than the gun's noise. She started to get up to run, only to stop when Murray, his eyes wide with terror and his mouth a gaping hole, ran by her through the door, followed a few seconds later by French. It seemed a long time before she realized what had happened and that she had not been shot. The bullet meant for her had been stopped by Bill's body when he jumped in front of her.

"Call 911. Bill's been shot!" Lowell screamed as he dropped to his knees beside his brother. She could see the blood spurting from his chest as she in panic looked for the phone. It was several feet away on the floor. She picked it up and turned it on, hoping that it worked—for in her panic she wasn't sure where she'd left her phone last night or even if it was charged. But the LED light went on. After waiting in agony for the welcome to come up, she dialed the three digits. Upcountry the system was new, and it took four rings before a woman sleepily answered.

She tried to speak calmly but knew her voice was hysterical. She was trembling so that the phone shook in her hand. She told the woman a person had been shot in their home and that an ambulance was needed immediately. She identified the victim, but did not explain how he came to be shot. Right now that wasn't the important issue. She gave the directions, even emphasizing that the sign for their place had a pine tree painted on it. She spelled out the name Edgecomb to make sure it was perfectly clear. She ended, saying, "Hurry. Please hurry. He is in critical condition."

Lowell had elevated Bill, resting his head in his lap while he held him in his arms. With his right hand he was trying to stop the flow of blood from his chest wound. Bill was still conscious. His eyes were open and he appeared to understand Lowell's attempts to comfort him. Seeing that Bill's blood had already soaked through Lowell's pants, she ran to get a towel to be pressed against the wound. "They'll be here in five minutes," she said as she handed Lowell the towel and tried to help him get it arranged. She ripped Bill's shirt open so that he could put the towel against the wound, which was either in his lung or lower windpipe. Thick blood oozed from his mouth. Then with nothing more to do, she stood.

Lowell's attention was totally on his brother. He would not take his eyes from Bill's face as he tried to comfort him. "You're going to be okay, Bill. Just hang on. The ambulance is coming."

Bill frowned and tried to shake his head, only moving it an inch at most. Already he was weak; probably he was in shock. But the message was unmistakable, even though Lowell refused to acknowledge it. Lovingly he stroked Bill's cheek.

A look of urgent desperation possessed Bill's eyes. His lips seemed to form the letter B.

"You want Becky to know you love her?"

His eyes widened: yes. Then they narrowed again, and he tried to work his tongue in his mouth thick with his life's blood.

He started gagging, which panicked Lowell. The blood he was losing was making the white towel a deep, dark red. "Easy, easy," he said, but he understood what Bill was trying to say. "You love Johnny and Trevor. I know, Bill."

His eyes started to roll and his breath was even more labored. He gasped for air.

"Hang on, Bill. I hear the ambulance," he lied. Again he gently stroked his brother's cheek. "Bill, please. I love you. Ever since ever you've been the most important person in my life."

The tears in his eyes were the evidence that Bill heard him. He tried to speak again but couldn't. He gasped for air and started gagging. He seemed frustrated at not being able to speak, but he wasn't suffering. He was beyond pain.

"Becky? You want to say you're sorry. She knows that, Bill. She loves you. She always has. You've got to hang on for her sake and the boys'." Then after another piercing look from Bill, in a different, more resigned tone, he said, "Don't worry. I'll take care of them."

"Should I go up to the road?" Fiona asked through her tears. "Every second counts. What if they don't see the sign?"

He looked at her, frowning impatiently at the interruption, then without answering gazed down at Bill's face.

She heard it too. Bill was making one final effort to speak, and being unable, he attempted to rise. When he couldn't do that simple thing either, his eyes widened as he stared intently at his brother; then with a gurgling sound his head slumped against his chest and he went still. She had heard the term "death rattle" before and knew that was the sound he made.

Lowell knew it too. With his eyes wild with despair, he looked up at her. "I don't think he's breathing," he said intonating the statement into a question.

"He's lost too much blood," she said. "I think..." She drew her hand across her tear-drenched eyes, as sad from the devastation she could read on Lowell's face as much as for the sweet and tortured soul who had departed. She wanted to hug Lowell but knew he was not ready to let go of Bill. "I'm so sorry," she said softly. Far away she heard the sound of the useless ambulance.

