

...the soup kitchen scene is a gem, real literature. The Mayan temple feels right, the poetry that sits in the middle. Ridlon, Nevins...ever notice how Rush Limbaugh, Karl Rove, Dick Cheney and Rumsfeld are enough to send one back to belief in physiognamy, clones?...Sometimes philosophical and social essay are handled self-consciously in the mouths of characters, but that energy doesn't really impede what is a strenuos, serious book. Clear charatacters, up and down the social scale, well differentiated,work in interesting relations. I love the poetry of the Mayan temple, a testmony to the kind of love that might save our species. There is a clear sense of people who can and cannot afford to think much about their lives, so Chris' demon is always compromised by normal standards... A perfect, quiet ending.

–Paul Nelson

### THE MANY CHANGE AND PASS

by

R. P. Burnham

SMASHWORDS EDITION

******

PUBLISHED BY:

The Wessex Collective on Smashwords

The Many Change and Pass

copyright 2007 by R. P. Burmham

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.

The One remains, the many change and pass

\--Shelley, Ptometheus Unbound, LII

*****

Table of Contents

An Interesting Day

The Pond

Other People

The Garden

Business After Hours

Unwelcome Visitors

Day Trip

Can I See Another's Woe?

Ave AtqueVale

Panic and Discovery

Duty

Lost Soul

The Turning Point

A Great Reckoning in a Little Room

The Mission

Home

Alles Vergängliche Ist Nur ein Gleichnis

The Horizon

a note about the writer

An Interesting Day

Myron Seavey was reshelving some magazines that patrons of the Wentworth Library in Waska, Maine had been leafing through during the course of the day. He was the director of the library, an exalted title perhaps, though the reality was that he had four employees in addition to some volunteers and an emergency backup librarian (Annette Duval, the former director, now retired) who came in during vacations or when someone was sick. Gathering the magazines from the tables and chairs in the reading room where they were left and bringing them to the magazine display case, he sighed, not because he had to do much of the work and spent little time at his desk, but rather because he was disheartened by the caliber of the magazines. His last job was as a reference librarian at an academic library at a small college in Connecticut where it was a rare day that he didn't have interesting questions to answer. But here he was collecting _Women's Day,_ _Sports Illustrated_ , and the like, and the most common research he was called upon to do was to find online advice on some stock or bond a patron wanted to invest in. The only interesting questions he got with some regularity were genealogical. Occasionally for some reason or other high school students would do research here instead of the campus library. The Black Death in England had recently exercised his mind, though even the high school research projects were more often than not on dreary, unimaginative topics. Thus too many days went by without much intellectual stimulation, and that was the reason he sighed.

He paused to look through the double door at the sound of heavy boots clattering on the marble floor of the hall. A young man, with his eyes darting about as if he was casing the place for a burglary, strode by. His long blondish hair was tied into a ponytail; his blondish-red beard was full. He was thin but wiry. Something about him suggested an air of coiled energy that could be sprung at the slightest provocation. Myron thought he was a dangerous young man, dangerous and therefore interesting.

He looked at Myron indecisively for a moment, then continued to the checkout counter where Nellie Olson, the library's secretary and clerk, was typing on a computer. Myron heard the keys go silent.

"Can you tell me where I can find information on local businesses?"

"You'll have to speak to Mr. Seavey."

Hearing his cue, Myron went through the double doors to the hall and approached the young man. "Can I help you?"

While the young man regarded him doubtfully, Myron knew exactly what was going through his mind. He was thirty-five and still young; he was thin, long-faced and square-jawed. His brown hair was parted to the left and kept short on the sides. His hazel eyes were magnified by thick wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed conservatively in a grey sports coat over a white shirt and tie. He was also reserved and dignified with strangers, which he knew people either took to mean he was shy or felt superior. Those who read him as the shy type did so because they were seeing a stereotype of a librarian—bookish, socially inept, and conservative politically and socially. He had confronted this attitude so often he was used to it. The look in the young man's eyes told him he'd been pinned as _a_ librarian. He smiled slightly, feeling more amused than perturbed. "I'm Myron Seavey, and you are?"

"Chris Andrews."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Andrews?"

"I'm looking for information on a business."

"I assume you mean more information than the Yellow Pages provides."

"A lot more." He spat out the short phrase like a challenge.

Myron tilted his head as an invitation for Andrews to explain.

For a moment, before he understood the gesture, he stared at Myron. He surveyed the hall, the stacks to his right and the reading room behind Myron, before his glance returned to him. "Specifically I'm looking for businesses that pollute air and water." He enunciated the word "pollute" with such vehemence his eyes flashed. Yes, he was a dangerous young man.

"The City Directory lists all the businesses, though there's not much in the way of descriptive information."

Andrews listened to him with an impatient and unpleasant frown on his face. It was clear that he often met with hostility and had come to expect it. "I saw in the Yellow Pages a business called Ridlon Recycling. Do you know anything about them?"

Myron shook his head. "I've never heard of that company."

"So you wouldn't know if they've ever had trouble with the law or the EPA?"

"No. But we have past issues of the local paper on microfilm, or they can be accessed online. Shall we do a search?"

"Yeah, maybe that would do it."

They went into the reading room to one of the computer terminals, but Ridlon Recycling had only a few routine entries concerning contracts signed with the local hospital and an article about a new building Ned Ridlon wanted to build near the river.

The entries, however, seemed to confirm something in Andrews's mind. "I see fluorescent bulbs, mercury vapor lamps and neon lamps are among the things Ridlon recycles for the hospital."

"Those are items that contain mercury. Is Ridlon dumping these things illegally?"

His question caused Andrews's attitude to undergo another change. "I see you're familiar with these matters. Good. I have no proof now—it's too early. But before I'm through all hell is going to break loose in this town. It'll be in all the papers. Front page headlines too."

Myron, at first skeptical of this extravagant claim, merely nodded. "If that's true, it will be interesting. When you say you have no proof, do you mean of dumping or no proof that Ridlon Recycling did it?"

Andrews, surprised at this calm response, backed off a little. He even seemed a bit embarrassed. Still he spoke with the arrogance and self-confidence of youth that recognized no obstacles or difficulties that were insurmountable when he said, "I have to prove my suspicions, but someone is dumping toxic waste in this town, of that I'm positive."

Myron didn't change his neutral expression, but his assessment of the young man underwent a transformation. Here was self-confidence and single-minded determination indeed. "Well, I hope you do—prove it, that is. This town could use some shaking up."

Again an unexpected response. He could see confusion in Andrews's eyes as the stereotype of a librarian was further confounded. He looked down at the floor, over to the checkout counter, and then back to Myron. A slight boyish grin broke across his face. "One other question. Where would I find records of who owns land and where in this town?"

"That would be city hall."

Andrews nodded. "That's what I thought. Okay, thanks for your help."

Nellie had been listening. As soon as the door closed behind Andrews, she looked at Myron and raised her eyebrows and made an oval of her mouth.

Myron smiled. He liked Nellie. "Quite the young man, huh? Is he local?" Nellie knew everyone in Waska.

She shook her head. "I don't think so. There are several families of Andrews in town, but I haven't heard of a Chris Andrews. Maybe Claud will know. He seemed like a wild young man."

"Well, he's young and he has a cause." He started to walk down the hall to the children's library, then paused to hear Nellie say, "I just remembered there were some Andrews who moved away ten or twelve years ago. I think they had a boy named Christopher."

He found Claudette LaVergne, who began her day at two P.M., already surrounded by chaos. She had two drawers from the card catalogue at her desk together with a pile of books two feet high. His sense of order was always troubled by her working habits. When he worked the late shift he had seen ten minutes before closing time her desk piled so high with books she would be hidden behind them. Papers would be scattered all over the place. But by the time she left the cyclone's damage would be repaired. Early on he would sometimes check the children's room the following morning, expecting to find books reshelved willy-nilly and papers stuffed into a desk drawer. He always found the room impeccable, however, so he never needed to correct her. Like Nellie, she was very pleasant, and like Nellie she was a short, plump woman who wore big black glasses. He had quickly learned that the children loved her, and very soon he had concluded that they were very wise judges of character. His orderly mind had to be restrained.

"Claud," he said, startling her. She looked up with panic on her face—the one trait she didn't share with the phlegmatic Nellie was a certain high-strung nervousness. "Claud," he repeated, "we just had a visit from a young man named Chris Andrews. Nellie thinks he might have lived in Waska as a boy. Do you know anything about him?"

She thought for a moment. "I remember a boy named Chris Andrews who loved nature. He would spend hours in the winter looking at pictures of animals and birds. He was a slender towheaded kid. That was fifteen years ago."

"That sounds like our man," he said as a mother with a little girl came into the room. He left.

At the desk Dora Ritter had just arrived. She was looking through the mail and at first didn't notice him. Nellie asked if Claudette had any information.

"Yes, he may very well have lived here as a boy. She remembers a lad who was very interested in nature. I can see that growing into a concern for the environment. Dora," he said, raising his voice and turning to her, "this is my night for the reading group, so I'll have to leave a little early. I have to stop at the drugstore to get some things for my mother."

Dora's body language communicated her disapproval. She was sharp-featured with bony ridges above her eyes, a long thin nose and thin lips. She looked displeased even when she was happy, but now her dark tiny eyes flashed, the bony ridge curled into a frown, as she looked away with a gesture of impatience. They had a frosty relationship, and there wasn't much he did that she approved of. She had no sympathy for his sick mother, rather regarding her as an excuse Myron used to get out of work. She had applied for the job of library director when Annette Duval retired and was still resentful that she didn't get it. She had been working at the library for over twenty-five years but had no degrees—not even a B.A. He was chosen because of his academic accomplishments (summa cum laude at Cornell and top of his class in library science at Simmons), his job experience, and the glowing letters of recommendation the trustees received with his application three years ago. He was obviously qualified—even over-qualified—for the job, but Dora still felt robbed of what was rightfully hers.

So she frowned and pursed her lips and looked away, even adding an impatient sigh to the familiar ritual. "How was computer use today?" she suddenly asked.

This was another one of her manias. She had talked Annette into getting computers over ten years ago with grant money they received and felt that gave her the bona fides of a modern librarian. They had three of them, two in the main, adult reading room and one in the children's library. She had also agitated for putting the card catalog online, but no money was available for this scheme. For his part, Myron conceded that computers were sometimes useful research tools, but in their discussions he would point out that studies showed students actually learned better without them. He was committed to the printed word, which she took to mean he was hopelessly antiquated.

"Four or five people used them to go on the web. I helped a young man find some information on a local business. A bit below average today, I'd say."

"And books?"

"About fifteen to eighteen went out today."

Here too they differed. He knew that as soon as he was gone she would look to see what books were checked out. Where he ordered biographies of Bach and Shelley, she would order biographies of Bill Gates or Greta Garbo. Her choices were more popular, which he was sure confirmed her in her opinion that the trustees had made a terrible mistake. Myron, remembering how the world had opened to him as a child when he read books on such topics as the Norman conquest or modern physics, wanted the library to be a place where the world of knowledge, of both nature and human culture, awaited discovery. She was right and he knew it—when it came to books he was an old-fashioned guy. He wondered sometimes if she realized it was the knowledge of the world he had gained from wide reading that taught him tolerance for her narrow views. She was also a right-wing reactionary who regarded him as a dangerous communist.

Their good-bye was as frigid as their conversation. Outside the cool but pleasant late afternoon was refreshing compared to Dora's wintry presence. Spring was in the air, and there was still an hour of daylight left. He paused briefly in the parking lot to take in the beautiful pre-twilight sky with clouds illuminated from below by the low sun. He observed the season's first robin on a denuded bush at the edge of the parking lot before getting into his car and driving to the drugstore.

The things for his mother he'd told Dora he had to get were actually singular—her heart medication. She suffered from arrhythmia, but her emphysema, the result of smoking two packs of cigarettes a day for most of her life, was more serious. She was a very sick woman, a dying woman in fact. When he was forced to leave his job in Connecticut because the small college where he worked closed its doors, she had argued with him to put her in a nursing home, but he had refused. He knew she suggested it to free him, not because she wanted to be in a cold, impersonal and lonely environment to end her days. He loved both his parents and admired them greatly. The last thing his father on his deathbed had asked of him was to take care of his mother. He had promised, and despite the cost to him personally he had kept that promise. His mother had led an extraordinary life. She was active in the Unitarian Church and engaged in social issues, particularly the problem of starvation in the third world. His strongest memories of her were of her cooking dinner while simultaneously making phone calls to alleviate hunger in Africa or to build a clinic for Mayan Indians in Guatemala. Moreover these were only a part of her life as a activist and doer. She was on their town's historical society and chaired numerous committees at the Unitarian Church. For years she demonstrated against the many and various wars the U.S. government waged against the third world. For one whose energy was inexhaustible and compassion boundless, to be struggling for breath was very sad. A good day was one in which she could walk from her downstairs bedroom to the kitchen and back. And yet while her body was broken her spirit was still indomitable. She never felt sorry for herself and was still involved with the world, watching CNN daily and still an intractable foe of U.S. imperialism.

Elaine Neault was in the kitchen making a cup of tea when he came through the door. She was his mother's nurse and was with her all the time Myron was not at home. On occasions like tonight when he would be out of the house she would sleep over. He had gotten her name from the local Unitarian Church, which he attended with his mother when she was strong enough to go. Elaine was a divorced Catholic who had joined the church when she remarried.

He and she had a history that made for a slight awkwardness between them. An unfortunate incident together with her appearance led him to associate her with Dickens's Mrs. Gamp. She was plump, red-faced, had a certain animal shrewdness in her eyes, and had an air of unrefinement bordering on grossness that rather closely approximated his mental picture of the nurse in _Martin Chuzzlewit_ , but it was her behavior during a crisis two years ago that gave rise to the association, which he knew in hindsight to be unfair. His mother often required oxygen to help her breathe, but one day a defective bottle of oxygen left her gasping desperately for air. When Myron in panic asked what was wrong, Elaine casually glanced at the meter of the oxygen bottle and said calmly, "O deary, this tank's useless." Then she had started waddling across the room to get another tank before Myron in horror had rushed by her and retrieved the backup tank. Still too nervous to set the mechanism up properly, he had had to stand by while Elaine calmly and slowly got his mother breathing again. Afterwards unfortunate words were exchanged, or rather he yelled at her and she had calmly defended her actions. "It wouldn't do for both of us to be panicked, now would it? I've been trained to keep calm in a crisis. I'm afraid you misinterpreted that professionalism as indifference." She glanced at his mother. "But, lovey, you know that isn't true." His mother had nodded, and Myron apologized, though he was positive that she wasn't being perfectly forthright. Perhaps, he later conjectured, she had a fatalistic streak inherited from her Catholic background; perhaps she lacked the imagination to feel his mother's pain and terror. Since nothing untoward in her behavior had ever occurred again, and since his mother regarded her as a trustworthy friend, he had not tried to replace her. But he didn't trust her, and she knew it.

"Hello, Elaine. How was my mother's day?" he asked as he placed his briefcase on a small table by the door and retrieved his keys from the lock.

"Oh, fairly routine," she said in the cheerful, sentimental tone that always rang false to his ear. "We had a little walkie around the house and she ate her lunch except for some crackers. We had soup, you see."

She sat down, prepared for a little chat, as she dipped her tea bag in and out of the hot water a few times. She favored weak tea. "And Reverend Hallam stopped by. She told Barbara she was looking strong and then we prayed together. Yes, a good day it was."

"That's good," he said, his back to her. He needed an early dinner tonight because of the reading group, and was searching through the refrigerator.

"Oh, another thing. Rev. Hallam was talking to Mrs. Hamilton the other day. She said a lovely thing about you—Mrs. Hamilton, I mean."

He turned and raised his eyebrows.

"That you were not only a librarian but a walking library."

He smiled, then turned back to his survey of the refrigerator. "She's referring to my reference librarian background. You have to know a little about a lot in that line. I happened to know some things about lowland Scots. That was Mrs. Hamilton's query, you see. She was looking into her Scotch ancestors." He spotted the lasagna he'd made two days ago. Tonight was as good a time as any to have that.

He took a beer out and opened it. "Well, I'll just go check on mother now."

"She may be sleeping," Elaine said. "She missed her nap because of Rev. Hallam's visit."

Quietly he approached. Finding her asleep, he stood indecisively for a moment and surveyed the room. Her bedroom, the former owner's study, was on the first floor next to the dining room. It had a shut-in old lady's smell, which he was used to. The interior wall opposite the dining room was entirely composed of a built-in bookcase from floor to ceiling. The shelves were mostly empty since he kept his books in a room upstairs. Across from it against the other interior wall was the large hospital bed on which his mother slept and spent most of her time. It had a mechanism to elevate the bed into a sitting position. Beside the bed was a small table and an oxygen bottle. Plastic tubing went from the oxygen tank up to a rack above his mother and then down to her. On the table was the radio on which his mother listened to Red Sox games during the season. On the other side of the bed was a large easy chair where Elaine spent the day, Both women watched a great deal of television, CNN mostly, though a couple soap operas Elaine followed were aired every day in the sickroom. His mother often dozed when they were on. Beside the door was the television. At the end of the bed were two tables on casters. One had medical accessories, and the other was used to bring his mother her meals when she felt too poorly to walk. Between the two windows was a large mahogany dresser with an oval swivel mirror. On the dresser were some of his mother's things—her hairbrush and some cosmetics she never used but which she could not bear to have removed. The same dresser with the same items were in the bedroom she shared with her husband for over forty years back in Connecticut. Finally in the corner was a fold-up bed that Elaine used on the nights like tonight when she stayed over.

For most nights when Elaine was absent there was also a buzzer hanging from the rack above his mother's bed which she could easily reach in a crisis, and recently as her condition worsened he had bought a baby monitor so that he could hear her breathing at night. Myron lived in terror of her being unable to get her oxygen and being too weak to even summon him. She had snorted when he suggested it but hadn't actually disallowed it. He knew sometimes she was afraid. To him her courage was beyond heroic. He couldn't imagine anything more terrifying than being unable to breathe.

He stood silently watching her, and just as he was about to creep away and leave her to her rest, her eyes opened.

"Hi, Mom. Elaine says you had a good day."

She thought for a moment. "Good as can be expected is the way I'd put it." Her eyes twinkled. "I didn't run a marathon, you know. But I did make it to the kitchen."

He smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. Taking her wrinkled, liver-spotted and thin, sinewy hand in his, he said, "I'm going to heat up the lasagna I made last Sunday. Think you can make it to the kitchen for a second time?"

Again she deliberated with herself. She turned the oxygen on and breathed in and out three or four times, then turned it off. She shook her head.

"Okay," he said. "Then I'll bring supper in here and have it on a tray."

She nodded and peered at his face anxiously.

"What's wrong?"

"Only me and what I'm doing to you. I was wishing you had a woman to...that you'd meet a woman."

"Woman! Mom, I'm surrounded by them all day."

Her brown eyes widened. He remembered hearing once that hazel eyes were the result of having a blue-eyed parent and a brown-eyed parent. His father's eyes were blue, so he combined the two of them—and not just in the color of his eyes. He practiced his father's Quaker nonviolence and his mother's Unitarian social activism.

"I don't mean middle-aged and old women. I mean a young woman." She looked at him lovingly. "Such a handsome man..." She reached over and stroked his cheek. "I often think of her." Becoming agitated, she started gasping.

"You mean Alison?"

"Yes."

Alison Rollins was the woman he lived with for three years and had been engaged to marry. They met in Boston when he was at Simmons and she was working for an advertising agency. This was at a party given by a mutual friend. They got on together very well right from the start, so well in fact she even quit her job in Boston and took a less prestigious one for less money in Connecticut when he got his first position at Blackwood College. Then his mother became ill, at first with emphysema, followed shortly thereafter with her heart troubles. Soon after his father died, the event that led ultimately to his splitting up with Alison. The problem was that his older brother worked overseas in the foreign service and his sister had married and moved to California. Only he remained near enough to home to take care of their mother.

The mention of her name conjured up an image in his mind that told the story. He remembered how her thin-lipped mouth was always set determinedly when she wanted to get her way. During the last few months they were together it was her usual expression. At first with broad hints and then more and more explicitly, she objected to his taking care of his mother. At the end she said, "I would be glad to marry you. What I don't want to do is marry a man _and_ his mother." She had spoken contemptuously, as if he was a mother's boy.

For a long time after their final parting he worked at convincing himself that a woman who didn't recognize a simple human duty or even common humanity was no loss. Mostly he succeeded, though there were times when he'd be filled with regret and envision how his life would have been different if he had married. He'd have children, the oldest perhaps five or six, and he wouldn't have the sense of life in abeyance or of being hounded by a feeling of emptiness. But, then, he wouldn't be doing his duty to his helpless mother and would have no self-respect.

And so he dismissed his mother's remark easily. "She's the past, Mom. I've already forgotten her—it's been seven years. But I understand what you're saying. Actually there is a woman I'm interested in, and I think she's interested in me. But I would prefer not to discuss it until things develop a bit further."

She watched him with a pleased look and shining eyes. She reached out for his hand. "It would please me to see you settled. Then I could die in peace."

"Let's have no talk of dying, Mom. That's a long way off."

He left her to her rest and went into the living room to drink his beer and read the paper, where he found himself looking for news about toxic waste and Ridlon Recycling. The thought that that young man, Chris Andrews, was just the beginning of an interesting day lifted his spirits, and while he heated the lasagna and made a salad he found himself whistling a tune from Tchaikovsky's _Swan Lake_.

Elaine ate in the kitchen while he joined his mother for the early supper. His high spirits continued. He told her about seeing the first robin of the spring and said in another month she would be able to sit in the backyard and take walks around the perimeter of the garden. He talked about the times when he was a boy and they would drive to western Massachusetts to open up their lakefront cottage in early May. "I used to be so excited about the prospect of swimming and boating. Dad of course would have his projects. Remember he had one every year—rebuilding the dock, adding a closet, improving the water pump. That was his fun."

"The woman you spoke of, are you seeing her tonight? Is she in your reading group?"

Surprised, he looked at her. "How did you know that?"

She smiled mischievously, and for a moment she was young again, young and vibrant and filled with joy. It occurred to him that if he fell in love it would revive her.

"There's a spring to your step. You were whistling earlier. You seem happy. In the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love."

He smiled. "Not another word, Mom. We're only talking about possibilities here."

But even he thought it was much more, and that is why his good humor continued as he reviewed the novel for a half hour and then drove to the library for the seven o'clock session. The promise of spring must have been affecting everybody, for when he walked into the library he found the two volunteers were also in a jocular mood.

Abby Parry and Laurel O'Connor were working on preparing the new books. They were at a table behind the counter with a glue pot and scissors before them. They stopped working as soon as they saw Myron. Like most of the volunteers from the Friends of the Wentworth Library, they were middle-aged or older and enjoyed talking with a young man. They were all a little in love with him he sometimes suspected, though Abby and Laurel were married women.

Abby picked up a book and held it to him. "Who's going to read this one?"

He squinted to see it was _An Ecological History of New England_. Many books were ordered from the suggestion box, but this was one he had ordered. "Well, perhaps I will." He paused and thought of Chris Andrews. "I can think of one other who might be interested. But I got it for reference. We have to be ready to answer questions patrons ask."

"I have a question, Myron," Laurel said with a broad smile that turned into a giggle. "Is there a young woman in your reading group named Becky Paine?"

He nodded, uncertain where this was leading.

"She's here with Lynn MacArthur. They're upstairs," Abby said, also with a giggle.

Myron affected nonchalance, wondering as he composed his face how they would know he was interested in Becky Paine before realizing with a start that somehow they had learned of her interest in him. His pulse quickened, but he refrained from asking any question that would give his secret away.

"You're surrounded by old girls all day," Laurel said. "It's interesting to see a young woman around." She looked at Abby, and both of them repressed another giggle.

They were very girlish, a fact Dora Ritter did not like. Through the inner door he could see her at one of the computers in the reading room clicking the mouse with a look of furious concentration on her face. She looked up and frowned at him. He nodded to her, then looked back at the volunteers. It was strange that they had repeated the same observation that his mother had made earlier. "Well, I better get upstairs and get ready for a good discussion. Do you ladies need anything?"

They didn't, so he went up the stairs excitedly thinking about the information he had just received. Laughing seemed endemic in the library, for as he approached the door of the conference room where the group met, the sounds of high-pitched female voices, half laughing, half giggling between words could be heard. It was a good sound and put him into an even better humor.

"What's all the laughing about?" he asked, pretending to be stern. "Tess has died, remember. I was thinking of wearing a black band on my arm tonight."

Lynn MacArthur's freckled face crinkled in mock horror. He had met her when she brought her fifth-grade class to the library for a tour, and as she was a regular patron they had talked often during the past two years. It was during one of their conversations that the idea of a reading group was born. She solicited her parents and her friend Becky Paine, and six others had joined from a notice Myron had put on the bulletin board.

"Thoughtless and shallow us, we were thinking of having a lottery," she said.

"Oh, about what?"

"You."

"Oh?" He put his briefcase on the conference table and leaned against the wall with his arms folded. He took the opportunity to look at Becky Paine. She was very blond and very pretty. She was dressed in slacks and a light blue winter sweater and appeared slightly embarrassed. She was ordinarily very dignified and reticent, qualities he liked in a woman. But, then, he also liked good humor and friendship too.

"Well," she said, glancing at Lynn and smiling, "we read that next winter the Maine Audubon Society plans to sponsor a cross-country skiing race to benefit bird sanctuaries. We were thinking of having a lottery for where you'd place in the race, but—"

"—But we thought we'd have to first have a lottery on whether you'd enter or not," Lynn interrupted. "You're always talking about your love of winter sports that you learned from your father, so we thought..."

"If this was a poker game, I'd say you were calling my bluff. But you can dispense with the first lottery. I might very well enter the race."

"Would you win?" Lynn asked with a schoolgirlish giggle.

"Maybe not, depends on the competition, of course. I think I'd do respectably, though. And it would cost you. I'd get the whole group to sponsor me."

Simultaneously all three turned towards the sound of voices coming up the stairs.

"That would be my father and mother. Dad's already talking up a storm," Lynn said.

Angus MacLeod was his name. In many ways he reminded Myron of his own father, and not only because his father was a professor of civil engineering at the University of Connecticut and Angus was a retired engineer. He was small and wiry, of advanced age but healthy as a horse. His bright blue eyes brimming with youth, life and intelligence belied the leathery crevices that lined his face. He and his wife Doreen owned a recreational vehicle which they took to all corners of North America—to Labrador or northern Quebec in the summer, to Florida, Arizona and California in the winter. Angus had made all kinds of renovations to the camper to make it exactly as he wanted—a characteristic that reminded Myron of his father forever tinkering with and renovating their summer cottage. Though an engineer, Angus had a good literary mind and read and responded to the books they read with intelligence and insight. They were traveling in the southwest during January and February, but he read _Moby Dick_ and _Our Mutual Friend_ and reported his responses via e-mail. He had also developed a teasing, jocular relationship with Myron, which was shown by his first remark upon entering the room.

"Hey, Myron, I was just talking to Abby Parry, and she claimed the book drop-off was your handiwork. Any truth to this rumor?"

He shrugged off the apparent compliment. "It's amazing what you can do with a few power tools and time on your hands."

"And the latch for the double doors. They haven't worked for the twenty-five years I've been coming here. I hear you fixed that too."

Myron tilted his head slightly.

"I'll tell you what I think. You should have been an engineer like your father. Doing things, making things, now that's the life. You build a bridge and you've done something. You fix a latch and you've done something. But books? Books! I don't know." He grinned.

"Depends on your perspective, Angus. Knowledge can be a bridge. Think of reading classics as a bridge to the past."

"A literary metaphor, I do believe. But, okay, it does give you perspective. Compared to the tarts we have today, Tess is a pure woman." He looked at Lynn and Becky and bowed slightly. "Present company excepted, of course."

"Dad! Since when have you been an enemy of women?"

"Since Myron explained last week what a pure woman was—and that Dante business too. You've been messing with our minds for centuries."

"Honestly, Angus," Doreen said, "can you ever keep your mouth shut?"

Becky looked at Myron, anticipating an interesting response. He knew why. When they discussed the nature of Angel Clare's love for Tess in last week's meeting, he had made a digression and talked about Dante and Beatrice. His remarks, he could see, made a deep impression on Becky, who had leaned forward and listened with an intensity that revealed she was learning something new about life. What he had said was that Dante and Beatrice were one of the most famous examples of romantic, ideal love, and yet Dante never spoke to Beatrice. He saw the young girl of about thirteen one day and found her so beautiful he instantly fell in love. But think about what he did. Ask yourself if he loved _her_. How real could she have been to him? He actually fell in love with his idea of her; the one he loved was a creation of his own mind. Really what he did was objectify her so that she was a form of self-love to him. And I think to the extent Dante is responsible for our notions of romantic love, he has a lot to answer for. Every time I hear about one of those horrible cases where a man stalks a woman and murders his "love" after she rejects him, I think of Dante. Whatever love is, it certainly is not that. It is the surrender of the self, a going out of the self to another. It is not egoism and selfishness. Well, can we accuse Angel of this kind of idealized self-love? Did he make Tess his own image of her and not see her? Yes, he did. He's also creepy when he says, "We'll stay together for form's sake," showing here he was a typical dreary Victorian keeping up appearances. He's conventional—a slave to convention, in fact. But to give him his due, remember he said good morals are the only safeguard for us poor human beings. He thought in marrying below his class he was at least getting purity. He spurned Tess _because_ he had also sinned—it wasn't really a double standard.

It was this digression that prompted Angus's high-spirited sally, but since he was teasing the women more than him, Myron yielded the floor to the women to defend themselves.

"Your engineering mind missed the point, Dad. It's men who have been messing with women's minds."

"Impossible," he scoffed. "I've always heard we were perfect."

"If you're perfect, Dad, how come you forgot to pay the light bill last month?"

"If men were perfect," Becky said with a shy glance at Myron, "they wouldn't be human. We have to forgive Angel his shortcomings to do justice to the book."

"I've got something to say about that man, but it can wait. And I'm not perfect," he added, turning to his daughter, "just close to it."

The other four members of the group arrived, two maidenly sisters, Elizabeth and Shirley Biggar, very quiet and insecure about expressing their views, and another retired couple. Unlike the peripatetic MacLeods, Letty and Malcolm Richards were snowbirds in Florida from Christmas to late February, and again unlike the MacLeods they did not read the books assigned during their two-month absence. They were joiners and liked activities of any kind as long as it made them feel young. They were not very astute readers of literature; Myron surmised that these inveterate joiners were not blessed with enough self-knowledge to understand the group was not for them. To the extent they talked in class, they talked not about the text but about their retirement community in Florida. In the first meeting last fall they had spoken at length about their life as Florida snowbirds, calling their fellow retirees "old coots" to distinguish them from themselves, the young-at-heart.

"Some of those old coots want to do nothing but go to Disney World as if they were big kids. We wanted to do activities like go to the Everglades to see the wildlife or play golf or even shuffleboard. Either that or organize group games." So spoke Letty.

"At night we were in tune because we love bridge." Thus spake Malcolm.

"And don't forget bingo, dear," Letty said with a slight smile. "Some of us like to gamble as long as it's respectable." The smile widened into a self-satisfied grin, but it was unclear whom she was satirizing, her husband or the old coots.

That display constituted Myron's initial impression of the pair, and it hadn't changed much over the months. They were the least serious members of the group. Two others had started with them before dropping out. A widower in his late fifties had come to the first meeting and not returned. Myron suspected he was looking for a place to meet available women. The other dropout was a single mother who wanted to go to college and thought the reading group would be a good test of her potential. Unfortunately her life was too hectic for her to continue. He hoped that next year the Richards would follow suit and better students would take their place. As for the Biggar sisters, though they were too shy to speak much in class, he saw intelligence and recognition in their eyes during discussions and knew they were enjoying the sessions.

With everyone present they started the last discussion on Thomas Hardy's _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ , and thanks to Angus, Lynn and Becky it was a lively one. They began by revisiting Angel's attitudes towards Tess. Everyone, not just Becky, seemed intrigued with the explanation of romantic love he shared with them last week and discussed it further. Only when Angel saw the real Tess was he truly in love with her, they concluded; only then was he free from illusion. They talked for some time about the murder of Alec (with less enthusiasm since no one had much sympathy for him) and the symbolism of Tess's stretching herself on a rock at Stonehenge. Both the MacLeods and the Richards had been to Stonehenge and could well imagine a pagan sacrifice at that strange edifice. Angus, the resident devil's advocate, found Alec's transformation into an itinerant preacher hard to swallow, and when they came to discuss the ending with the suggestion that Angel would marry Tess's sister, he again criticized Hardy.

"The coincidences in the novel are okay, maybe, but this is simply hokey," he said.

Earlier Myron had defended Hardy by emphasizing that in reading literature one had to call upon historical imagination. "You have to see things the way people of the time did. You have to understand in Victorian times it would be a very big thing for Angel, a gentleman, to marry a peasant like Tess. That partly explains his severe reaction when he realizes she was not a 'pure' woman, and it gives him credit later when he comes to see that she was pure and a victim. But," he conceded, "the ending with Tess's sister is a different problem. Not impossible, maybe, but certainly stretching verisimilitude. Of course, it's not absolutely stated that they marry or become lovers, but it is strongly suggested, and most people take the scene to mean they do have a relationship. Can anyone defend him?"

Lynn said, "Angel feels guilty for what he did to Tess. This is one way of making it up."

Becky said, "When he saw Tess's true worth, he assumed her sister would have much the same character. And it was as close as he could get to undoing the wrong he did to Tess and her family."

"Good. I think Hardy would accept these explanations. But Angus still looks doubtful."

"I am. I stand by my word 'hokey.' It just seems tacked on, this new-love business."

"Okay. I think it's time we see a very important thing about Hardy. He isn't a realist. He gives in his novels a poetic vision of life as he sees and feels it. He's a moral realist. Recall all the coincidences in the novel and remember the statement at the end—'the President of the Immortals, in Aeschylean phrase, had ended his sport with Tess.' Hardy is giving us the feel of how life can crush individuals. Call it fate or whatever, but Hardy's vision is that the cosmos is indifferent to human desires. That, I think, is a valid vision. It is to me at least, so I can accept these things that appear hokey because to call them hokey is to miss what Hardy is showing us. You have to differentiate between realism and moral realism. You have to realize that Hardy is primarily a poet. I love his books myself. I hope you loved this book too."

There was a general murmur of assent. Angus just grinned. "I liked Dickens and Melville better."

"You liked Melville because he has a Scottish name," Doreen scoffed.

"And therefore even more perfect than most men."

Myron checked his watch. The hour was almost up, so he decided against discussing the novel in terms of Aristotelian tragedy. Since they weren't English majors and since imposing an intellectual construct on the novel would not add too much to their enjoyment or understanding of the book, Aristotle could be dropped. He announced that next week they would discuss Conrad's _Heart of Darkness_ , and after that short book they had a collection of great plays from the western tradition to deal with. They would have time this year to read two of the plays. He closed the class with the suggestion that they all think about which two plays they would like to read.

The two Biggar sisters and the Richards left immediately, but the others lingered. Angus said that one of the plays should be _Macbeth_.

"That's because it's set in Scotland," Doreen said.

"I think we should do _A Doll's House_ ," Lynn said. "I read it in college and think my dad would benefit from what we'd learn there."

"Well," Myron said, "one of the plays should certainly be Shakespeare. I favor _Hamlet_.

"Shakespeare, kick in the rear," Angus said with his usual grin.

When the three women looked perplexed, he added, "Myron, I bet you know what that means. Tell these dear creatures."

"It used to be every kid's first introduction to the name of Shakespeare. A little piece of Americana, you know. A kid would come up to another kid and put out his hand. 'Shake,' he'd say. Then as the other kid extended his hand, the boy would spear him in the belly, announcing the action with the word 'spear.' Spearing the kid would in turn cause him to double over. Then with his foot the boy would reach around and kick him in the rear as he announced that action too. Is that what you're referring to, Angus?"

"You've explained it to a T," he said.

Everyone had a pleased and silly grin on their faces as they started to leave. Myron saw Lynn whisper something to Becky, who nodded. She looked nervous. Going down the stairs, Lynn began talking to her parents while Becky held back.

"Did you like Hardy?" he asked her.

"Yes, very much. I really felt for poor Tess. I thought reading Dickens was more fun, but I like what you said about Hardy's poetic vision. He makes a deeper impression on you because of that, I think. You really taught it very well. You're a wonderful teacher, in fact. Did you ever consider a career as an English professor?"

"Yes, I did. I was an English major at Cornell, but I quickly dismissed the idea."

"But why? You're a natural. You obviously love it. We all feel very lucky to be in this group. And I know you are better than any of the English teachers I had in college."

"Thanks," he said, feeling embarrassed at the compliment. "I really appreciate your saying that. But it was really a question of bread with me. My adviser told me there were ten Ph.D's for every available position. That's when I decided on being a librarian. That way I could still be involved with books."

They were in the hall now. Lynn and her parents were twenty feet ahead of them, pausing by the door and evidently still discussing the plays to be chosen.

"Becky, are you interested in music—classical, I mean?"

She smiled nervously. "Well, I took a music appreciation course at Bates and have meant to pursue it."

He looked down the hall. Lynn, still talking to her parents, glanced at him, then quickly looked away. "I ask because Jason Buckley, a young phenom of a pianist from Waska, is appearing with the Portland Symphony Orchestra in two weeks. Would you like to go?"

Her face was intense. An unruly cheek muscle twitched. "Yes, I'd love to. I've heard him mentioned and have been intrigued."

"Wonderful. Perhaps dinner first?"

"Yes." She took a deep breath, and then as she relaxed a radiant smile broke across her pretty face. "That would be very nice."

"Wonderful," he repeated. "I'll order the tickets and see about making a reservation at a restaurant. Do you have any preference regarding food?"

She shook her head. "No, I like all kinds of food."

He looked down at Lynn, who understood his signal and came up to them. Later he would have to contemplate nonverbal communications. In a court of law a conspiracy between them could not be proved—there were absolutely no words on the subject of Becky's availability ever exchanged between them—and yet they were coconspirators and had been for weeks. It started the day last November she let it be known she knew he had been engaged. He knew the story must have originated with Elaine Neault and then got relayed to Nellie Olson, who was a distant cousin of Lynn's. For a moment he felt defensive and concerned about his privacy, since if Lynn knew about it probably half the town did. But she was smiling, looking very friendly, so he said, "Guilty as charged," and they had talked about it for a while. She also knew the reason the engagement was broken off and clearly admired his sacrifice. Sometime later when she was in the library alone she told him Becky's tragic story of how her husband was killed by Nazi racists three years ago. She didn't say anything specific, but he came away from that conversation with the knowledge that she was telling him Becky was available.

He saw her exchange a meaningful glance with Becky that also communicated nonverbally. "It was a great night, Myron. Very interesting. Thanks."

Yes, he thought, it had been a most interesting day and night.

The Pond

Luke Kimball's hands trembled as he tried to roll a cigarette. He brought the paper with the partly rolled tobacco to his mouth to lick the glue, but his hand shook so much the paper opened and the tobacco spilled onto the floor. With a curse he slapped the worn and ratty cushion of the couch he was sitting on. Dust was raised and he sneezed. Then he got on his knees and collected the tobacco, and this time he was able to get it rolled the right way. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. He felt better but still not calm. He had too many problems ever to feel calm. Mostly money worries burdened his days, and now his youngest son was sick and the money worries were magnified.

They lived in a tar-paper shack at the edge of his father's land, near the wetlands and downhill from the former pastures back when it was a working farm. It was built with parts of the old collapsed barn, the chicken coop and scrap lumber found here and there—that was right before he married Suzy Godwin. His father, his uncle and his brother helped him. When the fourth of their five kids came along they built an addition to make another bedroom—likewise of recycled material. And the furniture was the same. A few items like the table were given to them by his parents, but most of the stuff was from Hoot Berry's barn. Hoot's business was junk collecting. He went around the streets of downtown Waska nine miles away and collected what rich folks threw away. He sold some of the stuff for scrap and the rest as secondhand merchandise. Sissy, Luke's oldest daughter (she was seventeen, in high school now) scornfully called Hoot's barn their Wal-Mart. Despite the smart mouth, the name fit. The couch he was on, the two chairs in the long space that was living room, dining room and kitchen all rolled into one, the TV, the stand it was on, a shelf by the stove with the pots and pans and dishes—all these things were from Hoot's barn. Even the pictures of woods and fields and of a man fishing were originally lying in a gutter outside of some rich guy's house downtown. Most of the stuff they paid for, but some stuff like their toaster and new frying pan Luke got by helping Hoot in his business. Hoot's youngest son was getting too old to be interested in helping his old man, and that had led to an occasional job for Luke. During the last couple of months of this past winter and early spring, that was the only work he had done. The last time he got paid for a job was in early January when he got fifty dollars for helping a guy in a moving van unload furniture at one of the new houses the rich people were increasingly building up among the poor country folk. Pretty soon they'd be agitating to get rid of the eyesores his people lived in—and then where would they go? Even his father's farmhouse was rundown and ratty. But that was looking for things to worry about, when already he had a full plate. Suzy was in the far bedroom with Mark now, and when she came out he knew what she was going to ask him. He sucked at the cigarette, getting all the nicotine he could before snubbing it out.

Sissy came out of the bathroom and frowned at him. She'd been doing a lot of that lately. She had a job at a fast-food place in Waska and was required to give ten dollars a week to the household. Malcolm, his second son, worked at a garage and gave twenty dollars a week. Suzy cleaned a house down the road every Friday for twenty dollars more. That fifty dollars was all the money the family had this winter, except for the fifty Luke made in January. He tried to maintain his status as the head of the household by ice fishing on Pleasant Pond down past the wetlands at the edge of his father's property. The state stocked brown trout and small-mouthed bass in the Waska River every year, and some of them made their way up the little brook that emptied Pleasant Pond into the river and had been living there for years. At least twice a week the family had fish for dinner. But Sissy, instead of seeing she was contributing to the family, resented having part of her meager salary taken from her. She knew the can of tobacco he bought last week cost over ten dollars, and she regarded every cigarette he smoked as money robbed from her. She didn't say anything, but she didn't have to. Luke was adept at reading faces, and he saw all the hatred, contempt and bitterness she was thinking.

It was Saturday and she was getting all dolled up. She and her friend Tina Silcox were going boy hunting downtown like they did every Saturday. She spent as much time as possible away from the family. Like Leighton, his oldest son, she was ashamed of her background. He knew as soon as she could she would leave the family. Leighton had run away at sixteen and had never been heard from since, though there was a rumor about that he had joined the armed services. That wouldn't be Sissy's way. She was blond and pretty and shapely. She was going to find someone to marry as soon as she could. Malcolm, who was almost sixteen now, was the only one of their teenaged kids who was going to follow his old man's example, but that was because he was slow in the head. As soon as he was sixteen he was going to drop out of school. He'd stayed back a few times, and when he went to high school he was just being passed along—he could hardly read. But he loved to hunt and fish with his father, and because of that and because Malcolm was like he was when he stuck to his family while his brothers and sister moved to town, he was Luke's favorite child. He and Sharon were down at their grandparents' house today. Suzy had shooed them out of the house as soon as they had had breakfast. Again, Luke knew why—it was part of the reason he was so nervous right now.

Suzy had been worrying all week about Mark. Three days ago she suggested they take him to the hospital, but he resisted. "Give him a few more days," he said. The three days had now passed.

He was thinking of rolling another cigarette when she came out of the bedroom. She walked across the room looking at him all the time and saying nothing. She sat in the chair opposite to him, still looking at him silently. She had been showing her age lately. The golden hair of her youth was faded and lines were beginning to grip her face. She looked tired and as worn as the shapeless dress she wore.

At first she thought about what she wanted to say, but after a while she spoke—and spoke forcefully. She was going to get her way, but she was going to do it without forcing him to be defeated. She understood him, and that was why he still loved her.

"Okay, Luke. He's no better. You know what I want you to do."

He looked away and did not answer. It wouldn't do to give up right off, but he knew that was what he was going to do eventually. He had to justify his behavior first.

"Why don't you want to bring him to the hospital?"

"Because I don't want to."

"That's not an answer. Come on, Luke. Mark is sick, real sick."

"But he'll get it over it. He's had bad flu and colds before and got over 'em."

She started shaking her head as he spoke. Frowning, she said, "This ain't no cold. He's skin and bones. We've got to do something."

"We don't have the money. We—"

"That doesn't matter. They won't turn away a sick boy because of that."

"We should wait a little longer. He looked better to me this mornin'."

"Luke! We have been waiting. I wanted to do this three days ago. Now it can't wait."

"But—"

Her eyes flashed. She wasn't concerned about his feelings this time. He saw a different Suzy. "Luke, if you don't take him, I'll get Vernon and Jenny to help. And I'll never forgive you."

Vernon and Jenny were his parents. For a moment he debated letting her do that. Then he would be spared. But it wouldn't be right. "We're poor people. They'd just regard us as a nuisance. They wouldn't want to help Mark."

"Now you listen to me. I knew it was your damned pride. Who's the one to get the surplus food and the food stamps? Your pride is all well and good, but when your children can't eat right and a boy is so sick he can't even eat—you hear that, _he can't even eat_ —you have to swallow your pride."

She was right. He knew it. He knew it three days ago and was ready to be talked into going even then. But it wasn't pride. It would have been better if she said he was shy. Because it was the way they treated him, the way they made him feel. He'd seen their lives on TV and even been in their houses sometimes as a worker. They looked like him. They had arms and legs and a head at the top of their necks, but they were so different from him they might as well have been from outer space. Rich people. Hoot hated them. Sometimes Luke thought Hoot wanted to kill them. But it was fear with him, even though he would never admit that to any living soul.

These people, these strange rich people who didn't know what it was like to be poor, they would say sir to him with their tongues and call him scum with their eyes. They would make him self-conscious, nervous and tongue-tied. He'd become scared because of the violent urges they made him feel. They made him remember who he was and what he was. They showed him the reality of his life. He'd seen a comedian on TV who kept saying, "I'll tell ya, I don't get no respect," but he never laughed at that guy. He could make jokes because it wasn't true. He made lots of money. He lived in a swanky house. He drove a big car. When he went out into the public a thousand eyes didn't tell him he was dirt. There was nothing funny about that guy.

But how could he tell Suzy of his feelings and still be the head of the household? He couldn't. He knew she was right. He knew they had to get help for Mark. Now that it was happening he didn't have to lie to himself anymore. The poor boy couldn't hold much down. He had been puking for a week. He had always been the runt of the litter. Now he was seven but looked four. He was wasting away to skin and bones. He was very weak. He could hardly move his left arm. He got dizzy easily when he tried to walk. He complained of a pain in his back where his kidneys were. Sometimes Suzy thought he was not seeing very clearly.

So he looked at her. He didn't say anything. He just nodded. Then she got her things together and got Mark dressed without saying another word to him. She didn't have to. He didn't want her to.

He had to carry Mark to the car. Picking him up told him more than seeing him. Suzy was right—he was worse. He was limp and sleepy and weighed no more than a baby. He waited for Suzy to get in. Then he carefully placed the sick child in her lap. His nervousness made him grind the engine of the twenty-year-old station wagon and pump the gas pedal too long, and he flooded the engine. Suzy looked at him anxiously and suggested he run up to the farmhouse and borrow Vernon's pickup truck, but he knew his car. After it was flooded and cleared it would always start. It did, and he backed through the thick mud of their yard—the nearby wetlands expanded almost to their house in the spring—and got the car onto the rounded gravel road that led to Route 177. Mark was too sick to even notice where he was. He fretted and whimpered while Suzy tried to comfort him. Luke tried not to think of the people who would be at the hospital. He concentrated on being the man of the family—clung to the notion that in helping his son there could be no humiliation. But a heavy dread hung over him, and whether it was his concern for Mark, his growing guilt for having waited too long, or the anticipation of his trial with the rich people, he could not say. He was too nervous and dry-mouthed to even talk, and Suzy's whole attention was on Mark, so they drove to Waska in silence.

At the hospital Suzy looked for the sign that had EMERGENCY ROOM printed on it. She found it, but there was no place to park nearby. She said the signs warned that only official vehicles could park here. So they drove around to the other side of the big building to find a place. It was a nice spring day so there was no danger of Mark being chilled. Rich people passed by and made him feel self-conscious as he carried his sick boy. He saw in their eyes what they thought. His nervousness had not left him. Instead it grew worse. At the door a man in a blue uniform was coming out. Suzy asked him where they were to go to check in. She had no pride. She was a mother. He understood that. The man was in a hurry and just pointed down the hall. Then he ran to an ambulance. The hall was like a tunnel. It had pale brown tiled walls and was poorly lit. But through the door the light was very bright. The room was about thirty feet long and lined with chairs on three sides. Two televisions were bolted to walls for people to watch. The counter was at the far end. It had nurses and doctors walking behind it and one woman who watched them coming towards her.

Across the room he self-consciously walked, carrying Mark. He hoped that Suzy would do the talking. His heart was racing and his mouth was dry. He wasn't sure he could talk even if he had to. Yet there was only one rich man there. Maybe he had a broken arm. He held his arm carefully, that's for sure. The rest of the people were workers or poor people. They may have looked sickly, but that's the way poor people always looked. He wasn't sure if they were waiting for someone else or if they were the sick ones. They had sallow, sunken eyes, poor skin and were either too fat or too skinny. A woman with a little girl with thick black hair was sitting near the counter. Both were very quiet. Luke recognized in the woman's face the same fear he felt. The rest of them had mean, selfish faces that were more common with poor people. The rich guy was in too much pain to feel contempt for poor people. He kept looking about, afraid of being jostled.

At the counter Mark started fussing, so Luke put him down so that he could cling to Suzy's dress. The woman who had watched them cross the floor waited for them to speak. Suzy explained that their son was sick. "He can't hold food down," she said. "He's been sick for over a week and not getting better. He gets dizzy. He has pains. I'm not sure he sees properly." This and other things Suzy said. The woman just listened. She didn't seem concerned. She hardly looked at Mark. When Suzy finished, all she said was, "Do you have health insurance?" Luke could tell she asked the question already knowing the answer.

Suzy shook her head. "No," she said in a whisper.

The woman wrote something on the paper. She looked up and asked them their names. They gave them. She asked for Mark's name. They told her. She wrote it down. Luke saw another nurse looking at them through narrowed eyes. It made him feel hurried and short of breath. His heart started pounding. "He's been real sick," he said to the woman in a low voice. "We tried to wait, but he's not getting better."

The woman continued writing without acknowledging his statement. Didn't she understand what he was telling her? They hadn't come here casually. They weren't looking to bother people. It was an emergency for the emergency room. The anger he felt came as a relief. He remembered he was a man, the head of the household. He was doing his duty. "Look," he said, speaking louder now, "what are we supposed to do? My son is very sick. If it was a cold or the grippe he'd be better now."

The woman looked at him. The skin on her cheeks shone in the bright light. He wanted her to understand, to be kinder, but she merely nodded and said, "I see." She turned and went into the inner office.

His confidence left him. He looked around to see if anyone was staring, but most of the people had blank, numb expressions on their faces.

"What's she doing?" Suzy asked. She looked worried. Her arms held Mark and tried to support him. Standing all this time was making him feel faint.

The woman came back with another woman. This one didn't wear a nurse's uniform. She wore a skirt and a gray sweater. She was middle-aged, not pretty. Her nose was too big. But she didn't look unkind.

"You're the Kimballs, I assume," she said. "I'm Edie McLaughlin from social services. Have you been here before?"

The question surprised Luke. He didn't understand what she meant.

Suzy did. "I birthed my last baby here." She patted Mark's head. "He's sick now. The rest were brought into the world by Molly Jenkins."

"Molly Jenkins?" The woman, the Edie McLaughlin, said the name like a question.

"She's the upcountry midwife. She delivers lots of the babies among our folk."

The Edie McLaughlin woman smiled strangely. Her eyes asked a question, which again he didn't understand but Suzy did.

"The folks who live near the river bottom and Scanlon's Ridge area."

"Up on Route 177 in Waska?"

Suzy nodded. "You'll be able to help my boy, I'm hoping."

The Edie McLaughlin woman looked at Mark and her face softened. "Such pretty blue eyes he has. Are you feeling poorly?" she asked Mark.

But he hid his face in his mother's faded dress. He was scared. Luke wasn't anymore. The look on the Edie McLaughlin's face was comforting and kind. She seemed to care. She wasn't judgmental. She was respectful. He trusted her, and everything was going to be all right.

They went into a room where they could sit down. Luke carried Mark and then put him on Suzy's lap as soon as she sat down. He curled up against her. She had her arms around him as she talked to the Edie McLaughlin woman. Luke stood and let Suzy answer the questions. Through the window he could see the waiting room. An ambulance crew brought in an old man. There was a lot of running around and yelling and doing things just like on TV, but the old man looked dead to Luke. Then he was wheeled away. After that he watched the people. The rich one was beginning to look angry and impatient, but the poor working folks merely waited passively and looked up hopefully every time a medical-looking person came into the room.

The Edie McLaughlin woman made them sign several documents. Luke didn't know what they were and didn't dare ask, but Suzy seemed to think everything was okay. Nervously he signed the documents the way he was taught. Suzy had to help him by pointing to the places he was to sign his name. The Edie McLaughlin woman had left the room to confer with the nurses, so he wasn't embarrassed. When she returned a nurse with a wheelchair was with her. They were going to take Mark for some tests. Suzy had to repeat all the symptoms she had noticed to the nurse. Luke wanted to know how long it would take but didn't dare ask.

They watched Mark being wheeled away. He was too sick to cry, but Suzy cried for him. She called his name several times, even when he was out of sight. Luke too felt sad, but menfolk didn't cry. Then the Edie McLaughlin woman told them to go to the waiting room on the other side of the glass window. They sat down, and he tried to watch TV. Suzy just stared at the door they had wheeled Mark through. The TV show was boring, and after a while he began feeling restless. He decided to go outside for a smoke. He'd seen enough medical shows on TV to be pretty sure Mark would be gone for some time.

Outside he found a bench to sit on and took out his pouch of tobacco from his pants pocket and his cigarette paper from his shirt pocket. His hands were still trembling, and he had a lot of trouble getting the thing rolled. He had to rest his hands on the armrest of the bench and lean down to lick the paper to get it done. But it was worth the trouble. The tobacco soothed him, and he sucked hungrily at it, taking drag after drag.

He was about halfway through the cigarette when he felt eyes on him. He looked up to see Bill McCarthy. He was a big hulking fellow, bald now, but years ago he used to wear his hair long like a hippie. He took a lot of razzing because even though he was a big man he had a high voice. He was good-natured about the ribbings he took, though. He lived upcountry, but he wasn't really one of Luke's folks. His father was a truck driver who owned his own rig and used to make a lot of money. Bill when younger had gone all over the country with his old man, but the life was too tiring for his taste, and he became a builder. Luke had worked for him a few times, but mostly as a gofer and on lawn work at a site. He wasn't much of a carpenter—at least not for rich people's work. Last time he saw Bill was when he cleared some land with Wade Blackburn's crew for a house Bill was building.

Bill was on the path leading to the main entrance. He waved when Luke looked over at him and was about to continue on his way. Then he thought of something and walked over.

"Well, well. If it isn't Luke Kimball. What brings you here?"

"My son's sick. Some kind of grippe he can't shake. Suzy is real worried. So am I."

"Sorry to hear that. Hope he's fine soon. I'm visiting my dad. He just had prostate surgery."

Luke tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his boot. "Hope he's doing okay."

"Yeah, he should be." He started to leave, but again he thought of something. "Oh, by the way, I mentioned your name to Wade Blackburn the other day. Did he get in touch with you?"

"No, not yet." He felt embarrassed and didn't want to say he didn't have a telephone. He was also slow to realize what Bill was saying. When he did, a surge of excitement almost jolted him.

"Well, I'm building a couple of houses on Topping Road and asked him to clear the land for me. You should contact him. I'm pretty sure he could use you. It's a big job."

"I could use one. I haven't worked much this past winter." He tried to hide his excitement and speak casually. He saw Bill read his mind, but it was okay. Bill had known him since they rode the school bus together as boys. He might be bending towards being a rich guy, but he was a good guy first of all. He forgot that for a second. "I could really use the work," he added, and this time he didn't try to hide how much he wanted the job.

"Well," Bill said, this time starting to walk away for real, "I've got to see my dad. Don't forget. Get in touch with Wade."

Don't forget! As if he would. He waited a few moments till Bill was out of sight and then quickly walked back to the waiting room. In an excited whisper he told Suzy the good news. But she was not interested. She gave him a strange look, hostile, angry, disappointed. Her eyes were still locked on to the door they'd brought Mark through. Probably she had never looked away. He knew why she was disappointed in him. He was thinking of himself, not Mark. But he didn't understand why she would be angry. Work would help the whole family, not just him. He wasn't just selfish. If he worked they wouldn't have to keep the lights off and use candles anymore. They wouldn't have to be afraid the juice would be cut off. There'd be money for food and clothes and necessities. So he brooded and didn't think of Mark. Tomorrow he would drive to town and see Wade Blackburn. With any luck he'd be working in a few days. Let Sissy give him dirty looks then. He wouldn't care. The first thing he was going to buy when he got some money was a pack of real cigarettes. Then he'd buy some ginger ale and candy. He hadn't been able to indulge his sweet tooth for months and now he would. He had the bad and missing teeth to prove how much he loved candy and ginger ale. But at least he didn't drink—just a couple of times a year he'd get lit celebrating something, then no booze the rest of the time. He grinned thinking about how good it was going to feel to have some money in his pocket. Then he glanced at Suzy's serious, worried face and felt ashamed of himself. He had already forgotten that Mark was sick. He had forgotten the reason they were here.

He kept thinking about the good feeling of having money—he couldn't help it—but he also thought about Mark. The poor wee thing had always been sickly. He had colds and grippe and maybe asthma—that's what Suzy said when he wheezed trying to breathe. But the good feeling he got thinking about having money in his pocket made him an optimist. Mark was going to be okay. The Edie McLaughlin woman was kind, and the nurse who took him away was concerned and caring. He knew from TV doctor shows they performed miracles. Mark was going to be fine. He could taste the sweet ginger ale in his throat. He could feel the chewy sweetness of the caramel in the candy bar as his teeth worked it in his mouth. Winter was over and spring was here. The birds were singing back home. He was singing here in the hospital—singing in his heart.

But Suzy wasn't. Suddenly her hand gripped his arm. The door had opened and she thought she saw Mark. "He's here!" she said and then stopped. It was a false alarm. It was only the rich guy with the broken arm who came out. His arm was in a sling and had that white hard stuff on it. He went up to the desk and talked to the woman—the mean one who had checked them in. He signed something and left.

A few minutes passed. Suzy was growing restless and impatient. She started drumming her leg. Suddenly she asked, "What's taking so long? It must be bad."

He was self-conscious. People nearby had looked up at her sudden words. He just shrugged.

"I keep thinking, what if we brought him in too late? My boy, my poor boy."

Luke looked around to see if anyone was listening. In a low voice he tried to comfort her. "Hospitals can do all sorts of things now. You've seen it on TV. They'll fix Mark right up. You wait and see."

She nodded and started thinking about what he said. Her leg stopped drumming. That was a good sign. A long time passed during which he sometimes thought of money, other times half watched the TV news show, and sometimes thought of Mark. He couldn't really imagine what they would be doing in those rooms, though. Then a doctor came into the room, and he and Suzy joined everyone else in looking up expectantly. But the doctor passed through the room and went behind the counter to check some paperwork. Now, though, Luke had caught some of Suzy's anxiety. He both wanted the doctor to come to them and dreaded it.

Then he overheard some people talking and found out in the emergency room they took people in order of the seriousness of their condition. He overheard a man complaining about how long he had waited. He was a big fat guy with mean black eyes. He had shortness of breath. Luke heard the man's wife say so when she tried to calm him down. A lot of people had gone in front of him, she said, because their condition was more serious. When Luke heard that, the good mood he'd had thinking about a job and money entirely deserted him. He became as anxious as Suzy, probably more so because he heard this and she didn't.

She was still concentrating on the door Mark had gone through with the nurse. He thought of all the times she patiently endured the hardships of their life. He thought she deserved peace, not this worry and dread. She was a good woman and a good mother. He was lucky and he knew it.

So he thought no more about ginger ale and candy and cigarettes and instead thought about Mark. If he died that would make their money go further—but the thought stopped right there. The tingling he'd been feeling in his fingers lately jumped to his spine and gave him a chill of horror. He had to be a bad person to have such an evil thought. But no. No, no, no. He wasn't a bad man, and he didn't know how such a thought could even enter his mind. He felt scared in a different way now. The only thing that would make him feel better was for Mark to come through the door cured.

For another half hour he didn't feel better. He tried not to think his evil thought, but nothing worked. Ginger ale, store-bought cigarettes and candy tasted dull. Thinking of how little Mark weighed scared him. He didn't dare go for another cigarette. He couldn't hear the TV. The news pictures made no sense. Like Suzy's, his eyes were locked on the door that Mark had gone through. And he thought the evil thought and slowly crumbled into dust.

Finally a nurse came through the door. She was the one who took Mark away. She surveyed the room and her eyes rested on him and Suzy. They exchanged an anxious glance, but before they could say anything the nurse came over to them. "The doctor wishes to speak to you," she said.

Self-consciously—for everyone was looking at them—they followed her across the room and through the door. Too late, Luke wished he had worn his best clothes. His shirt had a hole in the elbow. The jacket he carried had a badly frayed collar and grease stains. The leather of his boots was worn bare. He was sure that he not only looked poor—he looked criminal, like one who had evil thoughts. He tried to banish the devils from his mind. He tried to think of something else. To Suzy he whispered, "Why wasn't Mark brought back to us?" She frowned and didn't answer. She knew it meant something bad. Here was Suzy who only thought of love. Her whole mind, love. He felt unworthy of her. He felt he was a bad, bad man.

At the end of a long corridor they were brought into a small room. It had a table, a few chairs, no windows, and a doctor. The nurse told him that here were the Kimballs. She left.

Dr. Arak was his name—at least that's what it sounded like. Suzy looked at the name tag on his coat and said that sound. He was strangely dark, a foreigner in fact. He was short and his face was pockmarked, which was small comfort. He spoke English with a singsongy accent. Suzy asked him what he had found.

"The symptoms are of Minamata disease—mercury poisoning. Tell me, do you eat fish?"

Suzy said yes in a voice full of dread. "Is mercury poisoning bad?"

"Fish you've caught yourself?"

The dread grew on her face. She turned to Luke. "My husband fishes. We eat what he catches. But tell me, my boy?"

The doctor looked down at his clipboard and back at Suzy. "Yes, it can be. It's too early to tell with your son." Then he looked at Luke. "Where are you catching these fish? And how often do you eat it?"

"There's a pond near our house. Pleasant Pond it's called."

Suzy answered the second question. "At least once or twice a week. Sometimes more. I even make chowder out of the leftovers."

Dr. Arak nodded to her, but looked back at him. "What did you say the name of that pond was?"

"Pleasant Pond."

He wrote it down and asked, "Where is it?"

"Near our house. Near the Waska River, up on Route 177."

"Do you have any other children?"

"We have five," Suzy said, "but one's not living with us now. He ran away."

Luke thought she shouldn't have told the doctor that. He would think they were both bad people.

"And do the other children eat the fish?"

"Not Sharon. She's a year older than Mark. She hates fish."

"And the others?"

"They're teenagers and don't always eat at home. But they have eaten it."

The doctor was writing down all she said. His pen scratching on the paper went on for a while and then he looked at Luke. "Have you felt any tingling in your extremities?"

Luke didn't know what he meant. He began to feel scared and confused.

"Your fingers and toes? Do they ever tingle?"