Out the window the dark form of the mountain loomed across the lake. Above it the stars twinkled brightly. She knew Bill had died for her, but she couldn't comprehend its finality. Only now did she understand one thing clearly: the significance of the look of horror in French's eyes after he pulled the trigger. What he had done was only real to him after he did it. All his posturing and sadistic toying with them had been nothing but adolescent idiocy as he tried to prove he was in command. Bill died because of that stupidity, and it should have been her. She thought the guilt she was already starting to feel was going to overwhelm her, and she asked herself, thinking of the angry impatience with which Lowell had responded to her question, would he ever forgive her? Would she ever forgive herself?

If he didn't, life would be poison. The thought was unbearable. More than anything in the world she wanted to feel his arms around her to comfort him and be comforted.

"Poor Bill," she sobbed. "It seems so unfair."

Lowell, lovingly stroking Bill's cheek, looked up at her. They gazed into each other's eyes for a long time.

"He was a good man," he said quietly.

"The best. He had a kind heart. He was a very good man. That's what I always thought every time I would think of him."

"It hurts most to think he was not happy these past months. He suffered a lot."

"But the old Bill was always there. This morning when you were talking about fishing, I saw him. He was here. At that moment he was happy."

Lowell considered for a moment.

"He was sharing a small dream with his brother," she went on. "He was happy then. And remember he always thought of others. He—" But her voice broke and she began weeping uncontrollably. The last thing he ever did was to think of others. She was sure he did it for her and Lowell. He sacrificed himself so that they could be one and be whole. But that meant he knew he wasn't whole.

"Why did he do it?" she wailed. "Poor Bill, poor Bill." With a sudden motion she dropped to her knees and kissed the dead face finally at peace. "You know I loved him like a brother, don't you, Lowell? You know that?"

He nodded, and with his free arm—for he was still trying to staunch the flow of blood from the wound even when it was unnecessary—he reached out and drew her to him. Together they kneeled on the floor, three in one.

That is how the police and medics found them.

It Doth Repent Me

A year after Bill's murder Lowell and Fiona were married before a small gathering of family and friends. Lowell's Uncle Bob and Aunt Sarah came from Chicago, Fiona's cousin Tammy from Florida, and from Portland Marilyn, Lucille Durham and her two children. The remaining guests were from Waska: Tara and Meg, Becky and the boys, the two mothers of the wedding couple, Fiona's Aunt Donna, and Cliff and Nadine Dalton. The only stranger was one John Brownawell, a divorced man who had been dating Fiona's mother for the past several months. A Friday night had been chosen to avoid the usual trappings of a wedding. The Rev. John Covington married them at the Congregational Church, though both the presiding official and the venue were negotiated compromises. Lowell and Fiona had wanted a justice of the peace but deferred to the wishes of their mothers, both of whom had never been married and seemed to want a church wedding.

It was a somber ceremony as much as it was joyous. The one thing that brought a smile to everyone's face was the ritual of jumping the broom, which was done to pay homage to Fiona's black blood and to the centuries of oppression that black people had suffered in America. But little else elicited smiles. For one thing, Pat, who had taken Bill's death very hard, was in poor health. All her spontaneous vivacity had deserted her, and within four months of her younger son's death she had to be hospitalized for a heart condition. She had aged markedly during this time and looked twenty years older. And then there were the witnesses. They had asked Uncle Bob to stand with them, but every time Lowell looked at his uncle he remembered whom he had always thought would be standing with him on his wedding day. Fiona, who in the ordinary course of events would have had one of her two cousins with her as her nearest female relatives, instead asked Lucille Durham. If she had asked Marilyn, too many unpleasant associations would arise; if she couldn't ask Marilyn, it would be awkward to have Tammy as witness. But she too, like Lowell, had only to glance at Lucille to feel haunted by the ghost of the beloved departed. There was also the unpleasant and awkward necessity of keeping Marilyn and Becky apart, rather difficult to do when the guests only filled the first aisle of the church. Fortunately nothing untoward happened, but most of the people at the ceremony were aware of the history behind these two different woman and were never quite comfortable. Still, the wedding was a triumph over the tragedy that had befallen them last year. It was the end of a long road littered with guilt, misunderstandings and struggles to redeem and be redeemed. For a long time things were not normal between Fiona and Lowell. On more than one occasion Fiona thought they would have to part. On more than one occasion Lowell felt unfit to be her loving companion.

The activities following the murder were a blur. On the night itself their cottage was a crime scene, and they didn't get to bed until past two o'clock. The following days entailed interviews at the sherif's department and with the FBI (since the crime was a civil rights issue), painful, tear-wrenching meetings with Pat and Becky, making funeral arrangements and meeting people at visiting hours. One small consolation was the response of the whole town—strangers and casual acquaintances as well as friends— to Bill's tragic and senseless death. Old colleagues of Pat's in the waitressing game who remembered him as a bright-eyed boy tagging along with his mother on nights a baby-sitter was unavailable, neighbors who recalled him finding their lost cat, classmates who remembered his friendliness in school, old girlfriends who once thought he was the cutest boy in the world and who upon hearing of his death were filled with a stinging, poignant nostalgia for the lost times, the coach of the baseball team who always admired his sportsmanship and decency when playing the game, the hardware-store man who trusted him with errands, the now elderly lady who remembered he was the only boy who didn't run away when a baseball broke her window—these and scores of others all remembered Bill as a decent and good man and thought enough of him to pay their respects at the visiting hours. Many others said a word or two of comfort on the street or phoned their condolences, and of course Pat received many, many sympathy cards.

During the five days leading up to the funeral they stayed in Waska, sleeping at Pat's house. After the funeral and the solacing words of Rev. Covington, they returned to the cottage, and the terrible repercussions of the murder started to have their effect. For weeks Fiona was so traumatized she would jump at the slightest noise. The sound of a car door slamming induced extreme anxiety where she would visualize someone coming to kill them. With time and—reluctantly—medication, she eventually got over this extreme reaction.

But with Lowell time seemed to make things worse. He was gripped by the kind of natural depression that he had tried to convince himself Bill had suffered. He often brooded the whole day and would be either in a black mood or in a state of lethargic indifference when Fiona came home from Phoenix Landing. They both knew that he needed to get back into the world, but an unfortunate problem with the building suppliers had delayed the Habitat for Humanity project for a month, so while Fiona had her work he was forced to stay home and look for things to do. He repaired the damage done by the Nazi invaders, sanding and refinishing the tables they had gouged and repainting where French had put his stupid slogan. The desk that French had urinated in was discarded and a new one purchased. He spent several days replacing documents destroyed and dealing with bankers and lawyers to set up trust funds for Johnny and Trevor's college educations. After these tasks, however, the days consisted of long and barren periods of brooding followed by a desperate search for something to do—anything, a walk or a trip to the store or repairing an imagined loose deck board, removing brush from the wooded area—and then more brooding. He hated himself for his moral lethargy and hated himself for resenting Fiona's gathering recovery and most of all hated himself for hating the world that could make him feel this way.

One lonely-sad day while he sat moping on the stairs to the deck trying to find a way to live with the knowledge that Bill was dead forever, he espied a fairly large ant carrying a dead ant of the same size and appearing to be of the same species down the steps. Curious and in need of distraction, he watched it from his seat and then began following it on foot. It went from the stairs towards the lake some thirty feet away via a circuitous path, following, Lowell believed, the scent trail laid down either by itself or by its comrades. Several times when the scent was lost it would make a circle of about a six-inch radius until it picked it up again. Many, many times it would stop to readjust the weight of its dead cargo, which weighed as much as it did. He had seen ants carrying many times their own weight so that he was sure balance and not the burden of his cargo necessitated these readjustments. The scent trail it followed was very precise and entailed going up and down blades of grass, across dead leaves at some points and under them at others, over rocks both small and large here, around them there. Once or twice the trail went perpendicular to the shore for some distance, but mostly the shore seemed to be the direction it was heading. About halfway to the shore, a distance which Lowell figured to be in ant measurement the equivalent of a mile, it had to fight another ant. When they first met their feelers raked over each other's head as if they were mates communicating information, but quickly he was disabused of this notion. They fought, sometimes rising on their back legs, other times rolling on the ground in a sort of wrestling hold. The first bout lasted about a minute, during which time his ant dropped its cargo to concentrate on its opponent. It emerged victorious, and after picking up the dead ant it continued on its way, only to be waylaid again by its rival twice more. After the third fight the rival gave up. Near the shore now, Lowell saw some mounds which he assumed were the ant's home, but it passed them, going right down to the bank. About ten minutes had passed at this point, surely, Lowell thought, a long time in ant measurement. Now right at the edge of the embankment, it appeared the ant started to go down, but just then waves generated by a passing speedboat lapped the shore. One particularly large wave struck the ant and sent it flying so far away that Lowell lost track of it. He studied the shore and water for several minutes, his eyes searching for the tiniest movement that would tell him his ant had come through, but neither it nor its cargo were found.