Suzy shook her head. Luke said, "Maybe." He remembered feeling something funny sometimes in both places. He remembered the trouble he had rolling a cigarette. He remembered now how he couldn't quite feel the paper.

"Well, we'll need to get blood samples from every member of your family. The nurse will start with you right now." He started to leave, but Suzy had a question. At the door he turned and listened.

"We've been eating fish from that pond for years. I don't understand why there's poison in the fish now?"

"Well, the public health officials will have to investigate. Sometimes it's factories, sometimes things people throw into the water. Somehow it has apparently gotten into your pond."

They got the blood tests, and then they were allowed to see Mark. He was in intensive care and had tubes and such in him. He looked scared and confused but also very sick. The nurse told them they were giving him medication to clear the poison from his system. If their tests came back positive they were going to have to take the same medicine. Because Mark was little he was sicker, the nurse explained. Luke felt his fingers tingle. He took it as good news until he remembered that the doctor had also said it was too early to tell with Mark. Thinking of that he hung back, ashamed to be the cause of his little boy's suffering and ashamed to have had evil thoughts. He wondered if the nurse thought he was a monster. He sure felt like one. He watched Suzy rubbing Mark's cheek and kissing him on the forehead. She was talking to him in low murmurs, the way a mother does to her baby. He knew her littlest one was her favorite child. "Momma loves you," he heard her murmur. He felt the nurse's eyes on him and turned to her. He expected hostility, but she was kind. "Can I get you anything?" she asked in a soft voice. Moved, he shook his head. He felt tears wanting to come into the air and turned away. The others, Sissy, Malcolm and Sharon would have to be tested too. He knew Sissy would blame him, and he couldn't call her wrong. It was worse to think Suzy would blame him, though. He wanted to justify himself, to say he only fished because the family needed food. Then he thought that Suzy would understand that and he wouldn't have to explain himself. But if the worst happened, he wasn't sure what Suzy would do.

When they were driving home later in stunned silence, Suzy suddenly spoke. "Someone's to blame for this."

"What do you mean?" He spoke sharply and defensively. He thought she meant him.

"I mean that someone put that mercury in the water. Someone's been poisoning us."

He remembered seeing trucks come off the Tooley Road on the other side of the woods. The one building on the pond was where they went. Sometimes he heard trucks at night. "I've seen something," he said, and when she looked at him he told her about the trucks.

"We should tell the doctor," she said. "Or the police or whoever needs to know. Other people shouldn't have to worry like this."

He felt better hearing her say this. It meant she didn't blame him.

When they got home the kids were waiting for them. Sharon was watching TV, though it wasn't a children's show. Probably she was bored, and Malcolm had told her not to bother him. He was sitting at the kitchen table working on his strange hobby of carving expensive cars in wood. He had taken his carving tools with him to his grandparents this morning. He'd done fifteen of them so far, and Vernon, who thought they were good enough to sell, told him he was going to buy him paint for his upcoming birthday so that he could finish them off proper.

Sharon jumped up the moment they came through the door. She had her mother's blond hair, and it started flying as she raced across the room. She was looking for Mark, Luke knew. With eight years separating her from Malcolm, and with her big sister too interested in boys now to have any time for her, she and Mark were a world apart. "Where's Mark?" she asked breathlessly.

When Suzy told her he was staying in the hospital, her face grew very serious. "Is he going to die?"

The question angered Luke. "Don't you go using words like that, missy. He's sick, that's all." He scowled at her, and she started whimpering.

Suzy put her arm around her shoulder. "He's been poisoned by the fish we've been eating. It seems someone has been dumping stuff with mercury into the pond. You'll have to be getting blood tests too."

That last remark terrified Sharon. Her face crinkled up and she began crying in earnest.

From the kitchen table Malcolm looked up from his carving. "What kind of stuff?" he asked.

Luke frowned and glared at him. He had forgotten to ask the doctor that question and was ashamed he did not know. "Just stuff. That's all you need to know."

Malcolm's face dropped. He wasn't used to being rebuked by his father. That was because in almost every particular he was the spitting image of Luke at that age. He had the same hooked nose, pointed jaw, dark hair, protruding forehead and hazel eyes. He was about the same height—five foot seven inches. He was thin but sinewy like Luke. But the similarities didn't end there. He was quiet and shy. Unlike Sissy and Leighton, he never gave any sass. Again like Luke, he was sensitive and touchy. The city boys teased him mercilessly.

Because of all that, Luke was protective of him. To snap at his boy was a very rare thing. Usually he could not stay mad at Malcolm for more than a minute, but his heart had none of the melting warmth of his usual self. So he said nothing, and Malcolm took his hurt to the boys' bedroom to sulk.

Luke sat down and rolled a cigarette while he watched Sharon help Suzy make lunch. He noticed Suzy was strangely silent and not her usual self either. The kids had already eaten at their grandparents, so the late lunch of fried eggs and homemade bread was a quiet affair. Sharon wandered off outside, and Malcolm still sulked in the bedroom.

"I reckon we'd better take the kids to get them blood tests tomorrow," Suzy said when the meal was half eaten.

"I reckon," he replied.

"They seem okay."

"Yeah, but Sharon never ate the fish. It might be different with Malcolm and Sissy."

"They seem okay too." Afraid, she spoke sharply. Not for the first time he realized pain took your humanity away. But this was the worst time. He still felt awful. He wasn't hungry, though he ate all his food.

After lunch he went out to chop some firewood. It was an activity he loved. He had done many jobs in his life—gofer for a carpenter, plumber's assistant for one summer, yard and lawn work, sweeper in a factory, painter, apple picker, farmhand, handyman, and for four years he even worked on the line at a factory that made soles for shoes and boots until he got fired for stealing two screwdrivers—but his best job and the one he felt most competent to do was lumberman. He could do amazing things with a chain saw and an ax. So sawing up some big logs with his chain saw and then splitting them with his ax made him forget his troubles for a while. He even started daydreaming again about the money he was going to make once he got in touch with Wade Blackburn tomorrow. But when his work was finished and he'd piled up the wood, the bad thoughts returned to him. He couldn't face going inside, so instead—and without telling Suzy—he decided to walk down to the pond and think.

It was late afternoon and getting cool now that the sun was low. The world was moving towards the stillness of twilight, his favorite time outdoors. His old boots were already leaking as he walked across the squishy grass of the spring-extended wetlands. On a high bush two red-winged blackbirds were squabbling, probably over a nesting site. Ahead of him he saw a blue heron rise into the air and fly to the poplars on the other side of the pond. Here in low wetland the high grass and rushes hid from him a view of the pond itself. To get to its shore he turned left, following the well known path, and sought the high ground. Here sumac trees grew in abundance along with some spindly pines. He saw a screech owl on one of the branches last week. The owl froze and he did too. When he was a boy he would bedevil wildlife, but after a life of hardship he came to appreciate the life they lived. They too had to struggle to survive in a friendless world. He still killed deer and rabbits and an occasional bird—duck, grouse or snipe—but it was for food. He'd been told the Indians apologized to the souls of the creatures they killed. One time when a lucky shot brought down a wood duck and he examined its red eye gone glassy and its shiny greens and bright whites and spotted rusty reds he understood the Indians' piety. After that he always whispered his sorrow for the food he took and the life lost. Other creatures, the muskrats and squirrels, the swamp sparrows and meadowlarks, were mute friends and comforting companions in the woods. He could be relaxed and at home with them.

Near the pond now, the memory of his evil thought at the hospital returned to him. He stepped between the thick leafless bushes to the shore. The high water confined him to a narrow rocky ledge. Just a few weeks ago it was still iced over and from this spot he would be watching for the red flag in the holes he had chopped. A band of chickadees calling to each other returned him to his thoughts. The birds were innocent and Mark was innocent. Unbidden, another memory replaced the evil one. Little Mark just learning to walk, tottering over to him on unsteady legs. His face with a look of great concentration and then breaking into a wide and happy grin as he falls into his daddy's arms. That was the day he fell in love with his son.

He couldn't understand where that love could have gone to make him have so evil a thought. He felt ashamed and remembered something his own father had told him once. He had been picking on a little neighboring boy when his father saw them. He was a quiet man and let Luke's mother do most of the raising, but this time he interfered. "The only reason you're picking on him is because you're bigger. But let me tell you something. It's mean and unmanly to hurt someone who is defenseless. To be a man is to protect the weak. Do you understand?" At the time he didn't, but later when bullies at school beat him and called him a country hick, he saw it clear enough.

He tried to live after his father's advice, and because of that he thought of himself as a good man. But nothing goes unnoticed or forgotten. He sat on the embankment, hardly feeling the dampness of the ground. He sighed. There was a word ministers used. Retribution. He was pretty sure that was the one. God sees all and no sin goes unpunished. He wasn't a religious man. He had hardly been inside a church since he was a boy. But he believed God was capable of retribution. God was like hope. He believed in him. But he was a man whose hopes had come to nothing, so he believed in retribution too.

Was it his pride? Suzy accused him of it. They waited too long because of his pride. Even the fish smelled of his pride. Catching them and providing for the family was one of the few things that made him feel good this winter. Now he knew that instead of being a man and head of the household he was killing his little boy. The Lord was smiting him. If his son died it would be his fault. But the retribution went even further. An eye for an eye. A boy for a boy. He knew now God was watching the day thirty years ago Barry Pendleton drowned in this very pond.

Everything happened step-by-step. It was a hot summer day, and throwing a taped-up baseball back and forth soon grew boring. One of them, he couldn't remember which, suggested they go to the pond. It was a quarter of a mile away, and by the time they walked through the tall grass, across the wetlands and along the higher dry ground to get to the pond they were very hot. At first they just took off their canvas sneakers and walked into the shallows. They squealed and splashed each other for a while. Soon they were so wet Luke said they might as well jump in all the way. He did it first and swam about. He was proud that he could swim and yelled, "Look at me!" But Barry hesitated. He was not a good swimmer. Only after Luke teased him and called him a sissy did he jump in all the way and dog-paddle while Luke swam. Then Luke spotted the rocky outcropping seventy-five feet away and suggested they swim to it. Again Barry hesitated, and again he was called a sissy. "The pond is shallow," he said. "We'll never be over our heads." Still Barry was afraid. "Come on," Luke said. "Don't be such a big baby. I'll be right beside you." So it happened. Halfway there they were over their heads, and when Barry got tired and tried to touch bottom to rest he panicked. He started screaming and thrashing away and went under, then came up. Luke tried to help him, but when he got to him Barry grabbed hold of him and started pulling him down. So Luke panicked and pushed him away. But he had to do something, so he swam quickly to shore to find a branch. But by the time he was back in the water Barry had gone under for good. He ran back home with his heart racing faster than his legs to get his mother and brother, and they retrieved the dead body. Luke never told anyone that Barry had gone into deeper water because of a dare. He lied and said Barry had foolishly gone too deep. For years afterwards he became scared every time he thought about that day. Finally he managed to convince himself that the lie he told was the truth. A time came when he could fish at the pond and not remember that he had caused a ten-year-old boy's death. But retribution never forgot.

He looked up at the sky above where the sun was close to setting. Up there God watched. "Please, Lord, I didn't mean to get Barry drowned. I'm sorry I thought about Mark dying too, Lord. I didn't mean it. It was my pride because I have no money. Punish me, Lord, smite me down for my sins, but spare that poor boy. His momma would be brokenhearted if you took him from us, Lord. Punish me!"

He stood and started beating himself on the arms and chest as he made his prayer. "Me, Lord, me. Smite me." Then when the pain made him feel better and a pang of fear shuddered through him, he added, "If you spare me, Lord, and spare Mark, I swear I'll be a good man. I'll get a permanent job. I'll pay for the hospital. Please help me, Lord."

He remembered the feel of Mark's wasted body as light as a newborn babe. He remembered his father's advice about protecting the weak and the innocent. He hoped God was a father. He hoped God had heard that advice. Suddenly he felt as tiny and defenseless as his sick little boy. He sank back onto the damp bank. He looked at the rocks at his feet and the poisoned water and whispered, "Please, please, please..."

Other People

Chris Andrews found Patti Ryan already having breakfast when he came into the kitchen at a little after seven a.m. For the past several months he had been staying at the house that Patti's father had given her and her brother Alex a year ago, and this was the usual way his day started. Patti and he were the early risers. Alex, Virgie and Donna tended to sleep in, which was probably a good thing since Chris was not at his best when he first woke up and couldn't handle the others. Patti, his oldest friend, was different. They had met at Portland High twelve years ago when they were both fourteen and had been friends since. When Chris grew tired of the west coast after two and a half years of radical environmentalism—spiking trees, lying down before bulldozers, working to save the spotted owl, even a stint as a tree sitter high on a giant redwood—and decided to come home, it was Patti, and to a lesser extent her brother Alex, who were the faces attached to the word "home." His mother had died in a fire three years ago (it was the insurance money from that fire that had financed, and continued to finance, his green activities), and his father had died from a heart attack and from drinking three years before his mother's death, so he, an only child, had no family in the usual sense of the word.

But he had his friends and housemates for a family. With them he could be himself and know he was among people who shared experiences and core beliefs. He could be at home, not a situation he was used to. When he was a boy his father changed jobs and moved so often that he began to feel like an army brat. He found it hard to make friends. It was a lonely, scared and alienated boy who found Patti and Alex and later Virgie. Like him they cared nothing for the usual high school rigmarole of football, popularity, conventional beliefs and adolescent conformity. Even when his parents still lived, his new friends quickly became his real home. They were all rebellious and distrustful of authority without any particular target, though later the youthful rebelliousness grew into a leftist perspective on life.

He knew the others felt similar bonds to him. Chris and Patti were the first people Alex told that he was gay. When they accepted him for himself, they in turn helped him to accept himself. As for Virgie, she and Chris had an on-and-off sexual relationship for years. She was the real hippie among them, the one who had not yet found her calling and never would. She lived day to day, taking what came her way. But what would she be without the refuge Patti and Alex offered her? She, the child of alcoholics, got by by trying not to let anything bother her. With her too the only home she knew was with them.

That home was, nevertheless, slowly changing into something less adolescent, less free-spirited. The world was calling; the responsibilities of adulthood were pressing in on them. Alex attended law school at U.S.M. during the day and worked as a waiter three nights a week. Patti, after several years of drifting like Virgie, even though she did work on the AIDS hotline and served at a soup kitchen, had finally decided that if she had to work to live she might as well do something that helped people. She had enrolled in the nursing program at U.S.M. and was on her way to becoming a registered nurse. Donna, Virgie's friend and the final member of the commune, was thinking about getting into teaching, though those plans were on hold: she had recently met a man and was living mostly at his apartment. Chris had not laid eyes on her for the past week.

Chris had come up from his basement room quietly and unobserved. Patti was thoughtfully munching toast on which she had mashed a banana. The morning paper lay opened on the table before her, but she appeared lost in thought.

As always he found her face attractive. She had full lips, a pug nose, soulful dark eyes and sandy hair worn short and parted in the middle. Dressed in her usual night wear, a long T-shirt over her panties, she was heavy-thighed but otherwise shapely and well formed. Briefly back in high school they had been lovers before realizing that their personalities meshed together better as friends than as lovers. And yet he loved her more than any other person in the world.

"Is this the day your father makes his visit-inspection?" he asked, breaking her reverie.

She looked up, momentarily surprised. "No, he's coming this weekend."

"Oh," he said indifferently. "I thought you were thinking of him just now. You seemed lost in thought." He walked over to the counter to sniff the coffeemaker. One thing he had brought back with him from the west coast was a love of good coffee. He bought some expensive Colombian coffee for the household recently, which his nose told him Patti had brewed this morning. He poured himself a cup.

"I was just thinking about being a nurse. You know, wondering if it was right for me."

"I thought you already went through that. I thought you—"

"I did, but with a little more work I could be a doctor."

"A _little_ more?"

She smiled. "That's the trouble. It would take a lot more work. But, hey, there's something else, something I saw in the paper. I don't know what you have planned for today, but there's an article here about that mercury pollution in Waska that might make you change any plans."

He had a moment of panic where he felt his heart jolted. That a news item was appearing in the paper about his case meant he had been a fool. He had planned on being the one to break this story and would have been if he had not been distracted by the problem with a water treatment plant upstate. Gardia and other biological pollutants were found in a town's water supply, and Chris had spent time upstate doing research about it. "Where?" he said imperiously. "Show it to me."

She handed him the paper. He read hurriedly, looking for the name Ridlon, and was relieved not to find it. The article concerned a young boy named Mark Kimball, who was seriously ill with Minamata disease, almost certainly, the article said, from eating fish his father caught in Pleasant Pond.

"Is that your case?"

"Yeah. And I'm pretty sure that pond is near where I got the highest readings on the Waska River." He went over to the desk in the dining room where yesterday he had been doing some paper work and took a couple of folders from his briefcase. "I've got some maps that will show the location."

Patti stood to look over his shoulder. "Does this ruin your case?"

"Not necessarily. They don't know in Waska who's responsible. I do." He thought for a moment, weighing some alternatives. "Actually, this might help my case. Before I just had readings. Now we have a victim. If that boy dies, the public will want blood. That's all to the good."

Patti walked around to face him and stared, wide-eyed. "What the hell do you mean by that? Do you want that poor boy to die?"

"No, not like that. I'm talking about tactics."

"Even on a tactical level it's not a good attitude. It's counterpro-ductive."

He was searching through his folders and didn't answer for a while.

"Well, what do you have to say?"

He shrugged. "It'll be okay if the kid is just sick. But it would be better, if we want to galvanize the public, if he died. That's all I'm saying—and, you know, just getting ready just in case."

She chewed on her lip for a moment as she continued to stare at him. "But would it be better for the boy? For the mother?"

"No, of course not. But to stop illegal dumping and the rape of the earth we need to show people what happens. Does anyone care when a bird dies from pesticides or a raccoon starves? When a raptor is shot?"

"I know someone who does."

He looked up at her, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows.

"Me. I cried the time we saw the rabid skunk the police shot."

"You," he said not quite contemptuously but not kindly either, "you're too sensitive."

"And you're a cold-hearted bastard. That's what Virgie says, and she ought to know."

Chris, having found his notes and readings from Waska, started looking through them.

"Well, aren't you going to defend yourself?"

He looked up momentarily. "What's to defend? She's right."

"She says you have a one-track mind and that all you really care about is the earth."

He was examining a map of the Waska River. Pleasant Pond was definitely the place nearest to where he had got the highest readings. Not only that, he saw a road leading to the pond. It was Tooley Road, which he remembered was one of the places he'd found where Ridlon owned property. He grew excited before remembering that Patti needed a reply. He put his finger on Tooley Road and looked up. "She's right again. But someday the earth will thank me even if now nobody does."

When she looked—what? disappointed in him? sorry for him?—he saw she needed appeasing. "You know, Patti, a person can't be everything to everyone. I sure know I'm not perfect, but I do think I'm very good at what I do. The thing I try to do is be realistic. People call us tree-huggers and dismiss us as sentimental fools. There's a guy in Waska—I haven't met him yet, but I just know what he's like. Ridlon's his name. I'm positive he's the one behind this dumping of mercury. Well, he considers himself a realist. You only live once, and you damn well better get all you can. He doesn't care about the earth or other people. To fight people like that you have to be strong. You have to be cynical. You have to be realistic. I'm not going to quit till I nail this creep. And another thing—you can't reason a guy like that into stopping the rape of the earth. You have to fight him the way he'll understand."

Patti's face softened as she listened. He could tell she would prefer that he be a tree-hugger (a term that would describe her), but at least she could respect where he was coming from.

But instead of responding to the defense of his methods, she changed the subject. "So what are you going to do about this news?"

"Well, I'm not exactly sure. My thunder has been stolen. I was hoping to be the guy that exposed this scum and the news that the mercury was in the water, and I would have if I hadn't been distracted by that water purification plant. But what I can do is find the proof to nail Ridlon. As I said, the people in Waska don't know who's behind this mess. I do."

"So you're going to see this through?"

He stared at her through narrowed eyes. "Yes, of course I am. What are you getting at?"

She began picking up her breakfast things. "Nothing. It's only when you came last fall none of us figured you'd last the winter." She put the dishes in the sink, then turned to place the butter in the refrigerator. "You're not a homebody, you know. Always on the go. But I've got to get into the shower before Alex wakes up."

He barely noticed her last remark. He was conscious of feeling hurt that she didn't understand the way he felt about her, but he quickly vanquished that unworthy feeling from his mind. Nature was perfect—when human beings didn't interfere—but he didn't expect anything close to perfection from the human world, the place from where Patti's misunderstanding came. It did, however, and despite himself, set his mind in motion. A chain of associations more felt than logically understood crowded upon Patti's remark of his not being a homebody and made him think of Ronnie Galant, his best friend when he was seven years old. They were inseparable and did all the boy things together. They walked to school together, ran through sprinklers on hot summer days, played baseball and football, buried dead robins with crude stick crosses, read each other's comic books and played some of the characters in elaborate games, even wearing capes and masks they'd made in emulation of their heroes' costumes. They shared treats, made circuses with other kids and gathered their mothers for an audience, watched TV together, and even ate at each other's house frequently. But when he was seven, his father's drinking led to his being fired, and they made the first of their many moves, this one across the river to Bedford. It was only a few miles from his old house and best friend but a continent away when you were only seven. Then two years later when they moved back to Waska he found that Ronnie had made new friends and played with him very little. So in those years before he befriended Patti and Alex and Virgie, during which time they moved several more times and his father drank himself into a stupor every weekend and sometimes even on weekday nights, Chris withdrew into himself and trusted nobody.

But that wasn't why he thought of Ronnie Galant. He wasn't nostalgic for him. He didn't feel as if he'd been expelled from Eden. Nothing like that. Experience had long ago hardened him. He would be insulted if anyone suspected him of regrets. It was home that he was thinking about, but Patti was wrong about him. He wanted stability as much as anybody; it was just that he had found it in a different place. Before he had a human home with his friends, he found another home far away from the human world in nature. When he was twelve, mistrustful, alienated, and angry, and probably in danger of becoming lost to drugs, to alcohol or to neurosis, his father moved them upcountry. He saw deer at twilight, raccoons and possums at night, rabbits in the morning, and birds and insects all the time. All of them, even the insects, were wary of his presence, a quality he could relate to in his loneliness and which actually made him feel closer to the creatures of the earth. He started wandering the woods and fields as often as he could and became familiar with the habits of these creatures. Bands of chickadees made regular rounds, often accompanied by woodpeckers, finches and titmice. He discovered where deer liked to drink and sometimes where they slept. He saw that a skunk gave fair warning to allow him space. He watched redwing blackbirds attack any crow that wandered into their nesting area and found out in a book why: crows would eat nestlings if they found them. After learning that, he was always very careful not to be observed when he examined a nest. He learned that the first migrants tended to be the shore birds and again at the library found out why: they nested on the tundra where winter came early. After a while he spent as much time in the library as he did observing nature directly. He didn't know it, but he had found his life's work, and he had found another home. What Patti misunderstood to be his wanderlust was really his commitment to his first love and his deepest home.

His reminiscing didn't last long. The past was the past, and there was work to do. While eating two pieces of toast slathered with butter and jam, he carefully reread all his notes on Ridlon and mercury poisoning, then went out to his car to check his equipment for taking water samples. That was the only thing he owned that he was currently keeping in his car. The rest of his stuff, which wasn't much, was in his basement room. He was a man who traveled light. All he owned in the world easily fit into the trunk of his small Japanese car. He had a box of files, a laptop and a mobile phone for his "office" equipment. His clothes, mostly dungarees and T-shirts, filled one small suitcase. His library consisted of some dozen or so books, most of them ecological reference books or field guides along with a dictionary and an Internet guide. He could be packed up and on the road in less than half an hour.

When he got back inside Patti was already dressed and ready to go to the hospital. This was a mark of her new efficiency, for she still had twenty minutes before she had to leave. Alex had just called to her from the top of the stairs after taking his shower. He had a problem that Chris couldn't relate to.

"Hey, Patti," he yelled anxiously, "did you wash my salmon shirt when you did the laundry yesterday?"

"No, I didn't have time to do the laundry. Why do you ask?

"Because I'm wearing my charcoal slacks and don't have anything to go with them."

"Wear one of your powder-blue shirts."

"Can't be done. I don't feel powder blue today."

"Chris has that striped shirt, white with reddish-salmon stripes. That should do." She grinned at Chris. The day Alex wore something of Chris's would be the day central heating would be needed in hell.

"Yeah, right," Alex said, not at all amused. "I guess I'll have to get in a powder-blue mood pronto."

A few minutes later he came downstairs wearing the powder-blue shirt with a wry expression that indicated he was still not in a powder-blue mood. He had the same dark eyes as his sister, but his hair was also dark. He was heavyset and much concerned about eating properly and managing his weight. He was also concerned about his appearance, something Chris found alien, but he had the ability to laugh at himself and was not really vain. He was honest, hated hypocrisy, and his bête noire was unimaginative people. Chris liked him for those qualities and because he was a loyal friend.

Patti exchanged a glance with Chris. A slight smile passed across her face. To her brother she said, "Don't worry, you look perfectly fine."

He sniffed, "Don't feel perfectly fine," as he went over to the cupboard and got a box of cereal.

"Chris, why don't you ask Alex to go with you. He's a lawyer and would be more useful."

"Alex is leaving early this morning. That seems obvious?" He modulated his voice to make a question of his second statement, hoping Alex was in fact available.

But he mumbled something about having to see a professor at the law school this morning. His back was turned as he poured milk into his cereal.

"See?" Chris said. "I'm going to have to go alone."

"And that's bad?"

"It'd be better with someone with me. I'm not a people person."

Patti smiled at the confession of his limitations. "Well, ask Virgie. I bet she'd go with you."

"Are you serious. She's been distant ever since..."

He didn't finish the thought because Patti knew all about it. A few weeks ago when Virgie and he were alone in the house, she came downstairs wrapped in a towel after her shower to ask to borrow some toothpaste. One thing led to another and they had a session of lovemaking that lasted the whole morning. What made this behavior problematic was that she was seeing a new guy, so after her passion was spent she told him that she didn't mean for this to happen. He had shrugged and said, "Well, it did happen."

"But let's forget that it did, okay?"

That would be fine with him, he replied, but a few days later when the new boyfriend came around to pick her up, Chris was sarcastic and hostile to him. The guy was wearing dungarees and a matching dungaree jacket with shiny brass studs, so it seemed natural to call him "Stud." He was short, and when Virgie wanted a cup of tea, Chris said he'd better get the cup since it was way up there on the top shelf.

Virgie kept giving him looks that silently asked him to stop, which had the effect of egging him on. "What college did you go to?" he asked the guy, fully aware that he had just got out of the Coast Guard a few months ago.

Following that episode, Virgie used passive aggression to show her displeasure, but a week later the new boyfriend had disappeared. He asked her what happened, but she wouldn't talk about it.

So Virgie was a long shot in this horse race, but the only possibility he had. He looked at his watch: it was approaching 8:30, still early for her, but by the time Alex and Patti left he would chance waking her. "Maybe I'll give her a try," he said to Patti.

"I bet she'd say yes, especially when she sees how important this is."

"What's the problem, Chris?" Alex asked from the breakfast table. "Why do you need someone to go with you? And where are you going?"

"It's about his mercury-poisoning case in Waska," Patti explained. "Chris was planning on breaking the story, but it was in the paper this morning."

Alex appeared not to be listening. Something in the paper had caught his attention, and he was reading the article. But presently he looked up and asked Chris, "Well, if the story is out, what else is there to do?"

"I know the guy who did this polluting. They don't. His name's Ridlon."

"Ridlon? Ned Ridlon from Waska?"

"Yeah. You heard of him?"

Alex busied himself munching some cereal, then tipped his bowl for a final spoonful. "I've heard my dad mention his name. He's a big Republican supporter and has several pols in his pocket. According to my father he has a say on who runs for office locally and statewide. He's a big fish."

"A big fish who's also a big crook apparently," Patti said.

"Yeah," Alex said, standing and bringing his bowl to the sink, "but if you're going to take him on, you might ask my father for help."

The idea displeased Chris. He thought back to high school when Mr. Ryan had tried to forbid Patti from befriending him. He was active in Democratic politics but socially conservative. To him Chris was just riffraff. And later when he learned that his only son was gay, he had not spoken to him for a year. This was the man Alex was suggesting he ask for help. It was ridiculous, insulting. For a moment a lightning bolt of anger crashed in his head, but he censored it. "I don't think I'll need any help beyond facts. It's facts that's going to nail this guy."

Alex looked at Chris with a bemused expression on his face. He knew him well enough to have perceived the anger. "I see you still don't like my old man. Patti will agree with me, though. He has mellowed. And don't you think some pols know what Ridlon's been doing?"

"You mean you think he pays hush money?"

"I'm sure it's more discreet than that, but yes, I do."

"Well, I'll bring them down with him too."

Alex laughed unpleasantly, something he would never have done in the past. Chris wondered if he was growing worldly and middle-class now that he was becoming a lawyer. "If you do," he said, "the case will drag on for years. I'm taking environmental law this semester, so you know who you can turn to."

"Laugh all you want, Alex, but I've had experience in this stuff now. I worked with some people in northern California who had similar cases. Once this stuff becomes public knowledge the pols won't be able to help him. The heat will be too much. I will nail him."

"He will," Patti agreed.

Alex put his spoon and bowl into the dishwasher. "How do you know that?"

"Because I know Chris."

Alex turned and grinned at Chris, this time pleasantly and in a friendly way. "I know him too. You're probably right."

That grin defused Chris's bellicosity. He started thinking more clearly, and when Alex went upstairs to brush his teeth, he turned to Patti. "Patti, before you go, tell me something. Has your father really mellowed? Has he really changed?"

"You're thinking of Alex's suggestion, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "Maybe."

"Well, the answer is yes and yes. He has mellowed. He has changed."

"So what happened?"

Patti was gathering her pocketbook and jacket. She checked in her pocketbook for something, then glanced at her watch. "A couple things, really. First, the fact both Alex and I are pursuing real careers is a big factor. You remember that his objection wasn't only to things like Alex's gayness but that he saw us as hippy idlers. At one time he was only going to do what he considered his duty—get me through Mount Holyoke and Alex through B. U. Then he was going to wash his hands of us. But the other thing was his father's death last year. He talked to me a few weeks after the funeral about it. It was really quite touching, really the first honest conversation I ever had with him."

Chris, still having heard nothing that changed his opinion of Mr. Ryan, was starting to feel bored. "So what did he say?"

"He said that sitting at the funeral he thought of his own death and how once death occurs no reconciliation is possible. He had his own issues with his father, so he understood the concept of a generation gap. So he decided to lighten up. That was the phrase he used too, 'lighten up.' He started paying for our graduate education and he gave us the house here. He'd been renting it all the years after we moved out to the bigger place on the Eastern Prom. He even bought a lot of furniture for us." She paused and gave him a significant look. "I know you're thinking that all this is only money. True. But he is also becoming, or trying to become, more accepting. You notice he's never said anything about you, Virgie and Donna being roomies."

"He hasn't said anything, but the way he looks speaks loud enough for me to hear."

"Okay, maybe, but the thing is that now he knows he's wrong. You can't expect someone to give up lifelong ways of thinking overnight, can you?"

"I guess not, but—"

"I'll tell you what I think," Patti said with great vehemence. "Alex is right about one thing. He could give you good advice on some of those pols. He could be useful. I want you to nail that guy too."

Chris still couldn't forget what he had been called back in high school. He passed the possibilities through his mind, but kept going back to the word that reactionary old fart had used. He spat it out: "Would he really want to help _riffraff_ like me?"

Patti smiled indulgently. "Work on it, Chris, just like my dad is working on it. I'm telling you, he would be glad to help. But now I gotta go." Then she did a strange thing. She came over to him, kissed him, and said, "I love you too, you know."

He thought about the kiss for a long time. So she had understood him after all. He too was her best friend. He felt so good he started thinking Mr. Ryan would be a good man to work with. If he couldn't trust Patti, whom could he trust? And he was jovial to Alex when he left to walk over to the university. He joked about doing the cooking tonight instead of his usual contribution to the household, the cleaning up.

"I'll save you the trouble of burning every pot and pan in the house, Chris. I'll do my clam spaghetti."

Now alone in the house with the sleeping Virgie, he didn't waste any more time thinking about the Ryan family. He went straight upstairs to Virgie's room where he tapped on her door and without waiting opened it and walked in. "Virgie," he said abruptly and perhaps a bit too imperiously, "I need your help."

She was surprised and hastily covered her breasts with the bedsheet. She always slept in the nude, he knew, but her virginal reaction was unexpected. "My, aren't we modest."

"I just don't want you to get any ideas."

He had to suppress a smile seeing her expression. Of course she was thinking of their little sexual adventure and its aftermath, but what struck him was that she looked exactly the same as she did the day he met her. She hadn't changed a bit. Her hooded eyes, making her always look sleepy, her impossible paleness (she spent as little time as possible outdoors), her light brown hair, her long elegant neck, all were as pristine as ever. Her mannerisms likewise defied inexorable time and remained the same. She tossed her head and set her thin lips determinedly just as she always did when trying to assert herself. But he knew she was either too lazy or too weak to ever withstand a concerted effort. Handled carefully, he could play her like a musical instrument. Affecting wounded feelings and deep sincerity, he said, "I have no ideas. I've got a job to do and need your help."

"Why should I help _you_?" She was still trying to be standoffish, but he could see the curiosity in her eyes. It was almost too easy.

"Because this is important. There's a very sick boy, possibly even dying from mercury poisoning. I want to nail the guy who illegally dumped mercury into a pond."

His appeal to her compassion worked. He could see her face, which had been set determinedly, soften. "Is the boy really seriously sick?"

"Yeah."

She looked from Chris down to her hands clutching the sheet over her torso. "I'd like to help, but I gotta find a job today."

He sat on the bed and looked at her imploringly. "That's not a problem. You can look through the help-wanted ads as we drive to Waska."

She shook her head. "Reading in a car makes me dizzy."

"Well, when we get back, then. I'll only need your help in the morning. We should be back in Portland by lunchtime."

When she still hesitated, he put his hand on her thigh and said in a voice tenderly beseeching, "Come on, Virgie. This is important. I need you because I need a woman's touch. I want to meet the family of that boy and question them. You know me and the social graces. A woman's presence would put them at ease."

So, just as he expected, she relented, though she did demand that he leave the room while she got ready for a shower.

A half hour later they were in his car driving to Waska. She munched a banana and a plain piece of bread and had a coffee stuck in his cup holder with which to wash it down. When she looked as if she was going to throw the banana peel out the window, he frowned and said, "No, no. Put it in that plastic bag." He pointed.

With a shrug she followed his instructions, then languidly yawned and stretched. Despite the coolness of the day, she wore, like him, jeans and a T-shirt. When she saw him glancing at her breasts, she said, "Hey, remember, no ideas."

"I wasn't getting ideas. I was thinking that maybe you should have worn a bra. These people may have old-fashioned notions."

"Well, it's too late for that now. Unless you happen to keep a spare bra in the car."

Her sarcasm veiled her real feelings, which he was sure was disappoint-ment at his apparent sexual indifference. Not knowing what to say, he said nothing.

Presently it was she who made an effort to discharge the negative electricity. Tucking one leg under her butt and adjusting the seat belt, she turned in her seat to face him. "Is this the case you were working on last month?"

When he nodded, she asked, "Then how come it's so important now. Before you put it off."

"That's just the trouble. I was hoping to announce the discovery myself, but that sick boy beat me to the punch."

Virgie looked at him but didn't say anything. They drove on for a while, rather slowly because they were behind an elderly driver at a place where U.S. Route 1 was single-laned. Chris tapped at the wheel impatiently, and just as they came to double lanes again and he passed the old coot, she said, "How long have you known about the polluting?"

"Of the pond? Well, I didn't know it. I thought it was the river, but the pond empties into the river in some small brook too small to appear on maps. But it was about a month ago. I got distracted by that upstate business. But now I'm even more sure I can nail this guy Ridlon. I checked the land his company or he personally owns and know he has land on this pond."

She remained silent for some time, then said abruptly, "You love this, don't you?"

He glanced at her. She seemed to be quite serious. "Love what? Nailing a creep? Yeah."

"I mean the action. You love doing this work, keeping busy."

"Is that so bad?"

"No. It shows you at your best, if you must know. What I can't understand is what you did tree sitting for two weeks. _That_ doesn't sound like you. There's no action. You just sit there."

He grinned. "That's a fairly accurate description about how I felt about it. It's very important to do, but the two-week replacement was all I could handle."

"So how did you pass the time?"

"One thing, I reread _Silent Spring_. And I worked on some files I had about Maine. I was already thinking about coming back to New England, but I made the definite decision on that stupid platform."

"I won't ask how you went to the bathroom," she said, emitting a little laugh, "but how about sleeping? Weren't you afraid of rolling over and falling?"

"Well, you kinda tie yourself down, but we're in Waska now. There's a shortcut." Too late he saw the road as they whizzed by at fifty miles per hour. "Shit! No shortcut. We'll have to take North Street downtown."

"Is it much longer? Remember I've got to find a job today."

He shook his head, then after seeing that she was dreamily staring out the window, said, "Not so shortcutty that it would be worth turning around to go back. No."

She was still curious about the tree sitting and didn't seem all that bothered that they had lost a few minutes. "How often did you see people? I mean when you were up in the redwood."

"Oh, not every day but quite often."

"Any hostility?"

"Quite a bit actually. Lumbermen types regarded us as enemies. Half the wood in the Pacific Northwest goes directly to Japan for milling now. That's the timber companies' doing, but of course they use propaganda to say it's the greens who are robbing them of their livelihood. So I was called every name in the book. Some threatened me. You know, saying next time they came they'd bring a gun. But there were plenty of supporters too. I had some great conversations. I almost talked one babe into coming up to the platform to have sex. She was willing in one way, but afraid of heights."

"How awful for you," Virgie said sarcastically, but she smiled as she said it. They were in Waska now. Chris, concentrating on directions, was silent. They turned onto North Street and passed many beautiful nineteenth-century homes. He remembered hearing that they, together with similar houses on upper Main Street, were the homes of the capitalists and their top boys who ran the textile mills in the heyday of expansion during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. After these stately mansions they drove through an area of ugly warehouses and small manufacturing concerns, followed by some suburban houses, the older ones split-level or ranch homes, the newer ones the ubiquitous colonial trophy houses of the modern greed-driven MBA types, and then finally they were in the country. They drove by a horse farm with many separate fields and holding pens, all enclosed by white post-and-beam fences. The fields closest to the road held many colts and mares feeding on the green grass. Seeing them, Virgie grew excited. "I always wished I had a horse," she said, to which Chris merely grunted. The landscape that followed was far less pretty. Mostly woods interspersed with small ramshackle houses and the neglected fields of abandoned farms. Having passed a couple of secondary roads that he had seen on his maps, Chris knew they were getting close. The article in the paper said the Kimballs lived on a dirt road near the Tooley Road, so when he saw the sign for the latter, he slowed down.

He turned into the first dirt road he saw, but stopped almost immediately.

"Is this the road?" Virgie asked.

"I think so, but I have no idea which house they live in." They could see two or three places, all showing signs that their occupants were very poor. The biggest one, a cape house with a piebald roof with shingles of many different colors and a sagging barn beside it, was right before them. Further down the road they could see two tar-paper shacks.

"Hey," Virgie said excitedly when she saw a man come out of the cape house and make his way slowly to the barn, "we could ask that guy."

They got out of the car and approached him cautiously and with growing apprehension. He looked none too friendly.

The man greeted them with an ugly scowl and with his dangerous, angry eyes glaring. Virgie nervously drew closer to Chris. For a moment while he tried to formulate a way to break through this patent hostility, the three of them stared at each other. Finally deciding that the direct approach was as good as any other, Chris asked, "We're looking for the Kimballs, Luke and Suzy Kimball. Could you tell us where they live?"

The man gathered some phlegm in his mouth and spat contemptuously, eying Virgie as he did so. His foot scraped the ground. "They live down the road a bit. Around the curve." He pointed and then turned his back on them and walked away.

"I hope the Kimballs are different," Virgie whispered.

"Yeah, me too. That guy seems to have quite a chip on his shoulder."

They walked down the road while Virgie's eyes stared in wonder at the visible signs of poverty. They passed a dirty child about two years old playing with a one-armed doll. She stopped and stared at them. It appeared that she was unattended. He looked at Virgie and shook his head. He could tell she was experiencing a maternal feeling, but this was no time for sideshows.

"There it is," he pointed as they came around the curve at a place so rundown and neglected it made the other two tar-paper shacks look respectable.

It was a truly dismal place. The house, about forty feet long and shaped like a trailer, had a slant roof like a shed. The whole structure was clearly jerrybuilt and jury-rigged, and the sides were covered with sheets of tar-paper, worn thin and curling in some places. It had three tiny windows, all of different sizes, and a door of peeling paint. An ancient, rusty station wagon and another stripped vehicle of the same make, apparently cannibalized to keep the rust bucket going, were parked on higher ground on the left. The yard before them was lower and comprised either of mud or actual puddles before it rose to the slightly higher ground of the house. Near the front door high, wild grass the color of straw grew up to four feet high. Lower, at ground level, green shoots sprang from the earth. The conditions in which these people lived reminded Chris of some of the places he'd seen on the west coast where migrant Mexican workers lived.

He could see that Virgie was shocked by the squalor. Her eyes widened as she surveyed the house and grounds. But if Virgie was shocked, he wasn't. Would he be shocked that a woodchuck lived in a hole in the ground or that maggots lived on a dead dog? These were facts of nature. So were the Kimballs. He hoped Virgie would keep her mouth shut and not alienate them by wanting to help them. One difference between a ground-hog and a human being was that the latter held on to his pride, even if there was only a tattered scrap of it left. With Virgie's soft heart, there was a definite danger of this. He wanted her with him because he knew a woman put people more at ease, but he didn't want her to talk too much. So as the Kimballs, man and wife, appeared in the door, he greeted them. "Hello, I assume you are the Kimballs. The man down the road told us we'd find you here."

Luke Kimball was a tall, gangly fellow with a long neck and prominent Adam's apple. His neck and face were covered with dark stubble. He had thinning dark hair, poor skin and very bad teeth. He seemed ill-at-ease and very shy. His wife was once pretty, Chris thought, and still had a pleasant round face with large blue eyes and faded blond hair with streaks of gray. She, he could tell, was more confident meeting strangers.

"This is Virginia Lawrence, a friend of mine, and I'm Chris Andrews. We heard about your son—"

"Yes," Virgie interrupted, "and we hope he is getting better." She addressed her question to the woman.

A look of pain and exhaustion passed over Mrs. Kimball's face. "He's about the same. The doctor says it will be awhile before we will know if the medication is cleansing his system."

Chris, seeing that the woman trusted Virgie, was pleased. He seized his advantage. "I think I know who did this to your son, Mrs. Kimball, and I want to prove it. I investigate polluters, see? People who don't respect the earth or human beings either. The one who did this poisoning, he did it just to make more money. He was supposed to bring the poison to a place that processed it."

"Why didn't he do that, then?" Mrs. Kimball asked.

"Because he had to pay money to do the processing. He's a greedy, evil man, you see."

Luke frowned, maybe because he caught a note of condescension in Chris's explanation. He proceeded more carefully. "I know the man owns property on that pond. Do you know him or ever see him?

"There's a building across from here. It's little more than a shed. It must be what you're looking for. I ain't seen the man, though."

"Okay, that's probably his shed. Can you show it to me?"

Luke rubbed his chin and looked at his wife. "I'd hafta do it right now. I'm startin' work tomorrow."

"Now would be fine."

"Tell him about the trucks, Luke."

Chris turned. "You've seen trucks? Did you see that they had RIDLON RECYCLING written on them?"

Luke appeared embarrassed. "I don't rightly know. I didn't notice. Besides, mostly I hear 'em. They come mostly at night down the Tooley Road."

Excited, Chris squeezed Virgie's arm so hard she yelped in pain. "Sorry," he murmured.

The Kimballs, man and wife, exchanged a glance. Luke seemed uneasy; Suzy peered at them suspiciously. Fearing that he might be losing them and at the same time feeling his face redden, Chris said, "I accidentally stepped on Virgie's foot."

"I'm okay," she said matter-of-factly. She seemed to understand what he wanted.

"So you hear trucks coming down the road at night. How long do they stay?"

Luke rubbed his chin nervously. "I'm not sure. They ain't quick visits, if that's what you mean."

Chris looked at Luke and then quickly away. The man didn't like to be stared at. "I'm betting they're dumping their poisons on those visits. I'd like to have a look at the pond and that shed. Could you show it to us right now?"

Luke looked at his wife. When she nodded, he said, "You might wish you had boots. Out there's wetlands." He pointed with his thumb.

"Our sneakers will be okay. We won't mind getting wet."

Virgie kept her thoughts to herself as they followed Luke down a barely perceptible path through a small patch of weeds and then across a field of tall grass the same kind as grew in front of the house. There were signs that in early spring the path they followed was much wetter, but here in late April conditions were better. Occasionally Chris could hear and feel the wet squishing sound as their sneakers walked over a damp rug of matted grass, but most wet areas were easily seen and could be walked around. Many male redwing blackbirds challenged them as they crossed the grasslands. The birds had already established their nesting territories and would dive-bomb intruders. Virgie, urban to the core, was frightened by birds swooping just over her head, and Chris had to calm her down by explaining what the birds were doing. His explanation had an added benefit: it made him much less alien to Luke, who listened to his explanation of the birds' behavior with approval. Seeing this, Chris seized his advantage and began asking Luke numerous questions. How many fish had the family eaten? Was the boy the only one who was sick, or was everyone in the family poisoned to some degree with the mercury? How long had he been fishing at the pond? Who owned the land around the pond?

Luke, by nature laconic, volunteered little information. Rather, it had to be extracted bit by bit. To the question, "How long have you been fishing the pond?" he answered, "A long time." "And you've always eaten the fish?" "Ayuh." Eventually by this method of interrogation Chris learned that the family had caught and eaten fish from this pond for generations. Through another series of questions and staccato answers he further deduced that the mercury poisoning had to be of fairly recent occurrence. Something Luke said about his older son doing poorly in school threw him off track for a while before he concluded that poor nutrition and lack of mental stimulation could also cause poor people to have so-called slow-witted children. By the time they arrived at the pond he was positive that the illegal dumping had been occurring for only the past few years at most. That conclusion corresponded well with what he knew of Ridlon's recycling business: it was one of his newer enterprises.

The pond was small, little more than an oval a hundred yards or so at its widest point, and was contiguous with a much larger marsh. Here dead trees looking like spiked telephone poles alternated with scrub pines, poplars and ubiquitous bushes of many kinds. He didn't have to ask Luke about the shed; it was clearly visible on higher ground across the pond from them. It was about twenty feet in length, single-storied, and of grey, weathered wood that suggested it was already standing when Ridlon got the land—which was probably what gave him the idea of using it as the base for his illegal dumping. He couldn't remember how Ridlon got the land and building, but he was sure it was for next to nothing.

When Luke looked at him as if expecting more questions, Chris told him he was going to take some readings for later analysis and didn't need his help anymore. "Thank you for showing us how to get here."

Virgie said, "I hope your little boy gets better," to which Luke merely nodded.

Alone now, she asked if he needed help.

"No. I'm going to take some water and soil samples first." He opened his backpack and took a sample of water from the shore at his feet, then said as he jotted a note on the label, "I'm going to get some samples from the wetland area and find out how or where the pond is connected to the river. You'd better come with me—we shouldn't get separated."

A look of fear passed over her face. "Is there danger? Are there wild animals here?"

He smiled and shook his head. "There are plenty of animals, but they are no danger. I just meant we could get separated and it might take time to find each other. You need to find a job today, remember."

For the next twenty minutes he took samples; then they began walking towards the river to find the brook. To get to it they had to go through thick underbrush. Frequently he had to help Virgie, who was unused to tramping through woods and didn't seem to have any common sense to call upon when they came to inaccessible places. He had to guide her by telling her where to duck down, where to step over, and often he would hold branches back so that she could get through a particularly tangled thicket. Once she lost her balance as they jumped across a muddy hollow. When he grabbed for her they both ended up in the muck, with her bearing the brunt of it since he landed on top of her. He had already gotten his sneakers and socks wet taking a sample from the marsh and wasn't bothered by a bit of muck, but she was very uncomfortable and unhappy. When a few minutes later they came to a large outcropping of granite, she refused to go any further. He went on ahead to the riverbank where he recognized a clump of fallen trees that hid the opening of the brook into the river as the place close to where he had taken a sample last month.

"What does that prove?" she asked, rather sullenly, when he excitedly told her about it upon his return.

She looked exhausted. Her hooded eyelids had sunk down even further. He should have felt sorry for her; instead her lack of interest angered him. "A lot," he retorted. "It shows that the readings I got before almost certainly came from this pond."

Making their way back to the pond, neither were in very good spirits. He knew she wasn't going to like it, but he needed to check out the shed before they left. She didn't protest as strongly as he anticipated, however; if anything, she seemed glad for the chance to sit on a log and rest.

Getting to the shed was easy. He walked across the grassy field and then Tooley Road without encountering any water or thickets. The road was gravel, and he could see evidence of heavy trucks having frequently used it. The shed door was locked with a large padlock. He examined it with an eye to breaking in to the place but decided it would require either a huge bolt cutter to snip the lock or a crowbar to work the hinges loose. The window looked more promising. Its glass was painted white, but he could see well enough to know only a standard window lock secured it. That would be his entrance. Before returning to Virgie he took a soil sample from near the door.

Rested now, Virgie showed signs of impatience when he returned. She rose quickly. "What were you looking for this time?" she asked in a voice tinged with hostility.

"Evidence. If Ridlon was so stupid as to dump stuff into the pond—and he was—all kinds of traces can be found. Later I'm coming back and diving for debris. I'm sure it's here. Man, is that guy stupid." He didn't tell her, however, of his plans to break into the shed. For one thing it was still a backup plan to be implemented only if he couldn't find clearly labeled hospital refuse on the bottom of the pond. He was also afraid of Virgie's wagging tongue and all wagging tongues. When they got back to Portland and he connected up with his friend Ted Autello, whom he was going to ask to do the scuba diving for him, he wasn't even sure he would tell him of his backup plan. He didn't mind breaking the law, but there was no need for anyone else to know about it.

The best way to avoid any specific talk about the shed was to change the subject. As they walked up the field and past the Kimballs' house (with its door tightly shut as if they were receiving no visitors), he asked her about Donna's new boyfriend. "Who's the guy Donna's hooked onto? All I know is he's in a rock band."

"He has an ego bigger than Mount Katahdin is the first thing I noticed. I guess it's because his band is popular now, but I don't really like him."

"So what's Donna's thing? Is she a groupie?"

"No, I think she just likes the guy." She thought about that for a moment and added, "Well, maybe she likes the excitement of the rock life a little."

"I didn't like that guy you were seeing."

"So I noticed."

"He had a big ego too. I never like that type."

"Well, what about you?"

"Me? I'm different. I serve a cause."

"But—"

"No buts. I don't have an ego like that."

He could feel her staring at him in disbelief. "You don't believe me?"

She laughed. "No, I don't. Who wants to get credit for nailing this Ridlon guy? Is it the movement, or is it you?"

"I want to get credit for one reason only. So that I will be taken seriously."

She shrugged in a way that said, "Okay, whatever you say."

They arrived at the car. Over the top of it she said, "Next you'll expect me to believe you didn't like Andy because he was bad for me."

"Believe what you want," Chris said as they both sat down, "but that was my reason."

She looked at him again, this time with a puzzled expression. She frowned thoughtfully and remained thoughtful through most of the return journey. Only near Portland did he find out what she was thinking.

"I can just as easily look for a job tomorrow," she said, then nervously studied his face for his reaction.

"What do you mean?" he asked. Already he sensed she was coming on to him.

She was. "Well, the house is empty. We could take a shower to get the muck off our legs, and, you know..."

He reached over and patted her thigh. "Sounds good, but I've got to see Ted Autello about scuba diving. I can't lose any more time on this case. How about a rain check?"

"Okay," she said, her face suddenly frozen. She reverted to silence before putting on an act that the answer didn't bother her. "Well, I guess I'll go job hunting after all. There's gotta be something out there that would be interesting to do." She laughed falsely, but a few minutes later when they arrived at the house she again showed her ability to let any disappointment, big or small, wash over her. "Well," she said with a sweet smile after he thanked her, "I'm glad I could help."

Carrying his backpack with samples he had gathered on one shoulder, he walked over to the University of Southern Maine campus, only a few blocks away.

He had known Ted Autello for years. When he was an ecology major at the University of Massachusetts Ted was his T.A. in biochemistry and already an activist member of Greenpeace and the Green party. He was in fact the one who introduced Chris into the activist life. They went to many demonstrations together, some of which Patti at nearby Mount Holyoke College participated in as well, and they became campus leaders in these activities. When Chris graduated Ted's letter of recommendation helped him get his first job at the Maine EPA where he worked for two years before his mother's insurance money allowed him to be an unencumbered activist. In the meantime Ted, after a postdoc position at Cornell, got an appointment as an assistant professor at U.S.M. His being in Portland was another reason why Chris left the west coast to return to Maine. It was Ted who analyzed the samples from the Waska River that Chris had collected last month. He had recently married and had less time for activism, but he always found time to help Chris with lab work. Today Chris was going to ask him for a bigger favor and was not sure if it would be granted.

He could hear Ted talking to a student about a lab project as he approached the door to Ted's office. He waited, only half listening to a discussion of the rate of metabolism of some bacteria, while going over in his mind all the arguments for why the favor he was going to ask was so important. He didn't think it likely, but he was hoping Ted could do it this very afternoon.

Ten minutes later the student, an intense young man of skin and bone and a hunger in the eye, strode past him, and he poked his head into the office. "Ted, you got a few minutes?"

A broad, friendly grin broke across Ted's face as he rose from his desk. He was short and burly, with a prematurely receding hairline and a thick black beard which made his large head seem even larger. He gave Chris a hearty slap on the shoulder as he said, "Well, well, Chris Andrews himself. How's Green Maine going?"

For a moment Chris had to recollect the name. When he first came home he had decided to use "Green Maine" for his environmental activities, but since then Patti had told him that it might open him up to ridicule to call a one-man operation "Green Maine." He hadn't used the name in weeks. Embarrassed, he grinned sheepishly. "It's going well, but I've kinda dropped the name."

"What? You're not about to open an office on Congress Street?" His eyes sparkled and the friendly grin he'd been wearing since Chris entered the office broadened.

He shook his head. "Nothing like that. But I'm not throwing in the towel either. In fact, I'm still working on the mercury-poisoning case you helped me on last month. I need your help again."

"You've got some samples needing analysis?"

"Yes, I've got a few more from the pond that I think is the actual site of the dumping." For several minutes he related the morning's expedition and the conclusions he'd drawn.

Ted listened attentively. "You mean you think this guy Ridlon just dumped the stuff in a pond where he owns property? Can the guy be that stupid?"

"I think he is, or maybe he's so arrogant he doesn't think it will come home to him. Then again, he knew the only people who lived there were swamp Yankees. He probably thought they were the stupid ones. He also probably didn't think anyone fished the pond. But whatever, if these samples I've brought show mercury—and I'll bet anything they will—it means we could find refuse on the bottom of the pond. With any luck some of it might have serial numbers that can be traced to one of the hospitals or businesses Ridlon has contracts with. We could absolutely nail him. That's why I'm hoping you can do some scuba diving for me."

"Scuba diving? That's what I do for fun. I'm teaching my wife right now, in fact. Is this pond on private property, by the way? That would be a problem."

"No problem like that. The victim's grandfather owns part of the land."

"And what if Ridlon's men were there?"

"Do you mean legally? They could do nothing. I wouldn't want them to know what we were doing, though. We could say we were making a scientific study of eutrophication."

Ted affected to be shocked at such duplicity. He raised his arms simultaneously with his eyebrows. "You mean we would lie to those good people? That would be wrong."

Chris smiled. That Ted could joke meant he was willing to do the job. But then he got the bad news.

"I won't be able to get any free time until next week. Finals are coming up, I have lab reports to correct, and I have to get a paper I'm delivering at a conference in two weeks ready. Can you hold off until then?"

"Guess I'll have to." He hid his disappointment well, but it ruined his day. The trouble with friends is that they had their own lives. Everybody had their own life. You had to accommodate yourself to them; you had to let go. While he bantered with Ted and his disappointment grew heavier, Virgie's face in the car came into his mind. _Now we're even_ , he thought, even as he laughed at Ted's joke about Ridlon running for the office of the world's stupidest man. His hypocrisy reminded him of how Virgie was always hiding herself away. Perhaps it took more strength of mind than he had thought to do that. Here he was laughing when what he wanted to do was scream in disappointed frustration, and it took every ounce of his willpower to carry it off. He wanted relief; he wanted to be free from other people's will. The more he thought about it, the more the answer seemed obvious. There was one way he could make himself forget his disappointment now that he had a free afternoon ahead of him. It would do some good in the world too, for it would make Virgie forget her disappointment.

The Garden

Wearing her bathrobe, Becky Paine walked through the sliding door onto the deck and looked at the backyard. With a stockade fence, a row of high bushes at the back of the lot, and several trees both on her neighbors' land and on hers, the enclosed space offered great privacy. It was small, fifty feet from the house to the back boundary and seventy-five feet wide, but still offered a feeling of expansiveness. At 6:30 in the morning dew glistened on the grass, early blooming flowers, and the leaves, some of them embryonic here in early May. Wisps of fog just lifting as the sun climbed higher lent an air of magic that was further enhanced by the bejeweled effect of the dew glistening on everything. High in a tree a mockingbird sang his entire repertoire. When he did the robin's flutelike song, its real composer answered from the purple lilac bush, where she knew he and his mate were already building a nest. Just then the female robin with a drabber shade of orange-red on her breast alighted on the lawn and began hopping, stopping every few paces to cock her head and listen. A bee flitted from flower to flower on the acacia bush right below where she stood. It was so quiet she could hear the bumbling hum of its wings. She sighed in contentment. Rarely did the backyard look so lovely, peaceful and lushly verdant. She recalled an English professor in college quoting a poet—Yeats, if she could trust her memory—saying that God was a circle whose center was everywhere. The same could be said for Eden, for if it was a peaceful place of beauty and contentment without evil, then this little patch of green earth was another Eden.

It had been a long painful journey to this contentment. She was perfectly aware that the reason the world to her for almost three years had been a dark, menacing place was the same reason she could now see it as Eden: it was the state of her mind she was seeing in the backyard, and it had changed primarily because of Myron Seavey. He was coming over to the house today to help her with the gardening. They had been on dates every weekend since their first concert in March and had been growing closer with every encounter. Today marked a milestone in their relationship; it would be the first time they met without the formality of a date.

Already she was half in love with him. He was a wonderful man, kind, sensitive, levelheaded, and open-minded. He had very strong beliefs but had a way of accommodating himself to others who thought differently. He seemed to love and respect multiplicity. He was very intelligent and seemed to know everything. One thing she especially admired about him was how healthy he was—not just physically but ethically, psychologically, personally. He had no bad habits and no manias. He didn't smoke or swear or appear slovenly. He drank moderately. He showed no signs of self-love or self-importance. She respected enormously his fidelity to his sick mother. She knew from Lynn that he had broken up with his fiancée because of that fidelity. He was simply a good man. She was more than half in love with him: she was in love with him.

He was her second love, her dead husband Bill being the first and the reason she'd lived through the long period of darkness. She was one of the thousands upon thousands in violent and gun-crazed America who lost a loved one to murder. Because they were separated at the time of his murder, she blamed herself for his being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that blame became corrosive guilt that ate her life and spirit away. If she had forgiven him for his extramarital affair, he would have been home and safe. But she hadn't forgiven him, and that was why she knew how it felt to wake every morning to a dull oppressive pain, to get through the day with the presence of absence her overwhelming reality, to think that she would never be free from the weight of sorrow, regret and guilt. Months went by and the grief grew less intense but remained grief. Her predominant impression of those two years was of being trapped in a world of gray like a 1940's _film noire_ in black and white, where all the ordinary events in life like waking and sleeping, preparing meals, mothering her children, working, shopping, doing chores, all happened just as they would to any breathing person but all without joy or hope.

Occasionally the grayness lifted slightly—when her younger son Trevor spoke his first word "momma," when Johnny, the elder son, said his ABC's perfectly just as she had taught him, or when she received some little act of kindness from her friend Lynn MacArthur or her sister-in-law Fiona Sparrow—but more commonly instead of having the gray lift, a thunderbolt would strike and bring her back to the black despair and numbness she felt when she first was told that Bill was dead. The first Christmas after his death became one such time. She fulfilled a promise Bill had made to Johnny the previous spring when he had outgrown his bike with training wheels and wanted a real bike. Bill had told him that he was sure Santa already planned to get him one for Christmas. Johnny remembered that promise when he saw the bike under the tree on Christmas morning. His lip began trembling and then tears followed, and Trevor joined in, not understanding but feeling the sadness, which caused her to also cry. Somehow she got through that sad Christmas, but after the new year the trial of the two Nazi killers started and lasted two weeks, ending with the thug who pulled the trigger getting life and his accomplice five years. The trauma of having the whole affair on everyone's lips nearly destroyed her.

A few months went by and the pain had faded once again, but other minor events would still unexpectedly spring upon her like a predator and bring it all back. A college roommate called from Ohio to say she was planning a vacation to Maine in the summer. They had been out of touch for years, and Becky had to relive the horror of the murder in her friend's horror. Another day Johnny was playing with his lego set when he suddenly stopped and a stricken look passed over his face. "I miss Daddy," he said. Constantly mail came to the house with Bill's name on the envelope, and telemarketers called to ask to speak with William Paine. Bill's birthday was a black day, as were other days associated with their life such as the tenth anniversary of their first meeting at Bates College. A hundred articles in the house like Bill's softball glove had only to be touched and his presence filled the room.

Mostly the way she tried to escape her thoughts was to work very hard. For four days a week she ran the Davenport Insurance Agency. Charlie Davenport, the founder, retired and turned over the operation to her. She had fifteen agents and five clerical workers under her. Often she had to take work home with her, so that even the three days a week devoted to housework and mothering were often workdays as well. And of course all seven days of the week were actually mothering days. She had to get up early, get Johnny ready for school and Trevor ready for day care. She had to plan and cook meals, shop, spend time with the boys and love them twice as much to make up for the absence of a father in their lives. Finally it all became too much for her and she collapsed in exhaustion, having what used to be called a nervous breakdown. She spent two weeks at home, looked after by her mother, who came down from northern Maine to be with her.

During this period of convalescence her friend and neighbor Lynn MacArthur spent a great deal of time with her. It was Lynn who had told her of the rumors that were circulating about Bill and that woman. Before that day Lynn used to tease her a lot. While Becky was obsessive and orderly, a classic type A personality, Lynn was laid back even while being a responsible mother and citizen. But after the separation and subsequent murder, Lynn and she had evolved an entirely different relationship, a serious one of support and mutual respect. Lynn had been long thinking that there was something wrong about this seriousness, for after two years of it in her visits she suddenly reverted to the old teasing. She joked about what a lazy layabout Becky was and wished she could indulge in such downtime. Understanding what she was up to, Becky surprised her by joking in return. "The only trouble with it is gabby women coming for a visit and I can't escape."

Lynn sat at the edge of the bed and took her hand. "I'm glad you can joke. It's healthy. You need to laugh at yourself, but you also need to forgive yourself. Bill can't forgive you because he's gone, but you know and I know that he wouldn't want you spending the rest of your life blaming yourself for the accident that he was at Lowell and Fiona's cottage when the two Nazis came. I know Bill, remember. I know what a decent and kindhearted man he was. I remember him telling Johnny not to hurt a bug. If he cared for defenseless tiny creatures, how much more do you think he cares for you and your well-being?'

That and much more Lynn said on that day. For two days after their talk nothing happened. Becky thought about the advice often but without any noticeable change. On the third morning she woke with Bill present in her memory. This was so habitual a phenomenon that at first she didn't realize something was different. But after listening to hear if her mother or the boys were stirring, she began thinking about the strange feeling she was experiencing. She could see Bill's face, his blue eyes shining and his hair blondish in the sunlight. He was smiling and looking happy. She could even identify the source of this mental picture. It was the first time they took Johnny to the backyard when he was close to one year old. Everything about the memory was the same; it was how she felt remembering it that was different. The guilt was gone. He was Bill, a fact, the father of her boys and the first love of her life. She was perfectly clear on that point. He would always be what he would always be. He was gone, but she would always love him. He was gone and it was okay.

Looking at the same place he had stood now on this beautiful May morning, she still marveled at the change. Everything was the same, and everything was different. For weeks after that morning she had kept waiting for the guilt to return, but it never did. She had cured herself without conscious thought. She had accepted reality.

It was that experience that made today's contentment and joy possible. Externally nothing had changed overnight, but eventually she had a few dates with different men, and though they were unsatisfactory the lack of any spark had nothing to do with Bill's death. Then following her friend Lynn's suggestion, she got more involved with the community. She helped at a bake sale at the Congregational Church, where Johnny went to Sunday school and Trevor to daycare, and she also later helped decorate the daycare center for a party. Thus last fall when Lynn suggested she join a reading group at the library, she was ready when Myron showed interest in her, and today was proof of how well their relationship was going. The Garden of Eden was in her backyard because she was whole again.

She went inside and had a breakfast of toast, a wedge of cantaloupe and a glass of orange juice; then she got the coffee ready for when Myron came and tidied up a bit. She had to call her brother-in-law Lowell to tell him about the new plan, but even though she knew he was an early riser she put it off. Saturdays he always spent with Johnny and Trevor in an effort to offer them a male role model and to be as much as possible a substitute father to them. He would take them to movies and ballgames, play games with them in the backyard, and do anything else he thought boys would enjoy. Two or three times after storms he took them to the coast to see waves crashing against the rocks, something they loved so much they would talk about it for weeks afterwards and grow excited whenever they heard that another nor'easter was coming their way. In the summer he took them to the cottage at the lake and taught them swimming, fishing and canoeing; in the winter he taught Johnny how to skate and would do the same for Trevor next winter. He had also set up a college trust fund for both boys and financed a scholarship for graduates of Courtney Academy in Bill's name. For all he did Becky was deeply grateful to Lowell; the trouble was that their relationship was coldly formal and fraught with subterranean tensions. Lowell was good to the boys because they were his brother's sons; it had nothing to do with her.

She knew she was delaying the call because she didn't want the feeling of peace and contentment she experienced earlier spoiled by discord. The danger of her day being ruined was twofold: Lowell could be acerbic and unpleasant or the boys might be antagonistic to Myron because he took their uncle away from them. Either would be unpleasant, but the latter would be worse, a thought that made Lowell's potential danger seem slighter. Hearing the boys beginning to stir upstairs, she made the call.

Lowell answered. "Lowell, this is Becky. I'm calling to ask you to reschedule the boys for tomorrow. Something's come up today."

"Oh?" His voice was not friendly. Its curtness was patent.

She stood gazing through the sliding door. On the grass she could see both the male and female robins. "Yes, ah, Myron volunteered to help me start a garden today and will be over at about nine o'clock."

When he remained silent, she said, "I'm sorry it's so sudden. We talked about it last night during dinner in Portland, and I got back home too late to call you."

"Okay," he said, managing to sound more neutral. "Fiona and I are taking her mother to a movie tomorrow afternoon, but I can see the boys in the morning."

"Thanks so much. I'm really sorry to inconvenience you, and I really, really appreciate all that you do for the boys. You've been wonderful."

She spoke too fervently, trying too hard, but he took it well. In a friendlier voice than she had heard from him in ages, he said, "Well, I appreciate your saying that. You know it's a pleasure for me too. How are you and Myron doing, by the way?"

"Fine, thank you. Tell Fiona I've got all the baby stuff collected. She can get it tomorrow if she wants."

Before returning the cordless phone to its cradle, she continued looking out at the backyard. Not a cloud marred the blue sky, and by now it was growing warmer. A thrill of pleasure passed through her body and she smiled in gladness. "Myron," she whispered. "Myron."

Then Johnny's voice brought her back to the quotidian day.

Putting the phone back, she went upstairs. Johnny announced that he had to pee. "Go ahead," she said, going over to Trevor's crib. He was four now and it was long past the time for replacing it. He looked up and smiled at her. "Mommy" was all he said, but it gladdened her heart.

During breakfast Johnny asked, "What time is Uncle Lowell coming. I've got a new rock I want to show him."

"Lowell won't come until tomorrow morning. Myron is coming over this morning to help start a garden." While Trevor showed no sign of comprehending the message—they had only met Myron briefly when he came to pick her up for their dates—Johnny looked crestfallen. He didn't say anything at first, but she knew what he was thinking. He had grown very close to his uncle.

While he ate his cereal with his brow furrowed, the silence became unbearable and prompted her to brave a question she had long delayed.

"Johnny, do you like Myron?"

"He's okay, but..."

"But you were looking forward to seeing Lowell. I understand, but don't worry. He's coming tomorrow." She debated and then rejected as unworthy telling a white lie that he had to go to Portland today on Habitat for Humanity business. Instead she tried to get Johnny interested in the morning's work. "Myron's going to help me start a garden. We're going to plant some vegetables."

"What about flowers?" Trevor asked. He was sitting in the chair on his knees so that he could reach the table.

"Today we're just doing veggies."

"Can I help?" Johnny asked. He seemed very interested in the project now.

"Well, mostly it's going to be hard and heavy work. We have to turn over the soil and add compost. That part is for the adults. You can help plant the seeds."

"Is compost the woody stuff?"

She smiled and tousled his blond hair. "No, that's pine bark. That's the stuff we put under some flowers and bushes so weeds can't grow. Compost is manure used for fertilizer."

Trevor finished his cereal and climbed down from his chair. "What's that?"

"It's like plant food."

"Plants need food?"

"Fish need food," Johnny said very wisely. "My friends Chuck and Jason feed their fish with little seeds. I've seen them."

"So do plants, but not in that way. They make their own food in the green leaves, but they need minerals and nutriments to make it efficiently. Just like you two need to take your vitamins to be strong now."

She got the children's vitamins and filled two glasses of orange juice. "Okay, down the hatch, and then we'll get cleaned up."

She led them upstairs and drew the bath water. Trevor got his plastic boat before getting in. Johnny was beyond such foolishness. Rather grandly he announced, "All I need is soap."

When they were finished and dressed, she set them down in front of the TV with strict orders not to move from the couch while she took a shower and dressed. As always she was apprehensive during the ten to twelve minutes the noise of the shower wouldn't let her hear anything. It was one more thing that made being a single mother difficult. The moment she was through with her shower, she poked her head out the door and listened. Only when she heard their voices excitedly talking about something they were seeing on the TV did she relax.

She dressed carefully while trying to achieve a casual look. She put on an old pair of jeans that were tight because of the twenty-five pounds her pregnancy with Trevor had added she had never been able to get rid of the last five. Over her bra she donned a red T-shirt. Red was a much different color from the heather tones she usually preferred, but it felt right. Looking at herself in the full-length mirror attached to the bedroom closet, she was satisfied. She was still very pretty and very shapely and looked much younger than her thirty-one years. She debated wearing lipstick but rejected the idea as inappropriate for gardening. She glanced at the clock: 8:45. She went downstairs and out to the garage where she collected a rake and a couple shovels, which she leaned against the fence. She didn't have a pitchfork, but Myron had said that he would bring one together with the compost, which he would get before he came.

She was in the living room trying to pick up after the boys when she heard a voice ring out through the screen door. "Anybody home?"

It was Lynn MacArthur. She lived two houses down and often stopped by for a cup of coffee and a chat on weekend mornings.

Becky unlatched the screen door and turned on the coffeemaker.

"What are all the shovels and stuff for?" Lynn asked, but before she could answer Johnny ran into the kitchen demanding to know where Phil was.

"Johnny," Becky said, "you shouldn't interrupt adults when they're talking."

"Sorry," he said without a hint of repentance and repeated his question.

"He's home helping his father clean up the basement."

"We're making a garden today. Myron is coming over."

Lynn's eyes widened. She turned to Becky.

"It's something we decided to do at dinner last night." To Johnny she said, "Okay, march back into the living room while Lynn and I have a talk." Trevor had started to join them, but hearing this he turned back to the couch, where Johnny rather reluctantly joined him. She watched them settle down. "Myron just started his garden this week. I said I'd been thinking of having one again. I haven't had a vegetable garden since before Johnny was born. So one thing led to another, and the garden was planned for today."

The coffee was ready. She poured them both a cup and Lynn put cream and sugar in hers. "Doesn't Lowell usually come on Saturdays? Is he taking the boys somewhere?"

"No, I asked him to reschedule it for tomorrow."

"How'd he take that suggestion?" Lynn knew all about the coolness between her and Lowell. They had discussed it often.

She glanced into the living room to make sure the boys weren't listening. "He was standoffish, but you know I've decided any problem will come from his side, so I thanked him for what he does for the boys and told him I thought he was wonderful."

Lynn sipped her coffee. "And?"

"And he seemed touched."

"Interesting. It's because he loved his brother so that he's acting like he's been acting. But we both know he's a good man and that it's about time he came around."

"I think Fiona works on him. Besides, he really knows that it was just a tragic accident that Bill was at the cottage because we were temporarily separated. It's not an intellectual conviction. It's a feeling."

Lynn sipped her coffee thoughtfully. From above the brim she asked, "How's Fiona doing?"

"You mean about her pregnancy?"

She nodded. Huh-huh. What is she, seven months along?"

"Almost eight. Johnny! Let your brother use the paper. He wants to draw too." When Johnny complied and they quieted down, she said, "She's getting nervous, of course."

"Do you think the baby will change things with Lowell and the boys?"

"Probably some, but I know he'll always feel the boys are special. Besides, they already know their child will be a girl."

"Fiona will make a softball player out of her."

She spoke dreamily, probably thinking about how she felt as her pregnancy neared completion. That, at least, was what floated through Becky's mind. She remembered the almost equal feeling of great expectation and apprehension, but the closer the day got the more her motherly instincts took over and all she had then was the expectation.

A loud deafening roar caused Lynn to frown darkly. It was the sound, all too common in the neighborhood lately, of two boys going by on motor scooters. "Would you believe Phil got it into his head he wanted one of those monstrosities?"

"I still can't believe those things are legal. Those boys are only twelve and they're driving motorized vehicles on the streets."

"It's even worse that parents actually allow them to have those things. I told Phil he was going to have to wait until he took driver's ed in high school before he'd ever drive a motorized vehicle."

"He's a willful boy. How did he take it?"

Lynn frowned at the perceived criticism, but upon reflection let it pass. "He didn't like it, but he accepted the verdict as final."

"What does Gerry say? I remember he talked about getting a motorcycle once."

This time Lynn flashed a smile. "He wasn't as easy as Phil, but let's just say I managed to talk him out of it. The thing that got him wasn't that they're dangerous—he just laughed when I told him Olive MacPherson says all the nurses at the hospital call them donarcycles—it was the effect it would have on Phil."

"So he backs you one-hundred percent."

"Of course. Isn't that what husbands are supposed to do?"

"Well, I don't know," Becky said seriously even though Lynn was grinning from ear to ear. She regarded the topic as too important to joke about. "Myron's a feminist."

"Yeah, he is. All good men are. I liked what he said about _A Doll House_ , how all the laws, which were made by men, stymied women and how most laws—what'd he say, ninety-seven percent?—were laws to protect property, which again benefited rich men." She shifted in her seat and leaned forward. "You know, I just knew you two were right for each other. I wasn't sure you saw it for the longest time."

"Well, I did and I didn't. But remember when he spoke about Dante and Beatrice? That's when I saw how special he was. He'd thought about life and didn't accept conventional answers. But if you thought we were right for each other, what was it you saw?"

Lynn smiled in a way Becky knew meant some teasing was forthcoming. "First, I noticed Myron had an orderly mind. I asked myself, now who do I know has a mania for order? I wracked my brains until I recalled that you had a slight tendency towards that virtue." Her smile broadened. "A slight tendency, mind you, but enough to think you two would be good together."

Becky smiled politely, but this was another subject too serious for joking. "That's not all you saw, was it?"

"No, of course not," Lynn said, suddenly serious again. "You're both good people, decent and sane. Myron has sensitivity to others. He's not judgmental. He's not self-absorbed."

"I agree. He's all those things and more."

Lynn glanced into the living room at the boys. Speaking confidentially, almost in a whisper, she said, "So how far have you two progressed?"

Becky felt herself blushing. She was a very private person and did not wish to discuss what Lynn clearly wanted to know. "Everything is wonderful," she said. "Let's leave it at that."

Their eyes met. "I'm just inquiring in my capacity as matchmaker. Tell me this, you two are compatible. My instincts were correct?"

She looked away and thought about Myron. Last week he had been on the verge of saying the three little words, but she had grown embarrassed and in the sensitivity to others she had already marked as one of the qualities she admired in him, he had not wished to make her uncomfortable. The next time he was on the verge she was going to act differently. So she could share with Lynn this much: "I think so. He's a wonderful man. There's almost nothing about him that I don't like."

"Almost nothing?"

"Probably nothing. I don't know everything about him yet, after all. But," she added when Lynn's stare became too piercing, "I just thought of something. You didn't start the reading group just so I could meet Myron, did you?"

She laughed. "Oh, no. I'm not that devious. I really wanted some intellectual stimulation to wake up my mind. But the more I got to know him, the more I thought of you. So when I suggested you join, I do confess my plan was already being hatched. I'm sure you forgive me."

They both looked up at the sound of a car in the driveway. Johnny and Trevor heard it as well and excitedly came into the kitchen. Trevor said, "The garden is here!" while Johnny corrected him by saying, "No, it's Myron." Becky felt excited too but had to hide it. She didn't want Lynn to see her as a dizzy adolescent. They all went through the enclosed porch to the top of the steps.

Myron, already opening the trunk of his small Japanese car, looked up and smiled. "I see there's a welcoming committee." He was dressed in faded dungarees, work boots and a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A Boston Red Sox cap covered his head. He looked very handsome and manly.

"Myron, come on in and have a cup of coffee before we begin. Lynn, as you see, is visiting."

"And leaving soon," she said. "I try to keep a healthy distance between me and work."

"Coffee sounds great, but first I'm going to drag the compost out back."

"Need any help?"

"That's okay. They're quite heavy." He grabbed one of the large plastic bags by the end and started dragging it.

"Johnny," Becky said, "go unlatch the gate for Myron."

He didn't need to be told twice. Instantly he raced down the stairs and around to the fence.

"My, don't we have a lot of energy," Myron said.

"I'm a boy," Johnny said simply, explaining everything.

Becky looked at Lynn. She too was smiling at Johnny's remark. "Those bags look heavy. We could do get a couple of them together." So they did, finding them indeed heavy and moving them even harder than they expected. The boys were constantly underfoot, and with her hands hurting she became cross with them and told them to get out of the way. She rather wished now that she had arranged for Lowell to take them to the lake.

But once the bags were safely deposited in the backyard and Myron had placed his pitchfork with the other gardening implements, she recovered her good spirits. They went inside where she poured the boys a glass of orange juice and got coffee for the adults. Like her, Myron drank his coffee black. They sat at the kitchen table while the boys went into the living room with instructions not to spill their juices on the couch or the rug. Some TV show on PBS caught their interest, however, so they were very quiet as the adults chatted.

After declining an apple turnover, Myron said, "I saw Angus at the library the other day. He was brown as a berry and peppery as usual."

"Sounds like my dad all right," Lynn said.

"He still wants to do _Macbeth_ when we start in the fall."

Lynn picked up Myron's baseball cap which he had placed on the chair beside her and examined it. "That reminds me. I've got two more recruits, I think they will be good."

Myron asked who they were by tilting his head and raising his eyebrows.

"Melissa Brisbane and her husband Ralph. He's a woodworker and makes exquisite cabinets and furniture. Melissa's a teacher."

"I've met them. Yes, they sound good. Angus also wants to do some Sir Walter Scott."

"You don't seem enthused about that," Becky said.

He shrugged, "He's okay, but I don't think he's a very good writer. He's sloppy and really just turns out potboilers. But I could be talked into doing _The Heart of Midlothian_. I do like that novel." He reached in his breast pocket and extracted some packets of seeds. "Here's the seeds, by the way."

He handed them to Becky, who examined them: peas, lettuce, spinach and radishes.

"I've also got some onion sets, and a few weeks from now it will be time for tomatoes. I'm going to start some under lights at home. Shall I start four or five for you?"

"Oh, yes, thank you. A garden without tomatoes is like a day without sun."

"Myron," Lynn asked, "what brought my father to the library? Any-thing interesting?"

"He was looking up some facts on Robert the Bruce. He said something about settling an argument."

"I bet it was with Mike McNabb, his neighbor. Those two are always arguing about who's best, the Irish or the Scotch."

Myron smiled. "A little family squabble?"

"It grows even darker, though. Dad has a lot of lowland Scots in him, which is English blood. One time when he and Mike were arguing about cultural contributions of each country, Mike said that the Scotch had a couple of dry philosophers like Hume and Adam Smith and Robert Burns was their one good poet, but the Irish had all the poets and writers. Then he listed Yeats, Wilde, Shaw, Joyce, Beckett, Synge, O'Casey and Swift."

"I see where this is going," Myron said with a grin. "What did Angus say?"

"He said that all of them except Joyce were really English and Protestant."

"He's right. What did Mike say to that?"

"He denied it and got so mad they didn't speak to each other for two weeks."

Myron touched Becky lightly on the shoulder and smiled. "Shows you how dangerous facts are."

She smiled back, but feeling the thrill of his touch she was momentarily speechless.

Lynn's loud laugh saved her from embarrassment. "My father will love that one," she said.

Composed now, Becky said, "Do you groan or smile when you see Angus walking into the library?"

"Oh, I smile. I don't run and hide. Believe me, with some patrons that's what I want to do."

"If I were you, I'd hide from my father. That man can be trouble. But you have to serve the public, don't you?"

"That's me. Service with a smile. By the way, did either of you notice the article about the mercury poisoning case in last night's paper? I just saw it myself this morning."

"Yes. I think it's awful that poor little boy was poisoned," Becky said.

"Olive MacPherson says the boy is slowly getting better, but he had such a massive dose of mercury he may have permanent damage."

Myron looked at Becky. "Remember that young man I told you asked me about Ridlon Recycling? Chris Andrews is his name. Did you see in the article he claims now to have proof that it was Ridlon."

"Of course Ridlon denies everything and is outraged," Lynn said. "Gerry says he's a very powerful man and has friends in high places. Let me guess—"

"He'll finagle his way out of it," Myron interrupted.

"Yeah, probably."

"If he did it, I hope he gets punished," Becky said vehemently. "To poison a child just to make extra money, it's despicable. He's despicable."

Lynn rose and brought her cup to the sink, where she rinsed it out. "Yes, he probably is, but he wouldn't be the first one to get away with murder. But I've got to go and leave you two to your labors."

They saw her out and then immediately got to work in the backyard. After checking the sun and discussing various alternatives, they chose for the site of the garden an area near the back fence that had a southern exposure offering the most light. First Myron marked the boundaries of about six feet by eight feet by using the shovel to cut a line in the grass; then he began turning the soil over with his pitchfork. The boys had accompanied them to the backyard, of course. Myron found a chore for them to do, which was to pick through the mounds of earth his pitchfork turned over and extract any rocks they could find. They did this for about half an hour before they showed signs that they were getting bored with and tired from the work, at which time they were liberated and allowed to go play on the swing set. Becky took their place, wearing a pair of work gloves to protect her hands as she pawed through the soil. During this intensive labor they were all business, and the only conversation concerned matters at hand. Myron commented that the soil looked dark and healthy. Becky asked for instructions when they came upon a tree root. A large white grub was examined and shown to the boys. Placement of the different vegetables was discussed. The work was hard, and twice Becky asked if he needed a rest, but he said he would rather get all the soil turned over first and then have a rest before they mixed in the compost. After an hour and a half they finished the first stage of the operation and took their break. They went inside and had a glass of water and a bathroom break before settling at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. This time Myron accepted the apple turnover. The boys had got a soccer ball out and were kicking it around in the backyard.

Myron, watching them with interest, said, "Hard work makes me hungry, but those boys seem to have inexhaustible energy."

"Unfortunately they do, which makes it necessary for a mother to try to match their energy level. I hope you don't mind the work."

"Oh, no. I like gardening."

"I do too. I find it relaxing. What is it you like about it?"

Myron finished his turnover and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "I find it relaxing too, but I like it for many other reasons. To explain them, I'd have to get philosophical. Are you ready for that?"

She smiled. "Of course." She leaned forward like a student prepared to listen attentively to her professor.

"Well, it's the perspective it gives you. All week long I wear a colored rag around my neck that constricts my breathing and makes me an official, card-carrying member of the middle class. I'm a regular civilized man. I have a role to play, the role of a librarian. Don't get me wrong. Mostly I love the work, but when someone asks me what's a good stock to invest in when I'd much rather have a question about what the Reformation and Luther did to make possible modern democracy or why Saturn has rings, I feel as spiritually constricted as my tie makes my neck feel. But gardening is not playing a role. It has nothing to do with classes and the way society divides people. It's real. It's elemental. People for thousands of years tilled the soil for their sustenance. It's direct, working with the earth itself. The tomatoes you grow aren't packaged in plastic and sold by the pound with a middleman making eighty percent of the profit. So it's a way of connecting to our human past. Dirt and sweat and planning for the future are real. Have you ever heard the lines from William Morris's _The Earthly Paradise_?

When Adam delved and Eve span

Who was then the gentleman?

"Those lines speak to that desire we all have to just be human without barriers, to have equality. It's probably what lies behind the yearning for a golden age and a return to Eden."

She had listened to his dissertation closely because anything he said was interesting to her. Now she saw a connection. "Funny, I was just thinking of Eden this morning. I came out on the deck when I first got up and looked at the backyard. It was so peaceful and so beautiful that that's what I thought about. It was how I imagined Eden."

"I know the feeling. It doesn't happen often, but when it does you feel special and privileged to be alive. Even in winter sometimes when I'm cross-country skiing and the sky is blue, the snow white with blue shadows and the trees shining, I feel as if I'm seeing Eden."

"I'm sorry you get a lot of boring questions at the library."

"This week, besides Angus's visit, I actually got a very interesting question about the universe.

"From a student?"

He nodded. "A high school student who wanted to write a paper about the end of the universe. He'd seen a _Nova_ program on PBS about the conflicting theories and got interested."

"What are they?"

"The conflicting theories? Either there's enough matter in the expanding universe for gravity to win out and have the expansion collapse back on itself, or if there isn't enough matter it will expand forever and eventually become cold, inert matter."

"I don't know," Becky said. "I find such ideas depressing."

"Oh, I don't. Not necessarily at least." He leaned back and took his knee in his hands. "First of all because it's an impossibly remote event in time. Twenty-five billion years from now—something like that. But secondly it's true. The universe will end and with it the end of time happens. There will be no consciousness anywhere. That sounds pretty bad, but what I like about it is that it forces you to think beyond materialism. Science answers questions of how. But the really important questions ask why. Why is there a universe and why are we alive? Those questions lead to spiritual considerations. When the end of time comes everything will be lost. All human knowledge, even Shakespeare and the best of humanity, will be lost, will be gone. Memory will be no more. Yes, these are awful things to consider, but they are the kind of things a Unitarian librarian finds himself thinking about. They force you to ask how one must act to live well. Remember when we did _The Heart of Darkness_ and talked about Kurtz's "The horror! The horror!"? He was enacting his own doomsday. He was self-judging himself. It's a very Protestant thing, even though Conrad was a Catholic. When the day comes that I step into eternity, I want to know I wasn't a mean, sniveling sneak thief of a man, that I wasn't blind to the wonders of the world, and that I did no harm. I want to be on the side of light when I step into darkness."

He was speaking so fervently that Becky felt a strange awe. She knew he was sharing his deepest being with her. She reached out and put her hand over his. Their eyes met. "I know you'll have a clear conscience always. It means a lot to me that you're here today."

"It does to me too," he said simply.

The sounds of Johnny and Trevor squabbling disrupted their intimate and philosophical conversation. Becky went to the sliding door, called them in, gave them each a granola bar and a glass of lemonade, and then had them pay a visit to the bathroom. While all this was occurring Myron repaired the sliding screen door by clearing out caked-on dirt in the track. The door had jumped its track when Johnny pulled it open too quickly. It had been doing this for months, but after his repairs it operated perfectly.

The gardening was easier now. With his pocketknife Myron slit the plastic bags of compost and poured them on the ground, where Becky consolidated the compost into the soil using a rake.

The boys went back to their soccer playing. Occasionally the soccer ball would bounce into the garden, from where Myron deftly kicked it back to them. After a while it became obvious that the ball ended up in the garden too often to be an accident. As a result a spontaneous break occurred. Myron showed Johnny how to kick the ball on its side to give it spin and make it bend. Johnny tried it several times without much success, so Myron demonstrated in slow motion exactly where to strike the ball. "If you get good at it, you'll be able to go around the wall in a penalty kick."

He asked Johnny if he played at school or in a boys' league, and after Johnny said that he did, he returned the question to Myron.

"Yes, I played on the varsity team in high school and played club soccer in college. I was an attacking midfielder most of the time."

"Uncle Lowell doesn't play soccer. He plays baseball."

"I bet he's good at it."

"Yeah, he is, but now he plays softball. When you get older, see, you play softball."

"Yeah, I've heard that."

"He shows me stuff about hitting and fielding, but you can be my soccer coach."

"Me too," Trevor said. "You can be my coach too."

"Okay, it's a deal." He put his palm out, and both boys, knowing what to do, slapped it.

"So, Trevor, how are your soccer skills?"

"He's not very good," Johnny said.

"I'm just learning. Johnny says that I'll never be any good."

"You're just a kid, that's why," Johnny said. He gave his brother a sharp look, as if to accuse him of snitching.

Becky watched this interaction very carefully while pretending not to. The one thing she was thinking about when she told Lynn she didn't know everything about Myron was how he got along with children. He always saw them so briefly when he came to the house that there was no real way to draw any conclusion. But now the question was answered. Myron, the perfect man, was good with kids. Her heart swelled with love, and she felt tears well in her eyes. Embarrassed, she turned away and rubbed them.

Trevor was showing Myron his kicking skills, which confirmed Johnny's assessment of his brother: they were very rudimentary. He kicked the ball without any control. It could go anywhere. Once, comically, he actually kicked the ball perpendicular to the direction he was facing. "That's a move guaranteed to confuse a defender, Trevor," Myron said, but Johnny was less diplomatic. He snickered.

She was about to chastise him, but Myron already had the situation under control. "Johnny," he said, speaking very gently, "I bet when you were first learning to kick a soccer ball it didn't always go where you wanted. But you learned from your mistakes, didn't you?"

Very solemnly Johnny nodded.

"Well, so will Trevor."

"Here," he said, picking up the ball, "watch my foot, Trevor, while I kick it. I'll do it slow so that you can see. I want to put the ball under the first swing. See where my foot strikes the ball?" He did it in slow motion and the ball went right under the swing.

Trevor tried it three or four times without much success, but his next kick was perfect.

"That's a good one, Trevor. Good shot!"

Johnny wanted to try it, but Becky said, "Johnny, Myron and I have to get back to work."

"Okay, we'll just do a couple, Johnny."

He kicked a couple without much enthusiasm, and Trevor, catching his mood, looked crestfallen too. Myron exchanged a glance with Becky. "We do have to finish the garden, boys, but I tell you what. If it's okay with your mother, after we get the gardening done we'll all go out to lunch. How's that sound?"

It sounded good to them. They recovered their good spirits and even seemed to take care not to interfere with the work of finishing up the composting. Another twenty minutes passed and the moment came. Myron picked up the seed packets and handed them to Becky. "Here are the seeds. You do the honors. We'll have to pray to Ceres that the garden will prosper, and of course aid the gods by watering after we put the seeds into the ground. Whichever works best doesn't matter as long as we get a garden green. I do recommend watering, though."

She knew behind his jocular tone he was expressing a faith in the future. She felt it too. These seeds, tiny, hard and seemingly inert, held the promise of future nourishment. That was how life was—just like love.

Business after Hours

Ned Ridlon sat at the desk in his home office with last night's paper opened before him and a briefcase full of documents on the side table that held his P.C. Downstairs he could hear Delores watching one of her sappy TV shows. He often relaxed with a few hours of TV in the evening, but even though it was Saturday night he had to attend to business. He looked around the room, recalling how its swankiness was usually a source of deep satisfaction. A picture window offered a magnificent view of the tree-lined Waska River near its mouth. Below the window was a leather couch framed by two expensive mahogany end tables, both of which had even more expensive table lamps with Tiffany shades. A leather easy chair and hassock sat at the corner of the opposite wall next to a shelf with a two-thousand-dollar sound system and a collection of CD's below it, mostly of rock music from the Beatles through the Disco '70's. A giant flat-screened home movie TV proudly awaited service to his left. The large teak desk where he was sitting in a leather office chair faced the closed door. Pictures on the wall included framed oil paintings of the Maine coast, lobster boats, a fishing village and a white church in a small New England town, all four of which paintings Ridlon was immensely proud of. He had purchased them in Kennebunkport, a classy place where two presidents had a vacation retreat and where people were of a higher caliber than the Canucks from Montreal who swarmed all over Old Orchard Beach every summer. He often drew visitors' attention to these paintings, telling them he paid $250 apiece for them and that another painting by the same artist hung at the Bush compound in Kennebunkport—the first part of which statement was true while the latter was an exaggeration of a possibility. Someone once had said the paintings were good enough to hang in the Bush house, and from that compliment Ridlon had taken the liberty of actually assigning a painting to that illustrious family.

But tonight pride was not the thought that filled his mind with self-satisfaction, and his glance around the room was more of an uneasy and nervous excuse to not think about what the newspaper article on his desk said. It described Chris Andrews, the man who claimed to have proof that Ridlon Recycling had illegally dumped toxic material into Pleasant Pond and thereby made a little boy deathly ill, as an environmental activist. He reread the line and looked up to a framed photo of his father sitting on the corner of his desk. He frowned.

"That fucking hippie commie puke doesn't know who he's dealing with," he muttered to himself and to his father. "I'm going to crush that shithead."

It was no idle boast. He had built a business empire with the head start he got from his father, and he knew how to crush people. His father had taught him to be ruthless. Money was power, he used to say, and he knew the difference between having it and not having it because he started out as a cop with ambition. His first move was to buy the tenement building he lived in with the help of a loan from a cousin. In eight years after the loan was paid off he bought a second tenement building, then later a third as well as a service station that also sold used cars. Despite being well-off he never left the flat in the first tenement building he'd bought—that's because he was a product of the Great Depression, which in Maine lingered on well into the 1950's. He hadn't even retired from the Bedford police force until he was fifty-five. His father was the one person in the world whom Ridlon loved unconditionally. He was a tough, cynical bastard, and he knew how to take care of himself. He had passed that toughness—and that cynicism—on to his son. Yes, he said to his father, this time silently, he was going to crush that fucking eco-terrorist.

He liked to think that his father would be proud of him, but actually, if he had to say so himself, he had far surpassed his old man. Though his education was undistinguished—he got mostly C's and D's in high school with an occasional B in math and accounting, and he'd spent one year at a vocational college taking accounting and business courses—he regarded himself as a business genius. Always looking for an opportunity, he had not only increased his father's real estate holdings tenfold and added a quick-oil-change franchise to his holdings, he had also started a very successful mail-order lobster business. His most recent venture was the recycling business. It was born one day five years ago when he was arranging to have hauled away the used oil from his service stations and oil-change franchise. That same day he'd read in the newspaper a story about new EPA guidelines for recycling hazardous materials. In a flash he saw the need for a middleman in southern Maine for hospitals, service stations and other businesses to handle PCB's, mercury, radioactive stuff, and the like. Within a year Ridlon Recycling was in business. The only problem was that while it made a profit, it was a very modest one. Not liking modest profits, he had found a way to fatten his profit margin. Now the bad publicity and possibility of lawsuits threatened the recycling business and maybe even the rest of his empire. He was not going to sit back and let that happen. He had already made some phone calls today to some politicians in town and in the state government, had set up a meeting tomorrow with two officials, and was waiting now for a visitor who was doing some investigations for him. He was supposed to come at seven o'clock, which according to his Rolex watch was right now. He drummed his fingers and frowned. He didn't like to wait.

After ten more minutes of finger drumming and a deepening frown, he heard the doorbell ring and Delores's high-pitched voice. She and Mike Boulanger talked for a couple of minutes, she in long bursts of words and he in short guttural responses. Ridlon couldn't hear what they were saying, but he had a pretty good idea. He struggled to control his temper. Finally they came up the stairs and with a quick knock entered the room.

Delores, with whom he had been living for the better part of the last year, came into the room first. She was about thirty, twenty years younger than him, with peroxided hair, a pretty face, dull eyes that betokened mental slowness, bright red lipstick, and wearing a miniskirt and sleeveless top. Most of her worth, and the reason she was his babe, was displayed quite nicely some distance in front of her.

She came up to his desk and with a look of deep concern said, "Neddie, why didn't you tell me this recycling thing was serious."

He'd told her last night about the mercury poisoning but had emphasized that he was not particularly concerned about it. He frowned savagely. She ought to know by now that he didn't like to be treated as someone in need of sympathy. "It ain't trouble. It's a problem that I've got to solve. Don't you get into a dither about it."

"But I'm worried about you, Neddie."

He stood and motioned Boulanger to come in. "And I'm telling you I'm taking care of it." He was about to tell her to get the fuck out when he saw his visitor staring at her legs and the plunging neckline that displayed her voluptuousness. Quickly his mood changed. "I'll tell ya something else, baby. Your tits look good in that top. Makes me want to grab 'em."

She giggled and leaned down across the desk. "You know you can do that anytime, Neddie. They're yours."

Behind her he could see Boulanger staring at her ass pointing up in the air at him. "Don't I know it, baby. But right now I'm talking business, so scram."

Her faced dropped before she forced a smile. "You men," she sighed, turning and with hips swaying left the room.

With satisfaction Ridlon saw Boulanger eying her lasciviously and almost drooling.

When the door closed, Boulanger said, "That's a fine woman you got yourself there."

"Yeah, but don't let her hear you say that. That pussy is like a pussycat who wants to be petted and praised all the time, but I don't want her spoiled."

"Nothing can spoil that woman," Boulanger said with undisguised admiration.

Ridlon regarded his visitor before sitting down. Mike Boulanger was a cop who often did favors for Ridlon and received for his troubles either money (for small favors) or free rent for a month at his flat in one of Ridlon's tenement buildings. The favor that brought him here tonight was a very big one, and if the results were what he hoped would lead to two months of free rent. He was middle-aged and had a paunch. His face was darkened from his heavy beard. Ridlon had heard some of the other cops saying that Boulanger's five-o'clock shadow started showing up by late morning. Today being a shaveless Saturday he had a two-day's growth, making him look decidedly derelict. His dark eyes tended to dart around, looking everywhere but in your eyes. The striped sports shirt he was wearing was too small for him. The sleeves stopped several inches before his hands, and because of his paunch it had pulled out from his belt in the front. Such was the clay Ridlon had to work with. His father had been Boulanger's father's partner on the force, so their association was of long duration. But his interest in the man was strictly and only his usefulness, so sitting down, he said, "Well, Mike, did you look into this Andrews puke?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Ridlon, I did." He was fidgeting and looking very uncom-fortable. His hand kept going to his breast pocket where his cigarettes were, and his eyes darted around the room as if expecting an assassin to jump out at him.

Ridlon reached into his humidor and extracted a cigar. "Go ahead and smoke, Mike. I'll join you." Cutting his cigar as Boulanger hastily lit a cigarette, he said, "This fucking shit is really pissing me off. I hope you've got something for me."

Boulanger looked at him, then hastily dropped his eyes. He took a deep drag from his cigarette, which seemed to calm him. "I don't know, Mr. Ridlon. It appears this Chris Andrews is pretty clean. He seems to be one of those idealistic young fellas with a cause."

Ridlon frowned, then paused to think as he lit his cigar with his gold Zippo lighter. The light from the flame reflected on the large diamond ring on his right middle finger and caused it to sparkle. Puffing several times to get the cigar going, he said, "Idealistic, my ass. My dad used to say everybody's out for themselves, trying to get what they can. I remember one time my mother said, 'But what about Rev. Howe? He's a good man.' Dad didn't miss a beat. 'I ain't talking about losers. Those goody-two-shoes get the jobs they do because that's all they can do.' Teachers, social workers, it's the same fucking thing. So you're telling me this little creep's got a clean record? I don't fucking believe it. He don't look like a goody-two-shoes to me. I'm betting you dig a little deeper and you'll find the fuckhead does drugs like a kid eats candy. He's a fucking hippy, ain't he? I'm betting he's been in trouble with the law. Who'd you call?"

"Portland, Bedford, Waska and Amherst, Massachusetts."

"The police?"

"Yeah."

Boulanger spoke in a rather surly way. He didn't like being lectured to. Tough shit. "Why'd you contact Amherst? He use ta live there?"

"He went to college there."

"Jesus, you mean to tell me they didn't have anything on him?"

"I told you, no."

"What college did he go to?"

"U. Mass."
Ridlon laughed. "You asshole. You didn't try the campus police, did you?"

When Boulanger looked dumbfounded, he said, "Jesus, Mike. You really are one dumb fuck of a frog. You look at his college record. I'm guessing you'll find something. And what about that business of him in Oregon or wherever it was. Those guys are called fucking eco-terrorists."

Instead of answering, Boulanger stared at him angrily.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Mike. Are you sensitive? I've been called a fucking swine of a WASP. It rolled off me like water on a duck's back. I didn't mean anything by it."

He shrugged. "Okay, but I don't think I can call California. The lieutenant would notice that."

"Well, you call UMass on Monday."

Boulanger rose to snuff out his cigarette. "Could I ask you sum'in'? How the hell did you get that shed way up in the sticks?"

Ridlon grinned. "My father got it. Some guy owed him money, some farmer. So he took the plot of land and put a shack on it, a shed. It was a couple hundred yards from the river, see? and he used it for a fishing camp."

Boulanger nodded, but something was still bothering him. He looked as if he wanted to speak but didn't dare to.

"You don't seem too happy, Mike. A month's free rent seems pretty generous for the favor I'm asking."

"It ain't that, Mr. Ridlon. To tell the truth, it kinda bothers me that little boy is sick. Is there any truth to these allegations Andrews is making?"

"Not that I know of. I'm looking into the matter to see if one of my boys did something he shouldna. But that ain't certain either. So you can soothe your tender conscience." His father used to tell him that if a lie was useful, it wasn't a lie. He was giving Boulanger some useful information—that's all.

Their business ended, Ridlon rose and started walking towards the door. Boulanger followed. Going downstairs, with Boulanger looking into the living room in hopes of catching another look at Delores, Ridlon said, "Remember, Mike, this is important. Get me this info ASAP."

After he had seen his guest out the door and given him some last-minute instructions to also run a Google search on Andrews, he turned to find Delores watching him from the entrance to the living room. She looked troubled, but at the same time she hesitated to speak. He was about to go back upstairs, then stopped on the first step. "What's wrong?" he asked gruffly, making no effort to hide his impatience.

She looked at him, then dropped her eyes. Folding her arms beneath her breasts, she said in a gratingly plaintive voice that he took to be an effort to elicit sympathy, "Neddie, honey, could I say something?"

He didn't answer, but he didn't say no either.

Her body swayed nervously, and she looked at the door, not him. "It's just that earlier when you were talking with Mike you told me to scram." Her eyes flicked up at him. He could read the fear behind them.

"Well, what of it? I was talking business."

"It's just that you hurt my feelings."

He gave out a short, harsh snort. "You women are too sensitive. I didn't mean anything except to say I was busy. If I'd told a man to scram, he'd scram. He'd understand it was nothing personal."

"But the word 'scram' is disrespectful," she lisped. "I'm not a man. It hurt me."

She was being tiresome, but he had too much to think about now to waste time losing his temper. He looked at the expensive grandfather clock to her right, the thing that announced to anyone who came into the house that here was wealth, here was power, here was taste. He'd paid two thousand dollars for it, and the stupid cunt was complaining about her feelings. "Baby, don't I treat you good? Didn't I buy you that necklace for your birthday? You're living in a swanky house, ain't you?"

"I know," she said, "and I appreciate it. It's just that sometimes I'd like to feel appreciated in return."

"Now, baby, let's not see any tears. I've got a lot of work to do. I've got to go over my books for a meeting tomorrow morning. Just go to bed when you're tired. I'm going to be working for several hours."

She looked at him wide-eyed. Women didn't understand these things and never would, but for future reference he tried to enlighten her. "You got to understand that business doesn't wait, baby. A great deal of important business happens after hours."

"I understand," she said without conviction, then came over to him for a kiss.

He humored her but without feeling.

Upstairs in his office he went to the double-doored closet and opened it to reveal the wet bar. He poured himself a large whisky over ice, then sat down at his desk and relit the cigar he had started when Boulanger was smoking.

He was meeting tomorrow with a state representative and a regulatory commissioner, both of whom he had helped in the past and who always found ways to help him in return. He wanted to have all the facts and figures concerning the case at his fingertips when he talked to them; but having had a busy day Saturday, the only time he could do this work was at night.

His task was to compare his clients' invoices with the packing slips sent to the company in New Jersey that processed the hazardous materials. He examined both paper documents and computer files. Most of the material Ridlon Recycling handled was entered by weight. Electrical equipment that contained PCB's would have only a small amount of the poison. What he had done was make up for the stuff they dumped in Pleasant Pond with inert electrical equipment. These kinds of manipulations were the majority of cases and left no paper trail. As the hours went by, however, he found many documents of original invoices where the figures differed from the records sent to New Jersey. The first he noticed showed a glaring discrepancy. The hospital had 2.3 grams of radioactive iodine on its documentation while the invoice sent to New Jersey had 735 mg. He read these on paper and then checked the computer to find the same figures. Feeling uneasy now, he started looking for other discrepancies. Over the course of an hour he found over two dozen more.

After a while he saw a pattern and remembered where he had gone wrong. The easily hidden illegal dumpings were all from the first year or so; but as time went by and no one noticed any discrepancies, they—he and his secretary, Anna Rokoviak—had grown careless and even reckless. A point in the evening came—well after he heard Delores go to bed—when he realized that any court-ordered audit of his books would easily discover what he had done. The realization caused some bad moments verging on panic where the only way he could see to extricate himself from this mess was to hire an arsonist to torch the building where he had his office. Then for a long time he berated himself. How could he have been so stupid? he asked himself over and over before his frustration and anger found an outlet in a volcanic surge of hatred against that fucking shithead Chris Andrews. For a long time he daydreamed about ruining that fucking eco-terrorist. It made him feel better, but eventually he realized that it would do nothing to help him. He pulled himself together and tried to think lucidly.

His first idea had been to dump the excess stuff at sea, but that solution was rejected when he considered all the eyes that might observe such operations. Then he had thought of the pond, though pond was almost too generous a word for the dinky marshy body of water that went under the name of Pleasant Pond. He saw now that the idea of using the pond as a dump site was disastrous, but at the time he thought it was a rational decision. He didn't know it connected to the Waska River because his father had told him that he always had to portage his canoe to get to the river. And he certainly didn't think that there were any fish worth catching in that miserable pond or that there would be people who would eat them.

His panic returned when he thought about the reports he had read of that sick boy. He had a sudden vision of himself being arrested and brought to jail in chains and being such a figure of universal hatred that his fellow prisoners treated him like a leper. Only with an effort of will was he able to bring himself back to rationality. What's done is done, he thought; the question is to decide what to do about it. He stood and paced, thinking hard. The meeting with his political connections that he had set up for tomorrow now appeared useless. The only good that could come from it was to solidify their indebtedness to him so that he could have friends in high places to defend him. But the federal EPA was now his principal danger, and his friends could do nothing for him on that score.

That settled, he next turned his mind to the potential court proceedings and lawsuits that might result. Only three people besides him knew about the dumping—Anna Rokoviak, his foreman Buck Brewster, and the worker Adrian Tardif. Anna he didn't have to worry about. She had worked for him for over twenty-five years and was loyal. Even better, she was in on the scheme up to her elbows so that if he got prosecuted she would be too. Adrian Tardif was not much of a problem either. He hated any authority and was close-mouthed by nature. He would do what Buck told him to do. The key man, then, was Buck Brewster. He poured himself another whisky and while sipping it thought long and deep about Buck. When he saw his way clear, he checked his watch. It was 11:30, but Buck, who was an insomniac, would be up. He called him and told the foreman that he needed to talk to him tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. The time was very important because he wanted to have Buck lined up before he talked to the two officials over lunch. Buck said he would be there.

By now Ridlon felt like his old self—taking charge of events, not waiting for things to happen to him. He would like to talk with his son Clay as well, but though the twenty-three-year-old still lived at home with him, he was not likely to be in tonight until very late. He was a womanizer and a party animal. More likely he'd have to talk to the young scamp in the morning.

The final problem was the hicks with the sick kid. It was likely, he was sure, that any criminal proceedings would result in a fine, not—despite his recent panicky vision of being led away in chains—jail time. The fine would be hefty but nowhere near as expensive as a civil lawsuit if some smart-assed lawyer sniffed a killing and approached the hicks. The thing to do was to get to them before any sharks smelled blood in the water. After checking the newspaper to get their names, he went to the phone book only to find there was no listing for a Luke or Suzy Kimball. That was actually good news—it meant they were too poor to have a phone. At his office he had a city directory for Waska. He could check it tomorrow. If that offered nothing specific, it did not matter. He knew they had to live on the dirt road near the Tooley Road. He'd seen some hovels there on trips up to the shed. The thing to decide was how much to offer them. He would tell them that though he was completely innocent of the poisoning of the pond, he felt responsible and wanted to help them. He'd lay it on thick, of course, saying that he was deeply moved to hear about that sweet boy's condition. Played right, done right with just the right tone, $25,000 should do that trick. It would be more money than they had ever seen in one place in their lives. All they would have to do was sign a little, teeny paper that would say in nice lawyerly gibberish that they agreed not to sue him.

He stood, his work for the night finished. Having a plan in place made him feel good, so good in fact that when he crawled into bed he took occasion to find some quick relief on Delores's half-asleep but available body, then slept soundly until eight o'clock in the morning. When he awoke Delores was already up. He could hear her in the kitchen banging some pots and pans, and he could smell the coffee.

As a consequence of his recent physical examination that revealed high cholesterol and borderline hypertension, he was watching his diet. No more bacon and eggs or French toast for breakfast, less beef and more chicken or fish for dinner—this was his lot. For breakfast this morning he had a bowl of multi-grained cereal and half a cantaloupe while being fussed over by Delores, who argued him out of a second bowl of cereal by reminding him that the doctor had also mandated that he lose weight. From the same source of health wisdom came his next activity, which was to ride a stationary bike while he watched television for half an hour. Then he read the Sunday paper with a cup of coffee and a cigar and was pleased to see no articles on the mercury poisoning.

Before his shower he discussed with Delores what to serve the two dignitaries for lunch, mentioning ham sandwiches and accepting her suggestion of smoked salmon and pasta salad. These culinary concessions he made were actually a calculated ploy to control Delores in all important matters. When he had suggested ham and cheese sandwiches for lunch, it was done just so that she could overrule him. It was another trick his father had taught him. To rule absolutely was easiest when you allowed your underlings to think they had input into decisions. The only one this trick had not worked on was his wife, who divorced him six years ago, but Delores wasn't as smart as his ex, and he controlled her like a puppeteer. Ultimately he had even beaten his wife. She had wanted half of his property, but by threats and lawyerly tricks he had gotten her to accept their house and $100,000 a year in alimony.

He contemplated his duplicity with satisfaction as he took his shower. In life there were winners and losers. He was a winner. That fucking puke Chris Andrews was going to learn the truth of that fact, just as anyone else would who stood in his way.

But there was one person he could not control, and he felt apprehensive as he toweled himself off and heard Clay go downstairs. After dressing he spent some time in the kitchen discussing further the lunch with Delores as she put groceries away from her trip to the store. He told her to dress sexily, since that put men in a good frame of mind, and she suggested that if it was as warm as it promised to be she would wear a bikini top under an unbuttoned blouse. "That always brings a bulge to their eyes and elsewhere," she giggled. He laughed with her, but even as he said, "Don't I know it, baby," he could see Clay through the sliding door and felt his uneasiness growing, not shrinking.

Clay was reading the paper with a cigarette in his mouth and a cup of coffee on the table beside him. He looked, as usual, as if the world was his oyster and everything that came before his eyes owed him homage. Blond and blue-eyed, square-jawed, tall and well tanned, he was incredibly handsome. His good looks and fair complexion came from his mother, for Ridlon was short, dark, balding and not very handsome, which was why, he knew, he tended to live vicariously through his son's personal triumphs and social successes. Clay was everything he was not when young: popular, a good athlete, a lady-killer. But as proud as he was of his son's social prowess, he was equally exasperated by Clay's indifference to business. And it was his own fault. Because of the pleasure he derived from watching Clay conquer the world, he had spoiled the boy, given him everything he wanted, let him do anything he wanted, go anywhere he wanted to go. In contrast, his daughter Laurel had been kept tightly under control lest she be impregnated by some boy or—worse—meet some boy who wanted to marry her to become connected to the Ridlon wealth. To this day Laurel bore him a grudge and had sided with her mother during the divorce. Clay, knowing where his bread was buttered, sided with him.

But it wasn't a deep commitment. At the country club where the business elite of Bedford and Waska congregated, whether or not they played golf (Ridlon didn't), many of his friends had already added their sons to the company name—Fenton and Son, Lavalle and Son. Like kings and emperors of old their succession was assured. It was his dream that just as he had greatly enlarged his father's legacy, Clay would continue the expansion and bring the Ridlon name down through the generations and that the company office would always feature a large portrait of him. Clay already worked for his father, but he did so unenthusiastically and without any real effort. That was his problem. He had never needed to make an effort since everything came to him easily. All his life he got by using his good looks and charm. At the same time he was a star athlete and Big Man on Campus, he was a lousy student with grades too poor for college. At eighteen he was bundled off to a special school to catch up, but it didn't work. Getting accepted at a small college in New York whose only entrance requirement was the money for tuition, he still flunked out. It was the bane of Ridlon's existence that anything serious that required effort Clay did half-assed. His school work was half-assed. His work at Ridlon Real Estate was half-assed. Any thought of the future and family was half-assed. Whenever Ridlon tried to have a serious talk with Clay, the twenty-three-year-old boy always wore a slightly bemused expression on his face. When he was a real boy the expression was a smirk, so perhaps a little progress had been made. More likely, Ridlon suspected, Clay had simply learned how to handle the old man and avoid open hostility. Ridlon would give him instructions; Clay would agree to follow them; then he never quite followed through. Half-assed! Just last week before the newspaper article changed everything, he told Clay to look into an electrical problem at one of the tenement buildings. Clay had gone so far as to call an electrician and leave a message on the man's machine, but the last thing Ridlon heard late Friday afternoon before he left the office was that the tenant was still without power.

Ridlon did not plan to mention this latest shortcoming. With the illegal dumping his main priority, it was most urgent to impress upon Clay that now was the time to cease doing things half-assed. He needed a colonel he could trust in the coming battle and nurtured the hope that today was the beginning of Clay's new manhood. Even while he thought about these hopes for the future, he knew that he would have to suppress them. He couldn't show himself vulnerable.

With a deep breath, he slid open the door to the deck and confronted his son.

Clay looked up and barely nodded before returning to the sports section. Ridlon bristled but suppressed the retort that formed in his mind. Standing in front of his son, he said, "Clay, I need to talk to you about some very important matters. We've got a problem with the mercury poisoning business, and it's going to take a lot of my attention this week. I need you to do some of the things I would normally do."

Clay looked up from the sports section before returning to it. "Like what?"

"Like meet with the accountant to go over the tax revenues from the gas stations and oil-change business. I've got some documents you'll need to go over."

When he didn't look up, pretending to be interested in the article he was reading, Ridlon's temper rose. Speaking with exasperated calmness, he said, "Let me remind you that it is very important. Things have to be taken care of—just as they were," he added sharply when he saw Clay still maintaining a bored and above-it-all attitude, "when I fixed that little matter of you driving under the influence. You're twenty-three now. You're old enough to take on more responsibility. If you think things take care of themselves, you're dreaming. Someday you'll be heading these businesses, but they won't be worth a pisspot full of shit if you don't attend to details."

"Can't we just hire someone to do that stuff?"

"No, we can't. A hired man doesn't really give a shit."

"What about the accountant you want me to see? He's a hired man, ain't he?"

"No, he's not. He's a professional. If he doesn't do his job he'll go broke. He _has_ to attend to details."

"But that's my point. Couldn't we hire a professional to run the businesses?"

"And do what? Play golf all day? Diddle women all day? Clay, my father and I built this business from nothing. It's like a...like a..." He wanted to say "child," but the child he was speaking to was not much of a proof of what the businesses were like. "It's like a piece of me, this business. It's here"—he thumped his chest—"I want you to think of it the same way. I want you to pass it on to your son."

Clay seemed embarrassed by his father's show of emotion. "But I don't feel that way about it."

"I know you don't," he said, feeling his heart leap and with difficulty suppressing his emotions. "I wish you did."

Clay frowned and looked away at something on the lawn. "Well, I will take care of the accountant. Don't worry, Dad."

They both looked over to where Delores called from the door. He was glad to see she was wearing the bikini top with an open blouse. "Neddie, Buck Brewster's here. Do you want him to come out to the deck?"

"No, show him up to my office. Tell him I'll be right up. Get him a coffee if he wants one, and tell him to have a smoke." Then thinking it would be wise to make his foreman as comfortable as possible, he added, "Offer him a roll if he's hungry."

With her gone, he turned back to his son and spoke more lightly. "I'm glad to see you understand the importance of what I'm asking you to do. You do, don't you?"

"Yes, Dad." He spoke a bit too airily but followed his words with a slight smile, friendly and conciliatory.

"Good, I'm glad." Then feeling he should make a personal remark to solidify their bond, he said, "Hey, where's that blond you've been seeing? She ain't been around for the last few weeks."

"April? I dumped her. She was getting too serious."

"There's nothing wrong with being serious."

"Dad, some day I probably will be. But I'm young now. There's plenty of time to be serious later. But don't worry. I get the point. I'll see that accountant. I'll read those documents."

"Good," Ridlon said hopefully, "I'll get you the papers after I see Brewster."

"Just how serious is this mercury bit, Dad? Is it real bad?"

He shook his head. "Bad, maybe. Real bad? No. I'm taking care of it."

Upstairs Brewster had contented himself with just a cigarette. He was snuffing it out as Ridlon came into the office and stood to face his boss. He was a tall, gangly man with sinewy arms, wearing a striped sports shirt and pressed slacks instead of his usual dungarees and chambray work shirt. Ridlon assumed these were his good clothes and inwardly smiled. He looked more himself at work, that was for sure. He had a large head, made larger by the pronounced bald dome above graying dark hair, and wore thick black-rimmed glasses. Unlike Boulanger, though, he was clean-shaven.

"Have a seat, Buck. How's the wife and kids?"

"Busy. There's a soccer game this afternoon, and she's getting 'em ready for it right now. I'm going over to the field after, ah, after talking to you."

Ridlon sat down and reached for a cigar. "Okay, then, I won't keep you long and we'll get right to the point. Have another smoke. I'll join you."

Cigar and cigarette lit, he said, "Of course you know that this is about the mercury business."

Buck nodded.

"To tell the truth, it's kinda sticky. I'm seeing some people from the government—people who owe me favors, you understand—and probably have everything under control. But you know what a good general does in battle, don't you, Buck?"

Buck looked puzzled. "I'm not sure what you mean, Ned."

He puffed at his cigar for a moment. "A good general has a backup plan in case something unexpected happens—that's what I mean."

Buck followed his example and smoked for a while, then looked sharply at his boss. "I'm figuring I'm the backup plan."

Ridlon nodded. "That's it. As I say, I'm pretty sure I can control things, but things could go bad, so bad we'd all be out of a job." He looked at Buck to be sure he understood who could number among the jobless. He seemed to understand perfectly. "So here's my plan. In case—note I say in case—something goes wrong, I want you to take the blame."

Buck looked down at the floor nervously. He scratched his ear but didn't say anything.

Ridlon took that as a green light. "You could plead dumbness. You didn't know what you were doing. You're lazy, something like that you could tell 'em. Odds are you'd be fined. I'll pay it. If you do jail time—"

"Wait a minute, Ned. Jail time ain't right. I was just following orders."

"Jesus, Buck, you ain't listening to what I'm saying. First of all I'm going to beat the rap. Nobody's going to pay a fine or spend a few months in jail. I've got connections, don't forget. What I'm talking about here is a fallback plan. You think I'd ask you to do this without making it worth your while?"

Buck thought for a minute. He scratched his chin. His eyes looked up into his head. Then he tilted his neck and leaned against the arm of his chair with his finger tapping his chin while he calculated. Finally he looked at Ridlon, then dropped his eyes almost immediately. "How much?" he asked, looking at the floor.

"You and Janet have been saving for a down payment on a house. How much do you need?"

That got his attention. His eyes swelled with greed, but he looked too scared to name a sum. To him it probably seemed like a fortune. "Well, how much?" Ridlon repeated.

"Twenty thousand."

Ridlon whistled. "Okay, if you do time, that's what you'll get. If it's a fine, I'll contribute two thousand to your mortgage fund, plus pay the fine. You can't lose. Do we have a deal?"

Buck stood and put out his hand. "We have a deal."

They shook hands and turned to the door. At the top of the steps he thanked Buck for coming and then, belatedly, thought of one other item that needed tidying up. "Is there anything in the shed upcountry that shouldn't be there?"

Buck looked at him knowingly. "You mean that gives evidence that pollutants were there?"

He nodded.

"No pollutants, but there might be a few containers that have residual traces. You know nowadays forensic science is damn good at finding things. You want me to..."

"Yeah, get that stuff out of there. Do it tomorrow—in daylight, mind you. We don't wanna look like we're hiding something. And, oh, one more thing. Tell Adrian I'll take care of him too."

"Okay, Ned. I understand. I'll see myself out."

He nodded, then before returning to his office watched Buck descend the stairs and pass through the front door.

In the office he stood looking first at the four paintings and then the photograph of his father while he puffed at his cigar contentedly. He expected a report from Boulanger in a few days, this one more satisfactory. He expected that the two officials who would soon arrive for lunch would use their influence to keep the state from thirsting for his blood. He had lined Buck up as his ace in the hole. Tomorrow with Anna's help he would prepare a statement for the press that would express his shock and profound sadness that a little boy was sick and state that he was mystified how Ridlon Recycling could be involved. He would of course promise a thorough internal investigation. As soon as possible he would also pay a visit to the Kimballs to settle matters on that end. He had had a productive weekend that even included the possible turning point in his son's life. He was going to enjoy the lunch of smoked salmon and pasta salad washed down with a good wine; then for the rest of the day he was going to relax. He had earned it.

Unwelcome Visitors

Mark was straining. She could feel the muscles of his neck and shoulders go tight, but with no result. His bowels, along with everything else in his poor, violated body, were not working right. For over ten minutes now they had been in the bathroom—really an indoor privy since their house had no plumbing and even the water in the kitchen had to be hand pumped to flow. The air was fetid and unpleasant, but she kept urging him on. If he didn't produce today, the doctors told her she was going to have to take him back to the hospital for an enema. Returning to the hospital would be a defeat. It would mean he was not getting better. She urged him to keep trying, hoping not to show her anxiety but sure he was sensing it.

Since his three-day stay at the hospital where he had been almost lost amongst tubes and machines that flickered strange messages in numbers and graphs, nothing was going right for him. At home she had to see he took his medicine and vitamins several times a day. There were another six weeks of school left, but it was very unlikely he would be back in the classroom this year. The thought that terrified her and which when she thought of it even made her cringe was that he wouldn't ever go back to school.

He had poor balance and as a result his gait was unsteady. He had a tremor in his left arm. His hearing was poor—he complained of a ringing in his ears. His extremities were still numb. Yesterday he had burned his hand on the stove and at first didn't even feel the heat. Suzy was pretty sure his sight was poor as well. More than once she had come up beside him and was not sure he could see her until she came directly in front of him. The doctors told her these symptoms were common with children poisoned with organic mercury. They were less precise about the degree to which these symptoms were permanent or temporary. To her untrained eyes he seemed to be getting better. One symptom, however, was scarier than all the others combined and in the two weeks since he had come home seemed to have stayed the same. This was his mental state.

He used to be a typical, active little monkey. Now he seemed to be in a daze. He would sit watching TV and only occasionally show any sign of emotion. He rarely smiled. He never laughed. Sometimes he cried quietly. He used to speak so fast he'd trip over his tongue. MaIwannawaI'mthirsy." Now he said "I'm thirsty" very slowly as if he had to struggle to remember even the simplest words. He was a different boy in every way. Only when his sweet blue eyes looked up at her yearningly as if asking for help was she able to connect him to the little love of her life. She would not give up.

"Come on, sweetie," she said. "Try."

After another few minutes passed without any result, the piercing, whining voice of Sissy called from the other side of the door.

"Hey, Ma! Would you hurry up in there!"

"You hold your horses, Sissy. Mark is having trouble with his bowels."

"Ma! The school bus will be here soon."

She ignored her, urging Mark to strain. He looked up helplessly, making her feel helpless in return. "Come on," she whispered, angry now. "You've got to make some poop."

"Jesus Christ, Ma!"

She turned to the door, frowned, then back to Mark. He looked as if he was about to cry. She sighed. "Okay, sweetie. Stand up." She pulled his pants up and fastened his belt.

Sissy glared at her as she rushed by slamming the door behind her.

She sat Mark down at the kitchen table and got Sharon's hat and coat. Malcolm resisted her suggestion he get the same clothing and shrugged when she told him it might rain. Both of them appeared subdued and sullen.

She was getting a banana for Mark when Sissy came back to the kitchen. She was still angry and glared at her mother.

"What's wrong now, Sissy?"

"Nothing. You spend too much with Mark, that's all."

"And you don't think of him at all."

Sissy clucked her tongue. "Not that stupid banana again! It's a crime in this house to eat a banana."

Yesterday she had snitched one of Mark's bananas. They were one of the few things Mark was eager to eat. When Mrs. Carnevale, the woman whose house she cleaned, learned of this, she bought a large bunch of bananas and some orange juice (which was the only liquid she could use to get him to swallow his pills). She had rebuked Sissy for taking the banana, and Sissy had reacted with all the wounded feelings a teenage girl was capable of. And now a day later she was still bristling about the outrage.

"It wasn't just the banana. It was that you didn't consider your brother's health," she said heatedly.

"Gawd, Ma! I live here too."

She sat down beside Mark and gave him the banana. "Mark is different because he's sick. Just because the rest of you were not severely touched by the mercury and Mark was doesn't mean you have to be mean to him."

"He's more than sick. He's a retard."

Suzy jumped up and banged the table, making Mark cringe and look afraid. Because of his reaction she was able to resist the urge to slap Sissy's face. Instead she released her emotion in angry words. "You shut your trap, young lady. What's the matter with you? The poor boy has been poisoned."