His pulse quickened. His mouth went dry. Tears stung his eyes. The feel of not to feel it. The pain ever new, ever present. Needing to think, he sat down on the ground and clasped his hands under his knees. It wasn't that he felt like an ant or that he could see his brother's fate in the happenstantial ending of a cluttered journey or that he also felt the ant had a right to his life. It was that he witnessed it and could do nothing.

All his life he had never been a religious man. He understood and could respect the need for religion. He could see it sprang from the deepest part of our humanity, the consciousness of our mortality. Was God more than a name we gave to that impulse beyond time? Or did he really watch, whether sadly with brimming eyes or grimly with indifference? Or did he have a white beard and like a grandfather love us from afar? Whatever it was, he, it or noneness always did nothing. He felt lost, confused, angry, a leaf in the wind, a witness to his own inertia, and he could see no way to free himself from this dilemma. And that is how he remained for the rest of the day.

Fiona came home that night with some exciting news. Murray and French had been arrested in Wyoming on their way to some Nazi stronghold in Idaho. Their being in custody made her feel safer, she said, obviously expecting Lowell to share her feelings. But he, remembering the ant and the unanswered questions, only said that it wouldn't bring Bill back.

As the weeks passed and summer came into full bloom, Fiona thought about his deadened response to the news of the arrest of the Nazis frequently. She was beginning to see that her most serious problem was Lowell's mental state. She herself was by no means free from the after-effects of the trauma—at unexpected moments she could think of what Bill had done and feel guilty, occasionally she was abnormally nervous, and sometimes her sleep was disturbed with nightmares about French and Murray—but she felt herself growing stronger with time and knew that it was going to be up to her to hold them together. Her plan, when she finally formulated it, was a simple one. She would ask advice from the wisest woman she knew, Lucille Durham.

She arranged to meet Lucille on lunch break. They had met frequently for lunch during the past year, but this was the first time they had met since the murder. They bought sandwiches at a deli and ate them on a bench near Monument Square. Fiona spent a long time talking about the murder, about Lowell's depression and about all the sympathy that had poured in for poor Bill. Lucille didn't say much, probably thinking that Fiona wanted most of all to unburden herself. But she wanted more. "He saved my life. He jumped in front of me. I've thought about that a lot. Why did he do it? Was it because he felt his life was already ruined and he did it for his brother? There's an amazing bond between those two brothers—or there was. But I can't explain why he did it."

Lucille chewed at her sandwich. She was wearing a long flowing summer dress of light blue and leather sandals. Numerous gold bracelets circled both wrists and a necklace with what looked like an African gazelle adorned her neck. Large gold rings hung from both ears. She reminded Fiona again of an African princess. Taking a sip of apple juice, Lucille said, "It was an instinct, I'm sure. People are capable of the most heroic sacrifices, but when they come they aren't planned. Like the proverbial soldier who falls on a grenade to save his buddies, you know. I don't think you can ever have an answer."

"I know one thing. If I hadn't met Lowell and fallen in love, Bill would be alive. In that way it's my fault. I don't understand why he did it, but I know it should have been me."