"He's out of the hospital, ain't he? He must be getting better."

Suzy walked around the kitchen table to face her daughter. "Do you have any human feelings? What kind of miserable excuse for a human being doesn't care if her brother has been poisoned?"

Sissy glared at her, then turned and started for the door. Then she stopped suddenly and wheeled around. "There are other people in this house, you know." Her eyes went from the kitchen area to the living room in one sweep. "I should say this dump. It sure ain't no house. You and Dad certainly have been great successes in life."

"Hold your tongue! We do the best we can. We ask you to help and all you can think about is your selfish desires."

"Now I know why Leighton ran away. You're mean. I'm getting out of here as soon as I can." Her lips quivered, and despite herself tears welled in her eyes.

The tears softened her. "Be reasonable, Sissy. When you were sick with the flu last winter, who took care of you? Now Mark needs the caring. You should help, not complain."

Her softer tone did nothing to pacify Sissy's rage. "Not complain! You give us nothing. I have to go to Gramma's to take a bath. The kids used to laugh at me about my clothes, so I have to work to buy some decent stuff so I won't get teased. And what do you do? You take half of what I earn. What losers you are!" She glared at Suzy defiantly.

When Sissy frowned her face became unpleasant. Her prettiness came from the rounded lines of her chin and cheeks, but when she frowned these lines became sharp and emphasized her larger-than-average nose. In the heat of battle Suzy felt the need to inflict pain. "I'd advise you not to frown in front of the boys. It makes you look ugly." Only after she said these cruel words and saw that they had hit home did she regret making such a low attack. Sissy's prettiness was the only weapon she had in the struggle of life, and all her teenage insecurity instantly showed itself.

With reddening eyes and quivering lip, she screamed, "Again I see why Leighton ran away, you mean bitch!" She turned and raced through the door before she started crying. The whole house shook when she slammed the door.

Malcolm and Sharon looked shaken. Trying to calm them, she said softly, "I'm sorry this had to happen. Tell Sissy I'm sorry too. You all have to realize I've been under a strain."

She was ashamed of herself. She had always prided herself on being a good mother despite being poor. If in dark moments she blamed herself for Leighton's disappearance, most of the time she understood it was the poverty that drove him away. But if Sissy left, arguments like the one they had this morning would be the reason. With two children lost and another sick and possibly ruined by the food she put on the table, what then could she say about her mothering?

Suddenly the house became oppressive. She gave Mark his pills and then sat him down on the couch with a picture book. As soon as she was sure he was settled, she went outside. She needed the feel of the wind on her face and the sense of reality that trees and fields and sky gave her. Dark clouds covered half the sky, but in the east the low sun shone and sent shafts of light under the clouds and upon the earth. With the spring rains they had been having, the earth was very green. She could hear grackles making their creaking-door sound and further off the trill of the redwings in the marshy areas by the pond. Insects hummed. The old car Luke used for spare parts was shining like a jewel. The grass under her feet smelled wonderful. She turned and for a moment looked at the clump of sumac trees across the gravel road before directing her eyes above to the dark clouds. She saw that they were moving swiftly and that behind them in the west the sky was clearing. It wasn't going to rain.

That was the information she was hoping for. For the past several weeks she had been doing her laundry at the farmhouse. Her washing machine had to be filled by hand, and being old (they got it from Hoot Berry's barn), the spin cycle no longer worked. They also had no dryer at the house. More important to her than the laundry, though, was the chance to talk to Jenny. Having a sympathetic listener was the only way she would feel better. She went around the side of their house and got the shopping cart that she used to transport Mark and the laundry. It too was from Hoot's barn, the place Sissy sarcastically called their Wal-Mart.

Back inside Mark was sitting quietly looking at the picture book. His lips seemed to be moving, and she hoped he was forming words. For that moment he looked perfectly normal; then she saw his eyes. The distance, the blankness almost as if he had forgotten who she was, increased her anguish. She leaned down and kissed him on the head. "My sweet boy," she whispered. "You will get better."

He looked up at her sideways. "Mommy," he said.

That made her feel better.

She went over to the closet and got out his rain gear in case her reading of the weather was wrong. Then she got the two plastic garbage bags that she used for the laundry and brought them to the cart. She put Mark's shoes on and walked outside slowly, holding his hand to steady him. On good days with dry ground she would go across the fields, but with the rain and damp earth she decided the road was safer. Down the gravel road she went, past Hoot's house where his wife Olive waved from the window, and then down Route 177 the few hundred yards to the farmhouse. Mark rode on top of the laundry.

She stopped by the shed to say hello to Vernon. Being one of those men who had to keep busy, he spent most of his time out there working on things like chairs, appliances, his car, anything he could find. Jenny called it nonsense, just busywork—but her opinion had no effect on him whatsoever. His face was permanently tanned from a life outdoors. He farmed until he was forty; and when he had to give it up and sold his four cows and his chickens, he had worked as a day laborer for some of the bigger dairy farms that managed to hang on. He got a pittance for Social Security, so in the summer he would still hire himself out even though he was seventy-one. His knowledge of cows and dairying made it easy for him to find these part-time jobs. His wrinkled face and yellowish-white hair made him look even older, but he was still wiry and despite a bad leg that never healed properly after a cow giving birth rolled over on him, he was still capable of working as hard as a twenty-year-old man. Though he was gruff and didn't say much, he was always good to Luke and her, and she liked him.

He was planing a board as she came by. "Jenny up at the house, Vernon?"

He looked up, his pipe clenched in his teeth. "Ayuh."

"Got me some laundry to do."

He nodded, and she went on.

Jenny was at the door. "Saw you coming, Suzy. How's Mark today?"

"'Bout the same."

Like her husband, Jenny was quite spry for someone in her seventies. She had an arthritic hip and hands but otherwise was so healthy that Suzy had never known her to have even a cold or the flu. She had a kindly grandmotherly face that hid a will of iron, which was hinted at whenever her thin lips were set and a look came into her large gray eyes magnified behind rimless spectacles. The kids all loved her but were also a bit afraid of her. Another symptom of Mark's mental problems was that he seemed to have forgotten this dangerous quality in his grandmother. She, however, allowed him the indulgence of the sick, so when he picked up a knickknack on the kitchen shelf she didn't say, "Put that down, young man!" as she usually would do. If Suzy had her wish, Jenny would be able to yell at him. Putting the laundry into the washing machine, which was nestled into a corner of the kitchen, she felt the familiar sadness even while she reminded herself not to give in to hopelessness. She knew that only she could nurse him back to health—if it was possible. But there was that despair lurking in the corner of her mind that whispered "impossible" every time she hoped. She had to shake herself to get rid of it.

They talked about Mark's health for some time, speaking mostly in whispers, even though Mark didn't seem to listen. Jenny promised to take them to the hospital, but it would have to be tomorrow morning since she was helping a friend with some sewing this afternoon. That information actually made Suzy feel better. It gave her one more day to try to get Mark regular.

Jenny boiled some water, and as soon as it was ready they sat down to a cup of tea for them and a cup of cocoa for Mark. Suzy had brought his new coloring book since it was one thing he seemed to enjoy doing, and he quietly worked with his crayons as the women talked.

"Well," Suzy said, "I've had a bad morning. I had a fight with Sissy. She said some nasty things, and I'm still upset."

Jenny took a sip of tea and regarded Suzy from above the cup's brim. "Oh? What brought it on?"

"I was trying to get Mark to move his bowels. She wanted to use the privy, and one thing led to another."

"They always do."

"She thinks I'm spending too much time with Mark. I am, of course. But he's the one who needs attention. I reminded her that when she was sick with the grippe last winter I took care of her." She leaned over and wiped Mark's face where he'd dribbled some cocoa. "Careful, sweetie. It's still hot."

"Did she get the point?"

"No. She's a selfish little thing now."

The flash of anger she felt as she remembered the urge to slap Sissy made her speak so sharply Jenny's eyes widened. "What do you mean? She's boy crazy now. It happens to most girls."

"It's more than that. It's the way she thinks of me. It's as if I'm not a person but—"

Jenny interrupted with a laugh. "I know. You're a mother, right? You don't have any other life."

She knew Jenny was purposely trying to calm her down. It was working too, for after a deep breath expelled as a sigh she did feel calmer. "Uh huh. Now that I think about it, I thought of my mother the same way. Like she was always worn-out and run-down. Like she was always an old hag, never young."

"And you think that's how Sissy thinks of you?"

"Yeah, I do. She shows me no respect. She got real nasty too. She blamed me and Luke for our poverty. She called us losers."

"Seems to me all young folks today lack respect."

Suzy noticed she spoke philosophically and didn't criticize Sissy. "The difference is we may have thought those things, but we didn't say 'em."

Jenny laughed at the justice of that remark. "Things don't change, I'm thinkin'."

Mark slid his coloring book across the table. "Mommy, look," he said. She held up the picture, and they both admired it; then he went back to his coloring and became very quiet again.

"But I'm worried about her. She dresses like a tramp. I just hope she doesn't become one."

"Oh, you don't have to tell me about _that_! I've seen some of the things she wears, including her underthings, when she comes up to the farmhouse for a bath. I asked her about 'em once, and she said all the girls dress like that. I said, if all the girls shaved their heads bald, would you? But she didn't want to joke. 'Grammy,' she says, 'I don't want the other kids to laugh at me.' Now that is a powerful thing. I can understand that even though in my day things were different. Parents controlled kids. Why, I couldn't see Vernon without my mother or aunt bein' nearby as a...What d'ya call it?"

"Chaperon?"

"Ayuh, that's the word. We had to be real tricky to get some time alone, I can tell ya."

"That goes back to what I was saying about Sissy thinking I didn't understand. But when I tell her she's making a mistake, I'm not just making things up. I went down the same road she's traveling."

"Which is?" She rose to get the hot water to freshen her tea. She offered water to Suzy, but she put up her hand.

"Thinking that the town boys were the promise of the future. Us upcountry folks mostly being poor, them ones that had doctors and lawyers and such for parents seemed like gods."

"I'm guessin' you went out with some of those young bucks."

Suzy watched her swirl her old tea bag through the hot water, squeezing every last bit of tea out of it. "Yeah, I did. I guess I was considered pretty in high school—something Sissy would never believe, I'm sure. Anyways, quite a few of those boys asked me out. I discovered most of them were interested in just one thing."

"I'm sure they were. My grandmother called it our virtue. Men were animals. We were pure and had to keep it that way. 'Course I see enough stuff on TV to know things ain't that way now. That's why I couldn't put up much of an argument to Sissy 'bout her clothes. Young folks don't want to feel different. On Oprah they call it peer pressure."

"But it wasn't only sex," Suzy said a bit impatiently—Jenny was wandering away from what she wanted to say. "I remember one boy, Taylor Beckham. He was a doctor's son, handsome, and a football player. He had a steady girl, but they had a fight and he asked me out."

"I bet you were excited."

"Excited, yes, but also ashamed. He was so rich his father bought him his own car, and not one of those old heaps boys soup up. This was brand-new and expensive, a really nice car. I didn't know what he would think of the house we were living in."

"That would be your Uncle Leighton's place, I'm thinkin'."

She nodded. "After Dad died in that hunting accident—I was only eight at the time—we had to move into one room at the house. Uncle Leighton and Aunt May were poor, of course, and there was no hiding it. I think Sissy has gone out with town boys, but she meets them somewhere in Waska. What I did, I came out the door as soon as I heard his car. I didn't want him to see the house, I remember."

"You know now it was honest poverty and nothing to be ashamed of. But," she said, her voice rising in anticipation of something interesting, "you were sayin' it wasn't only sex. What was it, then?"

"When he got to town and driving towards Courtney Academy where the dance was, we passed this poor mangy stray dog. He looked scared and lonely and hungry too—he was skin and bones. The moment I saw him I began to feel sorry for the poor thing. I was working up the courage to say something like we should stop and help him, but before I could speak, do you know what Taylor said?"

Jenny shook her head. "You tell me."

"He said, 'Would you look at that miserable cur. Someone should put a bullet in his head.' He spoke so coldly and he talked like the dog was something that made _his_ life unpleasant. He had no feelings for the dog. I remember thinking that—don't rich people feel? I don't think I made the connection to how he really thought about me and our people, but later after the dance I did."

"This sounds interesting," Jenny said. "What do you mean?"

"Now I do mean sex. That's all he wanted me for. On the way home after the dance he pulls into this dark lane—one of those old lumber roads. He wouldn't take no for an answer, and—"

"What? Did he rape you?"

"He tried, but I kneed him in the groin and got out of the car. I had to walk home, crying all the way."

"I imagine that did it for you and city boys."

"I was too stupid, I guess, 'cause I went out with some others after that. Most were like him, maybe not as bad, but like him. A few were okay. But, you know, I always had the feeling of being a stranger when I was with them. I began to realize I would miss things if I ever lived in town away from fields and woods and brooks and never hearing the owl hoot at night, never seeing deer gather at the edge of the woods at twilight, never watching barn swallows raising their young. I came to the conclusion that I belonged in the country among my own people. You know Luke was already sweet on me at the time. He was shy but I could see the way he looked at me on the school bus. I knew with him I'd never ride in a big fancy car or live in a big house. I knew we'd be poor. But I also knew he was as real as the dirt under my feet. He was real. He was honest and sensitive and a good man. We've had a hard life together, but I've always loved him despite his faults."

Jenny seemed touched by her honesty. She was remembering her youth and the life she had lived. "Me and Vernon have been together over fifty years now. In one way we're both lucky. There's plenty of country folks who are brutes and boozers, but our menfolk ain't. Both don't talk much. Luke 'cause he's shy, Vernon—well, I don't know what it is with that old coot, but it's like he's playin' poker all the time. Keeps his thoughts to himself. I can take credit for one thing, though. Neither of 'em don't drink much. I told Vernon if he was gonna marry me he was gonna have to kiss the bottle good-bye. Kiss me and kiss the bottle good-bye." She grinned, pleased with her humor. "But I've been thinkin' about one thing that might make Sissy less huffy. It involves you all. I'm talkin' 'bout our idea of you folks livin' up here at the farmhouse. Now with Mark"—she pointed with a toss of her head at him in a way that said without saying "because he's sick"— "it's even more important."

"You know the problem's Luke."

"Ayuh. That's really what my idea is all about. I think it might bring him around, y'see."

"You mean about us moving to the farmhouse?"

Jenny nodded. "Ayuh. I think it might bring him around. You know the farmhouse is looking run-down, and you know goin' up a ladder is one thing I don't allow Vernon to do. Well, s'pose we ask Luke to do some carpentry, some paintin', fix the chimney up, that sort of thing. Spruce the old place up, you know."

Mark interrupted to show them another picture. They both admired it. Jenny tousled his hair and called him a sweetheart.

"You mean, if he does all that work, it's like he's earned living here?"

"That's it. I reckon he'd see that as a fair swap. I ain't sayin' it'll work, but it's worth a try. What with Mark feelin' poorly 'n all, I think you folks really should be here. But he's a stubborn one, always has been. It's the reason he stayed in the country while Charlie moved to town."

"It's what he knows," Suzy said. "He's a woodsman. Always was, always will be."

"Woods's like farmin'. It ain't no good anymore. No, he's a stubborn one, that young fella." She took her spectacles off and with her thumb and index finger rubbed the corners of her eyes. "But things are different now, as I say. Mark oughta make him see things different. Tell me again what Mrs. Carravali said."

"Carnevale," Suzy corrected. "She said that the company was responsible and they should pay."

"That's one of those Italian names, ain't it?"

Suzy smiled. Jenny pronounced it "Eye-talian." Just last week Mrs. Carnevale had asked her why the people upcountry pronounced it that way, and she said she didn't know. They just did.

"Yes, she's French, though. She told me her maiden name was Roy."

"She's still popish, I'm guessin'."

"Uh huh, but she's really quite nice."

"So you've said. I s'pose she has some job. All these women do. I don't know how they raise kids."

"Yes, she's a legal secretary."

"Legal secretary! She works for a lawyer?"

"Uh huh."

"Why don't you get her boss for a lawyer?"

"What? About Mark?" Suzy shook her head. "He ain't the right type. He does deeds and stuff like that. They specialize, them lawyers."

Jenny snorted indignantly. "It don't need to be so complex. Right and wrong ain't no mystery."

They both looked up as Vernon came into the kitchen on his way to the bathroom. Suzy rose to take the clothes out of the washer and put them into the dryer. Jenny did a few dishes and got Mark a cookie and some milk. They both sat down, and Jenny refreshed their tea. Again she reused the tea bags, hers for the third time.

Vernon got out of the bathroom and came into the kitchen where he started looking for something on the cluttered shelf beside the stove.

"Vernon, what do you think it would take to get Luke to move here?"

He didn't answer for some time. He found the matches he was looking for and lit his pipe, already packed with tobacco. It took two matches to get the thing going satisfactorily.

"Well, what do you have to say?"

He turned and gave her a sharp look as he shook the match to put it out. "I reckon he knows his own mind. He knows he's welcome here. He knows we have room. It ain't up to me to figger out what it'll take."

"He could use some persuading, that's all I'm sayin'."

Jenny spoke as sharply as his eyes had looked. Vernon's inaction was obviously a bone of contention between them. His attitude was that most things were like the rain: they happened whether you liked it or not. Having said all he had to say, he walked past them on his way back to the shed.

"That man," Jenny muttered. "It's been fifty years and I'm still not used to him. Getting a word out of him is harder than getting blood from a stone." Then she smiled and gave Suzy a look they both understood.

They were partners and had been for a long time, though in the early years of her marriage to Luke she kept her distance from Jenny. She lived on her land; she was the mother of her husband; she looked severe and unfriendly. Only with time did she grow to appreciate and like her mother-in-law and see that she was an older version of herself. Though they never spoke of it, both knew that they as women were stronger and wiser than their menfolk. Where Luke or Vernon consulted their male pride and feared losing face to other males, they as women knew their role was to see that the family survived. Pride was useless if your innocent children were in need. Saving face was stupid if it let life crush you. Thus the two women became allies. When she was sixty Jenny learned to drive. It was she who brought Suzy downtown to get surplus government food and food stamps. Together they would work on their men to bring about what they wanted. They always won because they never made it a contest with winners and losers.

Suzy, thinking of the toilet Vernon had used, changed the subject. "The man who came out to test our water said we were not up to code."

"What's code mean."

"It's the government requirements for all kinds of things in houses—electrical, plumbing, heating and the like. The man was talking about the plumbing."

Jenny took a sip of tea and considered. "I bet he meant things like runnin' water and flush toilets, right? There's still a lot of country folk don't have those things."

"Yeah, like us."

"So what did he do?"

She looked over at the table and watched Mark choosing a color. Most of the picture was done except the sky, but he didn't seem to know he needed blue. Her pulse quickened. Then he picked up the blue crayon. Her eyes returned to Jenny. "Oh, he was a nice guy. He said he knew we had enough troubles without worrying about the plumbing and he would pretend he didn't see it. He did say, though, we should try to get the plumbing fixed whenever we could spare the money."

"I hear those plumbers charge a lot. Marge Manning told me a joke about it once. I forget how it goes, but it was about this plumber who comes to a doctor's house to fix a faucet or somethin' and it turns out he charged more than the doctor did for a house call. The joke was somethin' about the plumber sayin', 'Yeah, I know that. I useta be a doctor.'" She grinned.

"Well, money's something we ain't got."

"Did you tell Luke about it?"

"Yeah. He said he'd heard about them codes too, but it wasn't some-thing we could plan on doing. He said he was working at a house under construction once. Plumbing up a house costs thousands upon thousands of dollars."

"All the more reason Luke should see the sense of movin' in here. We got plumbin', we got a toilet. Did you know Vernon put it all in himself years ago? Yep, did it himself. It was after we stopped farmin'. With the money he got from sellin' the cows and chickens and the pastures on the other side of the road, he had an artesian well dug, then did the rest of the work himself."

"I remember."

"Too bad he sold that land thirty years ago. With all them rich people movin' up here and buildin' them fancy houses, we coulda made a fortune."

"Yeah, it is too bad."

"But spilled milk," Jenny said philosophically, "water over the dam. All we got is a bunch of richies livin' amongst us and no money. But it'd be good faw ya to get ahold of one of those lawyers, I'm still thinkin'."

"I know it would. But Luke doesn't trust city folks."

"It's his shyness. He don't know what to say to 'em."

"I know."

"But he's a good man."

"I know that too."

They both looked up. Mark made a gurgling sound. Instantly Suzy was filled with panic. Jenny, sitting next to him, got to him before she did. She took his face in her hands and examined him, then looked at Suzy. "It's nothin'. He just swallowed wrong."

For a moment fear showed itself in Mark's eyes, but when he saw they were calm, he too became calm and turned back to his coloring.

They sat back down. Jenny arranged the sugar bowl, shaped like a big apple and with the handle of the lid fashioned to resemble a stem, and tossed the two tea bags into the wastebasket. "I see on TV people can get a lot of money in them lawsuits."

"The lawyers get a lot of it."

"But there's plenty left over. Do you think?"

"What? That we should sue?"

She nodded. "Ayuh. You yourself say somebody did this to Mark. He oughta pay, don'tcha think?"

"I do. Luke's the problem."

Jenny rubbed her arthritic hand. "He's a man. I reckon he'd like a big load of cash like any other man."

"He worries about paying for Mark. He doesn't like the idea of charity. So..." Her voice trailed off. She couldn't really imagine being rich. It seemed an impossibility, something that happened to other folks. Their lot was to struggle and somehow survive. The thought of a lot of money actually scared her.

Suddenly she felt all talked out. Jenny seemed to feel it too. She got up and went to the same cluttered shelf where Vernon had searched for matches and found a recipe Marge Manning had given her for baking apple bread. They discussed it for a while and then went into the living room to look at some sewing Jenny was doing. She had been making intricate and beautiful lace doilies for years, some of which she sold and some which she gave for gifts. Her current doily was progressing slowly because her arthritic hands were painful. When Mark started to pick it up, for the first time since his illness she sharply rebuked him. With a look of panic that was the strongest emotion he had shown in weeks, he dropped it. The dryer buzzer sounded at that moment. She loaded the clothes into the two garbage bags and made plans for the trip to the hospital tomorrow morning (hoping by some miracle it wouldn't be necessary); then they left.

Back home after folding the laundry she baked some peanut butter cookies with the government surplus peanut butter and flour. While they were baking in the oven she read with Mark one of his children's books. She tried to get him to read some of the words without much success. Many of the words like "farm," "cow," and "rabbit" were ones she knew he knew. Feeling the familiar despair, she tried another method. With a pencil she wrote the words on a piece of paper and asked him to copy them. This he did quite well, making her feel better and mystified at the same time. Tomorrow she would ask the doctors about the difference.

For lunch she made grilled cheese sandwiches from government surplus cheese and bread she'd baked yesterday. Afterwards she swept and dusted the house and washed the kitchen floor. While cleaning she found herself thinking about Jenny's doilies. Their furniture, the rug, even the pictures on the wall were all somebody else's junk that they had gotten mostly from Hoot's barn. She was a little bit jealous of Jenny, who was equally poor and yet could still bring roses out of muck. Maybe when the kids were all grown up and she could find the time for beauty, she would ask Jenny to teach her how to create those lace doilies.

After putting Mark to bed for his afternoon nap, she spent a hour working in the garden behind the house. Because she did a great deal of canning to get the family through the winter, it was large, twenty-five feet by thirty feet, and surrounded by a fence made of chicken-coop wire buried two feet into the earth to keep the rabbits, ground hogs and raccoons out. In a week or two she would plant the radishes, cukes, potatoes, tomatoes, squash, green beans, peas, and corn. Some years they managed to get cow manure for fertilizer, but Luke's inquiries with some of the neighboring farms so far had been unsuccessful this year. Still, she had to clear the weeds out and turn the soil over. It was hard work so that after an hour her muscles told her she had done enough for today.

Back inside the house Mark was stirring. She gave him his medicine and then put him in front of the TV to watch a nature show on Maine Public Television. They only got over-the-air reception so that the nature show was her only choice.

She put the cookies, which had been cooling on the kitchen counter, into a tin, then looked through the cupboard for something to cook for supper. There was no meat in the house, but she had plenty of packages of macaroni and cheese, which all the kids, including Sissy, liked, and for a treat to go with the peanut butter cookies she got down a large can of fruit cocktail.

She was about to do some more reading exercises with Mark when she heard a car coming down the lane. Quickly she went to the window. This was pretty typical of her. Not many cars came their way. When they did she would always go to see who it was. She saw an expensive black car carefully making its way through the rut-filled gravel road. It stopped about fifty feet from their front door and two people got out, a man and a woman, though at first she thought it was two men.

The man was short and overweight. When he brought his hand up to wipe his brow she saw he wore a big diamond ring. He was rich. The sneer on his face when he regarded their house and turned to say something to the woman told her the same thing. He had an unpleasant face. Arrogance grew on it like a beard. She could tell he was used to being obeyed. He could never understand what it was like to be one of the small people of the world. He wouldn't understand her life. They would talk across a river, maybe even an ocean. She felt her nerves start tingling and her mouth go dry. Instinctively she did not like this man, and yet looking at the woman who was with him, she disliked her even more. She was mannish, big-boned and tall—some two or three inches taller that the man. Her hair was short, almost the haircut of a man. For a moment she wondered if they were married, for both of them smelled of evil—the kind of smell you could see with your eyes. But this woman, with a briefcase in hand, was not likely to ever turn a man's head. She had a protruding brow like pictures she'd seen of cavemen, and her face was hard. She was a mean woman, very unhappy, very bitter, and it showed.

She took a deep breath to calm herself. Several officials, including the cops, had come to their place since Mark was sick. Even when Luke was home she did the talking, but these two were scarier than the others who had come, and she was alone.

She slipped away from the window and said to Mark, "Honey, I've got to talk to some people. You watch TV." He looked up at her, then turned back to the TV. She wasn't sure he understood her.

Before they knocked she opened the door and stood before it. She didn't want them to come inside.

"Mrs. Kimball?" the man asked.

She nodded.

"I'm Ned Ridlon, and this is my assistant Anna Rokoviak."

He pointed with his thumb to the woman beside him, and she said in a smarmy voice, "We do hope your dear boy is feeling better."

Suzy folded her arms across her chest. Thoughts crowded into her mind, but she had no time to think. She felt all her muscles tighten. "He's 'bout the same."

"We heard about this incident and were shocked," Ridlon said. "We've been going over our books for days now and can't understand how our company's name has been dragged into this tragic accident."

"What do you mean?" Suzy asked. She knew a liar when she heard one.

Ridlon looked at her with a surprised expression that first flickered into a dark scowl before quickly changing into his imitation of what deep concern and wounded feelings were supposed to look like. "I mean that we can find no certain evidence of any of the things we are accused of—"

"But we feel terrible and feel we want to help you, my dear," the woman said.

Suzy regarded them silently. The lady would have been brought along for the woman's touch, but it wasn't really in her. There was no softness there, not even any understanding of how to fake it. And Ridlon was ridiculous. He seemed to have the idea that the way to deal with poor folks was to talk to them like they were children.

They were waiting for her to say something. She looked behind her to see if Mark was okay. He was sitting in front of the TV quietly watching and seemed to have no curiosity about the strangers at the door.

"Help me?" she asked.

"Yes," the woman said eagerly. "One thing we can do to prove our innocence is to show you we want to help—with medical bills and such, you understand."

Suzy let out a little scornful laugh. "That's very kind of you, I'm sure."

Ridlon and the woman exchanged a glance. He tilted his head slightly, and she took the hint.

"My little niece was sick with meningitis last winter. The worry we went through! That's why my heart bled when I read about your boy."

"I have children of my own, Mrs. Kimball," Ridlon said. "I know the worry they can cause. Believe me, we want to help."

Mrs. Carnevale had suggested that she sue. She herself had thought of it when they were driving home from bringing Mark to the hospital and she had said, "Someone's responsible for this." Jenny talked about suing this morning. If the idea of suing could occur to Mrs. Carnevale, Jenny and her, then it wasn't exactly miraculous that the idea could occur to Ridlon and that brute of a woman with him. They were afraid.

The thought emboldened her. "By help I assume you mean with money."

Ridlon's face brightened. "To pay for the boy's medical expenses, you understand. It would make me feel good to be able to do something."

"I don't understand. Why do you want to feel good?"

The woman started to answer, but Ridlon was a clever devil, she could see. He'd noticed that she didn't like the brute-woman and cut her off with a look. "Because somehow our good name has got mixed up in this business, this, er, terrible tragedy."

He wasn't all that clever. He was so full of himself that he couldn't see that she disliked him too. The realization gave her an edge. "You do own that shed down by the pond, don't you?"

"I do indeed. My father got it in payment from one of your neighbors, a gentleman name of Berry, father of the present one, I believe. My father used it for a fishing lodge. I've used it for storage for some time."

"Is that why we'd hear trucks going down there in the middle of the night?"

Again she saw the anger darkening his face before quickly becoming suppressed. "What are you driving at, ma'am?"

"Only this. Honest folks do their business in the light of day."

"As we do, Mrs. Kimball. Maybe those trucks you heard were the actual malefactors. You should tell the police. It might help clear my name."

"I've already told them. I've told a young man who's investigating the case too."

"If you're referring to a Chris Andrews, I've found out he's a terrible, unlawful young man. I wouldn't trust him if I was you. He's what's called an eco-terrorist."

"But why should I trust you?"

"Because we want to help. Would twenty thousand cover the costs?"

She felt a stab in the pit of her stomach that unnerved her. "Twenty thousand dollars! That's a lot of money."

He shrugged. "Hospitals are expensive nowadays. I understand how it is. I could write you a check right now. All you'd have to do is sign a document for my tax accountant."

"You've got it all written out?"

He looked puzzled. So did the woman.

"I'm figgering you planned this," she said. She looked behind her to see Mark growing restless. She had to make a quick decision, and yet twenty thousand dollars was so much money she hesitated.

But they misunderstood her and made the decision easier.

"Maybe thirty thousand would be better suited to your boy's needs," Ridlon said, looking like a hog buyer dickering in a pile of muck.

"Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn't. But I'll have to talk to my husband about it, and right now my boy needs me." Then with a strength of will she didn't know she had, she closed the door on them.

With her heart racing, she listened to them talking but couldn't make out much more than that they were angry.

"They're afraid," she whispered to herself, but so was she.

Day Trip

Even on Saturday mornings Patti and Chris were early risers. He had made a pot of coffee, and they were sitting at the kitchen table drinking their first cup. Outside the sky was perfectly blue, and through the open kitchen window above the sink the warmth of the mid-May morning could already be felt. Patti had just finished her last final of the semester yesterday and was feeling expansive and free.

"We should do something special today. Unless you've got something scheduled, that is."

Chris savored the taste of the rich Colombian coffee. "No, nothing special. But what do you mean? A movie? A day trip somewhere?"

She thought for a moment, crinkling her pretty little nose before smiling broadly. Her eyes sparkled. "How about a drive to some place beautiful and then afterwards dinner at some nice restaurant? My treat," she added after reading his face.

"Okay, you've talked me into it. Fifty-fifty, though."

She got up to rinse her cup. At the sink she turned to ask if he had any ideas, and when she did he could see her breasts through her T-shirt in the bright light of the sun. He felt a stirring and was embarrassed and perplexed. He had been thinking of Patti differently lately, and he couldn't understand it. He liked Virgie and enjoyed the two trysts they'd had since the afternoon they returned from the Kimballs'. But the woman who was in his mind when he thought about _women_ was Patti. It had been distracting him so much that he tried to avoid thinking about where his thoughts were leading him—and yet he couldn't forget that when he was on the west coast and considering returning to Maine, it was Patti who was always the one who called him home.

"I do want to get more evidence on Ridlon. So far that bastard hasn't been charged with anything. He has some lame excuse about a lazy worker of his, and public opinion seems to be on his side."

"How can that be?" Patti asked. She didn't really seem to want to know.

"You know that old saying of Mencken's, don't you?"

She thought for a moment, looking up into her mind before her eyes flashed with recognition. "Nobody ever went broke—"

"Underestimating the intelligence of the American people," he finished for her. "Slimy politicians, especially Republicans, live by that observation. They pass some energy bill that allows power plants and the like to keep on pouring their poisons into the air and tell the public the bill will lead to a healthier environment. They roil up people with emotional issues. They're fascists, really. I know what I'm up against with Ridlon. He has friends in high places. But pols are also cowards—look at all the spineless toads of Democrats voting for Bush's wars—so if the heat gets too hot they'll save themselves and throw him to the sharks."

"Greed and cowardice go together," Patti said as a summation to his screed. "But what about our plan?"

"How about Bedford Point? It has a wildlife sanctuary and a nifty walk on the rocks. We can see a lot of birds and if the tide is right some waves crashing against the rocks."

"Sounds great. You want some more coffee?' She was pouring herself another cup."

He felt his cup. There was coffee left but it had grown cool as he talked. "Yeah, pour away the rest, willya. I got talking and it's cooled. You like this stuff, by the way?"

"Very much," she said, taking his cup. "It's the best coffee I've ever had."

He watched her breasts again as she crossed the beam of sunlight. It was warm and yet her nipples were erect.

"I still need more proof, though," he said as she sat down. "But we can have our outing."

She reached over and plucked a grape from the bowl at the center of the table. He watched her nibble it until she became self-conscious; then he dropped his eyes.

"What do you mean by more proof?"

"I'd like to get hold of his computer files, but I don't know a hacker."

She smiled broadly. "There I can help you."

"You?!"

Her smile turned into a laugh. Her sweet face crinkled up and she was beautiful. "Geez, not me. I mean I actually know someone, not very well, but I know he's a good hacker. He's the brother of Lexi Kovac, a woman in the nursing program with me."

"Where's he live?"

"Near Longfellow Square."

"And he's the brother of one of your nursemates?"

She giggled girlishly. "Nursemate? That's a strange way of putting it. Yes, one of my fellow students is the sister of this guy."

"Classmate, nursemate—what does it matter? His politics are okay?"

"I don't think he has any—except maybe hating authority."

"He's in no danger of being a Republican, then."

"No, but he likes to hack just for the thrill of it. It's a game with him. You ask him to break a computer's security, and it's like asking a gambler to play poker."

They both turned to look through the dining room to the stairs. To their surprise Alex, wearing lavender silken thigh-length pajama bottoms and a red T-shirt, was coming down the stairs. He usually slept in on Saturday mornings.

When he got to the kitchen and yawned, Chris said, "What occasions this miracle?"

"Miracle?" Alex sniffed, still half-asleep. "There's no law says I have to sleep in on Saturdays."

Patti smiled and exchanged a glance with Chris. "I thought there was since this is the first time it's been violated in my memory."

Alex was getting a cup of coffee. With his back to them he said, "It's no big secret. I met a guy last night and we hit it off. His father owns a cottage on Peaks Island. He wants to show it to me."

"A special guy?"

Alex sat down, placed his cup on the table, yawned and rubbed his eyes. He didn't answer.

"I thought you were foregoing the entanglements of love while you concentrated on law school?"

"The semester's over, isn't it? And besides, you know the saying about Jack being a dull boy. The same applies to boys named Alex."

"Alex," Chris said, "this guy sounds like a morning person. Are you sure he's right for you?"

He favored Chris with a sardonic expression. "Ha, ha, very funny. It so happens it's a question of a boat being available at nine o'clock. He wasn't happy about the time either."

"Interesting that you have an outing planned," Patti said. "Chris and I are going to take a day trip too. We'll wave towards Casco Bay when we reach the shore."

"I'll be looking for you," Alex said, again in his best sardonic mode.

"Patti, is it too early to call the hacker?"

"Oh, yes. Alex, I'm making some toast. You want some?"

He shook his head no; then when he saw she was leaning into the refrigerator he said, "No."

"We have eggs. Would you change your mind if I made French toast?"

"I would. Consider it changed."

"Chris?"

"Yes, that'd be great. What about our hacker friend?"

"I think he does his hacking during the bewitching hours, then sleeps in. That's what Lexi told me."

He felt uneasy. "What if the man sleeps in until noon? What about our outing?"

He glanced up to see that look in her eye and knew why it was there. She was whisking the eggs in a large blue bowl. Usually he was the one who put everything behind his ecological work. He felt vaguely embarrassed as she said, "Well, he wouldn't do it now, I don't think. All we have to do today is ask him about doing it for us and giving the details. That shouldn't take long."

"What the hell are you two talking about?" Alex asked.

When they explained the plan to him, he said, "I know what the guy will say. If Ridlon doesn't have a cable modem he can't get in. And by the way, did you ever talk to my father about the case?"

Chris had seen Mr. Ryan just last week. It was like a job interview. He sat at a chair facing the old man at his desk, where he sat stiffly with his back erect, his elbows on the desk and his fingers entwined as he spoke. He always called Chris "Christopher" and maintained a stiff formality. Patti had informed him of Chris's intentions, and for some time he talked about his knowledge of Ridlon, telling Chris mostly things he already knew. Ridlon was a powerbroker in the Republican Party. Occasionally there had been talk of his running for office himself. He was certainly vain enough to run, but when testing the water he was found to be unpopular. Mr. Ryan had met him a few times and did not like the man. He was a bully by nature, arrogant and full of himself. He was also stupid. He didn't really understand that politics was the art of persuasion and compromise. He swore like a pirate, a character trait that Mr. Ryan seemed to abhor most of all. He told Chris about a time eight or ten years ago when Ridlon got into trouble for illegal contributions but used his influence to get off with a slap on the wrist. Mr. Ryan seemed quite sure that he would do so again, though for Chris to see this conclusion he had to read between the lines. The old man had no conception of his tenacity; he still thought Chris was riffraff; he didn't think him equal to the task. Chris had expected as much and, thinking of Patti, had held his temper. Often during the twenty minutes he was in the book-lined law office his mind wandered. He noticed that the old man had developed a tremor in his right hand. He observed how absurdly neat the man's desk was with documents in in- and out boxes, a blue phone with a console on the right, a framed picture of his children and dead wife on the left, a leather-bordered blotter with blue paper to match the phone in the center. He wore a conservative charcoal-gray suit, white dress shirt and red bow tie. His fingernails were manicured. He found himself thinking that Alex's careful attention to his appearance had less to do with any stereotyped homosexual trait than an inheritance from his father. The only question he was really interested in having answered was the one thing Mr. Ryan refused to address. He wanted to know the names of politicians who were in Ridlon's pocket, but the old man said in a careful, lawyerly way, "We're talking about the realm of hearsay here, Christopher. I have no proof and will therefore tell no tales."

All in all a very unsatisfactory interview. Thus to Alex's query he answered laconically, "Yeah, I saw him, but he wasn't particularly helpful. He didn't like Ridlon, but he didn't tell me much I didn't already know."

"He could still be useful," Alex said. "I mean, if at some time you need to know where people fit in, who's owing whom, he's the one to ask."

Chris watched Patti dipping bread into the egg mix and transferring it to the frying pan. "There you're wrong. He wouldn't tell me who was in Ridlon's pocket. He said he didn't want to spread hearsay."

"Yeah, he's a lawyer, remember. But ask him something specific, he's the one to know. You were saying last week you needed more on that guy. I take it things haven't changed?"

"No. I'm paying a kid to keep an eye on the shed. He told me Ridlon's men did a cleanup job. Ted Autello, my friend at USM, couldn't find anything in the pond. The bottom was thick muck and metal would have sunk deep into it."

Patti brought the first of the French toast to Alex. He got up to get some maple syrup. "So who's the kid?"

"The teenage brother of the boy who was poisoned."

Alex began eating while Chris watched Patti. The sound of Alex's knife and fork and the sizzling pan became background noise, and Chris began thinking of the day trip. He hoped Virgie had something planned. He wanted Patti all to himself.

As if reading his mind, Alex said, "Virgie was late last night. I got home at two and she was just getting in. She was at a party's at Donna's boyfriend's place."

"She'll sleep 'til noon," Patti said from the stove.

Chris got up to get some orange juice. He asked Patti if she wanted some, and Alex said, "Pour me a glass too, willya, Chris."

He poured three glasses and told Patti to fry her two pieces of French toast before bringing his over. He went to the front door to get the Portland Press Herald. The paperboy's aim was errant this morning. He found it in the bushes without causing a neighborhood scandal. Unlike Patti and Alex, he put his dungarees and T-shirt on when he got out of bed.

Soon after breakfast Alex left. Chris did the dishes and started reading the paper while Patti took a shower. She came downstairs dressed in dungarees, a pullover blouse and sneakers, ready for their outing. He showered, and in the living room they finished reading the paper together with a discussion on an article about the many trade agreements the U.S. government had signed and their effect on the world environment. Patti said it was because profits were put before people; Chris fumed about airborne pollutants that resulted when corporate trade and profit were put before the earth. At this point they smiled at each other in mutual recognition that they were talking about the same thing from different perspectives.

It was ten o'clock now, late enough to talk Patti into calling the hacker's sister to ask about her brother's sleeping habits. Good news was forthcoming. She had just talked to her brother, and he was very much awake. A weird case of telephone tag ensued. Lexi called her brother and then called Patti. Patti called the hacker and then called Lexi to thank her.

Immediately they got into Chris's car and drove up to Congress Street, parking on a shabby side street a few blocks from Longfellow Square and then walking two blocks perpendicular to the square until they came to a brick building painted white with black shutters that Adam Kovac had described. There were four apartments in the building. D, his apartment, was on the second story.

The man who answered Chris's knock was short and stocky with wild, kinky reddish-brown hair worthy of Albert Einstein on a windy day. He had a square face and wore large square-framed black glasses in front of eyes that darted about like sparks from a campfire. He wore jeans and a T-shirt that had a graphic of what Chris assumed was a computer-game hero. This muscle-bound hero had long flowing blond locks and wore only an animal skin around his middle. His right arm was raised and held a broad-sword.

Without even greeting them, Adam said, "Tell me about this case." He also did not invite them in; rather he merely backed up as he spoke, and they followed him inside.

The room was sparsely furnished. In the far corner was a leather recliner and a floor lamp. Across from it was a large television set. A table with two wooden chairs sat in front of the kitchen counter in the efficiency apartment. The sink was full of dirty dishes, and the wastebasket had at least three pizza boxes stuffed in it. To their right was a plain wooden table with two monitors and several other devices, all entangled in a maze of wires. Below the table were the two computers. The walls were decorated with four posters of more video or computer-game characters, but all four of these were bosomy females in various stages of undress. All of them had some kind of weapon in their hands—either a sword, machine gun or science-fiction ray gun. Through an open door they could see the bedroom consisted of a mattress on the floor with disheveled bedding and piles of dirty laundry scattered across the room.

For several minutes Chris explained the situation to Adam, emphasizing how helpful additional proof obtained from computer files would be. Adam asked how Ridlon was spelled and then went to his computer table. He woke one of the computers from sleep and turned to Chris. "Before I begin, let me ask you something, Chris. Are you a football fan?"

"Not really."

"But you know the game, I assume, and you've heard of quarterback ratings?"

"Well, vaguely. It's something like a batting average in baseball."

"Yeah, supposedly. Or like a pitcher's ERA—supposedly. The difference is this, though—a batting average or ERA actually tells you something about the skill of a player. Quarterback rating is bullshit. Why? Because football is a team game. A quarterback can't be a quarterback alone. He needs offensive linemen to block for him. He can't complete passes if big bozos are swarming all over him. He can't get touchdown passes off. He'll probably throw interceptions. Yards, completion percentage, interceptions and touchdown passes are the four things factored in the rating. See? You take the greatest quarterback who ever lived and put him on a team with bad linemen, and he's going to have an abysmal quarterback rating. To the extent it shows anything, it shows that the whole team, not one individual, is doing well or badly."

"What's your point?" Chris asked impatiently.

"Everybody's eyes are on the quarterback, but the real game is in the line. It's the same with everything. People look at the computer security system and think that's the security. It's the programming that's vulnerable, not the password. The programming is the linemen. That's where we attack. Most programs are vulnerable. Most people think because they've used their uncle's wife's maiden name they're safe. They aren't."

"I see your point," Chris said. "People think the capitalist makes the company and not the workers."

"I suppose," Adam said without any conviction. "Mind you, the password can be vulnerable too. But," he said, swinging his chair around, "let's see what we can find. Ridlon is R-I-D-L-O-N?" He clacked away for some time, doing first a Google search and then bringing up Ridlon.com. More clacking went on before he announced, "He's renting this space for his web page. As you probably noticed, it's just P.R. bullshit. I checked his e-mail and that's carried by the same place he rents. In other words, he probably has a dial-up modem and is only online occasionally. Without his computer in front of me, I can't do much."

"You mean the only place I could find his computer files is if I have his computer?"

Adam nodded. "But you'd have to break into his place to do that."

"Suppose I did. Do you have software that could get into his computer?"

"Chris," Patti said in a worried voice. She didn't like where this was going.

"Well, I wouldn't be surprised if this bozo doesn't even have any password security. I do, though, have software that has algorithms that can try a zillion combinations in a nanosecond. It's not mine, so it can't be traced. I could give you it on a floppy. You'd need to know how to transfer files you see. I could teach you how to do that."

"But not now," Patti said. "We've got to get going."

Chris, ignoring her, asked about the Windows operating system and got a quick lesson. Then Adam asked him if he had space online where he could transfer files. He did. He had 100 Mb of space on his Internet service provider's computers. A quick lesson on how to transfer files ensued while Patti exhibited signs of impatience. She stood with her arms folded across her chest and her head tilted. Her expression said: "Chris, are you serious?"

As soon as they were out the door of the apartment building, Patti turned to him. "I hope you're not serious about breaking into Ridlon's office. If you were caught it could be jail, you know."

He looked away, pretending to be interested in a passing car. "It's not a plan, just keeping my options open. You wouldn't want that creep to go scot-free, would you?"

"No, but I wouldn't want you to be the one who goes to jail either."

"Well," he said in a tone that announced he was changing the subject, "it's only a quarter past eleven. Shall we go to Bedford Point now?"

They were walking towards his car, but she stopped. "It's too early. We'd have to spend five hours there. I'm not sure the place is that interesting."

He smiled. "It's not."

"Okay, then. I need a new pair of sandals for the summer. What say we walk down Congress Street and go to the L. L. Bean store. We could have lunch somewhere afterwards and then head to the coast."

She tried on several pairs of sandals when they got to the store, asking Chris each time if they looked good.

"Everything looks good on you," he said after the fourth time.

He spoke casually, but her eyes in searching his were not casual. Embarrassed, he looked away.

She decided to take this pair. "Anything you need?" she asked.

"No, not really. I did lose my Swiss army knife somewhere. Maybe they sell them here."

So they both made a purchase, and leaving the store they headed for the Old Port section. Patti was respecting his wish not to discuss Ridlon, but he saw it was on her mind. At Monument Square they went into a bookstore and browsed for a while, leaving without buying anything. As she had several times, Patti was lost in thought outside the store. Suddenly becoming aware of her inattention, she cast her eyes about for something to say and seized upon a group of street kids.

"Donna says runaways from all over Maine come to Portland. It's sad, really."

"Yeah," he said, looking at a threesome. One of the males had a Mohawk hairdo and the other pigtails. The girl had orange hair. All of them were decked out with eyebrow pins, nose rings, and the like. "I don't know why they have to mutilate themselves, though."

She looked at him. "Yes, you do. They're expressing their rebelliousness. We would have probably done the same thing when we were at Portland High if it was the style."

"They'd be better off doing something about their rebelliousness. I mean actually fighting the system."

"They will. They're young now. At the soup kitchen Donna talks to a lot of these kids. They know the system screws them."

"They do drugs too, I know. Again, instead of self-destructive behavior it'd be better... Well, I see your point. They are young."

"Young and victims. A lot of them have been molested."

At lunch they talked about Bedford Point. Patti had never been there. He told her that there was a lighthouse across the bay, smaller than Portland Headlight but pretty. There should be lots of birds they might see. He had binoculars in the trunk that they could take with them. Depending on the tide, the waves crashing on the rocks might be spectacular. They were eating in a seafood restaurant after considering and rejecting Mexican and Indian restaurants. They had clam chowder because, as Patti laughingly said, this was their outing-to-the-ocean day.

On the drive to Bedford Point Patti talked at length about her recently completed finals. Some of the science Chris was familiar with, and several times they went off on tangents, discussing mitochondrial DNA and by extension the Eve hypothesis whereby a woman living in Africa over 100,000 years ago was the supposed mother-ancestor of all human beings alive today. After that pharmaceuticals came up and led to Chris giving a long screed on the outrageous pricing of medications. He'd recently received an e-mail that showed the markup the pharmaceutical firms slapped on their pills, most of which were actually manufactured overseas. He gave some examples of well-known drugs that he could remember. For Celebrex the active ingredient in a 100-mg pill cost the pharmaceutical company sixty cents and was sold for $130—a markup of over 21,000%. For Claritin the markup was 30,000%, and many, many others had even higher markups. The gouging on Prozac came to over 224,000%, and another one whose name he couldn't recall was actually marked up over 550,000%. He ended his screed with the remark that "That's the way these unspeakable pigs exploit human illness for obscene profits." By this time there were driving through Waska, which gave rise to a more benign and pleasant conversation about some of Chris's associations. The public library was where he would spend hours reading about nature, the drugstore downtown where, with great embarrassment, he had purchased his first condoms, and the hotdog stand at lower Main Street, which in his day was a truck and now was a building, was where everyone went for a late-night snack.

After Bedford, they turned east to drive to the coast. Soon they came upon a huge tidal pool, partially filled with water now (which informed them that the tide was coming in), and drove past it and then through streets of the little village. Some of the houses were the summer homes of wealthy families and were large ghastly carbuncles upon the land; most, though, were of a more modest scale that showed human beings inhabited them. They could smell the salt air and feel the coolness of the breeze blowing in from the ocean. In the summer parking was a difficulty, but this beautiful spring day was still the off-season time, and they were the only car in sight.

They walked through a tunnel-like path lined with tall, thick bushes on both sides and after a hundred yards came upon an open field. Above them the sky, mostly blue with only a few wispy clouds scattered across its expanse, was already crowded with soaring gulls, one of which swooped down to inspect them. The trail, bordered by small shrubs and grass where wild roses, daisies and dandelions grew abundantly, led to the left. They followed, seeing only sky before them until they came to a slight rise. Here they found themselves on a high bluff some fifty to seventy-five feet above sea level. Before them was a panoramic view of the Maine coast, irregularly comprised of bays and rocky peninsulas with a few sandy beaches. In the distance the coast disappeared into the haze and looked like an impressionistic painting, but below them everything was sharply delineated. The outcroppings of rocks were like fingers reaching out into the sea. These rocks were dark from ocean spray and the approaching tide. Above them on higher ground huge granite boulders were mostly beige in color. Some nearby they could see were layered geological formations that had been turned on their sides by immense movements of the earth's surface. The sea itself showed intricate patterns of color—deepest blue at the horizon, lighter blue towards the shore, and aqua-green in river-like eddies randomly snaking across the water. Several sailboats and one lobster boat were offshore. Lobster buoys bobbed in the waves near shore along with resting gulls and eiders, the females nondescript brown and the males with whiter backs than the whitest lobster buoy.

The trail followed the edge of the bluff. They passed two paths closed to the public for ecological reasons and stopped frequently to examine distant sights and birds with Chris's binoculars. Presently they came to a large open bay. Across it was the lighthouse Chris had told Patti about. It was small, painted white with a dark top, and attached to a house. In front of them were steps leading to the rocks. As they descended Chris looked for a familiar rock formation that had an indentation allowing one to sit with a backrest.

To that rock six years ago he had come to make a decision about his life in the summer between his junior and senior year at the University of Massachusetts. His father had moved back to Waska from Lowell, a move that at first distressed Chris because he would have to pay out-of-state tuition, but then in the summer one of his professors of ecology had secured for him scholarship money and it didn't matter. He'd worked as a house painter for his summer job, spending many nights and weekends in Portland with Patti, Alex and Virgie. But one Sunday afternoon he had left his house to come to the point to be able to think about his future without any distractions. He was already an activist in ecological demonstrations and, more generally, various progressive causes. He was an excellent student in the life sciences and had the grades to verify that fact. The question before him was to choose between graduate school and an academic career or to commit his life to activism for the sake of the earth. Already he knew how America marginalized those who dared to criticize her. He knew the activist life would be lonely and filled with hostility. These were grave and grim considerations, but he also knew that America was the land of lies. Almost everything the government did was for the benefit of the capitalist class and the giant corporations. Both parties were filled with toadies who did the bidding of the moneymen and then, when they spoke to the public about bills they had passed, always used democratic values to describe the mischief they had done. So he knew what he was up against. He knew that to be on the side of humanity and the earth in the bizarre right-wing politics of America would lead most people to regard him as a dangerous, unstable and even evil person. So supposedly his choice was a difficult one, but when he recalled the thrill of joy he'd feel when Green Peace disrupted French nuclear testing in the South Pacific or rammed a whaling ship in the Atlantic, or when activists in the west spiked trees or lay before bulldozers to stop lumbering, he knew his choice was already made. He knew he would have to get a job for a few years to pay off his college debts, but after that was done (and to a limited extent even during that time), he would join the army who defended the earth. He had spent about an hour and a half at that rock six years ago and left it a dedicated spirit.

He approached the rock with an excitement that was hard to hide. He could tell that Patti noticed something was afoot, but she chose for the moment to make no comment. She was unused to clambering over rocks, and they were making their way with difficulty. He had to give her his hand several times. Her hand in his was warm and gave rise in him to a feeling of connectedness that warmed him even more. For a long time they surveyed the landscape, both with the naked eye and with binoculars. Patti tried to see if there were any signs of human habitation across the bay at the lighthouse. Seeing nothing, they concluded it operated automatically. Birds were not varied. They saw more gulls and eiders and one loon in summer plumage still lingering on his wintering grounds.

They sat without speaking for some time until Patti said, "I can tell this place is special to you. Is the reason why a secret?"

He looked at her and smiled, happy that she could sense things about him. He had an impulse to kiss her and wavered for a moment. Then he looked out at the sea. "No secret. It was here I decided to commit myself to environmental activism." Briefly he described how it was a question of an academic career or activism and how he had thought about it for a long time.

"Well, you became what you wanted. I'm glad. I'm still worried about your plan, though."

"I know you are. But it didn't come out of nowhere. Even six years ago when I was here that was part of what I was thinking about."

"I know you don't mean a life of crime was being contemplated. But what do you mean?"

"I was thinking about the law. Ninety-five percent of all laws are to protect property. I was thinking of what good people were already doing—spiking trees, that sort of thing—things that I'm sure ol' Henry David would approve of. It was against the law, but, again, laws are made by the haves to keep the have-nots down. Ethical behavior and obeying the law are two different things. Remember Thoreau spoke of higher laws."

"Well, yes, he did. And I know what you mean. U.S. presidents don't show much respect for the law either. And the millions of people in the world we've killed or helped kill from Vietnam, Indonesia, Palestine, Nicaragua, Chile, Guatemala through Iraq is unspeakable. But, Chris, obeying the law is also a matter of prudence."

She gave him an imploring look, which he ignored. Instead he picked up on what she said about presidents. Shifting his weight and turning to face her, he said, "Even when I was a little boy I could see Reagan was a creep. You could see in his eyes that he was a mean-spirited and spiteful man and also an egotist who liked approval. He fooled the American people but not us. Maybe I have to thank my father. He was the same mean-spirited phony that Reagan was."

"We were definitely in the minority. I remember my father, Mr. Democrat, clearly admired the man."

Chris chose not to comment. They watched the waves for a while and waved at another couple walking by on the path. Finally Patti asked, "So what specifically made you decide on activism?"

"It was what I saw about America, how it was hypocritical, talking about democracy ad nauseam but not practicing it. America, the land of lies. I knew choosing activism would put me on the margins. We've talked about that before, you know. How only corporate truth is allowed. How the country that produced Henry David Thoreau is now filled with frightened conformists who believe everything the government says. How the Ridlons of this world prosper but good people with a sense of ethics and a decent regard for others are treated like criminals or madmen."

"I'm so used to it I hardly notice it anymore. I expect lies; they don't surprise me."

"You're lucky. I can't forget it. There's such a bizarre attitude towards truth in present-day America. Even facts, or especially facts, things that are actually true, are attacked—like the Iraqi embargo. It killed a million and a half old, sick and young people because not only had we bombed their water treatment plants but wouldn't let them get the materials to repair them or any medicine. But if you say this to the defenders of the land of lies, you become the one who is bizarrely bringing up arcane knowledge not relevant. Ditto with the weapons of mass destruction and Al Qaeda. Facts aren't facts to these people if they criticize America. Chomsky's observation about the boundaries of permissible thought is totally accurate. Unreality reigns."

"You have to remember that most people are just struggling to get by. They haven't got time to investigate facts."

"Sure, but I'm thinking of those who know exactly what's happening and don't care because they're too busy making the big bucks. Every once in a while I meet one of my classmates from UMass, you know, the MBA types, the corporate lawyer types. I can tell what they think of me. Remember your father called me riffraff. That's what they think."

"That's really because he was mad at me, you know. He was trying to get me to think about a career."

"Well, maybe, but he meant it too. So do most of these hotshots. They don't say it, but they're thinking it. I get my revenge by thinking they're pigs. I told one of them who was my roommate freshman year that even if you win the rat race you're still a rat. He didn't like that."

"Of course he didn't. It would have been wiser to say nothing."

"When have I ever been wise like that in a worldly way?"

She smiled. "Never."

"But I'm not so unworldly that I think it's impossible to serve the cause of the earth and humanity within the system, but it's difficult. I know you will, and I think Alex will, but we've all heard of sixties radicals who become bankers. The system can easily corrupt. Before you know it you're a self-serving greedy swine."

Patti was silent for a while as she looked from the shore to the horizon. Following her eyes, he began thinking of the ocean. It seemed so eternal, so different. Right there in front of you was a different reality with different rules, gills instead of lungs, fins instead of feet. Incessant motion and eternal sameness. The horizon, like a goal that never could be reached, always moving away, exactly one foot for every foot you took towards it.

Her voice called him back. "I want to help people. I want to make a difference. That's why I keep thinking of being a doctor."

Chris stood and picked up a small rock. He hurled it towards the sea, but it fell short, clattering from rock to rock before falling silent. "I bet nurses have more effect on patients than doctors do. Most of 'em are money-grubbers."

"I wasn't thinking about that kind of doctor." She seemed peeved. "One of the ones I work with goes to the soup kitchen once a week and takes care of the street people. He's living up to his oath."

"Yeah, he's exceptional, though. Out in northern California there was this huge development near a town—houses, a golf course, a mini-mall, the whole bit. And of course they were building on virgin land. Take a guess who the swines were who were financing it."

"You mean doctors?"

"Yeah." He threw another rock, and this one went into the water with a satisfying kerplunk. "Imagine having so much money you destroy the earth to make more."

"Those doctors give the profession a bad name. It's possible, though—to be a decent doctor, I mean."

He sat down. "You'd be, I know. But that's because you're decent."

They both looked up to see a yacht going by. It had sails, but they were furled. They could see a wake behind it and hear the low rumble of the diesel engine. "Probably belongs to some doctor," Chris said with a grin.

"No, it's less than a hundred feet. Probably a plumber."

"How many people do you think actually think of the earth and what they'll leave behind for a legacy for future generations?"

"Now you're getting serious. I don't know. Not many. You're a rare species. How'd you get that way?"

"You know—I've told some of it. When I was a kid we moved around a lot. I didn't have a lot of friends. I was often lonely. One of our moves was to the country. That's when I discovered birds and mammals and insects. They lived their lives without hypocrisy or greed, you know? They were wary and didn't trust people—neither did I. I started feeling, like, I was home and among my own people. That's before I met you and Alex and Virgie."

"I see," she said quietly. She looked at him searchingly. "Why do you hide that side of yourself, your love of the earth?"

He shrugged. "You tell me."

"You're really not cynical at all. It's what everyone thinks, but it's not true."

"There's plenty I'm cynical about, and rightly so."

"I know, I know." She took his hand. "But your soul isn't cynical. That's what people don't know."

"You seem to know it," he said flippantly.

She let go of his hand and stood. "What's that black and white bird in the surf?"

He looked, shading his eyes. "A black guillemot, I think. What's he doing here? I thought they bred further north."

Their talk over, they took a hike, following the trail around the rest of the peninsula and through the forest of shrubs, bushes and small trees, where they found a place to pee. Patti had brought her digital camera and took many photographs. They came upon the couple whom they had seen earlier and asked them to take a picture of them. Arm in arm and smiling, they posed. The couple, college students from Ohio (the woman) and York, Maine (the man), were very much in the first blush of love. They fell far short of any ideal of beauty, whether Hellenic or otherwise. The man had a big nose, thick glasses and a neck so long it looked as if it had been stretched. The woman was plump, had a poor complexion, and was squinty-eyed. And yet viewing each other through the lenses of love, they found beauty. Their eyes shone, and it was clear they thought the world was a wondrous place because of their love. They made Chris feel uneasy. Once they wandered off arms entwined, Patti and he continued their own ramblings. They saw more birds now, spring migrant warblers, vireos, thrushes, and most interesting, a loggerhead shrike. Patti had never seen one and was intrigued, having often heard of the notorious butcherbird. Chris told her it was distinguished from its close relative, the northern shrike, by its larger size, wider mask and shorter bill. They watched it for a long time with binoculars and the naked eye—it was only fifteen feet from them, resting on a dead branch of a high bush. Back at the point the tide was now full, and they paused to watch the waves crashing against the rocks in primordial fury. Patti took many photographs and squealed with delight when spray lashed at them.

At their early supper at a seafood restaurant in the Camp Melton section of Waska, they talked about their day. Patti was never more appealing and vivacious than when she spoke of her excitement at seeing the shrike and experiencing the crashing waves. He had something on his mind and was more subdued, trying to think of a way to bring it up. When she started noticing his distraction, he decided on the direct approach and said, "I've been thinking of something."

She looked up from cracking a lobster claw. "I noticed."

"Well, first it's still early. We'd have time to..."

"To what?"

"Well, you were worrying about the breaking and entering of Ridlon's office. It's more evidence I need. I don't care where I get it. Suppose we were to drive upcountry. I know a back way to get to Ridlon's shed."

She frowned thoughtfully and asked why it was important just now.

"If I could find some more proof there, it'd be all I needed."

He could see her mind working as she mulled over the information. She didn't want him to get caught breaking and entering; the lesser of two evils was a visit to the shed. "I thought you already got your evidence there?"

He swirled a French fry in ketchup and ate it. "You mean the shed?"

"And the pond."

"I got plenty of readings from the pond, but no artifacts. I got very faint readings in one sample I took from in front of the shed. I'd like to look for more."

"Okay," she said with a smile. "Anything to keep you out of jail."

With that matter settled, good cheer returned to the table and they finished their meal in pleasant conversation about their day. Half an hour later they were driving in the countryside outside of Waska on a road that paralleled Route 177 through a couple miles of woods. They were going to approach the shed from the back way so that their visit could go unnoticed.

They parked across the road from a rambling white farmhouse that had a large apple orchard and a produce stand. This patch of pastureland was used for spill-over traffic doing the busy fall season. Judging from the fresh tire tracks, it was also used during the off-season, probably by hikers and bird watchers who used the old lumber roads they were going to follow according to Malcolm Kimball's directions. Patti, ever cautious, was afraid they were on private property, but relented when he pointed to all the fresh footprints.

They began walking down the narrow lumber road. They passed through mostly pine forest of middling to small trees. At eye level their view was often obscured, but lower down where the pine branches were brown and dead and where spring ferns were just unfurling, piebald patches of light from the low sun were scattered across the forest floor like diamonds thrown by a giant. The air was sweet with the scent of pine and more faintly of spring flowers. Birds, especially warblers, trilled from every direction. Far off they could hear the rhythmic drumming of a woodpecker. Twice squirrels scolded them as they passed through their territory. Patti's eyes shone. Like Virgie she was a city girl, but unlike their friend she loved nature. Presently they came to an area where birch, poplar and oaks were prevalent, and here Chris started looking for a landmark. Malcolm had told him to look for three birch trees growing so close together they seemed to have a common trunk. When they saw that, they were supposed to bear left, going downhill towards the river bottom a quarter of a mile away. After five minutes, however, he was sure they had missed the birch triplets. After pausing and considering, they decided to simply go through the woods in the direction they knew would lead to the pond.

Sometimes entangling and thick brush or thicker groves of young pines made the going rough, but following the areas with hardwood trees was easier. Still they got rather lost until Chris got his bearings by spotting the sun in a clearing. They had been going east when they should have been going northeast. Starting in that direction, they were surprised to come upon a fence of chicken wire and posts every six feet. Signs saying NO TRESPASSING were posted every twenty yards. They started going around the fence when their eyes beheld an extraordinary sight.

Before them was an edifice resembling a Mayan temple. A pyramid was mounted on a wall consisting of stones tightly fit together without mortar and rising some ten feet above the wall in incremental layers of stone of a foot and a half. With the wall six or seven feet in height, the top of the pyramid was over fifteen feet from the ground. It appeared to be incomplete so that the completed structure would rise another six or eight feet. Chris guessed that at least two more layers were needed before it came to a peak. The side they were looking at also had the central stairway characteristic of Mayan buildings. The stone looked like highly polished granite.

They looked at each other in wonder. "Why would anybody build this in the middle of nowhere?" Chris asked.

They started walking around the fence to see the rest of it. On the other side was a portico about eight feet high and extending about eight feet from the base of the building. It was supported by three columns on both sides.

"I have a better question. Why would anybody build it period?"

He smiled in acknowledgment of the justice of her remark. "The only thing I can think of is some weird hobby. I heard of a guy who collected vomit bags from airlines. If a guy can do that, another guy can certainly build a temple."

"There's a difference, though. The guy who collects vomit bags is an unimaginative idiot, but this is strangely beautiful."

"You notice it mostly looks Mayan? But look at that portico and the columns—they're Greek architecture."

They had moved around to a frontal view of the portico. At the top, chiseled in stone, were the words PHOEBE VIVET.

"Phoebe lives," Patti said.

"A woman's name, you think?"

"Maybe. Maybe it's someone's memorial to his wife, her name being Phoebe."

They were able to see the third of the four sides now where a large mound of gravel pitched at about a twenty-degree slope went to the top. They had both seen documentaries on Egyptian pyramid building and knew instantly that the mound of gravel was the means for transporting the blocks of granite to the heights. They noticed something else as they examined the building more carefully—that was the exquisite craftsmanship of the work. Each block was so carefully fitted that they could see only the faintest line where each block met another.

"How many people are working on this?" Patti asked.

"I don't know. The labor must be stupendous. But interesting as this is, we only have an hour and a half of light. We've got to get going."

They continued conjecturing about the strange temple as they cleared the woods and came upon the wetlands. Mostly they were wondering why they had never heard any mention of the temple. It didn't seem to be something easily kept secret, and yet they could almost not believe they had actually seen what they had seen.

They could see the shed now but had to make a detour to avoid the wetlands. In five minutes they reached their goal.

They were greeted by another sign. This one said in bold red letters: NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

Chris pointed to the sign. That's new. Looks like Ridlon's getting worried."

"I don't like it," Patti said. "Maybe we should leave."

He was examining the door. It was locked with a padlock, and the hasp looked loose—something that he didn't recall noticing the first time he looked at the shed. It leaned out from the old wood as if overcome with exhaustion. He turned to Patti as he kneeled down and opened his backpack. "Patti, walk up the road a bit, would ya."

She looked uneasy. "What are you planning?"

"Something you don't need to know."

She saw the small crowbar in his hand. "Chris, don't."

"Then turn away," he said. "You don't need to see this."

He waited until her back was turned and then inserted the crowbar behind the hasp. The wood was close to punky, and it gave without hardly any effort. Inside he looked around. It was dim, but he could see a workbench across the small room. Two cardboard boxes were empty, but he took samples of the cardboard ripped from the bottom of the boxes and put them in a plastic sample jar. A wheelbarrow leaned against the back wall. He turned it over, and with his eyes adjusted to the light he could see that some dried mud was caked on the surface. He took a sample of it and labeled it. There were some old ropes hanging from hooks, a pile of rags and another cardboard box on the floor. By now it was obvious that Ridlon had had the shed emptied out. Taking one of the rags and another sample of cardboard, he came out of the shed and closed the door behind him.

Patti was standing with her arms crossed and her head tilted and staring at him exactly as she had at the hacker's apartment. For the second time today she was very displeased; only this time it was even more intense. On the way back to the car she was so furious she could hardly speak. She kept muttering "That was so stupid" over and over. Then when they were on the lumber road—this time finding their way without getting lost—she said, "What good will it do even if you prove there was mercury in the shed? You can't use it in court."

"What do you mean? I can say the door was open."

The daughter of a lawyer glared at him. "Unbelievable! The no-trespassing sign makes that impossible. The evidence will be inadmissible. You didn't think it through, did you?"

He didn't answer, but he knew she was right—about his being stupid and about not thinking it through. The same could be said for the aborted plan to hack into Ridlon's computer. That could have embarrassed Ridlon but not convict him. He walked on in silence, feeling foolish and angry with himself. When they reached the car, she asked him what he'd been thinking.

"That you're right," he said. He spoke bitterly, still angry with himself.

She nodded grimly. She took no pleasure in being right, and for that he was thankful.

At first the ride back to Portland through country roads was a continu-ation of their walk back to the car: little was said and both brooded. Then the countryside, dressed in twilight's glow, exuded such a serenity that slowly they both recovered their spirits. Coming over the crest of a hill and seeing farms on both sides of the road, with rich green fields for haying and freshly plowed land for planting, and with the dark pine forest bordering the cultivated land like sentries while a red barn gleaming in the low sun cast a long, long shadow, it was so beautiful that Patti gasped. She looked at Chris and smiled. "Isn't it beautiful?"

He slowed down so that they could drink it in. They passed a pond where wild geese and mallards had joined together with white domestic ducks.

"Chris, promise me you won't do anything like that again without talking it through with me first."

He kept his eyes straight ahead on the road. "I was stupid. I can't deny it."

"So you will?"

"I will." He wanted to get Ridlon too bad. That was what clouded his mind and made him act like a fool kid. Maybe, too, Patti threw him off, made him forget himself. He reached over and patted her hand. Their eyes met for a moment. He had the impression their silent glance spoke more than words could say. Maybe he didn't have to understand the feelings he had for her. Maybe he just had to feel them.

"That temple was the strangest thing I've seen in a long time," he said, changing the subject.

"Well, yes," she said ambiguously, "but you can be stranger."

Can I See Another's Woe?

"Say that again!" Donna McClellan said.

Virgie, wearing a cut-off top, low-rider jeans and sandals, sat on one of the kitchen stools and wrapped her arms around a lifted knee. Despite the casualness of her maneuver, she was brimming with conspiratorial excitement. "Chris was arrested for breaking and entering," she repeated.

They were in the kitchen of the apartment of Leon Margrave, the rock guitarist Donna had been living with for the past several months. Leon's self-absorption was wearing thin, but one thing Donna still liked was the apartment which offered the background to the portrait of Virgie's intense and excited face. On the third floor of an old Victorian building off lower Congress Street, it was an irregularly shaped place, charmingly so. The dining room was an alcove with sloping ceilings from a dormer, just large enough to hold two chairs and a dining-room table cluttered with musical paraphernalia—sound equipment, some scattered CDs, raw tapes, sheet music of well-known rock songs, a few books. This being its usual condition, they used the counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the room to eat meals when they were home, which was not that often. When not at work, both Leon and Donna were often out on Cape Elizabeth where one of the members of their rock band, The Backstairs, had an apartment over the garage of his parents' house. It had sound-recording equipment so good that the band's two CDs were recorded there. Donna had learned to use this equipment, but she was only allowed to record practice sessions when the band was working on new songs. Some of these session tapes that she had recorded and mixed were among the clutter of the dining-room table.

The living room likewise revealed that it was the domicile of a rock musician. It too had sloping ceilings, these from the slate-covered roof of the building. Only one wall was of regular height. The other two sloped down to about waist height. On the left the ceiling above an ancient and heavily cushioned Victorian couch and two armless easy chairs (like much of the furniture these pieces were from Leon's elderly aunt's house, surrendered when she was forced to go into a nursing home) were decorated with posters of heavy-metal rock bands—Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath. An ornate pseudo-Persian rug covered the center of the floor. Three electric guitars rested in stands beside the TV or on the other side of a shelf that had a receiver, a tape deck, and DVD and CD players. Here on the one normal wall hung posters of Jimmi Hendrix and Eric Clapton.

Virgie liked the place too and often visited. Today she had come at a bad time. Donna and Leon had spent the weekend doing gigs upstate at two clubs in Bangor and at Colby College in Waterville. They had left the house in a mess Friday afternoon and had not finished their last gig until after two in the morning. Then after a long drive they hadn't got into bed until after five o'clock. Donna had arranged to have the day off from her job at a daycare center in a Portland church. Now exactly twelve hours after they had left Waterville, Leon was still asleep and Donna, though awake, was very tired, having slept only five hours. The information that Virgie had just conveyed to her, however, had snapped her into full wakefulness. She drained her cup of coffee with a long swallow and stared at her friend. "Surely you don't mean criminal activity."

"Of course not. He was trying to get evidence in that mercury-poisoning case and, you know, that Ridlon guy. He broke the lock on the shed at the pond. I've been there with Chris, so I know it was just a dinky padlock he jimmied."

"Was he alone?"

"No. Patti was with him. She's always with him lately." She spoke with a touch of bitterness that was unmistakable.

"Was Patti arrested?"

"No. No one knows she was with him. He had her walk away and turn her back so she wouldn't see it. She was furious with him, though. You should have seen her yesterday. She said he didn't think it through and couldn't have used any evidence he got anyways. She said it was so stupid to get arrested this way. All he did was hang his head and listen."

Donna gave a low whistle. "That doesn't sound like Chris."

"He thinks it was a setup." Virgie said. "The cops came the day after he was there and took fingerprints."

"When was this? This weekend?"

"No, about three weeks ago actually. They had to wait for the prints to come from Amherst, Massachusetts. That's the other reason Chris thinks it was a setup. The Bedford Police were involved and they're in Ridlon's pocket. It had to be Ridlon, see? He must have told the cops to check for Chris's prints."

Donna turned back to the dishes she was just starting when Virgie arrived. She looked at the dish towel and then at Virgie, who was slow to comprehend.

"I gotta get these dishes done. You mind drying?"

Virgie stood and took the dish towel. "Chris is so angry at that Ridlon guy he's dangerous," she said as she took the first dish and gave it a circular treatment.

"I still don't see why Chris thinks it's a setup."

Virgie pursed her lips and looked towards the bedroom where Leon grunted in his sleep. "There was a new no-trespassing sign and the place had been emptied out. Where does this plate go?" Donna pointed to the first cabinet. "But it was more than that. Why would the Bedford Police be contacted for Chris's fingerprints? And why when a lock was jimmied would they be looking for a specific fingerprint? I think Chris is right. He was set up."

"I get it. Someone was doing research on Chris if they knew police in Massachusetts had his prints."

"Right. He'd been arrested during some demonstration at UMass when he was in college."

Donna took a scouring pad to work on a plate with dried-on spaghetti sauce. She wasn't much of a cook, but one thing she'd learned to do was make a big batch of spaghetti. They had it often. Luckily Leon wasn't a fussy eater. Coffee, cigarettes, beer and marijuana were his principal oral pleasures, that and one she was the beneficiary of, a thought that momentarily made her mind slip away before she looked at the plate and came back to the present. Her fingernail was more effective than the scouring pad. "Is Chris in jail?"

"No. Alex and Patti bailed him out."

"Again, why was Patti so mad?"

"Well, she says it's because he was so stupid. He got some evidence that mercury was in the shed, but the no-trespassing sign would make that inadmissible in court. But the real reason was different."

She stopped suddenly and looked away. She bit her underlip and appeared to be stricken.

"Is something bothering you?"

She shook her head and said "Not really," but her eyes made an appeal.

"I think something is. You don't seem yourself."

She looked down at the floor as if she was a child who had been doing something naughty. A pained expression passed across her face, and she seemed to be on the verge of tears. "It's Chris!"

She spoke so tragically that momentarily Donna had to stifle an impulse to laugh. Chris! Chris and Patti, she meant. Virgie was jealous. She weighed the issue rapidly. Was her ticket out of an aimless life marriage? Did she imagine when she gave up trying to take care of herself that he would? Was she incapable of thinking clearly? Virgie being rescued like a fair maiden by the knight-errant Chris was ridiculous and shouldn't be encouraged. But they had been friends since high school. Even though they were the same age, Virgie always regarded her as the big sister she never had. She would have to be careful.

Soothingly, and with a hand on Virgie's shoulder, she said, "Oh, I see. You mean Chris and Patti. You know he's not very dependable."

"Yeah, I know," she said, hanging her head. "But they're together all the time now. It started last month. I think they even avoid me."

"Tears of desolation formed in her eyes and melted Donna's heart because they were a sign of trust. Virgie, always afraid of being hurt, of being exposed, kept her feelings hidden.

Donna hugged her. "I remember even in high school you were sweet on Chris. But don't you think Patti will find out he's not dependable too?"

With a sudden motion Virgie turned towards the bedroom door. She nodded, then waited.

Leon, wearing only thong underwear, was sleepily making his way to the bathroom, though he was never so sleepy that he didn't calculate the effect he was making. He was a rock guitarist and a carpenter's helper in his societal role, but in essence he was a peacock. His arms and body were heavily tattooed with dragons, barbed wire, an eagle, a rock singer and a crudely lettered "LOVE," which was his first tattoo and done by a friend in high school. He had long hair, which he dyed blond. He didn't have a beard or mustache, but he carefully cultivated a five-o'clock shadow by always shaving with an electric razor set to leave a sixteenth of an inch of growth. With a hooked nose and deep-set eyes below bony ridges and an angular face, he was not handsome, but he possessed a cocky self-confidence that projected a presence, this despite his small but muscular body, the result not of working out but from the heavy lifting he did when he helped his father episodically as a carpenter's helper. His father had had rock-musician aspirations and as a result lived vicariously through his son's career. He was very easy with Leon's hours, which was part of the problem. Leon was used to getting his own way and thought that because he was a rock guitarist he should get his way all the time. It was the part of their relationship that was wearing thin. He was so self-absorbed, however, that Donna wasn't even sure he noticed her growing disenchantment.

He stopped with hands on hips and said, "What are you guys talking so seriously about?"

"Our friend Chris Andrews got arrested while he was working on a pollution case. He broke into a shed to look for evidence."

As they looked at him he put on a show. He rubbed his chin, flexing his biceps as he did so. Then he used his fingers to comb his long hair, again flexing his muscles. "Is that the case where a little boy was poisoned with mercury?"

When Donna answered yes, he said, "Man, that's a bummer" and continued on his way to the bathroom from whence the sounds of a prodigious piss soon emanated.

Donna and Virgie exchanged glances. Virgie smiled while Donna rolled her eyes. They waited.

He came out of the bathroom with the same swagger he used when his band returned for an encore. To the people who loved him he gave his presence as a gift—that was the message conveyed by his body language.

"Hey, babe. You're doing your soup-kitchen gig tonight, right? I'll see you at the joint afterwards."

The joint was the rock club where the Backstairs performed twice a week on Mondays and Fridays. "Okay," she said. "See you then."

"Virgie, you should come too. Maybe we'll make plans for a benefit concert for your friend."

She nodded noncommittally. She never liked to be held to a promise.

As they heard him collapsing into the creaky bed (another relic of his aunt's house), they turned back to the dishes. After they finished them, Donna suggested they get out of the house to give Leon some peace. "Let's walk down to Deering Oaks," she said. "I've got an hour and a half before I have to be at the soup kitchen."

For her the period between mid-May and mid-June was the best season for Deering Oaks. In another week or so it would pass its peak, but for now just about every flower in the flower garden was in bloom. The oaks and other deciduous trees were fully leafed with bright and shiny leaves. Birds were everywhere, and the squirrels as always were busy. The grass was still pristine green. The swans joined wild ducks and gulls in the small pond, and a feeling of life's fullness permeated the air. Lately she had taken to exercising daily, which usually meant a walk down to and through the Oaks. Usually she went alone (often as a circuitous journey to work at the daycare center), but today the trip down the hill and across Park Street was even better with her best friend beside her. But she had another reason for walking with Virgie. It would be easier to talk to her about her problems in the open air. The expanse of blue sky above and green grass below would be conducive to honest talk.

Before she could say the things she wanted to say to Virgie, she had to think. As they walked, they talked some about Chris's situation, and once when a car full of teenage boys honked their horn and gestured at Virgie's revealing outfit, they discussed the concept of the yahoo (though unspoken was Donna's perception that Virgie was in fact inappropriately dressed), but most of the time they walked in silence, and she could think about her and Virgie's situation. They were more alike than she cared to admit out loud. She told Patti and Alex that she was thinking about getting into teaching. They believed her and even repeated it to others, including Chris, but the only reason she said it was because the two of them, brother and sister, were entering professional fields, and she didn't want to be left behind. The truth was that she was perfectly satisfied working in a daycare center at a level a high school graduate could do. If she had any goal it was vaguely to get married some day and have children of her own. Even that goal was an abstraction while she was in her twenties. She worried more than Virgie (or hid it less well, for she was never sure what Virgie really thought). She knew herself well enough to realize why she was satisfied with her job: beyond a rudimentary humanity, her job required no special effort. At Boston University she used to get stomachaches every time an exam was scheduled; at the end of each semester during finals period she would become almost physically ill. She lacked self-confidence partly because she had a bad complexion from severe adolescent acne and was very self-conscious about it. With makeup she knew she was quite pretty, but it was not politically correct to wear makeup in her circle. The prospect of twenty-five pairs of eyes staring at her all day, even if the eyes of children, was not one she cared to face. So just as much as Virgie, she avoided the responsibilities of adulthood. The self-awareness did give her the wherewithal to clearly see Virgie's problems and offer advice. Telling others how to live their lives was easier than living your own, she thought, totally aware of the irony.

After crossing Park Street and going into Deering Oaks, they made their way to a bench in front of the duck pond where they watched magnificent swans gliding elegantly across the water, their wakes expanding V's. Some ducks slept on the rock with the miniature lighthouse while others patrolled the ground looking for bits of dropped food. They faced Park Street from where the roar of cars and trucks was at first loud before it disappeared into background noise. At first they talked about the swans. Donna was intrigued to find out Virgie had named one of them "Queenie" because she seemed dominant. Then Donna broached the subject by reminding Virgie of Chris's unreliability.

She seemed to be waiting for the topic to be brought up. "You say Chris is unreliable. Suppose he is, but isn't Leon unreliable too? The guy is full of himself." She spoke hesitantly, afraid to offend.

"I know that. I really don't see us going anywhere. I don't expect it, that's for sure. I don't even want it. I've got my eyes open."

"I wish it was that easy with me. I see one thing. I feel another. But why are you living with him if you think that way?"

Donna laughed nervously. "Call it a last fling. All my life I've worried too much, worried about what others think of me, worried about what I should think. I'm twenty-six now, and it's time to think of what I want to do. I like the Backstairs—they can really rock. Then Leon showed interest in me when he kept seeing me at their gigs. I guess you could say I did it for fun."

"Is it still fun?"

"Not really. Before I did it I thought traveling with a rock band like I did this weekend would be exciting and fun. Guess what? It's mostly a drag. You're with these people constantly. They're always bickering, and when they're not fighting among themselves it's simply boring. Hanging around all day for two or three hours of good rocking, you find yourself exhausted and disillusioned. That kind of life doesn't lead anywhere. And I'm totally aware that Leon's favorite person in the whole world is the one he sees in the mirror. Tell me something, do you think about the future?"

After an embarrassed laugh, Virgie was quiet for a moment. "Not really."

"What about your job?"

Virgie leaned down and picked a dandelion. Absently plucking at the petals, she said, "What do you mean?"

"You know, a good job." Virgie's latest job was part-time work packaging and loading boxes for UPS at close to minimum wages. It was virtually the definition of a dead-end job.

When she didn't reply, Donna asked, "Do you ever think about going back to college?"

"Not really. Flunking out in sophomore year was enough for me."

"You might have more choices with a degree."

She shrugged. "Who needs choices?"

"Well, do you like your job now?"

The subject didn't interest her. With another shrug, she said, "What's there to like. It's a job. I'm not supposed to like it."

"I don't mind my job. I like the kids, and the people I work with are okay." She smiled grimly. "But aren't we a pair."

Virgie looked inquiringly into her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Well, look at us. Chris does his green thing so fanatically he gets himself arrested. Patti's in nursing school and even talks about becoming a doctor. Alex is in law school. But we're going nowhere."

"Well..." Virgie started to say something, then, as if proving the point, let the thought drift off.

"I guess we're different. I worry about it sometimes. I think I should have more ambition."

"You're right. You do worry too much. I think you should just live. Look for happiness, but don't expect it from a job."

"From love?"

"Yeah."

"But there's something else you could do. I mean personal fulfillment. There's one thing I do I'm really proud of. The soup kitchen. I'm glad Patti told me about volunteering. It's the best decision I ever made when I decided to volunteer."

She paused and followed Virgie's eyes to the duck pond. Two boys appeared to be looking for rocks, probably to throw at the ducks and swans. Virgie visibly grew tense watching them, ready to spring to the defense of the innocent creatures. The boys were actually looking for something else, however, for they picked up what looked like a tennis ball and went on their way. But the incident served to inspire Donna.

"You thought they were going to throw rocks at the birds, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Luckily I was wrong."

Donna leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. She looked up at Virgie. "I remember you said you felt terrible seeing those poor country people when you went to Waska with Chris."

"Especially the kids."

"Yeah, but you're already the kind of person who has compassion for the weak and abused, whether it's cats or little kids."

She shrugged, saying in effect, "So what?"

Donna stood and faced her. "Why don't you come with me tonight to the soup kitchen. We're shorthanded and could use some help."

"You've asked me before, and I said I didn't think I'd like it."

"I think you would. And besides, it's different now."

Virgie stood and they started walking. "What do you mean?"

"It would bring you out of yourself and put your troubles in perspective. It'd do you some good."

Virgie crinkled her nose as if she'd tasted something bad. "I don't follow you. You've told me before volunteering would do me some good. If that's what you're talking about, I'm not so sure." Her tone was not promising, but then she glanced at Donna and in a hopeful voice said, "Tell me, how does it do you good?

They were parallel with Forest Avenue now but continued to follow the path that would loop around the park. "I know one way I could explain it. Did I ever tell you about the time my sister got a new bike for her birthday."

"Yeah, I think so. You had a temper tantrum, didn't you?"

"That's what started it, but it's what I learned that's important, not that I acted like a spoiled brat, which I certainly did. The reason was that just a month before my bike broke and I got my older sister's beat-up old bike. Then my kid sister gets a brand-new one for her birthday. I was both jealous, and I thought it was so unfair. You know how kids have a real sense of justice? I did, at least. I simply bristled with a sense of injustice. My mother had no patience with me and told me she was ashamed of my behavior. I wasn't—not at first. You know what changed my mind?"

Virgie shook her head, then watched an elderly man walking by with two dogs on leashes. She watched the dogs closely, especially the one that was a puppy.

"Well, I was in a snit for a couple of weeks until my sister couldn't stand it anymore and offered to give me her bike. Get that, would ya. She offers to give me her bike, for God's sake! Even worse, she says to me, 'It makes me unhappy to see you unhappy.' Of course I nobly refused her offer, but she's the one who made _me_ feel ashamed of myself. And that sweet remark she made stayed with me. I remember years later at B.U. in Boston and here in Portland seeing street people who had nothing. Everything they owned was in a couple plastic bags. We weren't rich, but we did have most everything most kids had, and of course my parents put us all through college. So you know what I thought when I'd see street people?"

"You thought, it makes me unhappy to see you unhappy. I get it."

"So here's my point. You asked how helping people at a soup kitchen does any good. First, it's good to get outside yourself at times. It gives you perspective on life. To do some good in the world instead of having a temper tantrum is also a very good thing. I know you're a compassionate human being. You already have the most important thing it takes to help."

Still she seemed unconvinced. "But street people are so dirty."

"Yeah, that's often true. A lot of them are mentally ill, you know. And others are drug addicts and alcoholics. They're from broken homes. Many have been sexually molested when kids. They're victims, Virgie. They've never had a fair chance at life. Almost nobody would choose this life if they had other choices. They deserve our compassion. And you know what else sometimes happens? Sometimes we actually save someone. They stop drinking. They stop taking drugs. They start taking medication for schizophrenia. And guess what? Underneath that dirty and smelly street person is a human being just like us."

With a sudden motion, Virgie stopped and turned to her. Raising her arms, she said, "Okay, okay, I'll try it once."

Typically, she didn't sound enthused—on the contrary her tone suggested she was being browbeaten into submission—but Donna didn't care. She would do it. That was the first step. She checked her watch. Virgie's bare midriff and braless top were not really appropriate garb for the soup kitchen, but there wasn't time to do anything about it. They took two more turns around the park, during which time she explained to Virgie that the patrons were actually a varied lot and included people who were clearly not street people. Even the members of Backstairs had eaten there before while they were downtown waiting to do a gig. The soup kitchen's policy was to welcome anyone who came, no questions asked. She told Virgie that in hopes it would make her feel relaxed, but as they made their way up the hill Virgie's face became drawn as she became more and more nervous the closer they came to the church parish house, where in the basement the soup kitchen was located.

Down the rickety, wooden steps they went and through double doors into a hall thirty feet wide and about a hundred feet in length filled with tables and chairs. At the far end in the kitchen, separated from the rest of the room by a cafeteria-style counter, Brad Howard was filling a big coffee urn. The walls were painted a sickly shade of green that Donna had heard described as "puke green." The panels of the hung ceiling were yellowed, and the linoleum was dingy. Pictures of old ministers and one of Jesus with long, flowing brown hair and blue northern-European eyes were the only decorative touches. It was not a pleasant room and probably not a pleasant place to eat a meal. The crews of volunteers had to work hard to create a feeling of hospitality that the environs so clearly lacked.

Of the three directors, Brad was the one who excelled in hospitality, and he showed it upon being introduced to Virgie. He smiled warmly and put out his hand. He was a small man with dark hair and eyes and with a personality that took a sincere interest in anyone he met. While Donna opened cans of carrots and poured their contents into a large aluminum pot, she listened to them talking. He asked Virgie where she was from, what she did, what kind of music she liked, and similar questions of the getting-to-know-you variety. Virgie answered most of the questions guardedly except for music. That one opened her up, and she became quite talkative. She liked the earlier English rock from the Beatles and Rolling Stones in the sixties through Pink Floyd in the seventies because, she said, when she was a little girl her mother listened to those groups all the time. Brad talked about the classical music he favored, and the conversation broadened to a discussion of taste. The important point for Donna as she overheard them was that Brad had put Virgie completely at ease just as she hoped he would. Someone once told her Brad was like Will Rogers—he never met a man he didn't like. She'd seen him lose his temper and call the cops on a drunken, disruptive patron a few times, so she knew the remark was an exaggeration. But he was the best person to be met first and made Donna think this was going to be a successful experiment. If things continued going this smoothly, Virgie might even become a regular volunteer.

Soon the other volunteers arrived, and the introductions and pleasantries exchanged went without a hitch. Virgie responded to their friendliness in kind. Sam D'Orsino was an easy-going man who liked to joke around, and Sarah and Jeremy Donahue were pleasant people. They were members of a church group of four that always came together. That the other married couple had had a death in the family was the reason Donna knew Virgie's help would be needed.

There was no time to waste, however, and everybody got to work. The meatloaf baking in the oven for tonight's meal was made earlier in the day by a different group of volunteers, but the vegetables Donna had already started, the mashed potatoes and gravy, and the dessert of cookies and fruit cocktail had to be prepared by them. Virgie and the Donahues worked at the mashed potatoes. They poured boxes of potato flakes into the water Brad had boiled, then added sticks of margarine and salt, mixing it with a giant paddle. Virgie did this mixing and called for more potato flakes until the right consistency was achieved. Sam, standing at the stove and stirring a pot of gravy from cans, said her masterful expertise settled the vexing question as to who would serve the potatoes on the line. With the meal prepared and simmering, everyone helped Jeremy spoon portions of fruit cocktail into paper bowls, place them in trays of fifteen, and put all but one tray into the refrigerator.

As five o'clock approached, Donna noticed Virgie growing tense again and knew what she was thinking. Luckily they were still shorthanded. She would be so busy she wouldn't have time to be afraid. At five o'clock sharp Brad went over and opened the double doors, and a crowd of about fifty, most of them men, surged in. The stations were all set. Brad controlled the line. Donna served the meatloaf, Virgie the potatoes; Sarah poured a ladle of gravy over the tray; Sam did the carrots; and Jeremy dispensed the dessert. Everything went quite smoothly; even the slight delay occasioned by each time Jeremy had to go to the refrigerator for more fruit cocktail hardly caused a glitch. Sam pretended to be in a funk because a lot of people declined the carrots. He tried to cajole the patrons by saying, "Didn't your mother tell you to eat your veggies?" and only stopped when a mean-looking guy scowled at him. Even this act of hostility didn't seem to bother Virgie. Everybody, and especially the men, were very friendly to her because she was pretty and shapely and dressed in a way that told them she was sexually available. Donna saw them all eyeing her from afar and anxious to chat with her going through the line. "You're new" was a common greeting. A few bolder spirits said, "Hey, beautiful, how's it going?" To them all Virgie smiled shyly but spoke little.

Then for a long time after the line was finished Donna's duties didn't allow her to keep an eye on Virgie. As a senior volunteer she circulated in the dining room along with Brad, going from table to table to chat and make sure everything was all right. Sometimes she sat at a table when a problem was discovered. Tonight one street person who was diabetic was having trouble getting the right medication. His name was Paul, and he didn't look good. His face was pale, and he was overweight in a way that showed he wasn't controlling his condition. He seemed scared and on the verge of tears. She got Brad to come to the table, and the three of them talked for a long time, then followed the discussion with some phone calls to two social workers familiar with his case. They also left a message at the clinic that served street people and runaway kids. After Paul left Brad, who had been the one who talked to the social workers, told Donna their efforts might have been in vain. Paul's condition was mainly caused by his own behavior. He missed appointments and didn't take his insulin with any regularity, possibly because of his psychological need to see his condition as something imposed upon him externally. He seemed to think it was a punishment for something he had done.

During the time they were dealing with Paul, Donna occasionally caught sight of Virgie doing dishes and cleaning up in the kitchen. But the next time she looked in Virgie's direction she saw Tim Longo talking to her. He was a smooth-tongued con artist who worked on a commercial fishing boat out of the port of Portland and often ate at the soup kitchen by taking advantage of their no-questions-asked policy. She was quite sure he was a drug dealer and even suspected the fishing boat he went to sea in was used to ferry drugs from international drug dealers. These were the rumors she had heard from many of the patrons, at any rate. If he was a dealer, he was small-time, probably getting small amounts of the contraband as a reward for keeping his mouth shut. The apprehension she felt for Virgie's sake concerned the other part of his reputation, the one she could confirm from personal observation. He was a Lothario and a slippery customer who could sweet-talk his way into a nun's bed. He was incredibly good-looking in a dark, Italian way, tall and muscular, which was the reason his tongue could do its work. Donna thought he could be poison to Virgie in her fragile and vulnerable state. But with latecomers arriving and tables needing to be cleaned off as well as a couple other patrons needing to talk to her, it was some time before she could get back to Virgie.

When she did, it was Virgie who came up to her.

"I saw you talking with Tim Longo. He's a slippery customer, I can tell you. The last time he told the truth was when he was in kindergarten. He regards himself as a lady's man, and with those good looks he does get his way. I'm also pretty sure he's also mixed up with drugs."

She could see her words passed right over Virgie's head. The only acknowledgment that she had heard them was the enigmatic smile that passed across her face as she said, "He called me the most beautiful woman in the world."

The smile was a good sign, though. It showed she didn't take his honey tongue seriously. With a friendly laugh she said, "Well, he told the truth that time."

Virgie smiled again, this time pleasantly, at the compliment, but then her face grew serious. "But it's that young kid with him, the one with the blondish hair and bad complexion."

She followed Virgie's eyes to the table and recognized the young man. He had bad teeth, bad skin, bad nutrition, and glassy eyes suggesting he did drugs. He had been coming to most of the meals at the soup kitchen for the past month or so. She remembered talking to him one night when he told her he had run away from home because his father was a tyrant and a businessman who never had any time for his kids or wife. He said he'd worked as a migrant laborer, doing things like pick blueberries in Maine and tomatoes in New Jersey. His name, she thought, was Leighton. She told Virgie these facts.

"It's more than that," Virgie said. "His full name is Leighton Kim-ball."

"Is that supposed to mean something?"

"It might. The family in Waska with the sick boy poisoned by mercury—you know, I mean those people in Chris's case—their name is Kimball. And you know what?"

"What?"

"He looks just like his father. Chris told me he'd found out their oldest son ran away. They think he's in the army, but I doubt that. You have to graduate from high school to get into the army nowadays."

"So you think he's the son?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'm almost positive the son's name is Leighton."

"Did you notice he's glassy-eyed?"

"No, why?"

"He does drugs. He's just coming down from a high now, I'd say."

She peered at him, then her eyes wandered to Tim Longo. Much to Donna's displeasure they shone as she watched him walk to another table and engage two men in a conversation.

"Well, I'll go talk to that Kimball boy and see what I can learn."

Virgie appeared startled out of a daydream. "Oh, and I've got to help in the kitchen."

Donna walked directly over to the table where Leighton was now sitting alone. "Hi, your name's Leighton, right?"

He nodded, peering at her with distrustful eyes.

"I forgot what town you told me you're from."

His eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know?"

"Just curious."

"Kennebunkport."

"Your full name's Leighton Kimball, isn't it?"

From across the room Brad interrupted. "Donna, we're going to have to clear some more tables. We have about twenty more latecomers waiting."

"Okay," she said, eyeing Leighton, who she could see was becoming uneasy. "I'll be right on it in a sec." She turned back to the young man. "So is that your name?"

"Yeah," he said defensively.

"I ask because I know of some Kimballs from Waska, and..." She paused as she saw the recognition on his face... "and maybe you haven't heard, but the family is in the news. A company illegally dumped mercury into the pond by their house, and the fish they ate poisoned the little boy in the family. He's still very sick, I've heard."

His cheek muscle twitched, and he looked down. "Why are you telling me this. I told you I was from Kennebunkport."

"I thought they might be relatives."

"Well, they ain't."

"Okay, enjoy the rest of your evening."

She could see Tim Longo at another table behind him talking in a way that made her suspect a drug deal was being made. He was leaning forward and whispering to two men in their twenties dressed in dungarees and soiled T-shirts, their faces lifeworn already despite their tender years. Now, just as she was about to leave the area, he sauntered over in that king-of-the-world way he had (and with which she was intimately familiar from her life with Leon). He collected his jacket hanging on the back of a chair, glanced towards the kitchen to see if Virgie was looking (she wasn't—she was drying dishes and talking to Sarah), and said, "Hey, Donna, that's some fine piece of female flesh you brought with you tonight. Some fox. You make sure she comes again."

"If she comes, it'll be to work, not to see you."

He puffed out his chest. "It's impossible not to see me if I'm here," he said so confidently and with such conviction that Donna, remembering how Virgie's face shone awhile ago, was afraid she had made a terrible mistake.

If she had, the damage was already done. Again she remembered Virgie's shining eyes. The only thing she could think of to remedy the situation was to try to make Chris aware of the depths of Virgie's feelings, and yet she already knew that Chris wouldn't listen to her.

But she couldn't think now. She had some tables to clear off. It was her way of helping people and feeling fulfilled at the same time: humbly laboring in the vineyards widened the circle of light in the world. And if helping strangers turned out to hurt her friend? The thought poisoned the rest of the night for her, and many days to come.

Ave Atque Vale

After talking about it for weeks and postponing it for another week because of rain, on the first Saturday after the summer solstice Myron, Becky and the boys gathered in the backyard of Lynn and Gerry MacArthur's house for that quintessential ritual of the American middle class, the social cookout. It was a beautiful hot summer day, and everyone was dressed appropriately. Myron wore Bermuda shorts, a tan short-sleeved pullover and sandals; Becky was fetchingly clad in a light-blue T-shirt and dark blue shorts; Gerry wore light summer pants, a yellow short-sleeved sports shirt and white sneakers; Lynn wore shorts, a black bikini top and was bare-foot; and the boys wore swimming trunks in anticipation of using the tank swimming pool for the first time this summer. The beer was cold, the grill was fired up and ready, the salad and hors d'oeuvres of onion dip, baked pita-bread chips and sliced vegetables that Becky brought were on the table, and the adults were sitting at the table under a parasol and keeping an eye on the boys.

Everything was externally perfect, but one of the reasons for this gathering was to have Gerry and Myron get to know each other, and unfortunately this was going very awkwardly. Gerry was a serious, hardworking lawyer who did the nuts and bolts work of deeds, wills and the like. He was tall with a slight tendency towards being overweight. His face was pleasant in a squirrelly sort of way. His brown eyes were wide set and his lips thin. He was also not much of a conversationalist. Myron in turn was by nature reserved and dignified with strangers. From the looks on Becky's and Lynn's faces, they were thinking that just as oil and water don't mix, neither did Myron and Gerry. Myron's thinking ran in a different direction, one not complimentary to Gerry: he was either a rather boring individual or he was made uneasy by Myron's reserve (the latter a charitable afterthought). Their conversation kept reaching a dead end. Gerry said it looked as if the Red Sox had great pitching this year; Myron replied that with their great hitting it might be possible to finally grab the brass ring. After a few more remarks this conversational stream piddled out. Next Gerry observed that he was in law school at B.U. at the same time Myron was at Simmons. Myron answered that there were so many students in Boston it was small wonder their paths had never crossed—and it was zero hour for that line of discourse. Next up was the Democratic Party, but when Myron said that he'd lost interest in Democrats when the Democratic Leadership Council turned the party into Republican Lite, it was an abrupt closure for that avenue.

They were rescued from this deadenditis by Lynn's saying to Becky that Phil still had a penchant for peanut-butter and bacon sandwiches. Myron made a comic face and asked who first introduced him to such a combination. That's when Gerry held up his arms as if caught red-handed and confessed he'd tried it with Phil one day when some breakfast bacon was left over and he had to make lunch.

His spontaneous action instantly led Myron to let down his guard. "I believe Elvis Presley favored peanut-butter and banana sandwiches. Have you tried them?"

"Weren't the bananas fried? Lynn interrupted.

"I don't recall," Myron said. "I prefer mine raw."

Everyone laughed, probably as much at his deadpan delivery and droll expression as at the words. He also could see the relief on Becky's face. It was important to her that the husband of her best friend get along with the man in her life.

So on the first really hot day of the summer the ice was finally broken.

Gerry asked, "Myron, as a reference librarian I bet you get all kinds of questions about weird food. Any interesting ones you can tell us?"

Before he could answer they were interrupted by a fracas among the boys. The mothers called them over and demanded an explanation while Gerry stood up and began to put the burgers on the hot grill, which sizzled and flamed up as dripping fat infuriated the glowering charcoal.

"Phil is being mean," Johnny said.

"I am not!" the accused replied. "I want to play with my bulldozer, and they don't want to."

"Yeah, but we were playing soccer, and when he didn't want to anymore, he said it was his ball."

"Can't you agree to do both," Lynn asked.

Johnny ignored her. "Phil took the ball away. That's mean."

"Yeah," Trevor said, looking at Becky earnestly, "he's being selfish."

Becky's face reddened at Trevor's choice of words, but nobody but Myron noticed because Phil yelled "I am not" very loudly. He glared at Trevor. "We played soccer, but Trevor kept kicking the ball bad."

Myron looked at Becky and smiled. "Blame the coach," he said, mouthing the words.

But she was too wrought up for smiles. "Can't you do both? Play soccer a bit longer and then play with the bulldozer?"

The problem was that they couldn't do both at the same time. The solution, which Lynn came up with, was a diversionary tactic. "Why don't we test the pool?" she suggested and received enthusiastic yelps in reply.

With Lynn, who was dressed for the role, standing in the pool to supervise the boys and Becky turned in their direction and leaning against the table with her elbows, Myron took up Gerry's query. "To answer your question, Gerry, I did recently have a patron who wanted to verify a bizarre tale she'd heard."

Gerry looked curious, but the boys were running a three-ring circus and demanding the public's attention. With cries of "See what I can do!" "Watch this!" and the like, the two older boys entered into a competition while the adults distributed praise as equally as possible. Phil would jump backwards with an enormous splash, and Johnny would belly flop to make a tidal wave. Then Johnny topped his own spectacular move by swimming underwater across the enormous sixteen-foot expanse of the tank. Phil countered that move with a double underwater somersault. Trevor, who could not swim, jumped up and down in the water and squealed a lot. Finally when Trevor started shivering, the mothers ordered the performers out of the pool, a process that took more than five minutes to complete.

Gerry was attending to the burgers during the circus. He put some that were close to ready at the back of the grill and started a new batch. "Where were we, Myron, before the show interrupted us? Something bizarre, wasn't it?"

"Quite bizarre, I think. This woman heard from a friend who had been to Thailand that people there regard monkey brain as a great delicacy—raw, mind you. They gather at a table with a hole in the center. It must be adjustable because through that hole a live monkey's head is showing. With a sword the poor thing is decapitated, and the people enjoy their feast."

Lynn turned from toweling off Phil and gasped. "Ugh!"

Simultaneously Becky, also tending to the boys, looked up and said, "How horrible!"

As befits a lawyer, Gerry had a different reaction. He asked, "Were you able to verify this story?"

He shook his head. "No, we couldn't find anything. But it may be true for all I know because I've heard of other cruel things that I can verify."

"Run along and play now, boys. We'll be eating soon," Becky said, giving Myron a look.

He watched them go to the sandbox and get the battery-operated bulldozer fired up. "Sorry," he said to Becky. "I guess I'm not used to being around kids."

She smiled in response.

"But we can hear it," Gerry said.

Myron drained his beer. "Well, the one I was thinking of is a Japanese dish of snake and tofu. A big piece of tofu is put in water and set to boil; then a snake is put into the pot. The water starts boiling, and the snake burrows into the tofu because at this point it is the coolest place. There it gets cooked, and everyone enjoys the feast."

Lynn, getting the hamburger rolls and condiments ready, made a face. "It's enough to make you a vegetarian."

"But not today," Greg said from above the sizzling grill. "These burgers are done to perfection. Let's eat."

Lynn called the boys over for lunch, then said to Myron and Becky, "We went to a vegetarian cookout at Melissa and Ralph Brisbanes' house earlier in the month."

"Yeah, and it tasted like jail food," Gerry said.

"Johnny," Becky said, "I thought you didn't like onions."

He was putting the diced onions on his bun because Phil was. A frown was his only answer.

Once the boys had their food and the adults followed, Lynn returned to Gerry's profane remark. While he was devouring his hamburger with great satisfaction, she said, "You liked the vegetable kebob we had at the Brisbanes, didn't you? At least you said you did."

"It was okay," he said after thoughtfully chewing the roasted cow flesh, "but nothing approaching these burgers."

Myron was attempting to help Becky clean up the mess Trevor made when his hamburger slid out of the bun and mustard and relish together with the greasy meat landed in his lap. He rose to get the roll of paper towels at the end of the table, sprinkled some water on several of them, and handed them to Becky. Once the mess was cleaned up, he went over to get another hamburger for Trevor. Johnny and Phil meantime finished their meal. When they were informed that dessert of ice cream and homemade cookies would be served later, they went back to excavating the sandbox. Trevor, eating with a forlorn expression registering his unhappiness and with frequent glances at his peer group, remained behind.

Gerry and Myron had a second hamburger, which they washed down with apple juice, both being careful drinkers. They were sitting across from each other. While Becky and Lynn began talking about a recipe for tangy dips, they were on their own. Myron thought about bringing up the Red Sox again, but another subject came to mind.

"I'm curious to know how a lawyer looks at the Chris Andrews case. You know, the guy who exposed Ridlon. What do you think his defense will be?"

Gerry scratched his chin. "I'm not sure he has one except to plead not guilty and make the prosecution prove the case. I suppose he could say he didn't do it, that the shed was already broken into and all he did was walk up and look in. Even so, there was a no-trespassing sign, and the prosecutor would ask him what he was doing there."

"Couldn't an argument about higher laws be made?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"The term is from Thoreau. Remember the essay, 'On the Duty of Civil Disobedience'? He refused to pay his poll tax because the money helped support the Mexican War of aggression. So he broke the law, but he did so in obedience to a higher law. You know, it's a classic example of the difference between law and ethics."

He saw Gerry frowning thoughtfully at the same time he saw Becky's brow furrow. She appeared distressed, but why he could not say. Then she turned away when the boys began arguing loudly.

"So you're saying the higher law here was because Ridlon was poisoning the earth and indirectly a little boy?" Gerry asked.

"Exactly, and don't juries have the right to ignore laws?"

"Yes, it's called jury nullification, so technically they do. I don't think this will be a case for it, though."

"Why not?"

"Well, breaking and entering is different than not paying taxes. One's passive; one's active. It's willful disobedience to the law, and not clearly civil disobedience."

"But disobedience to a higher law if he does nothing."

"He committed a crime," Becky said, still following their conversation. "He broke into a place that was locked and had a no-trespassing sign." She spoke sharply.

"But I do see Myron's point," Lynn said. "He didn't do it for selfish reasons."

Gerry nodded in agreement. "True. I think the lawyer will bring that point up and emphasize it, but I don't think it will lead to a not guilty verdict. I'd guess the jury would go for a lesser charge like trespassing. That would be a misdemeanor and just a fine."

"Even that's too much," Myron said. "The guilty party is Ridlon. He's a money-grubber who doesn't care for anyone but himself. I know I plan to do all I can to support Andrews." He stood to get another beer from the cooler. "I don't know if Lynn has told you that I met this young man when he came to the library in March. He was looking for information on Ridlon Recycling."

"Myron, I could use another one too. So what kind of a guy was he?"

Myron handed him a beer. "Very intense, I would say. Very single-minded and very dedicated to the cause."

Lynn, who seemed to be the most sympathetic auditor during this discussion, nodded vigorously. Becky thought she was very pretty, and he agreed. She had reddish-brown hair worn in a ponytail, a pleasant freckled face with dark expressive eyes, and full lips. But it was her effusive and jocular personality that gave an appealing animation to her face. "Someone in the paper, I think it might have been Ridlon himself, called Andrews an eco-terrorist. The word is just a buzzword, though. Like communist used to be. He was trying to brand him with a green scar to prejudice everyone."

"It might work, though—I mean labeling him. A lot of people will look at Ridlon and see a respectable businessman, then look at Andrews and see his long hair and think he's un-American."

"Yeah," Lynn agreed, "some people actually believe Ridlon is innocent. He claims one of his men dumped stuff from laziness and stupidity. He's had many good cries about how terrible he feels—always in front of an audience, of course."

"Hmmm," Myron said, drawing it out, "some people will believe anything."

"Like that ghosts exists," Lynn said.

"Or that God created the world in seven days," Becky said.

It seemed to become a game, for next Gerry offered another example. "Or that you can have huge tax breaks for the wealthy and increase spending and promise to have a surplus soon."

"I think most sci-fi stuff is in fantasyland too," Myron said, consciously changing the subject since it seemed to distress Becky. "A patron came to the library a few months ago to research the theory that the earth was peopled or seeded—I think that was the word he used—from outer space."

"Are you talking about the sci-fi bit like shows on TV have?" Lynn asked. Not much of a drinker, she sipped at her water bottle.

"Yeah, that's where he got the idea."

"That stuff's not intellectually respectable, is it?" Becky asked.

"I hope not. But I have to be polite to patrons, so I kept my opinion to myself. I did say something indirectly, though. I told him there wouldn't be many scientific papers available."

"Couldn't it have happened, though?" Gerry asked. "I mean not people but microbes from space?"

"It could, but don't you think it doesn't really explain anything? It moves the mystery of the origin of life over to another planet, that's all. If life didn't start on earth, you still have to explain how it started on another planet."

"So what's your answer?"

"Well, partly I'd say it remains a mystery, a miracle. Did you ever think how amazing it is that we have consciousness and that there's a universe we live in? Logically it makes more sense that there is just nothing. Even when scientists explain how it is possible that molecules grow more complex until they somehow have the ability to reproduce themselves, no one explains why or how there are molecules in the first place."

Everyone was silent for a while, chewing on that conundrum; then Lynn backtracked. "I can think of another absurdity you see in those sci-fi shows. A space ship is a hundred light years from earth, and they have a chat with some guy back on earth."

"And what the long-distance rate for that call would be, God only knows," Becky said.

"Impossibly high," Lynn said.

"I'd emphasize the impossible," Myron said.

"I remember a bit of quantum physics from college," Gerry said. "All the stuff that takes place at the subatomic level those sci-fi writers take and apply to the regular universe. I've heard people say warp drive and time travel and all that common sci-fi stuff will never happen. I'm guessing you'd number among those doubters, Myron."

"Yeah, I think so. I suppose the scientific attitude is to keep an open mind, but that stuff sounds to me like wish fulfillment, not reality."

Becky touched him lightly on the arm and smiled warmly. "Two centuries ago no one would dream that TV and phones and computers would be real, so you never know."

"I guess that's why we should keep an open mind."

The boys had kept to themselves in the sandbox for a long time, but now Trevor came over and leaned against his mother's knee. "What is it, sweetie? Are you ready for dessert?"

He turned his face up to her, his blue eyes wide and imploring, but he said nothing. She hugged him and quickly the expression turned to contentment. "Mommy," he said as she kissed his forehead, "is it true that the Grand Canyon is ten thousand miles deep?"

She looked at Myron and smiled. "Did Phil tell you that?"

He shook his head up and down very deliberately.

Phil, retrieving an errant soccer ball, overheard these remarks. "I didn't say that."

"Did to's" and "Did nots" were heatedly exchanged, and Johnny came over to clarify the issue. "Phil did say ten thousand miles but he meant it was really deep."

Further questioning led to the discovery that none of the boys had much notion of what a mile was. Even so, accusations of duplicity and slander were hurled, and Trevor ended up saying to Phil those three little words, "I hate you."

Becky became the stern mother instantly. "Trevor, you apologize to Phil for that remark. You're upset, but you still have no right to say such a mean thing."

Tears sprang into Trevor's eyes, which Johnny observed with undisguised contempt. "He's too little to play with us," he said in a whining voice that suggested he wasn't all that old himself.

Myron leaned down to be at eye level with the boys. "Guys," he said, "brothers will be together for a long time. It's best to get along. There's an old song that says you've got to give a little and take a little." He looked at Trevor. "My brother was older than me, so I know how you feel." Then turning to Johnny he said, "I learned a lot from my brother. That's what older brothers do, see? They bring the young guy along." He stood, and putting a hand on each of their shoulders, said, "Shake hands like men."

They did, Johnny with a certain condescension and Trevor hesitantly, as if expecting Johnny to pull his hand up and say "Sucker!"

Becky stood and faced the boys. She favored Myron with a pleased smile and then cast her eyes down at the little ones. "Okay, go play some more."

Gerry sighed with comic exaggeration as he watched the boys troop over to the sandbox. "Life would be different if those little buggers were girls."

Lynn arched an eyebrow. "Sugar and spice and everything nice? Is that what you mean? Dad says it's girls who are the devils."

"Your father is never less serious than when he talks about women."

Lynn, gathering crumbs and debris from the table and sweeping them into a cupped palm, favored her husband with another arch expression. "I'm not so sure. Sometimes I really think he divides the world into two kinds of people—engineers and others. And he doesn't think women are engineers."

Becky, likewise busy cleaning up by collecting bottles and cups, said, "But you told me he has a third category, one in which he places Myron—those who should have been engineers and somehow missed their calling."

"He's dead wrong," Myron said. "I'd have made a pretty poor engineer." With Gerry cleaning the grill and the women cleaning up, he offered to get the dessert ready.

"That's because he means by engineers people who can fix things, Myron," Lynn said. "And yes, it would be lovely if you served the ice cream. He's impressed with the things you've fixed at the library."

He went into the house to get the ice cream and a scoop. He found tubs of both chocolate and black raspberry in the freezer and took them both. His search through the drawers of the counter looking for a scoop was unsuccessful, and he had to settle for a large spoon. When he returned to the patio they were discussing Fiona's new baby. Gerry had just asked Becky if she had seen the new arrival.

"Yes, and she's a sweet little thing."

"Who's she take after?"

"Do you mean does she look black?"

"Only if she does."

"Well, she doesn't. Fiona is half white, remember. No, she even has blond hair. Her eyes are brown. Her nose might be a bit flat if that proves anything."

"That's an accurate description," Lynn said. "With her parents, she's going to be an independent person, I'm sure." She looked at Myron. "Have you met Fiona and Lowell?"

"I've seen Fiona briefly a few times. Lowell I've only met once. I was very impressed with both of them."

"They don't come to Waska much now," Becky explained. "It's at the lake or in Portland they're to be found."

Suddenly a great hue and cry arose from the boys. He was starting to serve the ice cream and had been spotted. They rushed over. He let them choose the flavor (all three wanted chocolate) and their mothers the amount. Each got a large oatmeal raisin cookie as well. They sat at the end of the table too absorbed in the business of ice cream and cookies to say much.

Lynn took a pass on the ice cream; Becky said she would have only a small amount of chocolate, but first they went into the house to make tea. While they were gone the two men, now comfortable with each other, talked about the Red Sox for some time. Both had a large bowl of black raspberry ice cream and a cookie. The boys wanted seconds, but the men made an executive decision and said no. They were kicking the soccer ball around with the boys when Becky and Lynn returned wearing a conspiratorial expression that suggested they had had an interesting conversation. Myron guessed Lynn had been updated on the progress of his and Becky's relationship, but then again it might have been the boys they discussed and continued to discuss as the others played soccer. Gerry hadn't much experience in the world's most popular game, and Myron found himself giving tips to all four of his male playmates. By the time they finished their workout and returned to the table, the women were talking about their upcoming vacations.

The boys followed them back to the table and asked to go in the water again, but the women wanted to relax a little after the meal and told them their choices were to continue playing with the soccer ball or the swing set or the bulldozer. They chose the swing set and made cacophonous background music to the continued discussion about vacations.

Myron asked when they were leaving for the Grand Canyon.

Gerry's eyes brightened. It was obvious he was looking forward to some downtime. "Three weeks from today we fly to Las Vegas. I'm counting the days. We'll rent a car and drive all around the southwest. We also plan to see Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, the Petrified Forest in Arizona, Mesa Verde in Colorado—that's where the Indian cliff dwellings are—and then Denver, where we'll visit a friend from law school, then home with four thousand digital photographs and a couple tons of souvenirs. I especially look forward to the driving." The last remark was said ironically without a hint of the enthusiasm that had animated his description of their itinerary.

"We'll share the driving," Lynn said in a tone that suggested this had been a much discussed topic.

Becky exchanged a smile with Myron. Their planned vacation was going to be quiet and leisurely.

Lynn, ever adept at reading faces, seemed to understand the meaning of those smiles. "When do you guys go to the cottage you have?"

"We've already been, but just to open it up. Early August we'll spend a week there."

It would be the first time in years that Myron would spend more than a day at the family cottage. He and Alison Rollins did three week-long stints there, but she never liked it. She was a city girl through and through. Becky, in contrast, loved the place at first sight. He found that out last weekend when they had driven to the Berkshires for an airing out and general cleaning of the cottage. His sister and her family had used it for a week during a trip to the east a few years ago, and he had made at least one yearly day trip to make sure it had not sustained any winter damage. Now living in Maine, he and his mother had discussed selling the cottage, but both were reluctant to let go of a place filled with family memories. But it smelled musty from disuse and required a thorough cleaning. At least no structural damage had occurred, and all the utilities functioned when the electricity was turned on. They had to prime the pump before water flowed. It was discolored at first and even when clear had what they thought was a funny taste. They decided to bring bottled water for drinking and cooking. They spent about five hours there, and after an early dinner at a local restaurant had driven home.

For the past week the anticipation of spending time together at the cottage had been a frequent topic of conversation, and with undisguised pleasure Becky said, "Ours will be a quiet vacation. The only driving will be getting there."

"But you won't see the Grand Canyon and other splendors," Gerry said.

"They'll have each other," Lynn said. "They can sightsee some other time."

Myron saw Becky blushing and inwardly was pleased that she too was a private person. But Lynn wasn't through with them. Her smiling face and sparkling eyes clearly showed she was in her teasing mode. "What about a trip upstate?" she innocently asked.

Becky, sponging off the table, looked up. "What? To visit my parents? Yes, we're going to do that in August too."

Lynn made one of her comic faces, the one with an open mouth and raised eyebrows that imitated a child saying, "I'm telling!" and which said as plain as plain words that she saw their relationship was getting serious if he was going to be presented to Becky's parents and that she was pleased that things had come to pass that she had worked for. Becky, not seeing Lynn's face, saw his and seemed to know by his arched eyebrows everything he knew. Her response was to redden again and appear flustered. Gerry, stirring the charcoal to extinguish the remaining coals, rescued her from embarrassment by asking Myron a question.

"Hey, Myron, has Lynn asked you about the books for next fall's reading group yet? She wants to get a head start."

"I was inspired by my father's reading on his trips," Lynn explained.

"I'm pretty sure I want to do Arnold Bennett's _The Old Wives' Tale_ and another Hardy novel, _Jude the Obscure_. They'd be my choices. Are they all right?"

Becky nodded and said, "I want to do another Dickens novel." She looked at the boys who had just yelled louder than usual. Whatever caused the ruckus was instantly over when they saw themselves observed, so she turned back to the table. "Years ago on Public Television they did _Bleak House_. I never read it."

"It's a great choice. Do you agree, Lynn?"

"Sure. Dickens is fun."

"And I've promised Angus _The Heart of Midlothian_ and _Macbeth_. Later we can choose some others. Brecht's _Caucasian Chalk Circle_ and _The Good Woman of Setzuan_ , Steinbeck's _The Grapes of Wrath_ and something by Dostoyevsky maybe."

"I took a lot of English in college," Gerry said. "Too bad I can't join you. I've read most of those books, but..."

"Were you an English major in college?" Myron asked.

"No, polysci was my major, then of course law. But now I have no time for reading. I'm so tired after a day of poring over documents all I want to do at night is veg out and watch TV."

"Well, that's what the Red Sox are for. I watch 'em a lot myself."

"Don't encourage him, Myron. He watches them enough already."

"I wouldn't dream of it. I—" His mobile phone rang. "Excuse me," he said, extracting the phone from his pocket. He expected the call to be from Annette Duval, who was filling in for the vacationing Dora Ritter at the library. Instead he heard Elaine Neault's voice speaking very calmly.

"Myron, your mother has had a heart incident."

For a moment the words didn't compute, but he heard them because he felt panic rising and his own heart start beating faster. "Do you mean a heart attack?"

He saw Becky snap to attention upon hearing that. She listened intently.

Elaine, in the matter-of-fact and maddening way she had, said, "Well, you see, it's like this. Her pulse dropped way down. It's like her heart slowed, you understand. She fainted. That's when I called 911—wait a minute," she said in a different, more urgent tone. "I hear the ambulance. They'll take her to the hospital. I'll see you there."

She shouted the last sentence, then abruptly hung up.

"Is it your mother, Myron?" Becky asked. She was at his side now with her hand clutching his arm.

Taking a deep breath in an effort to stymie the rising panic, he looked at her. Her mouth was slightly open, and she looked at him with eyes wide with concern. "My mother's been taken to the hospital. I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave."

He saw Becky exchange a glance with Lynn. She tilted her head in appeal, and Lynn instantly understood her. Simultaneously they said,

"—I'll go with you."

"—I'll look after the boys."

Then Becky repeated, "I'll go with you." Her hand on his arm telegraphed her concern and loving support.

"I'll drive," she whispered before rushing over to the boys and speaking to them in a hurried whisper. They looked scared and stared at Myron with uncomprehending wonder.

Lynn said she would gather up Becky's things for her, so without picking up they walked down the street to Becky's car.

"Is it very serious, Myron?"

"Very serious," he said in the flat voice of despair.

On the drive over to Bedford they were both very quiet. The one time he spoke was to share with her that the doctor two years ago had told him his mother's heart could give out any time so that he thought he would be ready for this. Then his voice trailed off because now that it had happened he saw he was never ready for this feeling of shocked disbelief. She nodded grimly as she slowed for a red light, then reached over and patted his leg. "We'll get through this," she said in a quiet, tremulous voice that made him look at her face. She was pale and looked tense. He watched an elderly man walk in front of their car with a bag of groceries that was too heavy for his frail arms. He kept shifting the weight, and in the pained expression on his face Myron could feel the man's aching muscles. Elderly housing was on the street where he was heading. The man's frailty and lack of help in getting the food he needed made Myron sad in a different way. He knew Becky was reliving the time she received the terrible news that her husband was dead. He felt helpless and vulnerable, and yet that was the human condition. Everyone suffered. Everyone had losses. Everyone went down to dusty death. The light went green and they started moving. He watched the frail old man for as long as he could as they went through the intersection. The line from Dylan Thomas's poem came to mind: "Rage, rage against the dying of the light" followed by Yeats's "An aged man is but a paltry thing,/ A tattered coat upon a stick." One thing he could do was organize more activities at the library for old people. Even a single ray of sunshine could brighten a dreary day and help them remember their shared humanity and know that they were not alone. It would do honor to his mother's memory, though it would do nothing to alleviate the pain of losing a husband to murder. For that he would love Becky with a love that blazed bright and strong like a comet across the night sky. Still thinking of the old man, he remembered his mother's courage and stoicism. "Unless soul clap its hand and louder sing." She had done that, participating in the fight against injustice even on her sick bed, reduced to only writing checks, to be sure, but at the front lines in spirit. That was the other way he would keep his mother's and father's Unitarian and Quaker spirit alive. He thought of Chris Andrews and the help that young man would need.

They crossed the river, and in the light dancing on the swiftly moving current as it rushed to the falls a quarter of a mile away he discovered hope. Elaine had not said she was dead, only that she experienced a heart incident and that the pulse had slowed. Maybe she forgot to take her medicine today; maybe Elaine gave her the wrong pill. Maybe, his scenario continued, the hospital would give her a massive dose of her heart medicine and she would be all right. This newer hopeful spirit lasted only until they started going past the dingy factories and depressing tenement buildings followed by the dreary conformity of fast-food places and other signs of commercialism run amok that lined the streets before they got to the hospital. By the time they had parked the car and Becky had taken his hand as they walked to the emergency room, he knew his mother was dead.

Elaine quickly confirmed it. As soon as they turned the corner and could see the crowded waiting room forty feet ahead of them, she came out the door from where she had stood waiting for them. Her face wore a somber and grieving expression with a hint of apprehension as if she feared he was going to blame her for his mother's death. Coming up to him, she shook her head. "She was gone before the ambulance got here. I was with her and held her hand, but she never regained consciousness." She wiped a tear from her eye with the corner of the apron she was still wearing, a gesture that reminded him again of Mrs. Gamp. "But she didn't suffer—that's the important thing. When it happened and she fainted, it was as gentle as a dove cooing."