But Lucille would have none of that. "You don't really mean to say you're sorry to have fallen in love, do you? Of course you're sorry it happened. I'm sorry too. It's a terrible thing to die a senseless death because of some bigot. But let me tell you what my grandmother used to say about being sorry. She said being sorry doesn't pay the butcher's bills."

Fiona was taken aback at this unexpected response. She looked at Lucille, her eyes questioning. Silently they asked: "But what can I do?"

"Who's to blame for that young man's death? Those racist Nazis and their hate. You spoke of loving your young man as the cause. Well, if it wasn't for racism it wouldn't have happened either. And see the difference: you loved, they hated. You know our people have been persecuted for centuries. They've been branded and chained, they've been maimed as slaves and murdered and lynched for wanting to be free. You can't change the horrible death of that fine young man, but you can work for justice and enlightenment. Justice is a continuing struggle. It's not solved in a day or a year. It took centuries to get where we are today. It might take another century to make people see how hollow hate and racism are. But your duty is clear. You must be brave. You have to be brave. It's not just your life you're living. You're living for every oppressed person in the world. We have a right to happiness as much as everyone else, but because of our special circumstances, we have a duty. You do see that, don't you?"

"That I have a duty? Yes. But that I have to be brave?"

She nodded and the light caught her gold earrings and flashed brilliantly. "And fight for justice too. Yes, you have to be brave because you're fighting for justice. That's the only thing that will redeem Bill's sacrifice. Lowell has got to realize that too. He already knows what a mean, paltry thing prejudice is. It violates any decent person's sense of fairness. It judges by appearances, not the humanity of a person. It's ignoble. But if he just broods and despairs, he lets the hate and the ignorance win. I think he already knows that. Your job is to remind him of what he knows."

She was very nervous when she returned home that night. She meant to follow Lucille's advice but was uncertain how to begin. After an awkward supper and a cleanup, Bill retired to the couch, not reading or watching television, only staring blankly in front of him. She spent time in the kitchen making a shopping list and knowing she was being a coward. Just as she was working her courage up to talk with Lowell, her cell phone rang. It was Becky. She was thinking of bringing a wrongful death suit against Len Carter and the Nazi Party and wanted Fiona to ask Lowell what he thought about the idea. She felt it was the only way to get rid of the anger, the frustration and the feeling of helplessness that overwhelmed her every day. Fiona, not certain revenge would help, listened sympathetically and told her she would get back to her.

"Who was that?" Lowell asked. "Becky?"

Fiona got up from the kitchen table and walked over to the couch. "Yes, she's feeling awful and was looking for ways to punish the Nazi Party."

Lowell sniffed. "She feels awful, does she? I like that. If it wasn't for her Bill would be alive today."

She sat in the chair facing him. "Lowell," she said in a low voice and barely daring to look at him, "I don't think that's fair. If she has one fault it's that she's a mother first. She thought she was protecting Johnny and Trevor."

This was the old disagreement between them; before they had always recognized each other's position and given each other space. This time Lowell wasn't willing to do that. He glared at her. "I don't know why you defend that rigid, self-righteous and cold-hearted bitch. Sure, Bill did a horrible thing, but he was sorry and he tried to make amends. But nothing he could do would please her. And you know she drove him away."

"But she always loved him. You're just seeing Bill's point of view. You have to realize how deeply hurt she was. She felt betrayed. It was so unexpected. She didn't know if she could trust him."

"Well, she could have. And then everything would have been different. She drove him away because she was heartless." He ended by shouting at her, something he had never done before.

Her head snapped back in shock as if she had been slapped. Wisely she refrained from shouting back; instead she let silent time go by while she tried to calm herself and indirectly him. Then, speaking very softly, she enumerated what she saw as the many other factors that led to the tragedy.

If they had accepted Tara's offer to have another beer, the two Nazis would have been gone by the time they got home. If Murray hadn't angered French and made him want to prove he was a big man, the shooting probably wouldn't have occurred. If Marilyn hadn't seduced Bill, if the pair hadn't seen them planting the roses and if the fight hadn't happened, things would have been different. She reminded him that Tara felt guilty for baiting French last year and probably contributing to fueling his hatred. These were only some of the obvious links, she said; probably there were other factors and circumstances and other people feeling guilty for things they had done. It simply wasn't fair to blame Becky for her sad, human response to feeling betrayed.