He felt Becky's arm around his back. The pressure of her hand lightly touching him and communicating her compassion and solidarity was what brought the stinging tears to his eyes. "Was she doing anything strenuous?"

Elaine shook her head sorrowfully, then just as suddenly brightened. Her little beady eyes regarded Becky.

"You remember Becky Paine, don't you, Elaine?"

She nodded as Becky said hello in a quiet voice.

"She was in bed. She had just woke from a nap. She began talking about you, hoping you were having a good time." She looked away and considered for a moment. "Oh, and she said she was glad it was a beautiful day for your cookout. Her last thoughts were about you and were happy thoughts."

She spoke in such an unctuous and falsely solicitous way that the beauty of the knowledge was ruined for him. He couldn't hide the resentment that he knew was gleaming in his eyes and that she saw, but he did say in a tone of grateful acknowledgment, "Thank you for telling me that." He looked around to see doors on both sides of the corridor. "I would like to see her. Do you know where she is?"

"Yes, dearie. Just go through those double doors"—she pointed with a toss of her head to doors that had a No Admittance sign. "Luckily I've got friends here, friends who are always glad to help me. You talk to Mrs. Harris and tell her you know Elaine Neault."

Seeing the expression on his face, she stopped. He wasn't sure what he was experiencing—shock, surprise or bemusement at what must be an extraordinary coincidence. For what were the odds that the woman he associated with Mrs. Gamp would actually have a friend named Mrs. Harris, Sarah Gamp's mythical friend in _Martin Chuzzlewit_? Would she be mythical, or would an actual Mrs. Harris be seen on the other side of those double doors? He had to stifle an impulse to laugh hysterically.

This sequence of thought, expression and stifled impulse took place in no more than a few seconds. He was quite sure that Becky had not observed anything strange, but Elaine had and clearly found it incomprehensible. Probably she regarded him as a strange duck and had long ago given up trying to understand him. So after a momentary pause and a squinty look from a tilted head, she continued, "She's a dearie and will be very helpful."

He nodded, then turned to the door before he had a second thought. "Will you need a ride back home, Elaine?"

She seemed genuinely touched. "No, bless you, dearie. Mrs. Harris will be off duty soon, and I'll ride home with her."

Again he nodded, and he and Becky went through the door to a vestibule where three more doors awaited them. They stopped, uncertain what to do. They exchanged a glance, but just as he was about to clear his throat, the woman he took to be Mrs. Harris came out of the middle door.

"Mr. Seavey?"

"Mrs. Harris?

She in no way reminded him of a Dickensian character. She was a prim woman in her fifties with neat short hair, severe black glasses and an air of competence unexpected in any friend of Elaine's. He knew this unbidden and unexpected thought was uncharitable and instantly resolved that tomorrow when he was settling accounts with Elaine he would give her two weeks of severance pay, perhaps a month.

"Sorry for your loss," Mrs. Harris said rather mechanically. "Your mother is in here."

She led them into a small windowless room where on a gurney and under a sheet his mother lay. In a businesslike and yet sensitive manner, Mrs. Harris pulled the sheet down to reveal his mother's face and then with a nod left them alone.

For a long minute they both looked down at his mother; then Becky, speaking in a hushed whisper, said, "I only met her once, but I instantly liked her and knew that she was a wonderful human being. I'm so sorry."

"The feeling was mutual. She liked you too. She said she could tell you had a good heart. That, incidentally, is my mother's principal criterion of human worth. And she should know. It takes a good heart to see a good heart."

He reached over and gently stroked his mother's cheek. There was no sign of pain or trauma. The muscles were relaxed, and her face wore the same expression of serene dignity that it had in life. Apparently Elaine was telling the truth when she said that his mother had experienced a gentle and good death.

Arm in arm they looked down at the peace of death. Neither spoke for some time, and then Becky asked, "Will you have to make the arrangements?"

He shook his head. "I'll have to call my sister in California and brother in Vienna. But the funeral arrangements are all set up. When we moved here she wanted to go to a nursing home so that I would not be troubled by her. Naturally I refused to even consider that, but she made it a condition of her coming to Maine that she would take care of all the arrangements for her death. All I have to do is make one or two phone calls. There'll be a service in the Unitarian church back home. I'll have to call the minister, who's an old family friend, and the funeral director in Connecticut. She even arranged it so that he will contact the people here about the cremation."

That last word got to him, and he felt the tears coming again. Becky hugged him and let the pain come out into the air. He knew that the reason his mother died happy was because he had met Becky, but this wasn't the time to tell her that. When they were at the cottage he was going to ask her to marry him. Then he could tell her about his mother's wish that they be happy together.

Thinking of Becky and a life of happiness, and not his mother, he suddenly felt guilty. A pained expression must have passed across his face, for she looked at him and said, "Would you like a few minutes with your mother to say good-bye?"

He nodded and squeezed her hand to express his gratitude for the sensitivity she had shown. "I'll just be a few minutes," he said in a low voice.

Alone now, he felt awe. This would be the last time he would look upon his mother's mortal face. He owed so much to her both as a loving mother and as an example of how to lead a decent life that he felt as confused and vulnerable as a child. For a long time he stared at her face with his left hand resting on her shoulder, remembering distant memories like her cooking dinner and phoning someone about a clinic for Mayan Indians, or the time they brought a robin with a broken wing to the animal shelter when he was eight and he learned that every living thing blessed with the gift of life deserved our love and compassion. She always taught by example; she never preached. He never heard her belittle another person, and her hatred against the perpetrators of injustice was always tempered with a sad compassion for their dark souls that could experience greed and pride and powerlust but not the lovingkindness of human solidarity. During her last years as an invalid she never complained. Pain, instead of narrowing her mind into self-absorption, made her humble and grateful that she could still watch her son's journey with loving care. In their last conversation this morning before he left the house she was thinking only of him. "I'll check on you before supper," he had said, to which she replied, "Don't worry about me. I'll be happy just thinking of you and Becky together." Then he had kissed her on the cheek and was glad to further remember that he had told her he loved her. He stepped back, unsure how he was to say good-bye to her forever until another conversation came to mind from earlier in the week. They had talked about Chris Andrews, and she had said that he was on the side of the angels. "The same side you're always on, Mom" was his immediate reply. Now that she was with the angels, he again saw what the old and frail man had shown him—that the way to honor her memory was to continue fighting on the angels' side. That would be a good-bye that would last forever.

### Panic and Discovery

Malcolm Kimball, just months shy of being sixteen, looked forward to that birthday in the same way a prisoner looked forward to the day of his release. It would be the day he would be through with school forever. A long time ago in days he could barely remember he was free. He had parents who controlled him, disciplined him, even slapped him sometimes, but he was in a familiar world where nobody made him doubt himself, where he felt comfortable and connected and part of something, which to him was what freedom meant—to live in a place where he could be himself. He recovered touches of that feeling on school vacations, but he was never far enough away from school to be able to forget his bondage. He still remembered the shock of his first year in public school. The kids didn't seem to like him. They called him a dirty boy and made fun of his shabby clothes. In games at recess he was never chosen until there were no choices left. Teachers treated him indifferently or meanly while fawning on the rich kids in town. So right from the beginning school made him feel sad, a feeling that lasted right up to last day of school in June every year.

Getting older made no difference. Young or old, school for him was a daily humiliation. The only thing he really learned from school was that he was stupid and should be ashamed of himself. Students would titter when he was asked a question in class, so much so that his usual response was to freeze up. Between classes kids would make mean remarks in his presence. He was stupid as a brick. He was so dumb he had to look at a crib note on his arm to remember his name. The only time he answered a question correctly was when he said he didn't know. Even some of the teachers seemed to enjoy making him squirm. The guidance counselor at C. A. had seen him only once and that was to tell him he needed to learn a trade. He took no part in school activities and had no friends among the city kids. The only thing he was good at was shop because there he used his hands and his brain was not required. His reading ability was very limited. Big words became a twisted mass of swirling letters when he tried to understand them. Facts wouldn't stay in his head. One day in history class he couldn't remember the name of the father of our country. He got poor grades, D's and F's, and a few B's in shop. He knew even the D's he got were usually simply to pass him on and make him some other teacher's problem. He stayed back in the eighth grade before everyone recognized that a second stab at the same subjects was useless. He was passed on to high school, as unprepared as possible.

All this time he was as lonely as a skunk. He had friends, but they were not able to help him feel better. He was sure nobody could understand the humiliation and pain he experienced. Even his own sister, Sissy, was ashamed of him and avoided him at school and on the school bus. She, like every other kid, didn't think he had feelings, but he did. For many years he cried often in his secret loneliness until a day came when he became ashamed of himself for being a baby. Then he cried no more, even though he felt even sadder the older he got. But that was life. Life was sad, and he swam in a sea of sadness.

The way he escaped his awful situation was to daydream. In his younger years he would daydream of beating up kids who taunted him about his shabby clothes and stupidity. By the time he got to high school and his body had changed his daydreams took other forms. He spent hours at home and in school seeing himself driving a powerful and expensive European car like a BMW or Jaguar and having girls falling all over him. At the service station where his neighbor's son, Luke Berry, worked and had helped him get a job, there were always stacks of girlie magazines in the desk drawer in the office. He pored over them every chance he got. There was a girl who rode the school bus with him who had developed early and already had voluptuous curves. He was too shy to even speak to her, but he spent hours imagining every contour of her body, and when he looked at those nude women in the magazines he put her face on their exposed bodies and imagined them doing all sorts of wicked pleasures together.

But if his daydreams allowed him to feel free in a way he never was in life, he also remembered that his grandmother often said if wishes were horses beggars would ride. He might be stupid, but he did know the difference between dream and reality. After wasting an hour or two thinking about sex and expensive cars, he was always left with a hunger that gnawed at his empty innards and made him feel useless and hopeless. Who are you trying to kid? he'd think sometimes. He was never going to own a BMW, and it was doubtful any girl would ever find him interesting when he didn't find himself the least bit interesting. He felt inferior because he knew he was inferior, just like he knew he was stupid.

When in the grip of this despair, he would know that to think he would be free once out of school was also a pipe dream. Though school was the worst, there was really no place he was safe from being reminded of his inferiority and stupidity. Even with his friends he might find himself in danger of sudden humiliation. His friend Denny Farquhar had a car, an old Ford heap he bought with money saved from after-school jobs and fixed up with spare parts from car graveyards. In it he, Denny, Bob Pollock and Alden Pope had many fun nights cruising around and looking for girls and talking about girls and thinking about girls and stopping at fast-food places to eat junk food and hope to find girls. When they could they drank beer. More rarely they got ahold of some grass to smoke. Sometimes they would leave the car and hang around a street corner in Waska looking for girls. When they did, though, it was worse than not meeting them. He never knew what to say to them and so hung back. None of the girls took the slightest interest in him. They always gathered around Bob, who was a handsome dark-haired guy, or Denny because he had a car. Sometimes when they met up with town boys a different situation arose. One of them might say to Denny, "I see you've got the genius with you" or some other nasty dig which led to some fights. He'd get a savage pleasure from beating the loudmouth up or—just as often— he'd get his ass kicked. Either way the fights were always broken up before anyone got seriously hurt. Besides, it was the girls who took no interest in him that hurt the most, and you couldn't fight girls.

There was one thing that was getting better. He didn't realize it at first, but the job he got in the fall and the money he earned (and which part of went to supporting the family) made him begin to feel a little better about himself. Being interested in cars and good with his hands, he did quite well, so that after a while he actually started feeling rather proud of himself and even a tiny bit hopeful because he got a glimpse of life beyond school that wasn't a daydream. And in June he became even prouder when the owner of the station, Dave Audet, asked him to be the one to stay until nine on Friday nights and be the one who closed the station up. It was the first time in his life he had been given an adult responsibility. Sometimes he'd take the key to the garage out of his pocket just to look at it and feel a thrill of pleasure. He wasn't expected to do much beyond pump gas, but he had been able to diagnose engine problems three or four times that turned out to be correct when Luke fixed the car later. Neither the boss nor Luke said anything, but he knew they saw what he had done.

Most nights, though, were rather boring. He got gas for a dozen or fifteen cars on average, and much time was simply spent waiting for nine o'clock. One night in mid-July that was even slower than usual, he was sitting at the cluttered desk in the office ogling nude women from the girlie magazines in the top desk drawer. He was engrossed in the suggestive pictures and fantasizing about them, but he was aware that something in the back of his mind was bothering him, so after a while he looked up so he could think clearly.

Through the opening into the garage he could see the 1985 Toyota Luke was working on. He was overhauling an engine that had over 100,000 miles of use. At four o'clock when Malcolm arrived for work he'd helped Luke by cleaning the crud from the carburetor. More and more he was learning the trade and trusted with important tasks. He looked at the calendar that showed a seminude babe suggestively straddling a motorcycle, then below it to the keys hanging on hooks of the four or five cars they were servicing currently. The bosomy woman distracted his mind again, so he turned in the swivel chair to look at a shelf of specification catalogs for many models of cars. Luke and Dave used these books often to look up parts. They kept common items like fan belts and oil filters in stock, but most stuff they needed was ordered from those catalogs and then delivered by an auto supply business in Bedford. That was one part of the business that bothered Malcolm as far as his prospects for getting more responsibilities. He was embarrassed to admit that he read slowly and with much difficulty. A few times Dave had asked him to look up a part, but he did it so slowly Dave had come out of the garage and angrily asked him what the hell was the problem?

That certainly bothered him, but now he remembered what had been troubling him as he ogled the naked women. It was past eight o'clock and Denny hadn't called or driven by. When he closed the garage at nine, Denny was supposed to pick him up so that they could cruise through the streets of Waska for a few hours, then go home. If Denny didn't show, he would have to hitchhike upcountry to get home. Sometimes Denny forgot to check in and still came. Other times he'd find a girl or something and be too busy to remember his friend. It was that prospect that was bothering him. The last time that happened he couldn't get a ride and had to walk the many wearisome miles to home.

His grandmother, always filled with wisdom, used to say that what will be will be—though she didn't say it anymore now that little Mark was sick and not getting better. Even so, Malcolm took it for a piece of good wisdom. He opened the desk and drew forth another girlie magazine, fully resigned to his fate. He began staring at the nude women and was soon so lost in his fantasies that the pictures gave rise to that he was surprised almost to panic to hear the bell triggered by a car going over the signal hose. Quickly he shoved the magazine back into the desk drawer and slammed it shut. He peered out to see a sleek silver BMW and panicked even more when he recognized the boy on the passenger side and the driver getting out of the car. It was two of the big men on campus at Courtney Academy. There were also two boys in the backseat, probably football stars and class officers like the two in front. Ray Caron and Brian Olson were the two whose names he knew. He was always embarrassed when looking at these magazines. He felt like people could see the wicked things he was thinking just by looking at him. To have to face these boys who regarded him as no better than a worm was the worst thing he could imagine happening.

He was so scared he had to fight the urge to duck down behind the desk. Only the fear that Dave would find out that a customer came and got no service, and the fact that the boys were walking towards the office, allowed him to win the battle over his cowardly panic. With a dry mouth, a pounding heart and a voice that cracked like a grackle's call, he came to the door and said, "Can I help you?"

He could tell they recognized him. Strangely, though, just like him they seemed embarrassed that he was someone they knew. They looked at each other, waiting for one to step up.

Finally one of them, not Brian Olson who was driving and whose father probably owned the car, but one of the kids from the backseat, said, "We've got a problem with a tire."

He was a handsome blond boy who spoke for the team at football rallies. Malcolm had always been in awe of his self-confidence in speaking in public, so it was very strange to see him so uneasy and unsure of himself. He looked at the front passenger-side tire to see it was flat.

Stating the obvious, Ray Caron said, "It's flat."

"We'd change it ourselves," Brian Olson said, "but..." Then he stopped, at a loss for words.

"But we're going to a party," the blond boy said.

"Yeah, that's right," Ray Caron said, and the others nodded.

Malcolm saw him color, and finally he understood why. They didn't know how to change a tire and were embarrassed to admit it. The realization confused him, surprised him, but he did see that they needed him. "I'll take a look at it," he said.

He went into the garage to get the portable car jack and rolled it out, carrying in his hand the other tool he would need, the pneumatic drill. He first loosened the bolts before jacking up the car, then removed them and pulled the tire off while the four boys watched and talked quietly among themselves. Taking the tire by the rim, he said, "I'll be right back."

In the garage he put the tire in a barrel of water and inflated it with the air hose. Instantly he saw the bubbles rising from where a nail had punctured the tire. He patched it with a round patch-plug combination and inflated the tire again. This time no bubbles showed.

Within five minutes he was mounting the tire back on the car. Looking at the four boys still huddled together like a nest of baby squirrels he felt differently about them and more confident and less afraid of what they thought of him. In a corner of his mind and unexpressed even as a thought, he was also aware that he felt a certain contempt for them and their girlish helplessness.

To Brian Olson he said, "It's patched and will be okay. You might tell your parents that if they drive fast and for a long time it might be better to get a new tire, but this one should be all right—good as new, in fact."

They seemed grateful. Brian Olson said, "Thanks a lot. We really appreciate it. How much do we owe you?"

Another car drove up for gas. He was glad to see that—there would be no awkward good-bye to say. Pausing on his way to the other car, he said, "Ten bucks should do it."

Denny never did show up that night. He had found a new girl, and in the following weeks while he spent all his time with her Malcolm was marooned upcountry most of the time and forced to hitchhike to work and back. Weekdays when he wasn't at work he hung around the house and carved cars and even tried a few birds, a chickadee that was not very good and a blue jay that was better. Mark was still sick and his mother more worried than ever. Some days she grew impatient with him and made it clear she wished he was out of the house. When her frowns grew too dark to ignore, he would take walks in the woods. Sometimes if his sister Sharon was home she would go with him, but mostly he was alone. He would also leave his fishing pole behind because his mother now hated fish for what they had done to her boy, and as a result Malcolm spent his time observing and thinking. Something different bubbled in his head after the night he changed the tire for those boys. He felt it before he knew it, and it was in the woods that things became clear.

Reading the signs of deer's nesting place, seeing where a pileated woodpecker had made large oval holes searching for grubs in a dead tree, and finding the coughed-up bones and fur of field mice that an owl had deposited after digesting his prey, he thought of what his father always said about country people—that they knew the woods. The knew a deer's footprints from a bobcat's, they knew where the rare lady's slipper bloomed, they could tell if a trout favored a deep pool in a brook and knew what flies they tied would land it. They knew how to repair their houses and cars and the stuff they used. These things they knew because it was essential to their lives that they know them. In fact, he thought, remembering many meals they had eaten, it wasn't just the country menfolk who knew the woods and nature. His mother made stinging nettle soup and cattail chowder. She knew that pokeweed, milkweed, toothwort, early spring ferns, and dozens of other wild plants were edible. Malcolm recognized that these things were a kind of knowledge. What was new was the connection to book learning. All his life he had listened to his father and believed him but still thought of himself as one who knew nothing. Now he saw that knowledge came in different flavors. The rich city kids knew stuff from books, but they couldn't even change a tire. They were polite to him and embarrassed in his presence because they did not know. Those people needed people like him. Maybe life was unfair, but he saw that sometimes things balanced out, the shoe was on the other foot, and the rich people were forced to submit to him. When he looked at some moss growing on a tree and knew it pointed north, he _knew_ he could find his way home even without the sun. But those rich boys? They would be lost in the woods. They would need someone like him to come and rescue them. They lived in big houses and drove expensive cars and bought anything they wanted, and yet without people like him they would have nothing.

Not only did he feel himself growing and becoming more confident in the life he would have after he quit school, he also started feeling proud of his parents for what they had endured and for what they knew and had passed on to him. They had a strength that he had inherited. To the trees that sighed in the breeze and the forest birds that chirped their greetings he whispered his discovery that he was becoming a man.

But there was one other thing a man did that he had never done, and thinking about it as he stared at the pictures in the girlie magazines at the service station, he grew more and more dissatisfied with fantasy. From some of the guys and even his sister Sissy he had heard that one of his neighbors, Mary Peckham, bathed in the Waska River many times in the summer. She was three or four years older than him, and the last of six kids in a family as poor as the Kimballs. She lived down the road from them in a shack just like theirs that didn't have indoor plumbing. All the guys said she was a nymphomaniac and wasn't particular who she screwed. Many times when he took walks in the woods he went by the river looking for her, but he either looked in the wrong place, went at the wrong time, or the rumors that she bathed in the river were false because he never saw the slightest sign that anyone bathed in the river. But one day when on a walk in the woods he stopped to listen to the sounds of splashing water in an inlet of the Waska River. He expected to see a beaver or maybe an otter, but instead he saw Mary. Approaching the shore quietly, he peered from behind a thick bush and saw the naked girl in the water. She was not pretty, but her body was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She was leaning over and rinsing the soap from her brown hair when he first saw her. She bobbed her head below the surface three or four times, then took a couple of steps towards the shore. Watching her large breasts sway and jiggle as she shook the water from her hair, he became aroused. The contrast between her tanned arms, neck and face and the whiteness of her body as she stood waist deep in the water and lathered her body with a bar of soap in slow languid strokes under her arms and then across her breasts emphasized that he was seeing the hidden parts of her.

His breath quickened as he felt himself growing more excited. If the rumors were true, she would not mind at all if he boldly showed himself. He thought about it, even egged himself to step forth and accost her, but he didn't dare. He also could not force himself to slink away in defeat. Instead he just stared so that she, like the pictures in the girlie magazines, made his mind start fantasizing. Then the decision was suddenly made for him. She dipped down to rinse the soap off, and when he leaned forward to follow her, the motion caused a branch to snap under his foot.

"Who's there?" she called.

"Come on, who's there," she repeated, angry now. "It's not nice to spy." She spoke like a teacher, angry, demanding, expecting to get her way.

Guiltily he came forward. She stood in the water, her breasts just bobbing at the surface and her nipples erect. Less clearly he could see the dark patch between her legs.

His mouth was dry.

"It's me, Malcolm Kimball."

She folded her arms under her breasts and regarded him with her head cocked to one side. She made no effort to hide her nakedness. "You're Sissy's brother, ain't you?"

He nodded, afraid to speak and embarrassed at the bulge in his pants.

She saw it too and smiled. "Why don't you be a gentleman and join me? That's better than spying, ain't it?"

"I wasn't spying," he lied. "I was walking in the woods and heard something."

"And you had to look. How long?"

He felt his face redden. "Only a little while. Do you always take a bath here?"

"Not in the winter." She fell backwards, and for a moment he saw her thing. He was so excited now he couldn't think straight. He knew what she wanted from him. He wanted it too, even though it was going to be his first time and he was scared as hell. She turned and swam across the little pool, then turned and swam back.

"Come on," she said. "What's the matter? You embarrassed? I seen it before, you know. I ain't afraid, if that's what you think."

When he didn't answer and didn't make any move, she said, "Hey, _you_ ain't afraid, are you?

"No!"

"Then come on in."

He started unbuttoning his shirt, then stopped. "There ain't anybody here, is there?"

"Just you and me. We got the woods to ourselves."

He nodded, liking her tone of voice now. Quickly he took off his clothes and awkwardly picked his way to the edge of the pool where she looked up at him, a different expression on her face. Before he could step into the water, she came out and wordlessly led him to a grassy area near the trees where she spread her towel like a blanket on the ground.

"I get old towels from the motel where I work as a chambermaid," she said. It was a strange remark, but he didn't have time to think about it. Suddenly she kissed him, her tongue probing his mouth. Then she fell to the ground and guided him into her. They spent a long time on that towel before they returned to the water to clean themselves up, and it was an education to him, different from what Denny described, different from what he had imagined, and much better. She was patient with him and taught him what a woman needed so that by the third time she experienced the same pleasure he did.

While they were drying off she asked, "You walk out here often?"

"Yeah, lately," he said. He was thinking that he was a man now. He was thinking that when the guys talked he wouldn't have to feel embarrassed that he had nothing to say.

"Well, all I'm saying is I bathe here two or three times a week."

The learning experience continued for the next few weeks until he told Denny about it one night when his girlfriend was doing something with her family. He spoke proudly, but Denny's reaction was to laugh—a long, scornful laugh that Malcolm didn't like. It was like Denny was thinking Mary was such a slut she would even screw him.

His feelings were hurt, and he started walking away, only to stop when Denny asked him if he was taking any precautions. When Malcolm didn't understand, he laughed and said, "She spreads 'em for half the town. It'd be a miracle if she hasn't caught the clap or something. And besides, what if she gets pregnant?"

He hadn't thought about that, but Denny's contempt for Mary and concern for him made him realize he should be careful. He had seen dozens of movies and TV shows where women entrapped men into marrying them. Mary didn't seem to be on that trip, but maybe she was good at hiding her schemes. The question to ask himself, he decided, was, did he love her? He didn't have to think too long before no popped into his head.

So after his talk with Denny he decided to avoid Mary—at least for a while. He started walking in the woods on the other side of Route 177 when his mother shooed him out of the house. Then one day he remembered something Chris Andrews had asked him in the middle of June when he paid him the last ten dollars for keeping his eye on the Ridlon shed. He wanted to know if Malcolm knew anything about a strange temple in the woods. He didn't, and after looking for it a few times following Chris's directions he decided Chris was pulling his leg. But with afternoons to kill and no fishing to be done, he went for a walk past the pond and on higher ground than the dangerous river bottom where Mary might be waiting, and when he came upon the triple birch tree he'd given as a landmark to Chris, he remembered that Chris had gotten lost because he went east. He decided to try that direction for a time before bearing north towards the pond, and after several hundred yards of hard going through thick brush, he came upon a chicken-wire fence with NO TRESPASSING and NO HUNTING signs every twenty yards or so. He followed it for a while until through the trees he saw it.

It was about fifteen feet long above a wall about eight feet tall, and then above it was a pyramid that rose another ten feet or more. The wall was made of big blocks of stone of different sizes with the smallest a couple feet long and a foot high. They seemed to fit perfectly without mortar. The pyramid looked familiar. In some schoolbook he had seen pictures that looked like it.

It was strangely beautiful, and he looked at it with growing awe that someone in the middle of nowhere had made such a thing. He began walking around the structure, but almost immediately he saw a place where the ground dipped into a small gully. Under the fence he crawled so that he could get a better look. He was wise enough to know that the temple was unfinished and that whoever built it probably lived in one of the houses on the Perkins Road. He approached the temple quietly and cautiously and went around the corner. This side must be the front, for he saw a slab of granite supported by three pairs of columns of some white shiny stone that extended about six feet in front of an opening three feet wide. Curious, he walked over to it to have a look inside, but suddenly he stopped in panic. He could hear a strange hammering sound coming from inside. He stepped back quickly, only to step on a branch. It snapped with a loud report almost like a gun. It was the second time such a noise had betrayed him, and again he felt the same panic that he was going to be found out.

Before he could turn and run a man came out of the building and looked at him. He was old with white hair, deep lines on his forehead and a big red nose. He was skinny yet muscular. At least he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and his deeply tanned arms were muscular. Without saying anything, he stood and scowled at Malcolm. Only then did Malcolm notice he clenched a hammer in his right hand. "Boy," he said in a low growl, "you're on private property."

For a long moment Malcolm stared back at the man, but the silence made him so nervous that he blurted out the first thing that came into his mind. "I'm sorry, mister. I know I shouldn't be here, but it's so beautiful..."

His words seemed to soften the old man. The scowl disappeared, and in its place a slight smile played across the corners of his mouth. He put the hammer down and folded his arms.

"Did you build this, mister?"

He gave a little laugh that came out as "Ha!" Rubbing his chin, he said, "Well, I designed it and built a lot of it, but I certainly had help."

Malcolm looked up at the pyramid. "I've seen pictures like that in books. What is it?"

The man followed his eyes up to the top of the structure. "That would be the Mayan part of the building. It's in the shape of a Mayan temple."

Malcolm was unsure who the Mayans were, but his curiosity wouldn't let him hide his ignorance. "Who were they?"

"Indians in Mexico and Central America. They had a great civilization before Columbus came to America."

Malcolm looked at the fluted white columns behind the old man and then above them to where some strange words were chiseled into the stone: PHOEBE VIVET.

"I carve things in wood. I don't understand how you carve stone."

He flashed a pleasant grin and said, "The short answer is a little at a time. Sometimes you use a cold chisel, sometimes a hammer. And you have to know where to strike. Rock has grains just like wood. For final work you use abrasives to polish and smooth the stone."

"Does abrasive mean rough? I use sandpaper on my wood carvings."

He nodded. "It's the same idea. Sometimes you use diamond-studded material, sometimes a portable grinding wheel. You understand that—but let me ask you something. Do you know anything about architecture?"

Malcolm shook his head.

"Because, you see, there are three recognizable architectures here I'm paying homage to. The pyramid is Mayan like I said, but the walls are Incan. And the portico"—he pointed to the columns and slab of granite when Malcolm showed he didn't understand the word—"is Hellenic, Greek, you know. See how those columns are fluted and have an elegant simplicity? That's the famous Doric column." He walked over to the wall and beckoned Malcolm to follow. "See how the stones in the wall fit perfectly together? That is one of the amazing technical achievements of the Incas. With nothing but hand tools they shaped the stones to fit perfectly together. They pounded the rock with stone hammers. Hundreds, even thousands, of men worked on these temples."

Malcolm stared at the wall, again seeing how the seams were so perfect they were almost invisible. With stones of different sizes he could visualize the difficulties. The first row would be easy, but when the workers moved up they would have to individually fit four sides of every stone. It seemed impossibly hard. "How did they get each side to fit?" he asked.

The man's eyes brightened. "Ah, I see that you recognize the difficulties. There are several theories. One is that they made models to scale with clay. Maquettes are what these models are called. Then they used mathematics to transfer the model to reality. Another theory is that they made moldings of a stone's surface and used them to shape the next stone. They were remarkable engineers, those Incas."

"Is that how you do it?"

The man shook his head in a way that seemed to express regret. "No. I've done a few stones that way just to see how it can be done, but I've had to cheat. The one thing I don't have a lot of is time, you see. So I had a quarry in Vermont cut most of the stones to my specifications. I did make a maquette and do the math for that, though. So I know the maquette method is very possible. I also cheated on material. The walls are sandstone, very thick so that they can support the granite slabs that are the floor of the Mayan temple. The columns of the portico are marble, though. That's authentic enough."

Malcolm looked from the man to the building and then back at the man. He could see the huge amount of sheer physical work that went into making this strange place. Even with the stones precut, it must have taken a lot of work. "You did this all yourself!?"

He was aware he was expressing awe, and he saw that it pleased the old man. "I had one of my sons helping me whenever he could spare the time."

Malcolm looked at one of the stones that must have weighed a ton. "How did you lift those huge stones to the top? How did you do that Mayan part?"

The old man smiled and beckoned with his finger. Malcolm followed him around the corner of the building where he saw a huge mound of gravel that went up past the eight-foot wall at a slow incline and then leveled off. Behind the mound of gravel a bright yellow and large backhoe was parked. "I used a technique borrowed from the Egyptians when they built the pyramids, and then I took the liberty of buying a used backhoe." He smiled broadly and in such a friendly way that Malcolm thought he must have been dreaming when he saw the hostile scowl on the old man's face when he first saw him. He was beginning to like this old man—like him and trust him.

The feeling seemed mutual. "So what do you carve in wood, young man?"

He reddened. Suddenly he saw that in comparison to this temple what he was doing in wood seemed pretty stupid. "Nothing special like you're doing. I've carved a lot of cars and have done a few birds. I think now the cars are pretty dopey."

But the old man wouldn't let him put himself down. "You're young. You're making cars because they interest you. At your age I was obsessed with having a car too."

"But what you're doing is so much more."

"Maybe, but I have more years than you. What is your name, young man?"

"Malcolm Kimball."

The old man looked at him sharply. "Is your family the one that had the mercury poisoning?"

Malcolm nodded. He felt embarrassed to be known in this way. The man probably thought he was trash.

"Your brother, I'm guessing?"

Malcolm nodded. "He's only a little boy."

"How is he?"

"He's doing poorly, but my mother hopes he'll get better."

"Of course she does. I do too." He spoke kindly. "Well, Malcolm Kimball, I'm Adam Kaminski, and I'm pleased to meet you."

He put out his hand, and Malcolm shook it.

"Let me ask you something else. You seem very interested in this work. Do you have a summer job?"

"Yes, I work at a service station downtown. Elm Street Auto. I'm working Friday nights and Saturdays, five hours Fridays and eight hours on Saturdays."

"What do you do?"

"Oh, mostly I pump gas, but I help with the cars too. I've learned a lot. Dave—he's the owner—thinks I'm a good worker. I even get to close up the place on Friday nights."

"So you're reliable."

For a moment he couldn't remember what the word meant. Mr. Kaminski watched him closely. "I'm guessing you must be."

Then he remembered a business his father sometimes worked for, Reliable Movers. "Oh yes, I think I am reliable. I try to do good work."

"And you like carving?"

"I like to make things. It's fun to take a block of wood and turn it into something else."

"Well, let me ask you one more question. Do you have time to do more work helping me? I could pay you the same wages you get at the garage."

He found himself jumping in the air in his excitement. "Oh yes, I do. You won't be disappointed. I'll work hard. I'll love the work, I just know it."

"I would ask of you only one thing. Don't talk of this project to anyone. Until it's done I don't want any publicity."

"What will I say if my parents ask what I'm doing?"

"Be vague. Say you're helping me build a new building on my property. Can you do that?"

"I promise."

In the next few weeks Malcolm worked many afternoons with Mr. Kaminski and put in many more hours and made much more money than he did at the garage. This money joined the rest of his savings that he kept in a locked box under his bed and would help pay for the first car he planned to buy as soon as he was sixteen and got his license. It was summer and his father was working, so he was not asked to contribute any additional funds to the family. Not that it mattered—he spent little time thinking of a car now. His mind was filled with the work he was doing. Constructing the top of the Mayan temple was the task at hand. At the top of the stairs on the flat slab of granite they first made numerous measurements. Then Mr. Kaminski marked with chalk the placement of the stones from his diagram before they started to assemble the structure of ten rectangular columns holding up a decorated roof. Mr. Kaminski explained that in a real Mayan temple this part of the temple would actually be large enough to walk into, but in their building it was a miniature about one-fourth actual size. Holes were bored eighteen inches into the granite columns and six inches into the granite floor so that steel rods would give the columns added stability. Mr. Kaminski believed that the weight of the columns would keep them in place, but he decided to "overengineer" (that was the word he used) them to be certain. He said he got this idea from the Greeks, who used a similar technique to join sections of marble columns together. The steel rods were mounted into the column and held in place with wooden wedges. Then the column was lifted in the basket of the backhoe and guided into the hole in the granite. It was slow and tedious work, and on the first day they mounted only one column. The slowness was for safety. First Mr. Kaminski had to make sure the backhoe was solidly and evenly balanced on the gravel, and then he made sure that Malcolm never got under the swinging bucket when it was in the air. They both had to work at the column to guide it into the bored hole. The bucket would be dipped a little, ropes would be loosened, and then adjustments in placement made. This happened many times before they got that first column in place. On the following day Mr. Kaminski had a better idea. He used the bucket and arm of the backhoe like a crane. After carefully tying the column with heavy ropes, he drove the backhoe up the gravel mound and swung it over to where Malcolm guided it into the hole in the granite. This method worked much better, and in three more afternoons all the columns were in place. A day was spent enlarging the gravel mound and then the next stage of the construction began—the top of the building.

During this time Malcolm learned a lot about building in stone and a lot more about archaeology and architecture. Mr. Kaminski told him how the Incas built over 2,500 miles of roads along the coast of Peru, including suspension bridges and tunnels. It was brilliant engineering, he said, but also led to their downfall. The Spanish, mounted on horses, used those roads to move quickly in their war against the Incas. He also told Malcolm about the elaborate irrigation and aqueduct system they developed for agriculture and how their great mountain city of Machu Picchu high in the Andes had not been discovered by Westerners until 1911. Mr. Kaminski had been there just as he had been to Mayan temples like Nakbe and Palenque in southern Mexico and in Central America. He told Malcolm that the Mayans developed writing in the third century B.C. and that they were brilliant mathematicians who had developed a very accurate calendar. He spoke of the Parthenon in Athens as one of the world's most beautiful buildings and how Greece was the birthplace of western culture. He said Platonism was really the theology of Christianity and that the Greeks were the world's first scientists. He said all that and much more that Malcolm listened to with great interest. It made him wish he was a scholar, for Mr. Kaminski made all the information sound exciting.

One thing he didn't say much about, especially in the beginning, was personal information. But the more they worked together the more comfortable Malcolm felt with the older man. He had noticed with Luke and Dave at the garage that working together built trust and understanding, and he was sure the same thing was happening with him and Mr. Kaminski. He called him Malcolm most of the time, but often also "my boy" in a friendly, fatherly way. So after a while and by degrees, their conversations started to become more personal.

When one day in early August Mr. Kaminski said something about hoping to finish the top of the temple before school started in September, Malcolm told him that in November he planned to drop out of school. At first Mr. Kaminski gave him the regular adult advice about the importance of education and the like, but when Malcolm said that book learning was not for him and explained that he didn't do well in school, he actually listened to him. "Well," he said, "you have to follow your own star. I wanted my son to be an engineer, but he wanted to be a teacher. It caused a lot of bad blood. Only when I conceded to his dreams and let him live his own life did we become friends again. So do what you think is best, only make sure it is the best for you."

"Was he the son that helped you build this?"

Mr. Kaminski shook his head. With a little laugh he said, "No, that was Phil. He's as crazy as I am."

"Does your other son think you're crazy?"

"Maybe, but me and Charlie at least talk now and are friends. But let's get to work."

On another day Malcolm asked Mr. Kaminski why he was building the temple. He had wondered about it for a long time and was a little scared when he asked the question.

But Mr. Kaminski was not bothered by it. After thinking for a minute, he said, "It has to do with love, my boy. That and time. Are we bigger than time? Is love eternal? Are we eternal? But it's something I don't think you would understand right now. When you're an old man like me maybe you'll know why. It's not something you can explain easily. Why does a beaver build a dam? Why did Michelangelo sculpt David? Why does an old coot build a temple?"

But Mr. Kaminski must have thought something was left unsaid because the next day he brought a photo album of Incan, Mayan and Greek ruins supposedly to answer some questions Malcolm had asked about Machu Picchu and Mayan temples. In many of the photographs there was a tall woman with round glasses and hair in a bun who was always smiling broadly. In some of the pictures she and Mr. Kaminski stood arm in arm. She was still smiling but he had a serious look on his face. Those pictures required explanation, but he started off explaining some pictures of Warsaw, Poland. His mother, brother and he were Polish refugees after WWII who had been sponsored to come to America by the Congregational Church of Waska. Mr. Kaminski was six years old at the time and spoke no English, but he said he and his brother picked it up quickly while his mother always spoke with a thick accent. As a boy he was interested in mechanical things and had become an engineer at the University of Maine. It was there he met his wife. Her name was Phoebe Whitney.

Suddenly Malcolm remembered in a bird book seeing the spelling for the common phoebe and made the connection. "Her name's Phoebe, isn't it? Those words over the white columns, that's her, isn't it?"

Mr. Kaminski nodded. A sad faraway look came into his eyes. "She loved to travel. She wanted to do more when we were younger, but I was a workaholic. I was away from home twelve hours a day, sometimes longer, working on bridges and buildings. I neglected my duties as a father and a husband—that's another reason I had so many problems with Charlie, my second son. She was a wonderful woman. She loved nature and worked on committees at the Congregational Church on civil rights and feeding the hungry. I think—I hope—she had a full rich life, but when I finally took early retirement so that we could share our lives more, within four years she died from a heart attack."

"I'm sorry," Malcolm said, not knowing what else to say. He could see tears glistening in the corners of Mr. Kaminski's eyes and was embarrassed. "She must have truly been a wonderful woman."

That was the right thing to say.

"She was. Life's unfair, my boy. It should have been me." But then he looked like he was angry with himself. A cold look came into his eyes and he said, "Let's get back to work."

After that Mr. Kaminski was close-mouthed for several days. He spoke only about the work at hand and only when necessary. He seemed to be brooding about something, and Malcolm, unsure of himself and the ways of the world, began to wonder if it was something he said or did or if it was simply that Mr. Kaminski regretted being personal with such a country boy as him. The other day he had even yelled at Malcolm when he didn't understand some instructions and pulled when he should have pushed at the roof assembly as they were trying to place it on top of the columns with the backhoe. It had hurt his feelings that Mr. Kaminski acted just like an impatient teacher with him. It didn't make him feel any better when his boss told him he yelled because he thought Malcolm was in danger. He too began to brood. His doubts returned. School and life, life and school, they were both the same. He began to think his days of working with Mr. Kaminski were numbered. He felt sad, confused, disappointed. One day he saw Mary, who was waiting near his house as he was walking to the temple and wanted to know if he was avoiding her. He told her that he had been working with a man helping him construct a new building, but that he had a feeling the job was soon going to be finished. Maybe he would see her in a few days, he said.

But that very afternoon before they started work Mr. Kaminski began talking about his wife's three cats. They were all elderly now and hated to be boarded at the vet's when he was away. Their names were Muffin, Piddle and Hector. As he listened to this description of the cats, Malcolm didn't know what to think and stared wide-eyed at his boss.

Why was he talking about cats now? It didn't make sense.

But he soon enough saw the reason. Mr. Kaminski had to pay a visit to his brother's family because a nephew was getting married, and he needed someone to feed Phoebe's cats while he was away. When he explained that to Malcolm and gave him the key to his house, Malcolm felt tears stinging at the corner of his eyes and turned away quickly while he roughly pulled his hand across the middle of his face. He looked at the key in his hand, a large bronzed one with a groove in the shape of a sword paralleling the cut edge, then back at Mr. Kaminski. He remembered the day Dave gave him a key to the garage and understood the trust that was placed in him. Though Mr. Kaminski would probably not understand how proud he was, proud and grateful, he wanted him to know he was worthy of this trust. "I'd be proud to help out, Mr. Kaminski. Don't worry, you can trust me."

That was it, wasn't it? Trust. The man's silence was because of private sorrow, because he loved his wife and hadn't been able to show her that love. It had nothing to do with him, Malcolm Kimball. He felt bad for Mr. Kaminski, but still he positively glowed with happiness. Soon school would be behind him and the years that went into the future, they were going to be good years.

Duty

Myron was in his office going over budget requests for books and supplies on a quiet Friday afternoon in September when Nellie lightly tapped on his half-opened door and followed herself in. "Myron," she whispered, "you should see who's out there."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Dora and Richard Nevins, the chairman of the city council." She looked scared as she pronounced the man's name—scared and worried.

Instantly he understood what was happening. On Monday he had mounted a pasteboard display he had spent much of the previous week making. With many patrons curious about the mercury poisoning of the little boy upcountry, he had made a graphics and text display of the process that led to mercury pollution in air and water and its effects on the body. The first poster showed pictures and listed recyclable items that contained mercury—mercury switches, antilock brakes, thermometers, hospital equipment, fluorescent bulbs and the like. Another poster showed how mercury got into the environment from emissions of coal-fired plants and municipal burning. The next three posters traced the sequence from the mercury getting into a body of water where it was acted on by bacteria to produce organic compounds like methyl mercury and followed that through the food chain, ending up in higher animals like fish and birds, and the final three posters showed the effects of mercury on the human body—damage to the nervous system, kidney damage and the like. All in all it was a straightforward display. Perhaps the only real indiscretion in the whole display was a few sentences about unscrupulous and greedy people who illegally and knowingly dumped such dangerous things into the environment.

He already knew Dora was displeased with the display. She had come in for work last Monday night and had silently inspected the display with a dark frown and a sour mouth but had said nothing. Obviously she was deeply disturbed by it, however, for during the week she became even more unpleasant than usual. She would hardly speak to him or look at him, and then only when necessary as she rasped out some curt question about operational matters. Now she was leaving behind passive aggression and actually declaring war. With a comforting pat on Nellie's shoulder, Myron said, "Well, well," and went out to confront the pair of right-wing conspirators.

They were too engrossed in their inspection to notice him. Curious, he watched in silence. He knew Nevins by reputation and newspaper reports. He didn't wear glasses, but it must have been from vanity, for he appeared to be nearsighted. He read the text and looked at the pictures by leaning forward and squinting. Sometimes his horrid face remained composed; several times he frowned darkly. He was a big bull of a man, with jowls and lips permanently curled into a sour expression as if he found everything disgusting. He wore an expensive suit that his bulging belly managed to make look like a cheap suit bought off the rack. His small beady eyes lacked even an iota of humanity. He telegraphed his lack of compassion and solidarity with ordinary folks who struggled from paycheck to paycheck. Very likely, street people and others without paychecks were so far off his scale of respectability that they would be regarded as nonhuman. Myron knew the type—every town and city in America featured them as favorite sons. Why America produced such bullheaded, Podsnappian abortions was a question he had often asked himself. This one was a right-wing Catholic who saw the world through the lenses of abstraction. He thought morality was following a few rules and rituals, as if adhering to the decalogue and saying Hail Mary and crossing himself was the secret of life. To Myron he was virtually another species. There would be no common ground possible, no appeal to fellow feeling, in dealing with him, only resort to legalisms and threats of the law or public opinion.

Having sized up and dispatched the bull, he turned his mind to the snake. Dora's effrontery and insubordination was stunning. He knew that she knew he could fire her, but like a poker player she was betting all on this one hand, hoping to get him fired after which she would assume the directorship that she always felt was hers by right. Apparently her envy and malice were so overwhelming that she wasn't thinking clearly. Myron had read his contract for his five-year appointment carefully and knew that he was only answerable to the board of trustees, several with whom he had good personal relations and who were predominately liberals. Two were university professors and another the president of a small college. He knew that with their familiarity with education and the First Amendment they would side with him.

At some point Myron became aware that they knew he was watching them. After a whispered exchange they turned to face him.

Myron stepped forward. "Is there a problem?"

"We wish to speak to you about this display, Mr. Seavey." Nevins glanced at Nellie behind the counter and at a patron on her way to the stacks. "In private."

Myron led them to his office. Sitting down at his desk and waving his hand towards the chairs facing the desk, he said, "Well?"

Dora looked at him sternly. "You know what the problem is. A library is no place for propaganda."

Myron smiled ironically. "A library is not a chamber of commerce, Dora. It's a repository of what humankind has learned. It has a duty just like schools to educate and enlighten citizens. The display shows how pollution gets into the food supply. Many patrons have asked me questions about mercury poisoning since that little boy became sick. The display answers these questions. It is educational, not propaganda."

He raised his hand when Dora started to object. "No, I will say it another way. To be educated, people need perspective. John Stuart Mill in his book _On Liberty_ argued that the truth arose from a dialectic. All sides of a question need to be examined before we can arrive at intelligent conclusions. The businesspeople in this town and this country have their views in the media all the time. But other views must be seen. The voiceless—like that little boy—need to have their side heard."

Nevins, frowning impatiently, hardly listened to him. "Have you considered the reputation of the town, Mr. Seavey?"

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean, Mr. Nevins. As I explained to Dora, the display is a response to numerous queries from patrons of the library. It was carefully researched so that every fact can be verified. I think—"

Nevins, tapping his fingers impatiently on his armrest, didn't wait for him to finish. "The question is this, is a library a place for radical politics?"

"Is sane ecology and a clean environment against the interests of the town of Waska?"

Nevins frowned angrily. He seemed to find the question impertinent. "I think the solution to the problem is simple. Take the display down. Get rid of it. It doesn't belong in the library."

Myron felt a flush of anger in turn but stifled it. "Mr. Nevins, you are uttering an opinion. You may believe it, but it's still an opinion. Can you show me a statute or a law that would require its removal? Is there any law that is violated by having the display in the library?"

Dora, her face flush with hatred and her lip curled in imitation of Nevins's congenital condition, said, "A library is no place for communist propaganda. It is not the place to side with the terrorists either."

Nevins nodded in agreement, though he was too wily to commit himself verbally to such an emotional outburst. Affecting a tone of pitying regret, he said, "I thought you might be a man of sense, Mr. Seavey. I thought we could talk like two men of the world. Perhaps I am wrong. We're not talking about legal issues here. We're speaking of decency, decorum. We're speaking of respect for the town and its people."

"I will repeat again. The display is educational. It was made for the benefit of the public and because there was a need. I have no plans to remove it."

Nevins rose and Dora followed suit. "Perhaps, then, it is a matter to be discussed in the city council. Perhaps a hearing is in order."

If that was supposed to intimidate Myron, it didn't work. While he was controlling his anger, it was simmering close to the boiling point, and he was conceding nothing to this pair. "Again I will repeat, a library, like a university, is a place for free inquiry. It is not a place to flout the First Amendment. A hearing changes nothing."

Nevins turned and was about to retort when he thought the better of it. Abruptly he turned to the door and with his back to Myron said, "Good day to you, sir."

Dora, looking like an eight-year-old spoiled brat under her mother's protection in a childhood squabble, turned and smirked at Myron from the door.

Myron remained at his desk listening to their feet clattering on the mar-ble floor. At the sound of the door closing, Nellie came into the office.

"Did you hear any of that, Nellie?"

The distress on her face said yes before she did. "What are you going to do, Myron?"

"Whatever is necessary to keep the library free of pols like that man."

"Honestly, I knew Dora didn't like you and was jealous, but I had no idea how venomous she could be. Shouldn't you fire her?"

He shook his head. "That would be too petty. Only if she becomes impossible to work with or even to talk to will that become an option."

He returned to his paperwork as soon as Nellie went back to the front, but his mind was not in it. He stopped, looked into space for a moment, then phoned Gerry MacArthur to ask him if he had time to meet him for a drink at 4:30 to talk about Richard Nevins. The name got Gerry's full attention. He was going to run for city council as a Democrat in the municipal elections next spring, and Nevins would be his opponent. With the meeting arranged, he tried once more to get his paperwork done, only to find that his mind was still too busy for such drudgery. For two hours he busied himself with physical activity, restacking books and the like, then left early before Dora returned for the night shift. He drove directly to Bedford, then spent the fifteen minutes waiting until 4:30 walking aimlessly and thinking. He started musing about Nevins but as soon as he considered the publicity that was sure to arise in his dispute with the pol, he found himself dwelling on Becky and what her reaction to the news would be. They were engaged now and had scheduled the wedding for next May. They were sleeping together as well, though mostly on weekends. The presence of the two boys made logistics complicated. Most often they went away for weekend trips to either his cottage in western Massachusetts or to motels on the coast of Maine. Lynn took care of the boys when they were away. One weekend Lowell and Fiona, despite expecting their baby girl, which was in fact born the following week, had them at their cottage when Lynn was not available. Despite these complications, this aspect of their relationship was wonderful; the only hint of trouble that potentially threatened their future was their political—and by extension psychological—differences, which were most evident in their differing attitudes towards Chris Andrews. Where Myron supported the young man wholeheartedly, Becky detested the man. She tried to hide it, but her feelings were so biased that he could easily see her dislike. For a long time he was unsure of the source of her antipathy, but when he met Becky's mother in July his eyes were opened. Mrs. Monroe was a very competent and orderly person, and in observing her and her husband he could see the Republican mindset in action.

Her love of order expressed itself in two ways. First, he observed it in little things like her smoothing her husband's hair after a gust of wind mussed it or her rearranging the silverware that Becky had set for dinner by moving a knife a quarter of an inch towards the fork and moving the fork down an eighth of an inch. But the way he became convinced her mania for order was borderline pathology was the day he saw that Mrs. Monroe's need for order and stability also encompassed the civic order. They were sitting on the front porch having a before-dinner drink when he saw her eyes narrow in displeasure. He turned to see her following the progress of an unkempt man walking down the street. He wasn't a street person, not a tramp, just a laborer, but it was obvious his presence in her neighborhood offended her deeply. She watched him until he was safely out of sight. How many times, he asked himself, would Becky have seen such behavior before she absorbed it unconsciously?

He came away from the parental visit feeling he had gained insight into Becky's psyche. At the same time he was equally sure that she knew intellectually that her antipathy towards Andrews was not legitimate. Indeed, she had never gone beyond expressing mild reservations concerning his partisan support of the environmental activist. He was attending a meeting of the Greens at the Unitarian Church tonight to discuss Chris Andrews, who was going to be in attendance. A supposed break-in at the office of Ridlon recycling had occurred, and Chris was accused of the crime. Everyone in the Green movement thought that Ridlon had staged the break-in to get rid of incriminating evidence, and a demonstration was being planned to support Andrews. Myron had wanted Becky to go with him, hoping that in meeting Chris Andrews she would see that he wasn't a fanatic but rather a dedicated soul, but Lynn was unavailable for baby-sitting. Before Nevins became the issue, Myron was already feeling uneasy about this lost opportunity. Now with Nevins threatening a hearing and Myron becoming a target of the anti-environmental forces, not merely a supporter, he was going to have to be circumspect and show her he was acting prudently when he saw her at dinner. This was the main reason he decided to confer with Gerry.

Checking his watch and seeing that it was almost 4:30, he turned back to the office building near the courthouse in Bedford. As he drew closer to the building he passed a group of teenaged boys arguing loudly about the football game between Courtney Academy and Bedford High tomorrow afternoon. Apparently some of the boys were C.A. students, for the discussion was getting heated and partisan. He smiled benignly at the high feelings occasioned by trivialities and recalled how well he had kept his temper with Nevins. That was something Becky should know.

Gerry, not ordinarily particularly punctual, was waiting for him outside his building. They walked down the street to the bar, passing the arguing boys. Myron said he was involved with a different kind of dispute and needed to get an objective and professional opinion.

"Nevins's name certainly got my attention," Gerry said.

By implicit agreement they did not start discussing the matter until they were seated at a table in the bar and their drinks had arrived. Myron had a Bass ale and Gerry a whiskey sour.

Myron narrated the afternoon's events and ended by saying he didn't think Nevins had a legal leg to stand on.

"He doesn't, but that isn't how he works. He wields power. He uses intimidation. He's unscrupulous."

"But would he actually have a hearing on my display?"

Gerry scratched his chin and mused for a moment. "Probably he was trying to scare you. But he's capable of doing what he said—subtly to be sure. He wouldn't call it librarygate. It would be some vague thing like quality of life in our beloved town. He'd say in a press release that he had always felt that the library was a key institution in town."

"You know he has absolutely nothing to do with the library. A board of trustees is responsible. Several of them don't even live in Waska."

"True, but he can make things uncomfortable for you. And..." He paused and gave Myron a troubled look.

"What?"

"Won't it make things uncomfortable with Becky too?"

Myron took a sip of beer, then carefully placed the mug back on the coaster. "You've noticed that Becky doesn't like Chris Andrews and this whole ecological business, haven't you?"

"It's hard to miss."

"Yeah, she won't like it. I'm pretty sure, though, that I know why."

When Gerry raised his eyebrows, inviting an explanation, Myron told him about his observations of Mrs. Monroe.

"I don't know," Gerry said doubtfully. He looked troubled but hesitant.

Again Myron asked, "What?"

"Well, what if you had to choose."

Myron looked at Gerry. His face was grim as if he thought an either/or was a real possibility. It occurred to Myron that he had probably heard of his first fiancée. "First, it won't come to that—if by that you mean a choice between Becky or choosing to follow my conscience to do what I think is right."

"But it might—or could. Lynn thinks it has more to do with her husband's murder. Those two Nazis who killed Bill after breaking and entering his brother's cottage—they were political fanatics. They were right-wing and Andrews is a lefty, but he too was guilty of breaking and entering, and you could see him as a fanatic. The similarities are there."

Gerry explained the similarities well, but it still didn't seem real to Myron. And yet it occurred to him that his obsessive thinking of Becky this afternoon was telling him something. He finished his beer in a gulp. "You mean you think every time Becky thinks of Andrews she's remembering her husband's murderers?"

"Lynn thinks so. And Lynn knows Becky better than anyone else."

Myron's mind began racing. He saw Becky's face when Andrews was mentioned. What he thought was psychological revulsion could just as likely be pain, pain she was trying to suppress. He felt dumbfounded. He thought he knew her, and this—the most important fact in her life—he had missed. Was it possible he could be so blind?

"Did she take Bill's death badly?"

Gerry nodded grimly. "Very. It devastated her. For two years she was in mourning. I think she feels guilty. You know, he had an affair and they were separated. But she blames herself. Had he been home with her he would still be alive. I don't think she has totally gotten over it yet."

"She doesn't like to talk about it. That I know."

"You should, though. I think it would be healthy."

He thought about that advice during the rest of their conversation. Nevins was spoken of, but he hardly skimmed over the surface of Myron's consciousness, so concentrated was his mind on Becky and this new revelation. On the drive back to Waska and to her house he felt something close to amazement at how right Gerry's observation was. Once it was stated plainly and unambiguously, it seemed impossible that he had never noticed the connection in her mind between Chris Andrews and her husband's murderers. For the past four months he had been with her constantly, had shared his life and his bed with her, and yet he had not seen the great throbbing pain of her life in the right light. He knew that falling in love with the survivor of a murder victim was not in the common way of human experience, but still he should have known. That look of suppressed pain that she was unable to hide when Chris Andrews's name was mentioned spoke of the inner reality of her heart. Again and again he berated himself for his stupidity, his insensitivity. "You fool! you fool!" he muttered aloud, pounding the steering wheel while waiting for the light to change. He even began to be afraid that their love was endangered. Then Gerry's question about choosing came vividly into his mind. He didn't want any such choice. He wanted her love and he wanted to be true to his sense of duty. He went over and over the ways he could broach the topic to Becky without any solution. He would have to trust that he would find the way. He would have to trust Becky. He would have to take the existential leap, he thought as he pulled into the driveway.

She was at the stove stirring spaghetti sauce when he entered the kitchen. She turned and smiled sweetly.

He gave her a kiss, then tousled the hair of the boys when they ran into the kitchen to greet him. Johnny had a drawing of a house with two boys and a man and a woman standing in front of it. Myron was touched to recognize that the family pictured was theirs.

"Nice drawing, Johnny."

"I can make one too," Trevor said.

"Okay, when you do I want to see it."

He looked at Becky, tilting his head slightly and raising his eye-brows.

"Okay, boys, back to watching the nature show," she said.

Myron sat down at the kitchen table. "Well, Dora made her move today. She was even more brazen than I imagined."

She gave the sauce one final stir and came to the table. "You mean about the mercury display?"

He nodded. "She brought in Richard Nevins from the city council. Do you know him?"

"Not too well, but he owns the largest realty company around and has done business with the Davenport Agency. He's a very strong-willed man, Myron. He's dangerous. I hope there was no trouble. He likes to get his way."

"I know. I talked to Gerry about him. We had a drink at a bar in Bedford. I was looking for some legal advice, you know. He agrees with you that Nevins is a powerful and unscrupulous man. But he can't give me any real trouble. They want me to remove the display."

A worried look passed over her face. She sat down and leaned forward, her hand on his. "Myron, maybe you'd better do it. He really is a very powerful man in this town."

"Maybe so, but the Bill of Rights is more powerful."

She shook her head and clucked her tongue. "Myron, Myron, Myron, what am I going to do with you?"

She was trying to lighten up, even laughing at herself. It was a good time to bring up what Gerry had told him, but he lost his nerve and backed off. "Well, in a nutshell, they said it was political. I said it was educational. I don't think it will get nasty. Many people have asked me about mercury poisoning since that Kimball boy got sick. If they tried to get me in trouble, they'd look bad. And besides, I don't work for the city government. I'm answerable only to the trustees."

She stood and walked to the stove to turn the spaghetti sauce down to a simmer. Covering the pan, she turned to him and said, "I wish you wouldn't make trouble for yourself. I know this is very important to you. It's just..."

"But you do understand I have to do this. Standing up for the earth is one thing I can do."

"But the Greens are planning a demonstration, aren't they? You'll be part of it. It will give Mr. Nevins more ammunition."

"It doesn't have to. Demonstrations can be very civil and civic affairs. During the first Gulf War my mother came with me to the demonstration on the Boston Commons. That she was there showed it wasn't all wild-eyed radicals."

He said this with a smile, but still she looked serious and troubled. "Peaceful demonstrations are one thing, but Andrews breaking the law goes over the line. People don't have to break the law to disagree with the government."

"Maybe sometimes they do. Both parties are in essential agreement about U.S. imperialism. The media is on their side. A truly progressive point-of-view is never seen in the big media. It's the same with ecology and the environment. The government is filled with people who think of business and moneymaking first. When it comes to a choice between a clean environment and wetlands and the like or more economic development, it's the money that always wins. And think of Martin Luther King and the Civil Rights Movement. Without those illegal sit-ins and other acts of civil disobedience, racist Jim Crow laws would still be in effect. When it is a choice between law and ethics, one has to do what one thinks right. Thoreau called it a duty, the duty of civil disobedience. The authorities in this town are on Ridlon's side. He's a powerful man. But someone has to be on the side of that poor little boy."

Becky listened to him with arms folded and a thoughtful expression on her face. He could see that she felt the force of his argument yet still resisted it. "I see your point, though maybe you're overstating it. There are plenty of people in government who dislike Ridlon. If Gerry wins his election, he would be one more. The vote is another way to protest."

Even while he nodded in polite agreement, he was still thinking of a way to bring up her husband. There was never going to be a time it would feel right, he decided, but it had to be done. He would take the leap. In a different tone, one he hoped suggested delicacy and firmness, he said, "There's something else I want to ask you. I don't want to cause you pain or even discomfort, but the way you feel about Chris Andrews—does it have anything to do with the murder of your husband?"

She hadn't expected this question. Her face dropped, she turned pale, and she struggled to compose herself. "Why do you ask that?"

"Because I am aware of certain similarities. Those two Nazis were breaking and entering before the shooting occurred. They were motivated by political beliefs. Andrews is accused of twice breaking and entering, and he too was motivated by a political agenda. I don't think the similarities are close, but they are there."

Becky walked slowly to the kitchen counter and looked out the window above the sink for what felt like a long time before turning to face him. "I think the answer is yes. I know intellectually that the two cases are different, but, yes, I think I do see that Andrews is a fanatic just like those murderers were who killed—" The tears that started flowing stopped her. Her whole body shuddered; from the middle of her pained and contorted face her eyes appealed for comfort.

Instantly he sprang up and took her into his arms. "Oh, my darling, I'm so sorry that I never considered your feelings in this case. It must have been painful for you thinking of Bill every time I blathered on about Chris Andrews. I'll never forgive myself. I'm sorry, truly sorry."

He felt her trembling body becoming calmer. She nuzzled into his shoulder and was quiet for a while. "I know they're two different things. It's me that's the problem. I'm not asking you to go against your conscience—I mean I understand. I just wish the world was saner."

"Well, I could write a letter to the newspaper. Would that be better?"

"No, no. You go to that meeting, Myron. You do what you have to do. That's what I want. I love you, every part of you, everything you do. I admire your moral courage. I want you to be yourself."

These love-laden words were everything he hoped to hear; relief, joy and love flooded his soul as he whispered, "I love you too, love you in every way."

He looked at the entryway into the living room to see four blue eyes staring at them. Both Trevor and Johnny looked worried and perplexed to hear their mother crying.

Becky, seeing them, moved away. "It's okay. We'll be eating soon," she said quietly.

"Your mother was upset, boys. It's okay now."

Johnny, already wise to the ways of the world, covered his embarrass-ment. "Are we having spaghetti? I can smell it."

"Yes, after we make a salad and boil the pasta," Becky said. Turning to Myron, she asked, "You could use some help with the salad, couldn't you?"

He said yes emphatically. They were a family again, and everything was normal and all right. The boys helped Myron make a salad by washing the lettuce, an operation they had been taught to do, and as they ate the meal they shared their day. Johnny had learned about George Washington in school. Myron took a dollar bill from his wallet and showed him the picture, telling him that he was the father of our country and that he was a man who, it was said, could not tell a lie. Trevor was just learning his letters and ran into the living room to get a paper with A, B, C, and D written on it. Myron was suitably impressed.

With the boys playing in the other room, he and Becky did the dishes. While he washed the pots and pans and she dried them, he said, "I wish you could go to the meeting."

"I do too, but after it's over you can tell me all about it when you come home."

That was her way of inviting him to sleep with her tonight. Implicitly it meant she felt vulnerable and troubled by the memories of her husband that their conversation had stirred up. It also meant that she needed to be near the one she loved tonight. So Myron left for the meeting in a good mood and feeling good about the future.

The Unitarian Church was a simple white building, box-shaped and with a small steeple that at its apex had a small cross so nondescript it could be mistaken for a weathervane. As such Myron liked the building and thought it an appropriate reflection of his religion. Many Unitarian churches took over Congregational churches when the reaction against Calvinism occurred in the early nineteenth-century, and as such showed no distinctive features. But the plainness of this building and its windows, which were regular and not stained glass, to his mind had an elegant simplicity that pointed to the Unitarian emphasis on living an ethical life and not being distracted by ritualistic baubles.

After parking his car, Myron walked to the back of the building and down the stairs to the nondescript function room that was used for Sunday school, church suppers and meetings such as the one he was attending. The room was about thirty-five feet by twenty with the walls painted a light blue and the only pictures a few land- and seascapes. There were no overtly Christian emblems, even though the minister, unlike many Unitarian clergy, regarded herself as a Christian. Nine tables were pushed against the outer wall and one was on the dais at the end of the room. That arrangement, together with all the light brown folding chairs arranged in rows, was the Sunday school layout for the room. At some point, Myron knew, they would have to move the chairs into a different configuration.

Five or six people had arrived before him, among them the minister herself, Barbara Hallam, whom Myron regarded as both his clergyman and friend. She was a plain woman, fortyish, with an angular face and straight brown hair just speckled with gray. Though small and soft-spoken, she had an inner strength that was positively Buddhist in character. She gave marvelous sermons, humane and deeply ethical, with the high seriousness accented with touches of humor. Myron both liked her and respected her immensely.

With her husband, a doctor, she spent two months in a clinic in east Africa each summer. When she came up to greet him, it was her summer in Africa they talked about. She had just returned home last week, and this was his first opportunity to talk to her.

"Hello, Barbara," he said as they embraced. "Was it another good summer in Africa?"

"Yes, and more interesting than usual. We had a young local girl who's in med school with us. She wants to serve in Africa when she's done medical school and residency."

"Oh? Who is she?"

"Michelle Turcotte. If you ever lose faith with the younger generation, I recommend you talk to her. She'll restore your faith in the younger generation in a matter of minutes."

He smiled. "Luckily I haven't lost it yet, but I'm sure I'll keep her in mind. How did my mother's X-ray machine work?"

His mother had raised money for the clinic for many years, and in her will she left the money to buy a portable X-ray machine. The will hadn't gone through probate yet, but Myron had written a check for the machine after his mother's funeral.

"Wonderful, once we got it going. There was something wrong with the wiring, but a man from South Africa fixed it. And how have things been going with you?"

"Well, until today just fine."

She raised her eyebrows. "What happened today?"

As he told her about Nevins's visit to the library, her face darkened into a frown. "That man is a disgrace. I do hope your friend defeats him next spring. But this is an important matter. Do you mind if we put it in the docket? The whole group should hear about it."

"Sure, that's fine," Myron said somewhat absently. He just caught sight of Chris Andrews coming into the room.

"I was just thinking," Barbara said as she followed his eyes to the door—"Oh, I see our guest of honor has arrived." She turned back to him. "Anyways, one thing undecided is where we'll hold the demonstration. What do you think of having it at the library?"

His first thought was of Becky. The library as the site would draw more attention to him, and he knew she wouldn't like it. "I think it would be better in front of Ridlon's business. But we can put it to the group, see what they think. The only good thing about the library is that it would give Dora a conniption fit."

Barbara smiled. "The personal is political, huh?"

She excused herself and went over to welcome Chris Andrews and his friend. Myron was about to follow her when Ted Cote asked him if it was true that Richard Nevins was gunning for him. Myron gave him an incredulous look. "I know rumors fly like the wind, but I just told Barbara about it a second ago. How'd you know about it?"

But there was no mystery. Ted's wife had dropped some books off at the library after work and talked to Nellie. Ted's question deflected him from Chris Andrews so that he didn't get a chance to speak to him, but he observed him as he chatted with other members of the Greens—most of whom he knew from previous meetings or from the Unitarian Church (for many, like him, were both Unitarian and Green). He noticed an interesting thing right off—that Chris was basically shy. He kept close to his female friend, initiated no conversations, and looked uncomfortable when talking to some of the other people. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. His friend, a pretty young woman with a pleasant face, full lips, a pug nose and sandy hair worn short, was similarly attired. Her flannel shirt was red and white, his black and white. He guessed that they were friends, though the way he saw the woman look at him lovingly a few times hinted at a deeper relationship. He also noticed something else that he would have to tell Becky. When they went over to where refreshments were available, they chose apple juice, not the wine that most of the people were drinking. Shy and a paragon of sobriety—that would be his report.

He started chatting with Melissa and Ralph Brisbane about the reading group they had now joined and which was starting next week. They had already begun reading _The Heart of Midlothian_ , the first book, and they got a preview of some of the points Myron was going to bring up at the first meeting. By the time they finished their conversation, the last person expected had arrived.

This was the environmental lawyer from Boston who was representing Chris and the Green Party. Natalie Feldman was her name. She was a short, very attractive woman with dark eyes and hair, wearing a light blue V-necked sweater, short skirt and hose. In contrast to her client, she was self-confident and vivacious. Myron saw her meeting people and instantly engaging them. Their faces brightened and they began smiling as she spoke to them.

Seeing that Chris was still surrounded by a group of people, Myron walked over to Barbara and Natalie Feldman and was introduced.

"Myron's our town librarian and has a display of what mercury poisoning does to the human body," Barbara explained. Today the right-wing head of the city council demanded that he take it down."

"You didn't do it, of course?"

"No. You don't have to be a lawyer to know he didn't have a leg to stand on."

"He doesn't," she said vehemently, slapping her hands together.

"But he threatens a hearing on the matter," Barbara said.

"You have a lawyer, I assume."

Myron shrugged. "I have a friend who's a lawyer. I talked to him after work."

"I can give him some case law on this topic. I know offhand two or three relevant cases, and all were settled satisfactorily."

"That would be great. I think he's just bluffing, but if he actually has a hearing, these cases would probably stop things quickly."

"Is it true that little boy is no better?"

"That's what people say. Someone—I guess it was Chris Andrews—said he was very small for his age and skinny. The mercury overwhelmed his system, I guess."

"It's very sad." Her face showed these were not just words to her. She looked pained.

"Yes. Tell me, have you dealt with people like Ridlon before?"

She grimaced and curled her lip. "Too many times. He's a typical weasel, if that's what you're wondering. I've never seen any of these people accept responsibility. They always try to weasel out of it."

Myron pretended to be surprised. "You mean there are weasels in the world?"

"She smiled. "Yes, and one of them is Ridlon."

"And they always seem to have friends in high places," Barbara said as she checked her watch. Speaking in a loud voice for everyone to hear, she said, "I think it's time we got down to business."

There were no Robert's Rules of Order or any formal trappings of a meeting, but it being her church, she took it upon herself to begin the proceedings. The group made a circle of chairs, and after welcoming everyone she made a few opening remarks, saying she had recently seen global warming up close in east Africa and speaking about the clinic for a few minutes. Ted Cote interrupted to ask everyone if they had seen the latest information on the Greenland ice sheet. Ten years ago it was losing one meter a year; now it was eight to ten meters every year.

Myron said that in fifty years if this continued they would be having their meeting on the seashore, which now was five miles away.

"Tell that to the Republicans," Melissa Brisbane said.

Barbara, waiting for a few moments to see if anyone else wished to make a comment, turned to Chris. "Chris, would you tell us of the status of your case. Afterwards we'll hear from Natalie and, because of something that happened in the library today which is relevant to our discussion, from Myron."

Speaking in public, Chris was another person. No longer a shy, quiet young man, he became confident and articulate, with facts at his command and a suppressed and righteous anger fueling his words. This was the Chris Andrews he had met last spring in the library; it was both a persona and the real him. He began speaking of his early investigation when he discovered mercury in the Waska River and of the process of narrowing his search until it pointed to Ridlon. He cited from memory some of his readings and compared them with E.P.A. guidelines. Because he was mostly familiar with this part of Chris's story, Myron didn't listen too attentively. Instead he found himself thinking about the difference between Barbara, Chris and Natalie on the one hand and Ridlon and Nevins on the other. Recalling Nevins's bullheaded ignorance put him in mind of the old saw, while not all conservatives were stupid, all stupid people were conservative. Of course there was a legitimate way to be conservative (he was thinking of Becky), but that wasn't the way for the Podsnappian moral ruffians like Nevins and Ridlon blinded by greed and power and lacking imagination. Their world was confined to the narrow limits of their mean-spirited selves. The humanity and intelligence of those whose minds expanded outwards to the world were in sharp contrast. These were the people the power elite hated. What was the cause of that streak of anti-intellectualism in America? Educated, articulate people couldn't be fooled; they could see what the rascals were up to behind their lies and rationalizations. If people were truly educated they would see it too. Then the game would be up for the Ridlons and Nevinses of this world. In the meantime anti-intellectualism was a modern form of thought control, and the big media carefully observed the boundaries of permissible thought.

But Chris was beginning to talk about the supposed break-in at Ridlon's office, and Myron turned his attention to him.

"You know he's already got one of his workers to take the blame. I believe it is commonly known that he tried to bribe the victim's family, the Kimballs, into silence. In the newspapers it was reported as 'alleged' or as a rumor, but I've talked to Mrs. Kimball and it happened. So what proof is left that he is behind the illegal dumping? His records, of course. There are bound to be discrepancies between the source and the paperwork to the places he moved the stuff to. Where are his files now? I knew this guy was a devious creep, but accusing me of breaking into his office and stealing his files and his computer takes the cake. Of course he staged this supposed robbery to get rid of the evidence and to make things uncomfortable for me."

He paused and a slight smile passed across his face. "I should make a confession here. I got a guy to try to hack into Ridlon's computer online, but he couldn't get anything. When that happened I did consider what he accuses me of doing, but saner heads"—here he glanced at his friend, who smiled shyly—"talked me out of it. So I am innocent of the charge, but guilty of...what do you call it?"

He turned to Barbara, who said, "Thoughts aren't crimes, Chris. You're okay."

Everyone laughed.

Chris grinned, then assumed his serious persona again. "Anyways, you all know the result. The Portland police got a search warrant and have taken all my records away. Of course they found nothing. There was nothing to find."

"Have you got them back yet?" someone asked.

"That's one of the first things I've done for Chris," Natalie Feldman said. "He should have everything back by next week."

"And Natalie has outfoxed Ridlon too," Chris said.

Everyone turned to her.

"We've subpoenaed the Ridlon records from the recycling company in New Jersey where he sent the hazardous material. Ridlon is not half so clever as he thinks he is. Those records should tell the tale."

The group broke into spontaneous applause.

"On that high note, I think I've said enough," Chris said. He sat down to another round of applause while he grinned sheepishly.

Natalie spoke next. She explained that the only thing Chris was legally responsible for was mere trespassing. She was not a criminal lawyer, but it was not necessary. "The plaintiff in our case," she said, "is the earth. Specifically we're bringing a civil suit on behalf of that little boy, his family and the people of Waska. The fines that Ridlon will face when he is found guilty should be hefty enough to put him out of business. The trial will be in a federal court, so all the connections to powerful people he has in Waska and in Maine will be of no use to him whatsoever. When we get those records from New Jersey and from the hospitals and other places that were clients of Ridlon Recycling and start comparing the figures, they should tell us all we need to know. Right now, before I have actually seen them, I am very confident we will have a strong case."

Barbara interrupted to ask Natalie how she came to be an environmental lawyer.

"When you look behind behavior to what motivates it, Ridlon is typical. I was struck when I was an undergraduate by an article I read about human exploitation of the environment. The writer discussed the difference between using natural resources to sustain life and capitalistic exploitation of those same resources. The writer used fishing as his example. Indians took the salmon they needed for food and no more. But if you're a commercial fisherman, there is never any limit. The more fish you catch the more money you make. Hence overfishing, hence depleted stocks. Because exploiters are possessed—or is it obsessed?—with greed, they don't care about anything but themselves. I am always amused by those who call the free market rational. It is totally irrational. These people would destroy the earth if there were no limitations placed on them. Global warming is the result of irrational greed. That little boy was poisoned by irrational greed. Someone has to stand up for the earth. One weapon we have is the courts. So I became an environmental lawyer."

Everyone was nodding in agreement. They had all undergone some such process of discovery; it was one of the important bonds of solidarity they shared, as Barbara observed when she thanked Natalie for coming to their meeting. A few people, in fact, shared their moment of discovery with the group while others whispered something to those nearby.

As soon as everyone quieted down, she turned to look at Myron, who promptly stood.

"I won't take long and wouldn't even mention it except that I have become a footnote to this situation. A poster display I made for the library explaining how mercury gets into the environment and how it affects human and mammalian health when it is ingested in its organic form met with the displeasure of one of my colleagues at the library—"

"It's Dora Ritter, isn't it?" Leigh Schumann asked. "Her father was a member of the John Birch Society, and she's carrying on the family tradition."

"Yes, but she's not the problem. Richard Nevins, the chair of the city council, is. She brought him in to see it, and he wants me to get rid of it and threatens a city council hearing if I don't."

"What did you say, Myron?"

He grinned. "Let's just say my answer wasn't satisfactory."

"And what was the nature of the objection?"

"That it was political propaganda. I maintained it was educational."

A murmur of outrage passed through the crowd, and many voices spoke at once. "That's ridiculous." "They're trying to suppress the truth." "What morons." "They'll stop at nothing."

"I've already suggested an idea to Chris," Barbara said. "We need to decide on a location for our demonstration showing support for Chris and voicing our concerns about the environment. I suggest we demonstrate in front of the library."

A murmur of assent passed through the crowd. Myron, still standing, suggested an alternative. "I don't know," he said. "I think it would be better in front of Ridlon Recycling in Bedford. He's the focus, after all. The library is a side issue."

Another murmur passed through the crowd, which Barbara in a quick volte-face gave voice to. She spoke forcefully, perhaps belatedly recalling that Myron was not interested in having attention drawn to the library. "Myron's right. Demonstrating in front of the source of the pollution is better."

That completed the official business of the meeting. Everyone stood; some, revealing that they understood human nature quite well, went to get another glass of wine as people started talking in groups of two or three and circulating. Chris and his friend came up to him and waited while he finished describing the library display to Andrea and Leigh Schumann, who promised they would tell everyone they knew to visit the library and vocally let their approval be known.

Once the Schumanns drifted away, Chris favored Myron with a friendly smile. "When I first came in I knew I'd seen you somewhere before. It took me a few minutes to place you. You look different without a tie. I do want to thank you for your help."

"You're welcome," Myron said. He was recalling how Chris saw him as a stereotype and was feeling bemused.

Chris seemed to grasp something about his thoughts, for he said, "I remember you surprised me at the library. I didn't expect to find a brother there."

"Well, I come from a long line of Quaker and Unitarian activists. I have ancestors who worked in the abolitionist movement before the Civil War and others who were conscientious objectors during both world wars. My mother was fighting against U.S. imperialism until the day she died. It's in my blood, you see."

"I do and I'm glad."

Myron looked at his pretty companion then back at Chris.

"This is my friend Patti Ryan."

"Pleased to meet you."

"I'm glad to meet you too. I found your story about that city councilman interesting. Tell me, do you have a lawyer?"

"Well, I have a friend who's a lawyer. I spoke to him about it. I don't expect to see the inside of a courtroom with him, though." He turned back to Chris. "I remember talking to him about your case a few months ago. I was asking him his lawyerly take on the charges of breaking and entering into the shed."

"Oh? What did he say?"

"He maintained that it was an open-and-shut case and that the prosecution would likely win. I said the best defense was Thoreau's higher laws."

His face lit up. "Thoreau, yes, yes."

"But this man's a regular lawyer. He didn't think an appeal to higher laws was much of a courtroom defense. Who's speaking of courtrooms, I said."

Chris nodded. Yes, I know the difference. Yes."

"What great people are here," Patti said. "I feel energized from this meeting. We're going to win."

"I think so too," Myron said, thinking of those boys arguing about the football game. "But the ultimate win is still a long way off. I mean a healthy and a green earth. We won't see it, but it is nice to contemplate.'

"And it's nice to be on the right side too," Patti said.

"Right, it is. We're only here for a little while. We have to think of those who follow. It is our duty, in fact, a duty to the earth, to posterity."

They chatted a little longer, and though everyone there showed no signs of leaving, Myron left soon after talking to Patti and Chris. He had done his duty with Becky's full sanction, but he was anxious to get home to that other duty, his duty to life, to the life of a man and a woman and the love they shared.

Lost Soul

"You want to go with me tonight to look for Virgie?"

"Maybe. I'll have to see what Chris has planned when he gets back."

"What is it between you and Chris anyways?"

The eagerness with which she spoke betrayed Donna's curiosity and made Patti frown. They were in the L.L. Bean store on Congress Street, not a place to be asking such a personal question. She also did not like the question because she could give it no definite answer even if she wanted to. That he loved her, she knew, just as she had known for years that she loved him. Now even that spark that led to fire between a man and a woman was there, and the love had changed and deepened. They had made love several times, always either at home when the house was empty or on two late-summer weekend getaways in motels. It had been wonderful but at the same time unsatisfactory. There was something that held Chris back, most obviously seen in the way he was always distant and almost cold after making love, as if he resented having bodily needs and depending on others. And she knew he was fanatically dedicated to his ecological work and seemed to feel that she hindered it.

So she spoke honestly when she said, "It's hard to say. We've always been friends. Now we're a bit more than friends. Leave it at that."

Donna screwed up her face and narrowed her eyes as she looked at Patti askance, but after a moment she shrugged. "Okay, but you can't blame us for wondering."

Patti wondered in turn whom she meant by "us." Were she and Alex gossiping? Had they seen that she and Chris were meant for one another? Or did they think they were crazy? "This red coat is nice," she said, emphatically changing the subject. She held it up in front of her. "What do you think?"

Donna assessed the coat's suitability with a practiced eye. "It goes well with your sandy hair. It might make you look fat, though. It just hangs down, and it's too long. I think you should look for one like your old coat—you know, one that has an elastic band at the waist."

Patti returned the rejected coat to the rack and went over to where waist-length coats were displayed. They all were shades of brown or tan, though, so she rejected them out of hand. Looking around, she said, "I don't think there's anything here for me."

Donna suggested they look into the surplus store and then check some of the boutiques in the Old Port section.

Out on the street where a lot of people were walking about, many of them obviously leaf-peeping tourists come to see the fall foliage on this mid-October day, Donna said, "The best time to buy is in the spring when they're unloading their winter stock."

Patti nodded in response, and they walked a couple of blocks until Donna broke the silence. "So do you think I'm right about Virgie?"

"Yes. Yes, I do. I guess I knew the moment you described her behavior. It's just that I didn't want to believe it."

Last night at a rock club Donna had seen Virgie high on cocaine. She had worried that this might happen ever since that slick Lothario, Tim Longo, had met her at the soup kitchen. Virgie was now living with the man, and they hadn't seen her for a few weeks until she came into the club with Longo. He was high too, but being an experienced user he was much more in control than Virgie.

Alex and Chris were out of the house on this Saturday, Alex with his boyfriend attending a homosexual commitment ceremony and Chris with his friend Ted Autello having some samples from a dump site tested. After Donna arose at 10:30 they had talked about Virgie all through the day as they cleaned the house and did the laundry. Donna said it wasn't Virgie she saw—not the real Virgie. Obsessively, she described their friend's behavior and symptoms over and over. She was euphoric and hyperactive. She talked rapidly, panted more than breathed, had dilated pupils, was subject to sudden mood swings—when the rock music would suddenly become very loud a look of pure terror and panic would pass over her face and then just as suddenly she would be euphoric again. Her cheek twitched, she couldn't sit still, and apparently she hallucinated because twice she thought she saw the cops coming into the club when there was nothing there. The things she said were even more uncharacteristic. Usually quiet and unassertive, lacking in self-confidence, she kept saying to Donna, "Don't you know I'm the most beautiful girl in the world?" For a long time she talked about seeing the foliage. At first Donna thought she and Longo had taken a drive in the country, but she was apparently only referring to city trees. She said she was going to paint leaves and become as famous as Georgia O'Keefe for painting flowers.

Donna's concern for her friend touched Patti, as did every rare example in the world of people thinking selflessly of others. Asking her here on Congress Street if she believed her interpretation of Virgie's behavior had to be the fifth or sixth time Donna had asked some variation of the question. It was a sign of deep concern that she needed to feel she had an ally. She did. The trouble was, neither knew how to deal with the problem. They had talked themselves into exhaustion—that's why Patti had suggested the shopping trip to look for a winter coat.

After receiving Patti's reassurance, Donna became lost in thought until she looked up at someone yelling her name from a car that went by. She waved back. "That was Les Condella," she said. "One of the guys in Leon's band. But we've got to do something. I feel responsible. It was me who introduced that snake Tim Longo into her life. She's such a lost soul, you know. No ambition. No self-confidence. No sense of direction in her life. Really, she's on her way to perdition."

Patti didn't answer her. She thought Donna was overstating the case and being histrionic, but she didn't want to say that.

Then Donna's tone changed. "You don't think it's that bad, do you?"

"Well, it's bad, maybe just not that bad."

Donna stopped and faced her. "There's something you should know, something she told me the day she first went to the soup kitchen with me and met Tim Longo."

"What do you mean?"

Donna chewed her lip nervously, then suddenly looked resolute. "She's in love with Chris, that's what."

"In love? I know they've had a few trysts, but love? Are you sure?"

"That's what she told me. We were talking about life, and she said that the way to find fulfillment was love. She was talking about Chris. She even started crying because he seemed indifferent to her. And I know what you're thinking. Virgie's problems are a lot deeper than that and have nothing to do with Chris. But in her mind that's the way out."

Patti started walking again. "So what are you saying? Tim Longo is her rebound?"

"Or her dead end—as if she doesn't care anymore. That's what scares me about the drug use."

"I think she's always tried to find something exterior to herself to save her when—"

"—When the problem is herself. Yes, I agree."

Suddenly a voice shocked them into awareness of their surroundings. "You going to walk right by me without speaking?"

They were in front of the Starbuck's and about to turn down Exchange Street. Patti's first thought was that they had walked past the surplus store, their supposed goal, without even seeing it. Her second thought occurred almost simultaneously—she recognized the speaker, Lexi Kovac, a fellow student in the nursing program. She was a dark-haired and dark-eyed woman of about thirty, heavyset and rather plain, though Patti always thought she could be attractive but had let herself go. When not in her nurse's uniform she tended to wear plain, formless clothes (today it was a large blue sweater and baggy slacks) and always wore her hair parted in the middle and just covering her ears. She was a single mother of a six-year-old daughter, a fact that made her bitter and often acerbic. Her husband had run off to California four years ago and disappeared without a trace. Whenever Lexi mentioned him she never called him her husband; rather she referred to him as "the poster boy for deadbeat dads." She was an experienced practical nurse who had worked in hospitals since she was a teenager and knew a great deal about all kinds of medical procedures. With patients she hid her bitterness so well that they all regarded her as a cheerful and friendly nurse.

"Oh, Lexi, sorry. We were talking."

"So I could see." She eyed Donna.

"This is my friend Donna McClellan."

"Pleased to meet you. I've heard Patti mention your name many times. You volunteer at the soup kitchen, don't you."

Donna nodded and said, "I've also heard of you."

"Good things, of course."

Donna smiled. "Of course."

Lexi was shopping for a birthday gift for her daughter, who was with her grandmother for the weekend. She suggested they walk down the hill and have a beer at Gritty McDuff's. On the way they stopped at a store where she bought a large stuffed panda, and in a good mood from getting what she was sure was a gift her daughter would like (and perhaps from anticipation of having a good talk and pleasant society, Patti thought), she displayed her sense of humor by saying to the salesclerk who asked if she wanted it wrapped, "I'd rather have a leash and walk it home."

It pleased Patti to see Lexi happy. She thought she often felt lonely and trapped. Her husband had left with only a note taped to the kitchen table: "I can't take it or you anymore. Don't try to find me." Patti knew that after that her life had been a struggle. She was only able to get into the nursing program because she got scholarship money. She was always one paycheck away from disaster. When her daughter became ill and she had to pay a doctor or miss work to nurse her herself, she would have to give something up that week to get by. Sometimes the choices were stark—food or rent money, clothes for her growing child or medicine.

They found the bar crowded and were about to leave, but Lexi talked them into waiting. She seemed anxious, afraid to miss a chance to talk. So they waited at the end of the bar where they had a view of the small inner room and close to the second, larger room. Twice Lexi poked her head into the larger room, and on the second reconnaissance she turned to them with a bright face: two couples were getting ready to leave. They waited for a waitress to clean the table and then ordered beers. Lexi had put the panda on the fourth chair, and to the amusement of people at nearby tables told the waitress he would not be having anything because he wasn't of drinking age.

They joked about the panda while waiting for their beers to arrive; when they did and Lexi and Donna had taken a long pull (Patti, never much of a drinker, merely sipped hers), Lexi said, "You two were really out to lunch when I first saw you. What was so interesting that you lost sight of reality?"

"We were talking about a friend," Donna said. "We're very concerned because I saw her high on coke last night. She is not the kind of person who should be fooling around with drugs."

Lexi savored her beer. "Has she ever done drugs before?"

"She used to smoke grass, but once it made her so sick she stopped, Patti said. "After that she'd get drunk on beer and wine. At least that's not instantaneous. As Donna said, she's not a strong person. She has a poor self-image and has no sense of direction. She was acting very atypically last night."

"Patti told me you've worked in admittance and seen a lot of drug abuse and overdoses," Donna said. "Could you describe the symptoms you've seen."

Lexi gave out a short, harsh laugh. "I've seen noses destroyed by snorting that stuff. I've seen cocaine psychosis where a patient is so paranoid he had to be put in a straitjacket. I've seen seizures, pounding headaches, bleeding in the brain, strokes, comas, the works. What form of cocaine was your friend using?"

Donna waited while someone at a nearby table yelled something about meeting later to a person standing at the door. "She was smoking crack cocaine, I'm pretty sure."

Lexi asked Donna to describe Virgie's symptoms. She cited all the physical and behavioral symptoms, emphasizing how uncharacteristic Virgie was in claiming she was the most beautiful girl in the world and soon to be a world-famous painter.

"She was experiencing the false sense of grandeur that is pretty typical of cocaine," Lexi said. "Let me guess, some man had got her high."

Donna laughed gleefully, almost as if the half a glass of beer she'd drunk had already caused her to get tipsy. "You're right on it, Lexi. She met this good-looking guy who's full of himself and swaggers around like a lord, and a known drug dealer too. This was at the soup kitchen. I feel responsible because I talked Virgie into helping out, and he sees her there and uses his glib tongue, telling her she's the most beautiful girl in the world—"

"—So that's where she got the phrase she was using."

Donna nodded grimly. "She knew he was bullshitting when he said it, but she lost that perspective."

"That's how men are. In love with themselves first and foremost."

Donna smiled sardonically. She seemed to like Lexi's attitude. "I won't argue with that. I just broke up with a guy because of that."

"Men are such Peter Pans. Do they ever grow up? Do they ever spare a thought for other people? Is there ever a time their egos are not as fragile as an eggshell? They have their manias and impose them on the women in their lives."

Patti saw where Lexi was going and tried to deflect the conversation to safer paths. "Some men, yes, but in other ways everyone is lacking compassion and understanding of others."

Lexi propped up the panda, which was slumping in his seat. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, think of the Iraqi war, which is supported by half the people in this country. When the army bombs a house in civilian neighborhoods where they suspect insurgents are, they kill women, children and innocent people. It shows a total lack of concern for others. Would they order these air strikes if their wife and kids lived nearby? I don't think so. In the media, though, there is no comment on this evil murdering of innocents."

"Macho thinking is to real thinking like rotten eggs to perfume. Men kill; women respect life."

Patti sighed impatiently. "But it's more fundamental than that. The U.S. used to be thought of as the home of the common man, but now our government is never on the side of poor, suffering small people. I think people lose their moral center when they identify with the brutal oppressors like the Israelis and what they do to the Palestinians. The terrorist propaganda makes people dismiss the oppression. Our government and the media are controlled by the greedy and selfish rich who don't care about human suffering, and they condition the people not to care."

"Not only are they rich; they're also men."

"But, Lexi, again I say it's more than that. It's why we're hated throughout the world. We're always on the side of the evil bullies."

"And you count Israel among the bullies? Have a look at reality, sister. What would you do if every Palestinian, even women and kids, could have a bomb strapped around their waist? When you live in a country surrounded by governments that want to destroy you? And don't tell me those Arab governments don't oppress women."

"Okay, okay. I see your point, but mine was simply that men alone aren't responsible for all the evil in the world."

Lexi took a long gulp of beer. "We should ask the panda. He's the only male here."

"Looks female to me," Donna giggled. "I don't see anything down there. Or is it just sexless?"

"Hmm," Lexi mused, rubbing her chin. "I always think of stuffed animals as male."

"Maybe that's because dolls are always girls."

"But it's not male or female that causes evil in the world," Patti said sharply. She was feeling a bit irritated and resenting their making light of her position. "It's objectifying people. Man or woman, we all have to remember our shared humanity."

Lexi ignored her observation. "It isn't just your basic Yahoo either. Did you hear about Dr. Wu's little incident yesterday?"

Patti shook her head.

"A woman came in with a leg injury, and he wanted her to take her clothes off and put on a johnny."

"What's wrong with that? If she had an accident, she might not be aware of other injuries."

"All she did was trip over the hassock in her living room and sprain her ankle."

Patti didn't know Dr. Wu very well. He had a nervous constitution and was always in a hurry. She was quite sure he was competent and conscientious. He had two daughters and a shy young wife. They were obviously a happy family. Lexi was making his nervous conscientiousness into something salacious. "He was just being thorough. He thought she might have sustained another injury in her fall."

"Maybe. But I have my doubts. You've seen how Dr. Berger stares at women's breasts. I'm not sure Dr. Wu is any better."

Patti had heard tales about Dr. Berger and knew he had a bad reputation among the nurses. But Lexi was generalizing unfairly. "I don't know," she said doubtfully. "I—"

"You heard what Maya Roberts said Berger did to her, didn't you?"

"I don't think so. I have heard people say he's a lecher, though."

"What did he do?" Donna asked.

"Maya's very pretty, very shapely," Lexi explained for Donna's benefit. "She's the prettiest nurse at the hospital. She was getting some materials in the supply room. It's really just a closet, small, you know. Berger comes in supposedly looking for something. He was giving her that stare he has, and when he went behind the table where she was leaning over, he purposely brushed up against her ass."

"How do you know it wasn't an accident?" Donna asked.

Lexi gave her a my-aren't-we-naive look. "She felt an erection, that's how. So even if Dr. Wu is okay, Berger isn't. And he's typical of the species. That Longo guy is clearly another one. When they're not thinking about sex, they're thinking of money or power or the status of their machismo. All babies are completely self-absorbed when they're born. Girls grow out of it. Men don't."

For some reason she stared at Donna, expecting a response. Patti could see Donna becoming self-conscious about her bad complexion. Speaking quickly and nervously, she said, "I've certainly heard of the shenanigans of doctors. Remember the dentist who raped women when they were gassed for oral surgery? And how many psychiatrists have taken advantage of vulnerable women patients and had sex with them?"

They continued ragging men and seeming to get a great deal of pleasure from it, but Patti stopped listening. She looked out the window to glimpse beyond the cobblestoned alley lined with boutiques the distant masts of fishing and tourist vessels at the waterfront. A vague and disturbing longing for escape and freedom possessed her, and she began thinking about Chris. He had been hovering in her mind as Lexi described the typical characteristics of the male of the species. She understood Lexi's bitterness, alone with her responsibilities because her husband had chosen irresponsibilities, but she resented what Lexi was doing to her. Too often her remarks described Chris, and it made her aware of something she kept locked in a corner of her mind—she and Chris did things like take a drive to the seacoast or go to a movie only when it suited his convenience. She thought about the distance she could feel after they made love. She recalled how even in high school he was self-absorbed. She was shocked to realize when Donna told her about Virgie being in love with Chris how shabbily he had been using her. She remembered the day he hoped the little Kimball boy would die because it would help his case. The lines from the Beatles' _Abbey Road_ floated into her mind, "For in the end the love you take/ Is equal to the love you make," and wondered as she heard Paul McCartney's voice as clearly as if a CD was playing in the bar how much Chris was capable of giving. Was he a monomaniac? Was he a Peter Pan? Was he in love with himself first and foremost? He wasn't greedy. Money didn't interest him in the least. But neither did human beings. She grew angry—at herself, at him, at Lexi for making her think these thoughts, and then she wondered if she was being fair. If he was monomaniacal, he was also a dedicated soul and the work he did was one way of loving the earth and all its inhabitants. She knew he loved her, but she feared love would never be enough for him.

Donna's loud giggle brought her attention back to the table. She was describing and imitating the behavior of Leon Margrave, the rock musician with whom she had recently broken up, as he walked by a store window and stole a glance at himself. "Others may think the sun is the center of the solar system," she said in summation. "Leon knows otherwise."

Donna and Lexi had finished their beers, and she could see Lexi searching the crowded bar for their waitress to order another round. Her own beer was only a little more than half drunk, and she certainly did not want another one. "It's getting close to four o'clock," she said to Donna. "We need to get home."

Donna looked at her watch and seemed surprised. "You're right. We'd better settle up."

Patti could see the disappointment in Lexi's eyes, but now she didn't feel bad about it. She wished they hadn't met her.

But she shook that unworthy thought from her mind. "Do you have any ideas on how we can help Virgie?"

Lexi, going through her pocketbook looking for change for the tip, shook her head. "Not really. I think she has to help herself."

"But if we could get her away from Tim Longo, that would help?"

"How can we do that?" Donna asked. "We can't kidnap her. Besides, we already told her all about him, and it didn't stop her."

"Yeah, but that was before she started doing drugs. She must see it's a slippery slope."

"You could try to find some other guy for her," Lexi said.

Patti stared at her. "That's an interesting remark. You've been saying all men are alike."

Lexi laughed. "Don't believe everything I say. But I do believe it will help Virgie to know she has friends she can depend on. Any morning now she is going to wake up and feel awful about what she's doing to herself."

After they said their good-byes to Lexi on the street in front of Gritty McDuff's and walked up Exchange Street, Donna decided to begin the search for Virgie at the soup kitchen. She'd help the crew set up the meal and then go out to the line and question the guests about Virgie and Tim Longo. There was even an outside chance that the pair would be among those waiting for a meal. One way or another, she said, she would be home before 5:30, and they could either follow up any leads she had gotten or begin searching the night spots for their wayward friend.

Patti continued alone, walking through Deering Oaks and then past the university, thinking about Chris. With an effort of will she concentrated her thoughts on his positive attributes like his love of the earth and selfless dedication to the cause. For a long time she thought about one of his most appealing characteristics, the shyness that lay behind his often arrogant persona. She had often noticed that with people whom he regarded as enemies he was confident and strong but that when he was among people sympathetic to his cause he was as shy as a kid on his first day of kindergarten. She recalled how he had clung to her and depended on her the night they attended the Green Party gathering in Waska. Feeling needed, she had loved him all the more that night. But she also knew how much mental energy it took for him to do his ecological work. She was quite sure that was the cause of the distance and even resentment she could feel in him on occasion. He was wary of love—not in the mean-spirited way that Lexi described but because he feared it drained him of the energy he needed to fight for the earth.

As she approached their white cape house thinking of Chris's positives and negatives and the uncertainty of the boundaries between them, the desire to resolve the ambiguity grew in her. Thinking again of how they only did things together when it suited his convenience, she recalled when she was a little girl playing on swings with two other friends. When another group of children came into the park and wanted to use them, she had compliantly gotten off her seat while her two friends, a boy and a girl, had stayed put and frowned. "We've got the swings so they're ours," they said, and when the new kids pointed out that Patti had given up her swing, the boy, whose name was Roger Williams, said, "That's because Patti is a patsy." For years the name stuck, for in the world of children, just as in the world of power-lusting politicians, compromise and peacemaking were regarded as signs of weakness. In hindsight she realized it had been the beginning of her leftist worldview, but now with Lexi's male bashing fresh in her mind, she began to wonder if in fact she was a patsy. She toyed with the idea of testing Chris as she approached the front door, where she paused and found herself looking at one of the juniper bushes with its branches mostly of brown needles. It was dying and would need to be replaced in the spring. Something about the cycle of death and renewal came close to home. What if Chris avoided commitment and made her wait so long that her own renewal in a child became impossible? Suddenly she felt so unutterably sad that tears sprang to her eyes. "I love you," she whispered. But love, life's fairest flower, should not be tested, and she rejected the idea of manipulation and calculation, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Chris was at the kitchen table reading the morning paper when she came in. Seeing her, he sprang up, and, slapping the newspaper with his open palm, began railing about a story of a moose that the police killed because it was seen lurking near a busy highway. He went on in a fine frenzy about the idiocy of killing a beautiful animal simply because it might run in the road and might cause an accident. "Do you see the twisted ethics of that kind of thinking?" he demanded.

When she agreed with him, saying she too had been angry when she read the story in the morning, he calmed down, and she told him about Virgie. He listened without interrupting her because, she hoped, he saw how important it was to her and was being polite, or because, she feared, he wasn't really interested. When she finished, in fact, he said nothing.

"Well, what do you think?"

He shrugged. "I'm sorry to hear about it."

"And?"

"And I've got work to do. I finally had Ted Autello test the other readings I took from the Waska River below the falls, and Ridlon is not the only polluter in that town. That waste management company that burns refuse has spread junk into the air and soil and then it ends up in the river. I've got a lot of work to do."

"It's Saturday night. It's not the time to work. You can do it later. We really need your help looking for her."

He ignored her request. "It wouldn't be time well spent. There's no telling where Virgie is, and even if you find her what can you do? She's an adult. You can't take her by the ear and march her home."

"We can talk to her, show her our love and concern. We can give her our support."

The scornful look with which he greeted her statement made her bristle. It _was_ a test. Unplanned, it was happening.

"Why do you look like that?" She spoke sharply, causing his expression to change.

Frowning, he stared at her. "What d'ya mean by that?"

"I mean we're trying to help Virgie and you don't seem to care."

He shrugged maddeningly. "You can't save the whole world, Patti."

"I'm not trying to save the whole world, just one person. And who are you to put down saving the world? That's what you're trying to do."

"But I'm dealing with reality."

"For Christ's sake, Chris. Do you realize what you're saying?"

He closed his notebook with a loud bang. Starting to gather his materials together, he said, "I guess I don't."

"People suffer, Chris. They feel pain. Life overwhelms them and they can be self-destructive. I'm not talking about an abstraction. I'm talking about Virgie, our friend— _your_ friend. Don't you care?"

"Of course I care. It's just that there's nothing we can do. She'd just get pissed off if we tried to interfere with her. It's a waste of time."

"Wouldn't it be good to try and not dismiss the effort before we even do it?"

"I had a late lunch with Ted, so I won't be eating," he said as he turned to go to the basement.

Patti bristled, but this time she did not repress the anger she felt. "Right now, Chris Andrews, I don't like you. I don't like what I'm seeing. You're being a creep. You disgust me."

"That's your privilege," he hissed. "I'm going downstairs to work on these figures." He turned his back on her and began walking to the head of the basement stairs.

"If you go, Chris, I won't forgive you."

But he went.

She stood staring at the door and feeling numb for a long time. Then she sat on the couch, still numbly staring blankly at nothing and feeling almost sick from the emptiness inside. At one point her heart rose to her throat as she heard him moving about in the basement. But he was only pacing and thinking—of his plans to expose a polluter, she was sure. Then she cried for a long time, at first silently with tears streaming down her cheeks and then with body-shaking sobs of agony. She knew it was over. It was up to him to make the first move and apologize, and he never would. She tried reading some nursing material but found it impossible to concentrate. Then she flipped on the television and watched the news.

By the time Donna returned at 5:30 she was composed. She told her only that Chris wasn't going with them, but she could see by the sharp look in Donna's eyes that she saw that something had happened. "We had an argument," Patti explained. "I was very, very angry with him, but I don't want to talk about it."

They heated up a leftover chicken, broccoli and rice dish Alex had cooked on Thursday while Donna reported that she could find out nothing from the guests at the soup kitchen. That bad news fit Patti's mood. They could hear Chris stirring in the basement during the meal, and she couldn't eat much, hoping against hope that each time she heard a noise below that he was going to come upstairs, apologize and go with them. But he didn't.

They spent over four hours driving and walking the streets of Portland, South Portland, Westbrook and Scarborough. They talked to many people in many places. At a few of the clubs that required a cover charge, they took turns paying to get in and look around. It was a cold, wet night, and later in the evening the season's first snow started falling. Nobody had seen Virgie or Longo; nobody had any information. It was as if they had left town. Their one moment of hope happened when they talked to a friend of Tim Longo who told them where he lived. But when they drove to the apartment building and parked the car, no lights were on in the apartment. Finally at a little before eleven o'clock, exhausted and frustrated, they gave up and drove home to discover that Chris had gone and taken all his stuff with him.

The Turning Point

Through the late summer and into the fall, Malcolm helped Mr. Kaminski build the final part of his temple, the Mayan superstructure at the top of the staired pyramid. With the Incan walls seven feet high and the pyramid another twelve feet, the top of the entire structure was going to be twenty-six feet from the ground. They had to shift gravel with the backhoe to reach this height, a job that took several days to complete. A real Mayan temple would be much bigger than the twenty-six-foot structure they were building, but in this homage to Mayan genius (that was the word Mr. Kaminski used, which Malcolm took to be an architectural term for a smaller version) only the external appearance was reproduced. It may have been small, but the stones and columns they carefully lofted to the top were still very heavy. Most weighed several hundred pounds. That is why they had to spend as much time planning each move as actually doing it. One day in late September when the structure was half completed, Malcolm began to wonder if the large granite slab at the top of the Incan wall was strong enough to support the weight of the Mayan temple. He had hesitated to ask the question, thinking that Mr. Kaminski might be insulted, but the question pleased him. "Probably not," he said, "but let me show you something." They went into the ground-floor chamber. The eight window openings, two on each side of the Incan wall, were only about a foot in height and two feet wide and didn't let much light in, but the boss shone a flashlight up to the ceiling to show Malcolm four steel girders, which were fitted into the three-foot walls on ledges of a foot and half. Mr. Kaminski grinned nervously and admitted that with time and manpower limited it had been necessary that he cheat. The Incan wall, the girders, and the granite slab as well as all the gravel they used to reach the heights were installed by a crew from Portsmouth, New Hampshire—he had chosen that company so that local tongues wouldn't wag. He wanted the temple to be completed before its presence became known, and until this summer, he said, he had always kept the temple hidden under a huge tarp. Studying the girders and thinking for a moment, he said that on some rainy day he planned to stucco those girders to hide them. A week later after it had rained for several days, they did that work. Malcolm painted the steel with metal primer, and both of them, using scaffolding made from heavy boards and two metal stepladders, stuccoed them with a premixed batch of cement, sand and lime tinted a brownish shade to match the walls. Malcolm did most of the work since he was more spry, and this was typical of their work together. More and more Mr. Kaminski grew to trust and depend on him. He was a quick learner and a very good worker, a fact that Mr. Kaminski quickly recognized. Trust and mutual respect grew so that more and more his boss came to trust his judgment as much as his competence. He would listen to Malcolm's suggestion that a stone should be turned when it swung from the backhoe and aligned with a corner, then carefully edged into place, and agree, even though all the stones placed before had been placed directly above their resting place and dropped slowly down. Malcolm's suggestion allowed the work to go even more quickly.

The more he worked on the temple, the more new things he found out about it. One day he was shown Phoebe's relief sculpture in the chamber entered through the Greek portico. It looked like the photographs he had seen of her except younger. It was beautiful, and he thought she must have been a wonderful woman to have inspired her husband to built this temple to her memory. Later they worked at mounting a framed poem under Plexiglas that they placed below her face. It was a sonnet by Shakespeare that Mr. Kaminski identified as Number 116.

Another thing he learned as they started constructing the top of the Mayan superstructure was that the stones above and in front of the superstructure had inscriptions. One was in English and read,

LOVE'S NOT TIME'S FOOL

Below it was some strange letters that Mr. Kaminski said was Greek:

gnwqi seauton [Greek for Know Thyself]

Next there was one in German and went like this:

ALLES VERGÄNGLICHE IST NUR EIN GLEICHNIS

The third one was in Latin.

HOMO SUM, HUMANI NIL A

This one was incomplete. Mr. Kaminski showed him a paper where the rest of it was written: ME ALIENUM PUTO. The whole thing meant in English, "I am a man. Nothing human is alien to me." There was another in French that would be done in place after he finished the Latin one. He also found out that the decorative designs he'd seen on the first level of stones of the Mayan temple were actually hieroglyphics in the Mayan language, but Malcolm didn't ask him what they meant. Finding out they were words made him feel uneasy, even a bit afraid, as if they were some magic spell that would be sprung on him if he stared at them too long. Actually, even those ones in the other languages didn't make too much sense to him. Mr. Kaminski made a translation of them and told him what they meant. He said that after his wife died five years ago he had spent a lot of time reading and studying literature and philosophy, two subjects he had neglected as a student, but they still smelled too much of book learning for Malcolm. He liked the stones, the feel of them, their reality. He could do without the words.

He had skipped school a couple times to help Mr. Kaminski. The old man had been doubtful, but Malcolm reminded him that he was going to quit school within a month, and besides, he said, he was learning a lot more here and at the garage than he ever did in school. He was not only learning things. He was also discovering things about himself. One time when he was unsure of the placement of a peculiarly shaped stone (it was a triangular), Mr. Kaminski showed him the engineering plans for the whole building so that he could see for himself. When he looked at them he discovered that unlike reading words, and more like what he saw when looking at an engine not working, he could instantly understand them. He could see the completed temple in his mind. When he told the boss this, he was very pleased. Trust and mutual respect were growing. Self-confidence and pride were growing.

Self-respect too. Because the same thing was happening at the garage. Every time he did a job when Luke was busy and Dave Audet, the boss, didn't feel like getting covered with grease (which was more and more often), it was done perfectly. He even replaced the brakes and suspension system on a car on his own with only a few questions for Luke. Dave gave him a raise after that and told him he could work full-time by next year when he (the boss) was going to semi-retire and do more hunting and fishing. He said he thought Malcolm was a natural at repairing cars. He got his driver's permit right before school started and went out with his father a few times. Twice at the garage when they were busy and a call for someone needing a jump-start came in, he drove Luke's car to the car with a dead battery. Denny Farquhar let him drive his car. He was easily going to pass his driver's test because at lunchtime on Saturdays Luke kept drilling him on the questions that would be asked. The driving part was going to be no problem.

And he was going to get a car sooner than he thought. He was working so many hours for Mr. Kaminski that he had saved over $900 already. The extra work—three or four hours after school through the fall, several Sundays and then the two times he skipped school—directly led him another step closer to a car. One day Mr. Kaminski started talking about his son Phil. He had been helping his father one week in the summer for the past three years, and until Malcolm came along he expected he'd need his son for three more summers or more to finish the temple. But they had made so much progress this fall and he, Malcolm, was such a good worker (the boss implied without saying so out loud that he was much better than his son) that the project could even be finished by early December if the snow held off. He had been covering the temple with the tarp so that it would be a secret, but now it didn't matter. He knew hunters and bird watchers had probably already seen it, so that it wouldn't be a secret much longer anyways. Hearing him say that, Malcolm told him about Chris Andrews seeing the temple in the summer. He had been bothered by having a secret of his own that he kept from Mr. Kaminski and spoke nervously—this was another of those times when he thought his boss might be angry with him, but he merely nodded. His mind was clearly elsewhere. Malcolm didn't have to wonder long, for Mr. Kaminski took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Malcolm. "I know you've been saving for a car," he said. "Here's an extra contribution to the cause and my thanks for your good work."

The envelope contained ten fifty-dollar bills!

He went home that night trembling with excitement. He knew that the money was more than money—that it confirmed something he felt growing inside him. Now that what used to be part of his daydreams, owning a car, was soon to be a reality, the confidence he was gaining from the good work he was doing, both at the garage and the temple, was also making him more self-confident personally. He could feel the change. He could see it. It was real. He couldn't put his finger on what he was doing differently, but at school now nobody teased him anymore. He heard no titters behind his back, and nobody whispered some cutting remark in class when he was called upon. In social science class he actually asked a question one day when the teacher began discussing Athenian democracy. He remembered some things Mr. Kaminski had told him and asked the teacher how Athens could be a democracy when it had slaves. The teacher answered the question (he said it was a limited democracy) and then said that it was a very good, a very intelligent question. Malcolm heard a murmur go through the class. It sounded much different from the old titters, the barks of contempt.

Something else happened that was an even bigger change. A few weeks before Mr. Kaminski gave him the bonus, he had met a girl, not a stranger at all but one he had never thought of as a girl before. She was shy and quiet, plain, with curly brown hair, a long face, big nose, thin lips and small breasts. She lived less than two miles from him, and he had known her since kindergarten. She rode the same school bus he did every school day, but she had never been part of his fantasies. Alison Bentley was her name. One morning in mid-October he happened to sit next to her on the bus. They exchanged greetings but otherwise did not speak. Out the window the low sun brilliantly lit the golden and reddish leaves across a field while the grass was still in shadows in such a way that it was very beautiful. Both stared at the trees intently and only slowly became aware that the other was also enraptured. They started talking about it. Alison had long loved to draw, and this summer an aunt had given her a set of watercolors and paper for her birthday. She was taking an art course this fall. Her next assignment, she said, was going to be a landscape, and she knew she would paint that scene. Malcolm told her about the birds he carved. Two more he had done in the summer of a blue jay and a red-tailed hawk had come out nicely, and he was proud of them. One thing led to another, and that night he had walked the mile and a half to her house to show them to her. She loved them, just as he loved the watercolors she showed him.

He started visiting regularly and having lunch with her in school. They both loved nature and beauty, and so talked easily and felt comfortable together. When she got an assignment to draw a face, she drew his. She captured his homeliness—his big ears, uneven teeth, sunken eyes over a jutting brow—and yet drew it with love. He could see it in her shining eyes as she worked on the picture. He could feel that she accepted him for himself, for that self that was behind the eyes and that he knew existed because when he looked at her he too saw her inner beauty. After a while he began to think she had the most beautiful soul in the whole universe. Within two weeks of meeting her he was asking himself if this was what love felt like. He was sure it was.

It was like seeing a stone by a path day after day and thinking nothing of it until one day your spade happens to hit it when digging a new post and splits the rock in two. Inside that plain dull stone were purple crystals so beautiful they made you gasp. That, he decided, was how he would think of Alison. For she was a jewel. When he compared her to Mary Peckham, the only woman he had known personally (as opposed to the scores of females he'd daydreamed about), he saw the difference instantly. Alison had a gentle, giving nature. Mary looked out for herself and tried to trick him into love. Alison was interested in beauty and the world. Mary thought only of herself.

Without a car, they couldn't go on a date yet, but he told her his plans for a car and work. She tried to talk him out of quitting school and even used a compelling argument—she said that school would be empty for her without him. But she accepted his argument that he was one of those people not meant for book learning. When he told her about his job prospects at the garage and spoke guardedly about the help he was giving a neighbor on a construction project, again she accepted his decision, and he knew why. She understood him. She knew these things were important to him. She didn't want to impose her beliefs on him. That was how love was. Love accepted a person for who he was. He told himself that he owed her the same respect. He promised himself that he would always listen to what was important to her. That was what love meant. It meant souls touching. It meant there was never a place for meanness or selfishness in love. He understood love. He was almost sixteen and he understood love.

Sometimes at night before he fell asleep he would think about how lucky he was to have met Alison and Mr. Kaminski and even Dave Audet. Life wasn't scary anymore. It was exciting. It was filled with unknown challenges and problems, but now he approached them the way he would look forward to going to the woods to hunt or fish. He might not see anything. He might not catch anything. He might fall into the brook and get wet. He might scratch his leg in a bramble patch. But it would be fun and he would feel totally alive. That's how life was for him now that he loved and had good men respecting him and a good woman loving him.

Only one part of his life wasn't going well. Home, the place where he used to be able to be himself away from the taunts and contempt of the world, was now a sad, gloomy prison where smiles were rare and joy a stranger.

Mark was no better. He had slowed mentally. He understood words but slowly. "Don't go near the stove, Mark," his mother would say, and he'd keep going one, two, three steps before stopping. He searches for words and forgets others. "I wan' a"—then points to the bananas Mrs. Carnevale provides every week along with orange juice. "Banana," his mother says and repeats the word. "Ba-nana-nana." He recognizes everyone in the family but is afraid of strangers. But Olive Berry, who's come to the house a hundred times, is now listed with the strangers. The doctor says the damage is permanent. He has a tic in his eye and loses his balance easily. Sometimes he cries for no reason. It's a sad, whimpering kind of a cry, sniveling really. Once or twice he's had temper tantrums. He never did that before. His mother tries to get him to read. She hands him children's books that Mrs. Carnevale also gave her. But though he could read before and better than Malcolm when he was seven, he can hardly read at all now. Often he just watches TV. It doesn't matter what. He likes children's shows, but he'll watch the news too—anything. He sits unmoving for a long time, then will start twitching. When that happens he's scared and calls wildly for his momma. She has a lot of patience with him. She mothers him more than she did the rest of the kids. But Malcolm can see the despair in her eyes. She prays a lot, but her prayers are not answered.

His brother's strangeness scares Malcolm. He knows he shouldn't feel this way but he does. Mark's not his brother anymore. He's weird and different and scary. He's lost both of his brothers. In some ways he's also lost his father, a thought that makes him sad at times, but he also cannot help that. He knows that the ones he looks up to are Mr. Kaminski and Dave Audet. He knows that even while remembering all the times he's shared with his father that when he sees him now the feeling that swells in his heart is pity. His father blames himself for Mark's illness, and as a result has withdrawn into himself. He eats supper in silence and then goes out to the shed to find something to do or up to Hoot Berry's barn to help him sort through his junk. He never goes hunting or fishing now. Woods and fields have a bad taste. He is still working on clearing land for housing developments and comes home late many evenings. His father gives most of the money he makes to his mother, keeping only some for tobacco and such for himself. Things are not right between his parents. His father's silence bothers his mother, and sometimes she snaps at him, but he will not argue with her. He acts like a man who's already doomed and is just waiting for the final blow to happen.

On the day of his sixteenth birthday he dropped out of school. He didn't tell anyone at Courtney Academy, he signed no papers or any such thing, he just stopped going. He did tell Mr. Kaminski that he was free any time he was needed except Friday nights and Saturdays. His boss merely nodded. He was chiseling in the last words of the Latin writing while Malcolm was polishing some of the stones. He watched Mr. Kaminski scoring a stone and carefully observed the angle he used to strike with the chisel. He saw that the chisel was kept sharp. With a grinder the boss would sharpen his tools every fifteen blows or so. He had smaller chisels for smaller cuts that he used for detailed, finishing work. All this Malcolm watched because it was the kind of learning he loved.

They were doing this detail work now because all the stones were in place. It was still warm in the afternoon even in mid-November, but there was a certain urgency to their days. Soon it would be too cold to work. But, really, the temple was done as far as how it looked from any distance except close up. Even the stones that Malcolm was polishing with pumice had been polished long before—he was just fixing up scratches and bruises from putting the stones in place. He hoped that the temple was like most buildings and would require maintenance. It was sad to think that this part of his life would be over in a few weeks.

But the next day and the following two days Mr. Kaminski wasn't there when he reported for work in the afternoon. On the fourth day, a Friday when he didn't work on the temple, he went over after lunch hoping to see the boss, but the place was still deserted. He left to hitchhike into town. He was taking his driver's license test in Denny Farquhar's car at three o'clock. He always thought this would be the most exciting day of his life, but he felt nothing even after he got his license.

On Monday he bought a car for $1,050.00, all the money he had except for insurance money. For that he had enough for the first payment. The car was an eight-year-old Mazda sports model with many things wrong with it—including the suspension and brakes as well as bad valves—but all easily repaired because of the skills he had learned at the garage. The car was twice as good as Denny's car and was going to be better. He took Alison for a ride that night and told her his secret. Now that the temple was almost done and Mr. Kaminski had gone missing, he felt it was okay to share this knowledge. She was amazed.

"But why do you think he's not there?"

She crinkled her nose. "You say he's an old man? Maybe he's had a heart attack or something."

It was the "something" that worried Malcolm, but it didn't seem possible. Mr. Kaminski was strong and healthy except for stiffness in his joints on cold or rainy days.

Alison's fears made his doubt unbearable. The next morning he walked through the woods past the temple and up the lumber road that led to Mr. Kaminski's house. He could have driven, but after thinking about it decided to walk. It didn't seem right to drive into the man's yard. He walked quickly and as he approached the large colonial house even more quickly so that he wouldn't chicken out. He knocked on the door (using the doorbell didn't seem right).

Presently a plump woman with a round, red face opened the door and frowned at him. She didn't look as old as Mr. Kaminski, but she was older than his parents. She must be Phoebe's cousin, he thought. She was the housekeeper. It was because she also went to that family wedding that Malcolm had fed the cats last summer. Her name was Mrs. Dewey, but he didn't dare say it in case he was wrong.
The frown didn't go away when he said, "I'm Malcolm Kimball," but did when he added, "the boy who's been helping Mr. Kaminski."

"Yes?" she said slowly and turned it into a question. "I've heard of you."

She was still suspicious. "I'm worried about him," he said hurriedly. "I've gone to work and he hasn't been there. We're almost finished, it doesn't seem..."

They both looked behind her to where one of the cats had come up to the door. It was Piddle, the yellow one, the one that was friendly and purred at him. The other two, and especially the black cat with a white belly, had hidden most of the time he came to feed them. He only caught glimpses of that one as he was running away.

"He's been taken ill. He's had a stroke."

Malcolm knew what that was. Olive Berry's father had one and was paralyzed for two years before he died. It was bad. But he'd heard of other strokes that folks recovered from. "Is it bad?"

She softened, seeing his concern. "He's paralyzed on one side. He's in a rehab hospital and making slow progress."

"Slow progress" didn't make sense. It seemed bad news, but she said it like good news. "When will he be home?"

"The doctors can't really say. Perhaps in a few weeks, perhaps a month."

He didn't know what to say. He was looking for certainty and there was none. But an idea came into his head, one he didn't want to share with her.

Her eyes narrowed. "Is there anything else?"

"Tell him I hope he gets better soon."

She nodded and closed the door.

He wondered why she seemed to turn hostile again, but that was only a passing thought. For the rest of the day he thought about the idea that had popped into his mind. That night he talked to Alison about it. She encouraged him.

The next day was cold and spitting snow as he left the house and walked past the pond and through the woods to the temple. He was going to finish the temple for Mr. Kaminski—that was his idea.

It meant he had to learn how to engrave letters in stone, for except for a bit of polishing and cleaning up, that was all that remained to do. The huge mound of gravel also remained, but that was going to have to be moved by heavy equipment. Everything else, including removal of the tools and brooms and the like, he was going to do. He knew where the plans were for the temple, and he knew that they contained the inscriptions.

One thing he was sure of—it wasn't going to be easy. He was going to have to practice on some of the spare pieces of granite until he was sure how to use the chisels. He couldn't make a mistake on the temple. It turned out to be frustrating work. For the first couple days he thought he was going to have to give up on the idea. He would mark lines with a level, use it or a smaller ruler to draw the outlines of the letters, then score them with an awl. Then he'd pick up the chisels. His first blows shattered the surface. On the tenth try he finally found the angle and the feel for the strength of the blow to get it right. Several times he almost finished a letter before one bad blow would ruin it. He didn't dare fire up the diesel-driven generator, so he had to sharpen the chisels with a whetstone he brought from home. Once he got the feel for the big chisels, he had to go through the whole process for the smaller chisels. Three weeks went by and December came. Now the cold became his enemy. On a couple days he built a fire to keep his hands warm. Once he brought Alison to see the temple. Proudly he showed her what he had done. She was amazed. It was a cold day, and they did not stay long because he could tell she was getting uncomfortable. He showed her the French words he was working on. L'EXISTENCE PRÉCÈDE L'ESSENCE. She said that she could see the words meant "existence precedes essence" but still could not tell what that meant. He told her Mr. Kaminski studied philosophy. As long as it meant something to him, it was okay.

Finally when the cold became permanent and he could only work a few hours in the afternoon when the sun shining through the pines brought a little warmth, he decided that he had to be ready or the work would never get done. He drew the outlines and scored then with the awl, and then waited for his pounding heart to calm. He steeled himself by remembering the first times he worked on a car alone. His heart had also pounded then, but the work itself brought calmness. It was the same this time. The first blow was good and true and brought confidence. In three days he finished the lettering. Two more days were devoted to cleaning up, and then it was time to drive to the garage to work. Afterwards he was going to pick Alison up and they were going to a movie. He was so excited he could hardly wait to tell her. It was she who suggested that the way to show Mr. Kaminski the temple was done was to take pictures of the work. He had never in his life used a camera, and he did not know that you could buy a cheap camera, take twenty-five photos and bring the whole camera back to the store for processing. But Alison did. On Sunday morning he practiced by taking her picture, and then they went through the woods to the temple and took the photos. He took some of the whole temple from each side, but most of the rest of the roll were detailed shots of the inscriptions—especially the French one he did. They also took one of each of them standing in front of the temple and smiling.

Alison had to do something with her mother that afternoon, so he spent the time working on a carving of a meadowlark he planned to give her for Christmas along with a sweater he had already bought and a portable radio he planned to get for her. Money was not a problem for him now. He had been doing more and more engine work at the garage, and Dave, who loved ice fishing, told him he was going to start cutting back on his own days right after Christmas and give him another day of work. He would be working twenty-one hours a week for ten dollars an hour. Now that his father was out of work for the year, Malcolm was going to give his mother fifty dollars a week.

He was in the bedroom sitting on his bed. On the wall behind him were two landscape watercolors by Alison. Sissy's lip had curled when she saw them. She had a new boyfriend, a kid from the city, and looked down on country folk. He didn't talk to her much because of her attitude. He didn't particularly like her anymore, in fact, so she could curl her lip all she wanted. He was carving and thinking of how much better Alison was than his sister when he heard his grandmother come into the kitchen and say she had just got a phone call from two women in Portland who wanted to call and pay a visit to Mark. He stopped and listened.

"You mean right now?" Momma asked.

"Ayuh. They got some Christmas gifts they want to give him. Other stuff too. I told 'em it was okay."

Malcolm went into the kitchen to hear more. Sharon was visiting a friend and his father was up at Hoot's barn. Only Mark and Momma were home with him. Momma looked worried. "When are they coming?"

"Directly."

Momma frowned. She never liked strangers to come into the house. She accused Daddy of a foolish pride, but she had plenty of it too. Malcolm understood. He would never want anyone like Ray Caron or Brian Olson to see where he lived. The look of pity always stabbed the deepest part of the soul.

Gramma also seemed to understand what was going through Momma's mind. "They seemed like awful nice people. They said a soup kitchen in Portland got stuff for people at this time of year, and they had long known about Mark and wanted to do something."