Lowell listened to her in silence, though she could see she had reached his sense of fairness. He still, however, would not yield on Becky. "Okay," he said, "Okay, okay. You're right. But the thing that plunged Bill into depression and made his last days on earth a hell was her rigidity. It's still unforgivable."

"You know what I think? We're ignoring the most obvious reason"—she stopped when he looked at her with widening shocked eyes. Hovering in the air between them was the ultimate cause of Bill's death: if a white man had not fallen in love with a half-white black woman, Bill would be alive today. But she did not mean that. Again she paused to calm herself by taking two or three deep breaths. "I mean it was hate. All the other ifs don't matter if those two weren't infected with racist hatred."

Lowell nodded grimly. "Of course," he said, "I've thought about that hate a lot. But why they hate I'm not at all sure."

She stood and leaned against the new desk. "Why they hated, or why people hate?"

"Both. But it is a good question why people hate."

"I'm not sure. I do think people as individuals are basically good. But why people grow hardened and don't care about others, can let them live in horrible poverty and injustice and not care and even kill them, I don't know. I remember on the softball team we never had any trouble until cliques developed. And no one ever lynched a black man alone. It's always a mob. So people do evil more easily when they have help."

Lowell leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He grimaced at some passing thought that was unpleasant. "All those right-wingers I met at Chicago were filled with themselves and were contemptuous of poor people. But racist hatred is more. It's some kind of disease of the ego. Somehow self-regard gets distorted to group identity. And did you ever notice it's always people of low self-esteem, society's losers, who are the racists? French and Murray fit that to a T."

"Yes, they do. I think in a just society where everyone is cherished hate would disappear. When no one is exploited and used, then thrown away, hate will disappear. I was talking with Lucille today at lunch, and she said something like that."

"What did she say?"

"That we had to work for justice. That would be the only way to redeem Bill's death."

"I take it she didn't mean criminal justice. I don't want revenge. I don't care what happens to French and Murray as long as they're put away."

"No, she meant a just society."

'Yeah, I know. I want that too, but... I mean, what I really want is the one thing I can't have. I want Bill back."

He looked up at her with his face ashen and his lips trembling. She didn't hesitate. Instantly she was beside him on the couch and took him in her arms and held him while he cried his soul out. "He was such a good man. He was kind. He cared for everyone, all living creatures, even little ants. And those that couldn't love, who could only hate, they killed him."

Lucille was right of course. The knowledge to free himself from grief was in him already. That he could discuss hate and evil as an abstract topic was another good sign, and in fact from that day forward he started slowly to get better. He still had bad times, especially on any occasion that was strongly associated with Bill. His birthday was one such day; the first time they played softball was another. The game was preceded and followed by several days where he felt the sadness possess him like a clinging, crawling vine. Other times for no clear reason a dull despair would seize him and not let go; nightmares of being little and helpless would disturb his sleep. But he discovered, as does every generation, that time, which can wear away mountains, can also soften and wear away grief. And the way is the same old way: busying the mind with distractions opens life again into the sunny day. For him the housing project was the call to life. In early July the building supplies were finally ready and work began. Remembering Lucille's advice, he threw himself wholeheartedly into the project, in his mind dedicating it to Bill's memory. The month delay had led to several changes in personnel. Five or six people had to drop out due to previous commitments, and replacements had to be found quickly. These changes made Lowell's job more difficult in that he had to assess and train the newcomers along with his other duties. For the first two weeks he was putting in ten hour or longer days, so that by the time he arrived home each night he was completely exhausted. It was just what he needed.

He and Fiona drove to Portland together even on the long days, for neither of them wanted her to be alone at the cottage. Towards the end of each workday he would assess the work remaining and call her to arrange to meet for dinner at a restaurant. When, with Amos MacDuff's help, they got past the inevitable inefficiency and confusion of beginning a large project and his hours became more regular, he and Fiona got back to last summer's routine wherein the first thing they would do when they got back home on hot and humid July and August nights was to take a swim, followed by a beer and a leisurely dinner. Fiona volunteered on Saturdays where she met Amos's wife Millie, and before long the happy thought she had upon first meeting Amos came to pass. The carpenter and his wife who didn't know the difference between a sawhorse and a hammer came to the cottage for a Sunday afternoon of relaxation followed by a lobster dinner.

Amos was short and stocky with powerful arms and the thighs of a fullback. He was very black, bald and round-faced with deeply etched smile lines that reflected his genial personality. When he laughed in a deep, neighing chortle, his whole face crinkled into a benign and jovial black Santa Claus. Millie, in contrast, was quiet and very neat, with copper-colored skin and wearing rimless spectacles that gave her an air of seriousness. Her graying hair was brushed back into an old-fashioned bun. Unlike the rest of them, who were dressed informally, she wore a white blouse and a prim long skirt with hose, even though they had been told swimming was available. She looked like what she in fact was: a retired librarian.

While Lowell gave Amos a tour of the cottage, pointing out the various structural problems he encountered and how he solved them, the two women sat on lawn chairs on the deck and chatted. Millie was very religious and deeply involved in her church, having a hand in arranging fund-raising bake sales, teaching Sunday school, singing in the choir and helping the minister with clerical work. Fiona, listening attentively and politely to Millie's description of her churchly duties, was apparently too convincing and giving a false reading of her interest, for she was taken aback by a sudden question.

"How about you, dear. Are you a good Christian?"

The simple answer was no—she wasn't a Christian at all. She'd gone to church as a child because her mother, though not religious, believed Christian instruction was good for children, but nothing specifically Christian ever took root in her. In high school when she made her mostly independent study of black history she admired how the black church served to unify and lead her people, but when she read graphic descriptions of how Southern whites used lynching as a way to terrorize blacks into acceptance of subservience, for the first time she began questioning how God could be an ethical and good being and allow such horror. Later she concluded the only answer was that the God to whom people gave credit for a sick child being cured or for a drought ending—but not for blacks being lynched or for the Holocaust—was either a very evil and whimsical fellow, a limited being, or more likely nonexistent. But she was at a loss how to explain these views of Christianity to her new friend.

She started to stutter an inconclusive response when she was rescued by Amos returning from the tour of the cottage with Lowell. "Millie," he said, "you know it's impolite to ask people about their religion. Remember the time you asked Mohammed Jabar if he was a good Christian?"

"I didn't know his name," Millie said with a sheepish grin that showed she could laugh at herself. "It wasn't as idiotic as that scoffer implies."

"You mean you're not religious?" Fiona asked.

Amos scratched at an unruly tuft of hair, then smoothed it down. "I try to be a good man and do no harm. I figure that the man upstairs takes that into account."

"So do I, and so does Lowell."

He grinned. "Let's hope it's enough, but in the meantime we have Millie outnumbered."

"Things happen that make you wonder," Lowell said, suddenly serious.

They all knew what he was referring to. Amos and Fiona exchanged a glance. She had told him of Lowell's depression.

Amos regarded Lowell for a moment before he spoke. "Like your brother. I know. It's happened to me, and I wondered."

"To you?" Lowell asked. "You mean you've lost a brother?"

Amos, a little taken aback by his vehemence, tried to lessen Lowell's expectations. "Well, I suppose it depends on the definition. Now we live in a nice neighborhood of Philly, mixed you know, both white folks and black. But in the ghetto where I grew up folks were killed all the time—brothers in drive-by shootings, drug murders, stuff like that. And the cops kill all the time, including years ago when they bombed a whole neighborhood to get a radical group. But I'm talking about a man who was like a brother to me, a brother with a capital B. So, yeah, I know how you feel."

He sat down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "My best friend when I was a kid, he was like a brother to me. In fact, when we were sixteen his mother got into trouble—I won't say what—and had to give him up. My mother took him in, and we shared my bedroom. Then during a race riot he was coming home from work minding his own business—this was some eight or nine years later—when the cops shot him in cold blood. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, you see, and he paid the price."

"My God, what did you do?" Fiona asked.

Amos shrugged, a world-weary gesture that spoke volumes about how it feels to be a black man in America. "There was a trial, but of course the cops got off. Tragic mistake, the judge said. But no one ever said they were sorry."

"What an awful thing," Fiona said. She felt angry and worried about Lowell at the same time. It looked as if he was retreating inside and was going to have another bad night.

"It gets worse. He had just got married and had a one-year-old son. Me and Millie had just been married too, but we took him under our wing even as we raised our three daughters. I'm proud to say he's got my old carpentry business now, and he's a community activist. He's even running for the city council next election."

Millie was beaming proudly. "Yes, we're very proud of that boy. And he's a good Christian." She gave Amos a sharp look.

"Now, woman, I made him a carpenter. You and his mother made him a Christian. They're related, you'll recall."

"Jesus was a carpenter who built a church."

"And I'm a carpenter who built homes for folks to live in. It's good work too."

He looked at Fiona for confirmation. She smiled and nodded, still watching Lowell. "But how did you take the verdict, Amos? Weren't you angry?"

"Oh, yes. I was for a while, but I reckon the Mrs. here had something to do with me getting over it."

Lowell was quiet as this exchange was going on. While he listened he was reliving again Bill's murder. He and Bill had exchanged a glance in which he thought they understood each other. If French started to fire the gun they were to separate to make difficult targets. Then when Fiona panicked and ran, Bill did the unbelievable thing and sacrificed himself. Later when Bill lay dying he had almost asked Fiona why she ran. He knew that question could only be taken in one way: she would know he was blaming her. But he knew in life there was such a thing as death's shadow, things so categorical that they cannot be taken back, cannot be undone, cannot be redeemed. He recognized instantly that such an unfair question would have poisoned their love and had instantly censored himself, but for a long time afterwards he was so troubled to have even had the thought that he avoided confronting it.

Fiona, watching him carefully, knew something was happening. He looked better now; the shocked, stricken expression that reminded her of his face when he held the dying Bill was replaced by a more controlled introspection. And when he spoke, she knew her instincts were correct.

"It's wonderful what you did for that young man...What's his name?"

"Troy Gardner."

"Troy Gardner. Well, you did the right thing. I'm trying to help my brother's sons in the same way. I want them to know their father was special. Sometimes I think the worst thing is to die unknown and unloved and forgotten, just a number in the city morgue. My father disappeared many years ago, and for all I know that may be how he ended his days. I tried to locate him and couldn't. But that's why I don't ever want to forget my brother."

Amos nodded but did not speak. He listened, probably sensing like Fiona that something very important was being said.

"You remind me that others are honored after they pass. I don't want to forget. For some reason I was thinking of one of the Nazis when you were talking about those cops who killed Troy. He's this tall, skinny guy, not handsome, with this huge Adam's apple and ratlike eyes. He's awkward and doesn't look you in the eye—not at all an appealing guy. At the trial I don't think the jury is going to like him. But you know what? He didn't want to have anything to do with the killing. He tried to get the murderer to put the gun away and leave with him. He'd come up here to do a stupid prank, and he got caught in something he couldn't imagine. I feel sorry for him. At the trial I plan to testify that he is really innocent."

Fiona listened to this with a warm glow growing inside. This was the man she had fallen in love with, and his words were reminding her of why she loved him. And she knew something else equally important: he was going to be all right. Bill's murder was not going to destroy his essence.

And it wasn't destroyed. Nine more months passed before they exchanged vows, but that they would spend the rest of their lives together was determined on that day past all doubt.

It was Millie who gave the reason in words that whenever Fiona thought back to them she always regarded as a benediction. "I know one thing. Whether you're a Christian or not, we have to have love in our hearts to live right. We have to forgive."

#####

a note about the writer

R. P. Burnham edits The Long Story literary magazine and is a writer. He has published fiction and essays in many literary magazines. He sets most of his fiction in Maine, where he was born and raised and has deep roots. The Least Shadow of Public Thought, a book of his essays that introduce each issue of The Long Story, was published in 1996 by Juniper Press as part of its Voyages Series. He was educated at the University of Southern Maine (undergraduate) and The University of Wisconsin–Madison (graduate). He is married to Kathy FitzPatrick, an associate professor of biology at Merrimack College in North Andover.