"I bet it's people who know that young fella who came to take them readings at the pond. He was from Portland." She turned to him. "Malcolm, what was his name?"

"Chris Andrews."

"There was a young woman with him too. Did they give their names?"

"Patti and Donna."

"That don't sound right," Momma said. "I recollect her name was Virginia."

"I can't answer to that," Gramma said, "but one of 'em said she'd been here before. She didn't need directions."

With Gramma helping, they busied themselves cleaning and tidying the house. Malcolm took the waste out and put it behind the shed, then placed a few boards in front of their door. The last few days had been warm and melted all the snow, and the mud that always made their yard impassable in the spring made an early appearance. Through all this activity Mark watched TV without hardly moving. Malcolm wondered if he could even understand what was happening and if he would be able to appreciate the gifts the women were bringing.

When they came there was a bit of awkwardness on both sides as they introduced themselves, but when they started paying attention to Mark all that awkwardness went away and they were just a bunch of women fussing over a kid. Malcolm was surprised to see that Mark did like one thing, a giant-sized teddy bear that had a thick coat. He rubbed his face against it and started grinning foolishly. "If he'd been a kitty he'd be purrin'," Gramma said. "He likes it."

There were many other things—toy trucks, books, some shirts and sweaters, socks too. And they brought a box of canned goods for Momma.

The thing Malcolm noticed was that they were very nice and kept Momma's feelings in mind. They did their best to not make it look like it was charity they were offering. It was more like they were distant relatives paying a family visit.

The one whose name was Patti said, "We had a lot of stuff come in—more than we usually get. It was me who thought of Mark. I hope you don't mind, Mrs. Kimball."

Donna, the other one, said she'd brought some stuff like this to a nephew, a statement Malcolm doubted and rather thought was for Momma's benefit. But Momma seemed to believe her and regard the two as family friends.

After they'd shown all the gifts to Mark and shown him the clothes, Patti told Momma her father had started work on the civil suit and asked her if they had agreed on the terms.

"We've done nothing yet," she said.

"You should," Patti said. "The case is very clear. My brother is studying law. He says you can easily win the case. You could get an enormous amount of money too."

"What I want," Momma said with a dignity that made Malcolm proud of her (and ashamed of himself for his feelings about Mark), "is for my boy to be healthy."

"Of course. But he'll need a lot of medical help to get healthy. Don't forget there is no risk for you. My father told me he'd do your case pro bono. That's a lawyer term for free. My brother could help him on the case. It would help train him, see? Shall I tell him you said yes?"

Momma thought for a moment and then nodded.

They talked some more while Malcolm sat on the couch and didn't listen much. He was thinking. When the women got up to go, he followed them out to the car. "I want to ask you something I really need to know."

They were opening the doors to their car, but turned to listen.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because we're all brothers and sisters."

"And mothers and fathers and sons and daughters," Donna said. "And besides, Christmas is coming. Christmas is special."

"So you think my brother is special because it's Christmas?" he asked Patti.

"He's special because he's special. We're all special."

On Monday morning he gave Alison a ride to school and then went to the drugstore to get the pictures developed. They wouldn't be ready for two hours, so he went to the garage and helped Luke do a valve job on a car. He watched closely because that was one of the things he needed to do on his car. At eleven he was back home with the developed pictures in hand. They'd all come out fairly well, especially the important ones that showed the work he'd done to finish the temple. Directly and anxiously he went past the pond and through the woods to Mr. Kaminski's house.

Mrs. Dewey answered the door without a frown this time, but she did seem impatient. When he explained his mission and its importance, she told him to wait and closed the door. Several minutes passed before she returned and opened the massive door. She told him that the nurse was expected momentarily and that he could only stay a few moments. He took off his muddy boots in the hall. He had expected this and had worn a new pair of socks. He could see into the living room as he fumbled with his shoes. Last summer when he had fed the cats, the house had filled him with awe. It was like the museum in Boston his eighth-grade class had visited on a field trip. A life-sized Egyptian lion with a human head faced the door in the center of the large hall, and the living room was filled with Greek and Indian statues. A naked Greek woman and a stone with the same kind of strange Mayan writing that was on the temple were, like the lion-man, full-sized, but the shelves and tables held many small figures of animals, men and women. Books were everywhere. The rug in the living room was thicker than his mattress at home. The walls were painted bright colors—the living room red with white trim, the hall a deep blue and the dining room and kitchen shades of green. The furniture was made of rich woods and plush cushions. Beautiful plants, some the size of small trees, were in every room.

He was too nervous to look at this stuff now. He followed Mrs. Dewey down a long hall to the back of the house to Mr. Kaminski's study. Through the door he could see an entire wall of shelves holding more books than he remembered seeing in the Courtney Academy library. At the end of the room a large desk had been moved to the side to make room for a hospital bed. It was adjusted to the sitting position for Mr. Kaminski. Instead of the strong and healthy man he had known, he saw a withered old man with sunken cheeks who had lost his deep tan and was deathly pale. Only his eyes moved as Malcolm walked up to him. Just as he got to the bed, one arm came from under the covers. Malcolm, thinking his boss was going to shake his hand, awkwardly started to reach for it, but the hand instead clutched at the blanket and drew it up over his chest. He took a deep breath. Mr. Kaminski's eyes were different. There was no self-confidence and power in them, only despair and—what was it?—shame? Loss of self-respect? Malcolm remembered the feelings of pity his father made him feel and struggled against that unworthy and disrespectful emotion.

He paused, waiting for Mr. Kaminski to speak, before realizing that he was expected to start the conversation. "Hi, Mr. Kaminski. I hope you're feeling better. I've come because I've got some pictures to show you of the temple."

He waited for a greeting, but the old man just nodded. "You see, I finished it for you, Mr. Kaminski." Even he could hear the pride in his own voice. Well, he should be proud and he was proud.

Again he waited for the sick man to speak, but he didn't. Then in a flash Malcolm understood that his pride kept him silent. He didn't want to show he was tongue-tied. The realization made Malcolm feel better, and he respected this man who had taught him much about life and work even more. He decided he'd talk in a way that all Mr. Kaminski had to do was nod. He became aware of a stale smell in the room, a sour smell, unpleasant, but he ignored it. "Let me show you the pictures I took." He held up the two he'd taken of the French words to Mr. Kaminski's eyes. He was glad he had shown Alison the work. She told him that the funny lines above two of the letters were accent marks and important. He was going to leave them out before she said that.

He could see the surprise on Mr. Kaminski's face and his eyes widening to question him. "I practiced on those spare pieces of granite. It took a long time, but I watched you do the Latin one. And I did it! I also cleaned up everything. Everything but the gravel mound, that is. You'll have to hire a man with equipment for that."

He couldn't read the old man's eyes now. He saw a trembling in the bad arm as if he was trying to move it. Then there was a frown. Then he looked again at the photos in Malcolm's hand.

He showed him the next picture. This one he took at the very edge of the top level, trying to get the whole of the superstructure in it, but the top was clipped off. Then he showed him the rest of the photos except for the ones of Alison and him—several distant shots, and more close-ups. When he was through he could see tears in Mr. Kaminski's eyes. The old man tapped his heart with his good hand.

"You're welcome."

Mrs. Dewey poked her head in the door. "Adam, the nurse will be here in a few minutes."

He frowned and waited for her to leave, then spoke. It took Malcolm awhile to understand. He asked why, but it came out from the corner of his mouth, "Whooo?"

"I got a car, Mr. Kaminski. It's a good one, thanks to you. I wanted to return the favor and say thank you. I've learned so much from you. That's why. I've got a girlfriend now. I'm very happy, but I hate to keep secrets from her. Is it okay if I tell her about the temple now that it's done?"

He looked at Malcolm for a long time, then said in a way that was very unclear, "Don't do what I did. Do everything in life. Don't have regrets, my boy."

He had to repeat it three times before Malcolm understood him. With tears in his eyes matching the glistening eyes of the old man he said, "I promise."

He didn't remember much about saying good-bye and walking out of the house. He felt sad, numb, and anxious for that old man—and just as anxious about something that was swelling up inside of him. Free of the house and in the woods, he stopped and leaned against a tree. Even expecting to see Mr. Kaminski in a bad way had not prepared him for the shocking reality. The stroke had not taken his life but it had taken everything else. He saw it there in the eyes, the same defeat, the same hopelessness, his father showed. What did it mean? How could a man change so quickly? In movies and on TV sick people got better because they would not give up. But had Mr. Kaminski given up? If the despair came from thinking the temple was never to be completed, then maybe he could still be saved. Maybe the photographs would save him. But all he talked about when he spoke was not to have regrets. Do everything in life. He thought of Alison. What if she was suddenly killed and never heard him say he loved her? That would be a regret. He thought that she knew his feelings, but it was true that he had never told her. And then there were the things the two Portland women said—that we were all brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers and all of us special, special, special. Was it that bad things happened to good people and it wasn't their fault? His father and mother struggling and poor and worn-out, and it wasn't their fault? And poor little Mark sick in the head as well as the body, not his fault?

Mark. He used to take him down this very lumber road. He remembered his shining eyes when he pointed to a bird or a fleeing deer. He remembered how the little boy loved flowers and tried to catch butterflies because they were so "booful." How he grinned happily when Malcolm came home from school on a warm spring day because he had been promised that they would go fishing together. Sometimes going up hills he would have to take his little hand to help him. He could feel its warmth and the trust his brother had in him as he remembered. "He's special because he's special. We're all special," Patti said. Now he saw what she meant.

At home there was an old hockey game that his parents got from Hoot and gave to him as a Christmas present. Unlike those modern games that the rich kids had, there was nothing electrical about it. It had two levers, one that moved the hockey players and one that swung their hockey stick. In winters past he had played the game with Mark almost every day. As soon as he got home he went into the bedroom and groped under his bed until he found it. Mark was silently watching TV as his mother cooked in the kitchen. "Markie," he said, "want to play hockey?"

And there in Mark's eyes was the light, the joy, of the brother he remembered and who, like him, had not forgotten the fun that brothers shared.

A Great Reckoning in a Little Room

The mid-January day was very cold. The wind coming in with the rising tide stung her face, and she drew closer to Myron, who was also hunched up against the biting wind from off the North Atlantic. The sea was green-gray and the sky overcast with only scattered patches of blue peering through the heavy clouds. The beach, a thin strip of sand between beach grass and the pounding waves, was empty except for a lone person a quarter of a mile ahead of them stationary before an outcropping of rocks. At first they could not see what he was doing, but as they drew closer they could see he was peering through what appeared to be a telescope on a tripod at seabirds.

When they came up to the man they could see the ducklike birds, the larger ones dark and the other smaller birds with dark heads and backs contrasting with white faces and necks. On closer inspection the telescope turned out to be a telephoto lens. The man's face, obscured by the fur-lined hood of his coat, and showing only a red nose, a gray beard and black-rimmed glasses, broke into a smile when he became aware that he was not alone. He had been so intent upon his photography that he hadn't seen them approach.

"Afternoon," he said in a friendly voice.

"Afternoon," Myron said. "I recognize the eiders out there, but what are those other, smaller birds?" He pointed to the four with white faces and necks. As they looked, two of them dove into the sea.

"They're horned grebes in winter plumage. They're what I've been photographing."

Becky saw Myron covering his eyes with his gloved hand and looking closely at the birds. He seemed to be filing away the visual information so that the next time he saw the grebes he'd recognize them. He turned back to the man. "I've always thought those seabirds must have amazing insulation in their feathers. I know I wouldn't want to be out there on a cold January day."

The man nodded in agreement. "It's not all that comfortable on land, is it? You folks from around here?"

"Here" was a fishing village some forty miles north of Portland.

"Close. We're having a winter getaway from routine. We live in Waska."

"That's the town with the mercury-poisoning case. I've been following it. Any new developments?"

Myron, pleased to find a fellow spirit, became more expansive and relaxed. "A civil suit has been filed by the family of the victim. It was just in the paper the other night. I don't know about the other aspect, though. I mean the government's case. It seems to be going very slowly."

"Hope they nail that Ridlon guy."

"Me too. He deserves it."

Myron had told a white lie to the man when he said they were on a weekend getaway from routine. It was a getaway, but the real purpose of the break from routine was to have an expanse of time to talk about their political differences so that they could come to a fuller and deeper understanding of each other. It was a new concern and had nothing to do with the fright she'd had in the early fall over the Nevins business. In that case it turned out that she had worried herself into a tizzy about nothing. After the large demonstration in front of Ridlon Recycling and (more to the point) after receiving numerous phone calls, letters and e-mails in support of Myron, the blustering coward Nevins had wilted like a rose on a hot rock. The rest of the fall flowed smoothly and Christmas, which Myron shared with her and the boys, was the happiest since Bill's death. When Trevor got a new baseball glove from Myron, he even blurted out "Daddy! I love it!" in his excitement. The new trouble came in January when the reading group read two plays by Bertold Brecht, _The Good Woman of Setzuan_ and _Mother Courage_. In discussing these two works Myron showed himself to be even more left-wing in his views than Becky had thought. The communist plays showed that the ruling class were wolves who devoured the poor, that to be a capitalist was to be completely without compassion and human feelings, that at the very center of capitalist society were injustice and oppression. All these opinions were defended by Myron in the discussions, sometimes very forcefully. Becky thought the plays were wonderful works and liked them, but she had managed to read them without making the strong conclusions that Myron had seen. The gulf between their political opinions seemed disturbingly wide, and as a result the decision had been made to get away for a weekend without any distractions and talk.

Their mission had not begun propitiously. They left after lunch because they had to attend Johnny's indoor soccer match in the morning and get the boys packed and ready to go to Lynn's house for the night. She was nervous in the car, thinking of all the misunderstandings between her and Bill that had led to his death and knowing that that was the reason she wanted to come to a complete understanding with Myron. She was sure intellectually that their talk would be liberating. Her fears, though, grew stronger the closer they came to the motel where they had a reservation. Then arriving at the motel, she found the woman at the check-in desk unpleasant. Without any specific reference but rather with an oily attitude and one remark delivered with everything but a wink—"This is a nice _private_ place," she said—she regarded them as an adulterous couple on a tryst. It made Becky feel cheap, which in turn depressed her. She wondered if there was any point in attempting to communicate honestly in a world that was filled with alienating misunderstandings. She was glad Myron had suggested as they unpacked that before they began their discussions they should take a walk to clear their minds and work off the stiffness from the two-hour drive.

Now, having bidden good-bye to the lone birder and back in their room, she was as dry-mouthed and nervous as she was the first time they had sex. Myron sat on the bed facing her, near enough to touch her knee from where she was sitting in the one easy chair. He was looking at her and waiting for her to begin.

She surveyed the room. The walls were painted a dull green, the doors white. Instead of trim, where the brown carpet that covered the floors met the wall, there was rubber or plastic cove. Back when she showed houses, such a tacky detail could be enough to lose a sale. Two of the walls had matching pictures of vases of flowers, one with red roses, the other with white. The mattress on the bed sank in the middle and promised uncomfortable sleep. The dresser, with her toiletries sharing the space with a coffeemaker and cups, was old and the finish scarred and faded. The double window behind Myron faced the sea, but from where she sat all she could see was the looming clouds growing darker. Myron's face, showing only loving patience as he waited, gave her the courage to take the first step.

"You don't think I'm foolish to be trying to be too perfect about us?"

He shook his head and smiled. "No, not a bit. One thing we share completely is a sense of order. Anything that keeps chaos at bay is a good thing."

"And misunderstandings are chaotic?"

"Oh, definitely. I think in relationships they are what cause the most problems. That's why I'm all for communicating all the time. I think this getaway is an excellent idea."

She considered for a moment, thinking of Bill and not wanting to, and then said quickly, "That's my attitude too. Relationships require work. The work is communication."

"So let's keep talking. Do you want something to drink? A beer?

"Let's have a cup of tea."

She went over to the coffeemaker, which could also heat water, filled it in the bathroom and then plugged it in. They had brought a canvas bag that contained among other things tea bags. Extracting two and putting them into the two cups, she turned and faced Myron.

"I still have doubts. I was wrong worrying about Richard Nevins, so—"

"Oh, I don't think so. You were right to be concerned. Standing up for your principles is a good thing, no doubt, but it sounds better at a distance. A moral duty can be a scary duty. You do take a chance and have to accept the consequences. Nevins turned out to be cautious and cowardly, but if he wasn't I suppose I could have lost my job. I was prepared to if it came to that. That doesn't mean I wasn't feeling uneasy—because I was."

"Because duty comes first?"

He looked out the window at a seagull flying by. It looked like the bold rogue was actually looking in at them. "Along with integrity and self-respect. But it's a kind of fear that makes me take these stands, you see. I wouldn't have respected myself if I had caved in to Nevins's demands."

The water was whistling. She got up and poured it into the two coffee mugs doing duty as teacups. Handing him his cup, she said with a smile, "I know you well enough to know you'd never do that."

"I hope not."

He put his cup on the side table, turned the thermostat down and took off his sweater before sitting on the bed. Liking his tea strong, he bobbed the tea bag by its string several times. She liked hers weaker and after a few perfunctory dips of her tea bag into the hot water put it in a large scallop shell that apparently was used as an ashtray on the table beside her. She sipped the hot beverage and began thinking. She admired his integrity and the honesty of his admission that it wasn't always easy to stand up for his beliefs. Here there were no grounds for disagreement or misunderstanding. Her problem lay in a different direction. She was brought up in a rock-ribbed Republican household, and being a business major, she had found nothing in college to challenge her beliefs or make her change her mind. Bill, like her best friend Lynn, was a liberal Democrat, and she was used to hearing opposing views and being teased about them. But Democrats still accepted capitalism. Myron, a Green, did not. What she couldn't understand was the radical tradition that Myron was raised in. It was completely foreign to her experience, and suddenly she had been gripped by an irrational fear. What if the new love in her life was so different that the journey they began together led to a fork in the road that would separate them?

She put her teacup down and took a deep breath, but still she did not know how to start.

He was watching her and saw her perplexity. "I should say right off that I've known many conservative people throughout my life. I respect their opinions. I respect your opinions. I have no problem with a genuinely conservative view. I come from an open-minded tradition. We're all different and it's a big world. I do dislike the hard right—the mean-spirited Fox News types totally lacking in empathy for poor people and driven by an insane egoism and ambition no matter what the cost. As I said, I come from an open-minded tradition, but there are limits. I also understand how it might seem alien to you. That's why I will be glad to explain my views. The radical tradition goes back to the English civil war when George Fox founded the Society of Friends and continued through English and American history. Shelley, Byron and Blake in England, Thoreau, Whitman and Steinbeck are some of the names in that tradition."

As he spoke she felt the tension drain from her body. He couldn't have said anything more comforting than what he said. It was as if he read her mind. Now she could begin. "A good place to start is something you said when the group was discussing _The Good Woman of Setzuan_. You said it, and then someone else said something else and it was never explained. You said politics begins with ethics. You also implied you judged every situation in the same way. What did you mean?"

"It's a combination of my Quaker-Unitarian background and things I studied in college. But I can give you a good example. We've heard many times in recent years reports of the Israeli or American military bombing houses in the West Bank or Iraq because they suspected insurgents were there and in doing so killing innocent bystanders. The U.S. military calls them 'collateral damage.' Okay. In the starkest terms, would military commanders order such strikes on a building or neighborhood if their family lived there?"

"Of course not."

He had been sitting on the bed, but with a sudden movement he stood and said forcefully, "Then they should never do it, period. When they do they're doing evil."

He waited for her to respond, but she was still thinking. He seemed embarrassed at his emotional outburst. After he sat down again he said with studied calmness, "Do you see how it works? Most people forget the humanity of those whom our government has designated enemies. The easy correction for that kind of dehumanization is the Golden Rule. Put yourself in the place of the Palestinians or Iraqis and see and feel the difference."

"Okay," she said. "I see how you're thinking. I'm always distressed when I read about civilians being killed, especially kids. It makes me think about Trevor and Johnny. But what about when there are military objectives—a city has to be conquered or whatever. War is brutal and sometimes the brutality is necessary."

"At the cost of soul and humanity. That's why Quakers are pacifists."

"But isn't evil too strong a word for the president and others directing foreign policy. They're just doing their duty to protect America and her interests."

"Well, I know that many people think governments are separate from individuals and that governments have to do what is good for the country. That's where it gets basic. The Golden Rule is absolute. Evil comes into the world when people only think of themselves. But governments aren't things. Governments are people. People, a man or a woman, make those decisions that affect other people. That's when ethics is operative. The trouble is, the kind of people attracted to power are almost always people for whom ethics is not important. They're usually driven people with monster egos. Egoism is the opposite of ethical regard for others. It's the people in government, not 'government,' that make these inhuman decisions that kill people and destroy their lives. In every case, egoism is the opposite of having regard for others, which is what I mean by ethics."

"Well! I think that needs some more explaining," she said, attempting a light touch but feeling perplexed still and apprehensive. "It sounds to me like you're saying self-interest is always bad."

Myron rubbed his chin. "I am. How do you see it?"

"Couldn't it be seen in a different light? I mean that the government is on the side of freedom and rewards those who show initiative and are willing to work? I remember what my father always says whenever he's asked why he's a Republican. He mentions Jeb Jones."

Myron made a comic face that made her smile in turn.

"I know, I know. He's not famous. That's the point. Jeb grew up on a dairy farm outside of our hometown, but by the time he inherited it the farm was bankrupt. He had to sell off the herd and much of the land just to pay his father's debts. He kept the farmhouse, a few fields, and three or four acres of hardwood forest. Then he worked at two jobs for many years. He was a house painter and clerk at the local store on weekends. In the meantime, he cut down some of the oaks and aged the wood, then cut it up himself with woodworking power tools. He tried various things like making cabinets and fine furniture but ultimately settled on making high-quality picture frames. He sold them locally, and then after a summer visitor bought some and told Jeb he could sell as many as Jeb could make at his shop in New York City, he concentrated on them. To make a long story short, he now owns a business that has eleven people working for him and he is a millionaire. He's a good employer too. All eleven of those people at his factory have full benefits, and he gives a lot of money to the town for parks and—you'll like this—one time when the library was in trouble, he gave them a hundred thousand dollars."

"Well, he does sound like a good man."

"And not selfish? Do you agree he's not selfish?

"No, not selfish. I have no objection to people like him. If all capitalists were as decent and responsible, capitalism wouldn't be quite as bad. But still I think the only just society will be basically socialist. I'm not an ideologue, so I'm willing to allow a limited amount of free enterprise. I don't think of socialism as a society where everyone gets five hundred bucks a month. I could see a new division of labor. People who do nasty work like garbage disposal would get paid more. That's an idea borrowed from John Ruskin, incidentally. But all I really mean is that it would be a society where everyone is guaranteed all the basic necessities. In today's world that would mean not only food, shelter, clothing, health care and education, but also things like phone service, electricity and the like." He smiled and added, "And I shouldn't forget computers. Everyone gets one of them too. So, yes, Jeb Jones is a good and decent man, but the trouble is he is not typical. Most people with money want to get more money. They want to hold on to every dime they can. They don't want to pay taxes, and they don't want to acknowledge any responsibility to others. They're selfish. They're greedy. They don't want to recognize the primary reality of the world, which is interdependence."

A lot of what he said seemed foolish to her, and she was not sure he wasn't being facetious. His last statement was obviously sincere and troubled her, but she held back, concentrating instead on a criticism she could deliver. "I see a free-market problem with your society," she said with a smile.

"Which is?"

"If people didn't pay for electricity, a lot of energy would be wasted. People would leave lights on all the time and so forth. The world would become more polluted."

He nodded and pursed his lips in concession. "Okay, you're right. I was making an assumption, though—one I think is fairly accurate. In a free, just society where people don't grow up in degrading poverty, they would have a sense of responsibility. They would be good citizens of the world and realize we are all caretakers of the earth. I'm not being facetious either," he said, noticing her smile. "For socialism to work well it would demand that everyone be well educated and enlightened. Most people think socialism destroys individuality and demands a rigid conformity. I think it's just the opposite. It requires more individualism than capitalism. Capitalism passes off responsibility. It wants to keep people at an adolescent level where all they want to do is consume. In our society even most religions and virtually all alternative fads of pseudo-religion are excuses for self-absorption. This suits Madison Avenue just fine. They want everyone to be so self-absorbed they never think of solidarity. In this kind of a world the only check on behavior is economic. I envision a society where everyone recognizes our oneness and where internal moral values are the check."

"But isn't it a bit utopian? How would you get around the stifling conformity of socialism—and how would you avoid totalitarianism? You said yourself the world is big and contains all kinds of people. Wouldn't there be a danger in socialism of stifling human creativity?"

His face looked grim. "I admit that the biggest experiment in socialism, the Soviet Union, was a total failure, and that's because they emphasized conformity and totalitarianism. It was really left-wing fascism Stalin foisted on the poor Russian people, not socialism. History shows that total power without limits is always a danger. But first, it's not as if there isn't oppression in capitalist societies. We jail the underclass at an unspeakable rate, and I truly believe that wealthy people are rich only because of exploitation and oppression. It is really impossible to have rich people without having poor people. But those failed socialisms came about prematurely—they were revolutions, not the product of evolution. I think history moves slowly, rather like biological evolution works slowly. But slavery in the West is now gone. Most educated people are disgusted by patriarchal societies that oppress women—even though just a few generations ago women in Europe and America had no rights whatsoever. I think history will move to the point where everyone will see the logical and ethical absurdity of a man like Bill Gates being wealthier than the combined income of half the people in the world."

She followed his speaking of social evolution calmly but found his remark about Bill Gates unsettling. It was as if they came from the mouth of some other person, one who was a dangerous revolutionary. "But most people who think that way also think that the rich should be arrested and jailed or even killed."

He nodded in agreement. "That's why I call myself an evolutionary, not a revolutionary. I hate violence. If it's violent, it's _not_ a revolution. I think the inconsistencies and inequalities inherent in capitalism are so great that inevitably the world will turn away from them. Maybe a limited free enterprise will be allowed, maybe not. Whatever keeps people happy and free from exploitation I'm for."

She thought for a moment. His answer had partly defused her anxiety, but she remembered her father always maintained that it was Bill Gates, not Bill Clinton, who was responsible for the economic boom of the '90's. He was a perfect example of enlightened self-interest, her father said. "But what if it's human nature that is the problem? What if the desire to make your life better for yourself and your family is accurately reflected in the free enterprise system? Like in the Declaration of Independence the words about the 'pursuit of happiness' speaking to all people. What if socialism can only be forced on people? Then would you still be an evolutionary?"

"If that were so, no. No, I wouldn't, but it isn't so."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Well, because I believe in the power of education to change people, for one thing. For another, I think people desire peace and security and will take those things every time over war and chaos. I do think that's human nature. We began agreeing that we're both orderly people. I think socialism can be orderly without being oppressive because it will have inner-directed citizens. The inequalities and injustice of a capitalistic society lead to crime, drug abuse and other social ills that arise from poverty. There's the chaos. And look at Europe. They've already got a large percentage of their citizens educated and with critical minds. Someone was telling me about how in her trip to Athens she befriended a tour guide. He told her that when he had a group of Germans he was expected to give lengthy and in-depth lectures on the Parthenon and people like Plato and Aristotle, but he was expected to be brief whenever he had American tourists. They were only interested in taking a couple of pictures and then going shopping, the guide told her."

"Okay, I can believe that. But are these things the only basis for your thinking that socialism is inevitable—education and the desire for peace?"

He stood and paced about for a while, pausing and looking out into the gathering darkness of the late winter afternoon. "I started to say something about interdependence being the primary reality of the world earlier, but then we went in another direction. Right now the U.S. is a force for reactionary politics in the world. Before we can do anything in the world, we have to change America."

She stared at the floor trying to tell herself that she didn't hear the hostility in his tone directed against America. But it was there. She heard it. She didn't make it up. She didn't dream it. Okay, then, the purpose of this weekend was to come to an understanding, or really to come to understand his thinking. There would be no purpose in holding back. She looked at him. "I really want to hear about what you mean by interdependence, but first I hear a tone of strong disapproval about our government. What exactly is it that you have against the U.S. government?"

He appeared to hesitate, as if fearing to go beyond a point of no return. She felt her pulse quicken, and she took a sip of her now cold tea to moisten her dry mouth.

"In a nutshell, I think we're always on the wrong side. We always back the rich and powerful. We're on the side of money. As a result we cause a great deal of pain and death in the world. That's why we're so hated."

"Our government is elected. That means in one way or another the government is expressing the will of the people."

"I don't think it's the will of the people to oppress and kill people."

Feeling patronized, she bristled. "What do you mean by that?" Her voice shocked her. She had snapped at him and was angry.

He in turn spoke warmly, and his eyes flashed. "I won't lie to you. I think every American president since the second world war has blood on his hands. It's not the fault of the American people. They're not innocent, but their sin is anti-intellectualism. They believe the self-serving lies their presidents tell them instead of investigating matters themselves and coming to their own conclusions. It seems most people go through their education without ever learning to think for themselves or analyze anything. But American leaders don't have that excuse. They are virtually sociopaths. They sit in beautiful rooms with everyone present at their beck and call. They wear expensive suits and silk ties and after a lunch of shrimp and avocado institute policies that kill and destroy the lives of the small people of the world."

She had winced at the word "sociopath." She remembered how as a girl she thought of Ronald Reagan as a kindly uncle. Her father worked on both his campaigns in the local Republican Party and raised money for him. He thought Reagan was the best U.S. president since Lincoln. For the first time in her life with Myron, she felt anger bubbling inside close to a boil. But she spoke calmly: "You're using strong language. What examples can you give?"

"Many, too many. We killed three and half million Vietnamese during that war. We dropped more bombs on that country than were used in all of World War II. We napalmed them, poisoned their forests with Agent Orange, the effects of which still to this day cause birth defects and cancers in the people. We assassinated leaders not favorable to our side. All for nothing. We alienated everyone except the rich elite, and we didn't learn anything either. We didn't learn that you can't stop a people's movement. So then there was Iraq. In Iraq even before the war the embargo we instituted killed another million and a half people, and it wasn't an accident. We embargoed medicines. We first bombed their water treatment plants and then embargoed the equipment and chemicals necessary to purify water with the results that children and old people as well as the weak and sick died of typhoid fever. In Nicaragua, El Salvador, Africa, Indonesia, all over Latin America, in the Middle East and Southeast Asia, our policies have led to similar results. We flouted the Geneva Conventions and tortured prisoners. Ecologically we are the worst of polluters, and we block international treaties that attempt to curtail emissions. For those and many other reasons I am ashamed of our government. I don't know how our presidents, cabinet officers and Congress sleep at night. If they were as Christian as they profess, they wouldn't do these things."

Again she listened for the voice of her father, searching for the arguments to refute Myron's charges. She remembered a Thanksgiving dinner when he spoke of Reagan's policies leading to the downfall of the Soviet Union. "It's as if you're totally ignoring the context of these things. It turned out that decisions like Vietnam were terrible ones, but we were in a life-and-death struggle with communism at the time. And it's not as if the enemies were strewing roses across the paths of the world. Everybody knew what Stalin had done. Everyone knew about Gulag. Everyone knew about the excesses of the Cultural Revolution in China. They were dangerous people and human life didn't mean anything to them. Is it fair to not consider these factors?"

With a dismissive shrug he said, "They explain the decisions. They don't really excuse them."

"But don't you think the first duty of a president is to ensure the safety and prosperity of the American people? I don't like it that innocent people are made to suffer, but you're making presidents out to be murderous madmen and it's not fair."

"I think the duty of everyone is to do the right thing, not cause harm, and make the world a better place. I refuse to put politicians in a special class where they are not subject to the same conditions that define every good man or woman. So I take my stand on ethics. What an individual shouldn't do, a government shouldn't do."

"You may be right philosophically, but in the real world what would happen? If a presidential candidate followed such a policy, he would never get elected. And if he got elected and tried to do these things, he would not be reelected. He might even be impeached. If you were walking down the street and a man with a knife attacked you, you would do everything possible to save your life. You would even kill the man if you had to. And if that happened, no one would blame you. That's how the situation is for presidents. They have to make decisions in the context of someone threatening us. Instead of a knife, they have weapons that could kill thousands or millions. But these decisions presidents make aren't subject to ethics."

"Then you're admitting that the U.S. government acts unethically?"

That brought her up short. Never in her life had she ever said or even thought that. His logic must be working on her. Having no answer, she stared at him.

"I think the morally and ethically safe position is always to sympathize with those who are vulnerable and weak, the ones who have no voice, no money, no power. They are the ones these presidents don't hear." He spoke quietly, seeing he had the advantage—and for that she was grateful.

"You're thinking about dictatorships that the U.S. has backed, aren't you? The ones in South America and Asia and Africa?"

"Yes, I am, and the way we treat the Palestinians too."

"But again it's out of context. We were fighting a cold war with Russia."

"There are many ways to fight a war. Let's put the most charitable light on it and say the U.S. government unfortunately chose the way of the enemy, which, I might add, it's still doing in the so-called war on terrorism."

"Okay," she conceded, "I think at least I see the logic of your position. But couldn't it apply to business too?"

The question seemed to surprise him. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I mean that you project a better world in socialism because people act more ethically in this world, but couldn't business move towards the way Jeb Jones conducts business?"

"Fair enough. I suppose it could."

She smiled at his easy concession and felt all her anger melting away. "I gather that's the kind of behavior you're thinking of when you say interdependence."

"Well, I mean a little more than that. The reason there is always tension in a capitalistic society instead of harmony is because it emphasizes the self—and that despite that slogan on the dollar bill, _e pluribus unum_.

"Okay, perhaps it's time you explain exactly what you mean by interdependence."

He brightened and seemed, like her, relieved to be leaving behind the argumentative style of discourse. "First, again, what it is not: capitalism only recognizes the self. It's view of society is Darwinian—it's just an extension of nature and a struggle for survival. It doesn't recognize the wholeness of society, its oneness."

"But businessmen recognize they need customers and workers. Isn't that seeing society is necessary?"

"But the workers are seen as rivals and customers as someone to make a profit off. They don't recognize any duty to them. Think of the way Ridlon was driven by greed to save a few bucks on processing the hazardous material he was supposed to send to New Jersey. He recognized no duty. He only saw a way to make more profit. Your friend Jeb Jones doesn't act that way, but he's the exception, and I'm sure he does not take it the whole way. He doesn't, for example, do what a few enlightened companies do and share profits with the workers."

"No, I don't think so. But what duty besides being decent and honest do businessmen have?"

"I mean they don't recognize that interdependence is the fundamental law of life. Let me give a couple examples that I am pretty sure you'll agree with. Suppose some contagious disease shows up. When that happens everyone has to be inoculated, not just rich people."

"Sure, that's easy to see. Polio, for example. We all get inoculated."

He smiled. "See? We're on the same page. Pollution is another example. If a factory spews out poison, everyone has to breathe it. If the water supply is contaminated, everyone is affected."

She nodded, thinking more of the calmness that had come over her than of his words.

"And even if you don't agree, I hope you'll recognize where I'm coming from when I say that capitalism doesn't recognize this. Its Shen Te side may, but it is the Shui Ta side that does its work in the world. But the evidence is all around us of all the ways we need other people. The clothes we're wearing, the tea we drank, the car we drove in, the building we're in, all these things and thousands more were made by other people. Disruptions of oil supplies on the other side of the globe affect us. Cutting down the rain forest in Brazil affects the amount of oxygen we all breathe. Emissions in America, India, China, Europe and everywhere else contribute to global warming. Remember that line in _The Good Woman of Setzuan_ about the people freezing? How the solution was a blanket 10,000 feet long? It's a way of saying that private charity that helps only a few people does not solve the problem. Let's say people are starving in Africa. It's a situation just like the bombing of buildings we talked about. If they were your relatives, you wouldn't want it to happen. Therefore an ethical person does not want it to happen period. The whole world is one world—that's what I believe. I want to see unity and oneness, people caring for one another. Capitalism is in a sense in a permanent condition of war—I sometimes suspect that's why every time there is a social problem like drugs or terrorism, the government calls its campaign against these things a war. That was one of the main points in Brecht's _Mother Courage_ —in the constant state of war the main victims were the little people."

She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "Isn't private charity better than no charity? I mean, helping one poor family like the Kimballs doesn't transform the world but it does help that one particular family."

"Of course. Right now that's the best we can do in the world—help people in need when we see people in need."

She smiled at him. "I see I have fallen in love with a man who thinks differently than I do, but who also is not a wild-eyed revolutionary. You simply care about people and the world. That's what I'll say if anyone ask me what your politics are."

"I'd have to describe myself as a nearsighted evolutionary?" he said, with a smile that answered her smile.

"You think, don't you, that we can make a good marriage?"

He leaned forward and took her hand, pulling her to the bed. With his arm around her waist, he said, "I think we're a pair. Are we different? Sure. Just as our bodies are different, so are our minds. But that old French saying still applies: _vive la différence_!"

She snuggled against him. "What do you think makes a good marriage?"

"What do you think?"

"Love."

"Yes, especially love. And more. A good marriage is one where each partner gives the other space. Each respects the individuality of the other and doesn't try to impose his or her views. Only equals can have mutual respect. I wouldn't dream of asking you to become a Green. Of course compromises, big and small, have to be made. Often I like to read at night, but if you wanted to watch a television show, I'm willing to defer reading to another time. And I wouldn't ask you to watch a Red Sox game because I know you are not interested in sports. As far as politics goes, I think it's like religion—you find what you're comfortable with and go with that. Most often it's what you grew up believing, but again it's something that should never be imposed. I think ninety percent of life is simply being human. Agreement in politics or religion is not necessary. What's necessary is to respect the other's right to believe what he or she thinks is best." He turned to face her. "Does that sound right to you?"

Instead of using words, she kissed him, and in kissing her back he pulled her down so that they found themselves reclining on the bed. The time for talking was over, and it was a long, long time before they left the room to go to dinner.

The Mission

Last summer Donna remembered saying to Virgie, "Aren't we a pair." She was talking about their lack of ambition in contrast to Patti, Chris and Alex, and when she said it she meant it to be a starting point to communication so that she could get Virgie out of her funk over Chris. Now over six months later and in February of a new year, the more accurate pairing turned out to be Virgie and Patti. They were both in a bad way while she, Alex, and probably Chris were doing fine. Ordinarily the steadiest and most levelheaded of all of them, Patti was now more or less in a permanent state of depression because Chris had left and had not called or written. Every time there was a noise in the basement she saw Patti's face grow intense even though it was only the furnace kicking in or wet leaves slapping against the window well. Only a few weeks ago they had accidentally found out where Chris was. Alex ran into his friend Ted Autello on the campus of the University of Southern Maine and learned that Chris was in a town in northern Maine where a factory that pulped wood for the paper trade was polluting the local river. He was staying with a forest ranger who was a friend from college. The news hurt Patti, for they knew that that particular friend was female, and it didn't take much clairvoyance to know what the sleeping arrangements were at her place. She pretended to be unconcerned, of course, but whenever Donna saw her looking into space while she was washing dishes or sitting on the living room couch she knew she was thinking about Chris. She had almost no social life. A male nurse in the program with her was showing obvious interest. He called two or three times with fairly transparent questions about their course work that really were a shy person's way of approaching a potential lover. Donna saw him once when she and Patti were downtown and thought he was adorable, but Patti, though aware of his interest in her, did not return it. She wasn't ready and was mostly content to stay at home. She went to a baby shower for one of the nurses with Lexi, but came home early. One night Donna talked her into going to a rock club with her, but she was quiet and subdued during the evening and politely refused a couple of invitations to dance. Another time she and Donna attended a folk singer's concert, which she did enjoy, though a faraway look came into her eyes whenever a sad song about frustrated love was sung. Otherwise she tried to lose herself in her studies at the nursing program. She had even taken an extra course for the spring semester over the usual course load. She claimed that it was not going to be offered in the fall, her final semester before becoming a registered nurse, but Donna knew that was just a weak excuse. She was trying to forget her troubles by being so busy she couldn't think about them.

The only time she became alive was when she got involved in convinc-ing her father that he was the man to handle the civil suit on behalf of the Kimball family and their little boy, poisoned by the mercury Ridlon Recycling had dumped into the pond. In October Natalie Feldman, a Boston lawyer, called asking for Chris. When Patti learned Natalie was looking for a local lawyer to handle the case, she suggested her father. Within a week she had convinced him not only to do the case, but to do it pro bono. It was the connection to Chris that motivated Patti; soon after the thing was settled and it made no difference to Chris (at that time they did not even know where he was), quickly she became morose and inward again, living mechanically and a stranger to joy.

But if Patti was bad off, Virgie was worse than worst. She was desperately in trouble. Physically she looked terrible, and mentally she was unbalanced—conclusions that Donna drew from a chance meeting with Virgie at a rock club. Tim Longo had swallowed her up—or maybe more accurately kidnapped her, abducted her, made her, with the aid of crack cocaine, his slave and totally dominated her. She was thin, very thin. Her eyes were sallow and lifeless. One of them in the dim night of the rock club looked blackened, so that it was likely he beat her. She was both nervous and listless at the same time. And afraid. She was clearly afraid to talk to Donna and even said, without any sense of what a ridiculous confession she was implicitly making, that Tim didn't think she and Patti were a good influence on her. This she said in the same rock club where Donna had seen her high on cocaine last summer. She wasn't high this time, but the moment she saw Longo coming from the bathroom, she shrank in terror and rushed toward him so that he wouldn't see she had been talking to her friend. Fear too is a drug, Donna thought.

She was angry for the rest of the evening. Even some good rock music by Leon's band could not silence the imaginary conversation she had with Virgie. "We're a bad influence on you, are we? Are we the ones who give you black eyes, who ruin your health and destroy your self-image? He only cares for himself, the creep. He manipulates and uses women. He actually hates us, I'm sure. That type do, you know. You've got to realize he's only using you. I'll tell you what I think. You're like a member of a cult. It's just that instead of following an asshole like Rev. Moon, you're the brainwashed mannequin for another kind of asshole, a sexual predator and controlling creep." In this scenario Virgie never spoke. She just listened and hung her head in shame. It made Donna feel good, but she knew that such a conversation should never become real. It would just alienate Virgie, not win her over, not bring her back to herself.

She was now sure that Virgie's problems were close to pathological. Something was seriously wrong when a lifelong friend was too scared to talk to you. She decided that she had to find out more about Tim Longo and questioned two women at the soup kitchen who had been entrapped by Longo in the past to learn about his modus operandi. She had spoken to them before, but they had been reluctant to tell her all they knew because they were still scared of Longo. But when she wanted to be, Donna could be very persuasive. She told them she thought Virgie was suicidal (which was very likely true though she had no evidence) and that she had to find out all she could about Tim Longo to help her friend. The women, both in their early twenties, began hesitantly but then began feeling good about unburdening themselves and talked at such great length that Donna learned everything there was to know about Virgie's tormenter. She already knew he was totally self-absorbed, that he didn't relate, only manipulated, and that because he was so good-looking women easily became his slave. Now she learned he was positively evil. He demanded total submission and used physical violence to ensure that he got it. Both women, neither as pretty as Virgie but with voluptuous bodies, explained that once they fell under his sway, it was actually as if he resided in their minds. He didn't have to be with them to make them do what he wanted. They became unwilling willing accomplices. Like all controlling men, he always carefully kept his women separated from family and friends and any influence that would lessen their gravitational orbit around his sun. The women told her that very likely Virgie stayed home when he went out and was actually afraid to leave. The reason they saw so little of her was no accident; Virgie was actively avoiding them. That explained why she had never come home to get her clothes and things. He probably bought her new clothes when he first got her under his control, the women said. He had done that with both of them. At the time, it seemed like a fun and generous thing to go shopping with him, though he never let women choose their own clothes, only clothes that he liked. They also told her that Longo had a weird sexual preference for sex with two or more women at the same time. It was very probable, they said, that Virgie was not alone in his apartment.

One thing they both implied but never stated was that the only way they became free of Longo was because he grew tired of them. Donna thought that if Virgie was ever going to rebuild her shattered self-image that Chris first began to destroy and Longo was completing, it would be much better that she break away before she was thrown away. But how? How get Virgie free from her psychological enslavement?

She had as yet no answer, but the next time she saw Virgie something happened that showed her escape was possible. One late afternoon a little before Thanksgiving she saw Virgie near Monument Square waiting with a woman with long black and shiny hair, an olive complexion and high cheekbones that suggested she was an Indian. They both kept looking down Congress Street for a car or bus and didn't see Donna until she was next to them. While she greeted Virgie and tried to engage her in conversation, something, either the Indian woman or more likely the fear that Longo would suddenly show up, inhibited her. She spoke guardedly and mostly in one-syllable responses to questions Donna asked. "Are you doing okay?" "Do you need anything?" "Do you want any of your clothes?" In the daylight she looked even worse than she had in the rock club. Her complexion was pale and her hooded eyes under the ridge of her forehead were darkened from lack of sleep. When her companion, who had scowled at Donna from the moment she arrived, took Virgie's arm and began pulling her away, her eyes made a silent appeal to Donna. "I've gotta go," she said flatly with her voice, but her eyes said "Help me!"

It was the sign Donna was waiting for. To her retreating back, she called, "Virgie, remember the time you sprained your ankle and couldn't walk? Remember whose shoulder you leaned on to get to the car? And remember all the things we did for you that week? Remember that you said you were being treated like a princess?"

She knew Virgie heard her, but she saw the hand of the Indian woman dig into her arm.

When Virgie looked back with her eyes still appealing for help, Donna left with a final thought: "Remember you've always got a home waiting for you."

When she told Patti about this interesting development, she was surprised to find that Patti seemed resentful of Virgie. She guessed it was because Patti associated her with Chris's betrayal.

But Patti's attitude made her see a connection between her two friends and the way to liberate both. Their troubles were similar. Both were the victim of unfeeling men. One was a longtime friend, the other a snake in the grass who had bitten Virgie in an unguarded and vulnerable moment. So they were victims both, but at the same time neither was blameless. They had foolishly entered into relationships that were bound to go bad if only because they lacked the perspective that would allow them to soberly assess the character of their tormenters. In this regard she was especially angry with Chris. In one way or another he was the cause of both of her friends' troubles. It was Virgie's foolish love for him that led her to Longo. Patti should have known better than anyone that Chris was commitment-phobic. She was fair enough to know that Tim Longo was different from Chris, but it was a question of degree. They both showed no respect for the rights and feelings of women and both were self-absorbed.

Seeing through Chris did not make her feel superior to Virgie and Patti since her insight was gained at the price of her woman's pride. It was because Chris had never shown any interest in her as a woman that she could see his shortcomings with glaring clarity. But there was something else that was true, independent of the mere wish to soothe her pride, and it led her to another conclusion that concerned Patti just as much as Virgie. Man troubles were a symptom, not a cause. She was sure the reason she was levelheaded enough to never be in danger of becoming blindly devoted to Leon Margrave and able to easily break off the relationship when it suited her (and in a civilized way too—they remained friends) was because helping other people at the soup kitchen had freed her from the narrowness of her own mind and given her self-confidence. She had gotten outside herself. She had made a difference. She had gained perspective. She still felt the warm glow of pride thinking about Dennis Pelletier, a drug addict she had helped save. For months she worked with him at the soup kitchen, sitting at his table and talking to him as often as she could, offering suggestions and support, wheedling when it felt right, chastising when she felt he needed it, and finally arranging for his escape by making the appointments for him to join group therapy and drug rehabilitation. Now he had a good job and was engaged to be married. He had already called her and asked her to come to the wedding in the spring.

She helped many others, but he was her prize pupil, the one who gave her the confidence to believe she could rescue Patti and Virgie by getting them involved in life. What worked for her could work for them. Patti's momentary recovery from depression when she became animated getting her father to take the Kimball civil suit verified her gut feeling, but her plan was still embryonic, though in outline she knew that it would entail Patti helping Virgie to come back to herself and somehow finding something that would concentrate Virgie's mind on others. So she had the basic idea for a plan but not the situation to put it into practice. Winter came, Christmas and the New Year passed and the dreary, dark and frigid winter wore on into February and nothing changed, nothing happened.

Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, everything she needed to launch her rescue mission came to her. On Thursday at the soup kitchen Leighton Kimball casually let drop that Tim Longo was at sea fishing and would not be back until Monday. Friday night while Alex was cooking early dinner before he went out for the evening, he told Patti he'd talked to their father during the day and had been given some paperwork for the Kimballs' civil suit that they would need to sign.

Donna, listening from the living room couch in the open and small house, had an idea. "Who's going to bring the papers to the Kimballs?" she asked.

Alex, busy sautéing some jumbo shrimp, didn't answer for a while as he concentrated on picking up the sizzling shrimp with tongs and flipping them over. "I am. I thought I'd try to talk Fred into taking a winter drive to beautiful Waska."

"Is there anything else, or is it just a matter of getting the papers signed?"

He turned and regarded her suspiciously. "No, just signing."

Donna jumped up from the couch and strode into the kitchen. "Let me and Patti do it," she said.

Alex, still turning the shrimp in the large frying pan, now seemed bemused. "Why? What have you got up your sleeve?"

She grinned broadly. "It will give us an excuse to snatch Virgie out of that apartment. Leighton Kimball—their son, I'm pretty sure—told me Longo was at sea this weekend. What do you think, Patti?"

Patti looked up from the newspaper she was reading and pursed her lips. "Why is it a good time now? I don't understand."

Donna sat down across from Patti and with arms splayed leaned towards her. "Well, Longo's gone for the weekend. That makes it possible. But now we have a reason—I mean a reason we can tell Virgie she's needed. Leighton Kimball hangs out with Longo—runs his drugs I think—so we can tell Virgie she has information Mrs. Kimball desperately needs..."

Patti looked doubtful, but Donna already had a better idea. "Yeah, maybe that's too dangerous. It would be asking too much of her to make her betray Longo right off. But didn't you say the Kimball woman seemed to like Virgie?"

"That's what Chris thought."

"Okay, then. We'll say this is a very important mission absolutely vital if the little boy is to get the help he needs, and we'll tell Virgie how much Mrs. Kimball liked and trusted her. Without her they might back out—something like that. Remember how we had to convince Suzy again in December that the civil suit was the way to go? We'll tell Virgie that's why we need her. Remember how disturbed Virgie was about that boy? For days she talked about that little boy. Her kind heart is what we can bank on. And once we get her out of Longo's clutches we can get her healthy again—I mean mentally healthy and free of drugs. See? The idea is perfect."

"That's quite a plan," Alex said.

"Are you okay with it?"

"Sure. I don't think Fred would be very enthusiastic about seeing those people. He hates dirt and clutter."

She turned to Patti. "Well?"

Patti stared at her so long she started to feel self-conscious about her complexion, but that concern melted away when she saw Patti's face break into a broad grin. "I didn't realize until now how devious your mind could be," she said.

"So you think it might work?"

"It just might."

After Alex left they did some planning. Patti phoned the Kimballs' parents to tell them they were coming in the morning. Granny Kimball told her to come to the farmhouse since Suzy would be doing her laundry there in the morning. That settled, they discussed Virgie's psychological state as they understood it and decided that it would be important to speak to Virgie in the voice of authority—not to ask her to come with them but rather tell her she had to come. If they were right that she had surrendered her will to Longo, this tone would have the best chance of succeeding. They wouldn't forget Virgie's soft heart, though. They were prepared to lay it on thick in describing the boy's state of health if she still hesitated. Then while each of them had a beer they watched a movie on television and retired early.

In the morning at breakfast and continuing on the drive through the snow-lined streets to the other side of the city, they discussed Virgie and, to a lesser extent, Leighton Kimball. Though he was not part of their plan to liberate Virgie, his mother would want to know about him. Because of the troubles that had visited their enclave, he had been lost sight of and no one had ever informed the Kimballs of his presence in Portland.

Donna had long known where Longo lived and had in fact often driven by in the vain hope of seeing Virgie. The apartment was in a tenement building constructed in the early part of last century to house workers in the boatbuilding and allied trades. It was covered with ugly gray tarpaper shingling, with peeling white paint and bare wood on the trim and railings. The porch stairs and deck were similarly worn to bare wood where thousands of feet had trodden. Beside the door were four black mailboxes, one of which had the name Longo and the number 3 written in pencil on a piece of glued-on paper.

Going up the dark and narrow stairs, Patti whispered, "This place gives me the creeps."

Donna nodded. The faint but pungent odor of cat piss struck her nostrils at the second-story landing where two doors confronted them, one at the head of the stairs and one to their left. Neither had a number to identify it. They stood and listened for a moment, unsure what to do. "Maybe they're out," Patti said. She sounded hopeful, suggesting she was losing her nerve, but before Donna could think of an answer they heard a noise from behind the door on the left. It was muffled, suggesting it came from an inner room.

Donna looked at Patti. "Well, here goes," she said and walked determinedly to the left-hand door and gave it three sharp raps.

The sounds of creaking furniture was followed by tentative steps that stopped right in front of the door.

Donna waited another few seconds, then rapped again.

The Indian woman opened the door and scowled at them. Behind her was Virgie, who looked frightened when she recognized them.

Donna didn't waste time with indirection. In what she hoped was the voice of authority, she said, "Virgie, you're needed. We've come to get you."

"She can't see you," the Indian woman said, starting to close the door.

Donna stepped forward into the room and gave the woman a stern look, banking on her also having a skeletal self-image. "Suppose you let her answer for herself," she said, almost shouting.

It worked. The woman backed up as if afraid. Her face was still sullen, but it suddenly looked like the sullenness of a petulant child.

Now inside and with Patti right behind her, Donna surveyed the kitchen. Longo was always decked out splendidly as if he lived in a half-million-dollar condo, but the reality was far different. Their place was a dump. A single naked light bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling on a frayed cord. The linoleum on the floor was dirty and faded, and like the front porch foot-worn, in this case with bare floor from the door to the sink. The faucet looked to be a hundred years old, with tiny metal levers for the hot and cold water. There were dirty dishes in the stained and discolored sink and a pile of clutter on the kitchen table, which had three chairs, one of which had a board across the seat. Through the door into the inner room she could see a worn sofa with tears through which stuffing emerged. Briefly she wondered what Longo did with all the money he made, but it was food for future thought, and she stepped around the Indian woman to face Virgie.

"We've got to bring some legal papers to those people, the Kimballs, whose son was poisoned by mercury. It's very important, and their other son told us that the only one of us the mother trusts and feels comfortable with is the nice blond woman who came with Chris the first time. That would be you. If they don't win this suit against Ridlon Recycling they'll have no money and their son will never get well. So, you see, you have to come with us."

It was a beautiful lie, told so convincingly and with such conviction that Donna half believed it herself, and it was said in a way that didn't allow Virgie to say no. She was aware of a dangerous feeling, that of being pleased with herself. She hoped it wasn't obvious.

Apparently not. Virgie didn't say no, though she didn't say yes either. She looked panicked, incapable of making a decision on her own. Donna eyed the Indian woman. If she started to speak, she would cut her off. But she too seemed at a loss for words. Their theory was right. Neither knew how to respond to authority—unless to yield to it.

"You can also tell Mrs. Kimball about Leighton. Did you know that he's her son? He ran away from home four years ago."

Virgie continued staring at Donna as if mesmerized. Then, blinking and shaking her head, she said, "I remember you thought so." Her clear voice was a good sign. It wasn't listless and dead, as it had been the last several times they had talked. She spoke almost like the old Virgie, and she was clearly remembering a lot more.

It was a good sign. Confident that her authoritarian mode was effective, she said, "Get your coat, Virgie."

"You've got to stay here," the Indian woman said in a tone that betrayed her desperation as she stepped in front of Virgie.

"Who says so? I say she's needed. Who are you to say otherwise?"

She saw the Indian woman's lip quiver. She was afraid, even panicky, and Donna thought she understood why. She would be alone and have to face Longo's wrath. "Why don't you leave too?" she asked in a gentle, soothing voice.

The woman shook her head.

"This is Mary's apartment," Virgie explained.

Surprised, Donna asked, "Doesn't Longo live here?"

Neither spoke. The answer was supposed to be obvious.

It wasn't, but Donna didn't want to pursue it. Remembering again the look of yearning in Virgie's eyes when she last saw her on the street, she repeated, "Get your coat, Virgie. It's very cold out."

For a long moment nobody moved; then Virgie glanced at Mary, who slightly nodded her head. Donna understood she was being brave and making a sacrifice.

"Your mother?" Donna asked but didn't finish the thought.

But Mary understood her. "She lives in Old Town." She spoke in a flat, unemotional tone beyond despair.

In the meantime Patti had picked up the coat she guessed was Virgie's and was helping her put it on.

Pulling her hat and mittens from the pockets, she turned to Mary. They exchanged a nod that seemed to contain worlds of shared experience.

"Do you need money for bus fare?" Donna asked Mary.

She shook her head bitterly. Going home was out of the question. She had no home, no friends to rescue her.

Patti put her hand on Virgie's shoulder. "Virgie," she whispered, her voice husky with emotion.

Virgie smiled at her her sweetest smile, then exchanged another silent glance with Mary. Then they were gone.

Once outside the door and in the street Virgie became very nervous. At the bottom of the stairs she hesitated, but Donna put her hand firmly on her back and guided her to the car, where she shrank into the backseat and kept her head low.

She stayed in this position until they got onto I295 South, then relaxed enough to sit up straight. Donna, concentrating on driving on the busy road with cars exiting and entering every half mile or so, was glad Patti took on the burden of talking to Virgie. She explained the status of the civil suit and its desired outcome, told her that her father was doing the case pro bono and was confident that the case was very strong. His only worry was the Kimballs, she said and added (in a lie that Donna appreciated) that they had been getting some contrary advice from cracker-barrel lawyers so that he wouldn't feel at ease about the case until the documents they were carrying to the Kimballs were signed.

When Patti had talked herself out, they drove on in silence until it started bothering Donna. She saw Virgie's face in the rearview mirror growing pensive and her eyes betraying a distant terror. "You remember that little boy, don't you, Virgie?"

"I never did see him. He was inside. I remember it was an awful place."

"They're very poor," Patti said.

"And they need help," Donna added, appealing to Virgie's soft heart. "This suit is the most important thing in their life. They'll need a lot of money to take care of that little boy."

A long uncomfortable silence passed and then Virgie asked, "Isn't he going to get better?"

Her tone scared Donna. She saw exactly what Virgie was thinking: some conditions never get better. His, _mine_.

"He'll get somewhat better, but he was so small the mercury really did a number on him. They'll need a lot of money for treatment that will make him better." She hoped Virgie didn't notice she was speaking as if to a child. But when Virgie didn't seem to notice, that worried her even more.

"Where's Chris?" Virgie asked.

Donna should have been ready for this question, but she wasn't. Her mind raced trying to find an answer that wouldn't distress Patti as well as Virgie.

But Patti handled it well and didn't give away anything when she said, "He's in northern Maine working on a pollution case at a paper mill. No one's heard from him in months. You know how he is."

Virgie accepted the explanation without comment. She even seemed indifferent. She closed her eyes and seemed to doze. Patti too became quiet and remained so until they exited the interstate in Waska where she took the documents out of the manila envelope and went through them, compulsively making sure everything was in order.

After driving several miles on the country road, they started looking for landmarks, a fork in the road, a horse farm, and an abandoned dairy. Granny Kimball had given Donna directions to the farmhouse, telling her the driveway was about a quarter of a mile before the road that led to her son's and Suzy's place, but she managed to miss it and had to turn around in the rutted dirt road where a man scowled at them fiercely as Donna nervously maneuvered the car in the ruts and ice of the dirt road. Virgie said the same man was just as unpleasant when they came last spring.

At the farmhouse an elderly but spry old man was walking into the barn as they drove up. In an understated Yankee way he greeted them with a barely perceptible nod. With everyone feeling nervous, Donna's remark about the man's effusive and friendly greeting was welcome. Their laughter released their tension, and they were smiling as they went up to the door. They had been seen, and before they could knock Jenny, an elderly lady with a deeply lined Yankee face, opened the door and invited them in. "We've been expectin' you," she said.

The kitchen was shabby but neat and clean. An old washing machine was noisily whirling through the spin cycle in the corner. A wooden shelf and two wall-mounted shelves contained numerous knickknacks of animals and children, most of them sentimental and tawdry. The kitchen table had an extra chair brought in from the dining room to accommodate the extra bodies. They must have hurriedly done that when they saw three people in the car. In a high chair and so quiet and still that Donna hadn't noticed him at first was Mark. He looked normal, though perhaps a little bit dull. While she looked at him she also perceived he still suffered from the slight tremor in his right arm that she'd seen when they brought gifts for him two months ago before Christmas.

Suzy, seeing her observing Mark, said, "He still loves that teddy bear and sleeps with it every night. It's his favorite toy."

She had liked Suzy from the moment she met her. The woman had a quiet dignity and her bearing suggested that though she might have suffered much she was strong and unbowed. "I'm glad," she said. "He deserves all the best—and that's why we're going to win this case."

"You remember Virgie, of course."

To Donna's relief Suzy actually smiled with pleasure and said, "Oh, yes."

So she had guessed right, but then everyone liked Virgie, sweet thing that she was and would be again.

Now Mark looked different, worse. Perhaps he had been asleep and was now waking up. He picked up a half-eaten banana and started mindlessly squeezing it while he eyed the newcomers with a look of apprehension. Donna had seen that look on many a little one at the daycare center and knew it was dangerous. If he started crying and fussing, it might upset Virgie. "Is Mark afraid of strangers? We don't want to upset him."

Suzy nodded and turned to Mark. "Don't worry, honey. These women are friends. They're the ones that brought you your teddy bear."

"Teddy bear," he repeated in a strange tone, a cross between a squeal of delight and grave seriousness. It was hard to say how much he comprehended and how much was an animal-like response to his mother's soothing tone, but he did calm down. Suzy cleaned him up with a wet towel and then brought him a coloring book and some crayons.

"I have some tea water boilin'," Jenny said. "Would everyone like a cup of tea?"

Donna would have preferred coffee, but she assented along with Virgie and Patti, who did like tea.

Patti got the documents out of the manila envelope she carried and explained a few things about them. Luckily Suzy asked no questions that would require a lawyer's knowledge. She also made an effort to integrate Virgie into the discussion. "My father is very thorough, isn't he, Virgie?" What do you think 'the aforementioned' document means?"

Suzy seemed anxious to sign everything as quickly as possible. She was obviously intelligent, Donna could tell, and was once quite pretty—and could be again if her burdens were lessened. When the last document was signed, she asked what would happen next.

"You mean about the trial?"

Suzy watched Mark, who had made a sudden sound. "I was just wondering if there is anything else we have to do?"

"I think the rest of the work is for my father."

"I didn't see a money amount. Is that a bad thing?"

Patti shook her head. "These documents aren't the actual suit. That names a million dollars for the damages."

"That's a lot of money," Suzy said. She spoke abstractly. The money wasn't real to her yet.

Donna liked her behavior. She wasn't greedy in any way that was obvious. Her main concern was that her son be healthy. "You deserve it. You can get the best care for Mark's physical therapy and special education."

"And you'll still have a lot left over," Patti said as she returned the signed documents to the manila envelope.

"We know. Mr. Ryan, your father, he explained that. My husband thinks we should build a house."

"I think you should too."

"I wouldn't be countin' my chickens quite yet, Suzy," Jenny said. "That Ridlon fella is a slippery customer from all I can gather."

Suzy reddened, and Donna saw Virgie redden in sympathy. She recognized something about dreams being bigger than reality. But it was there, palpable and real: she was outside herself, thinking of another, not herself.

She was about to speak, but Patti said, very emphatically, "My dad is cleverer. He says we have a very powerful case. We're going to win."

Jenny, who seemed to be the type who didn't like to be contradicted, retorted, "Maybe so, maybe so, but the law takes its own sweet time. I 'member a lawsuit a farmer up in these parts, David Hill's his name, had with a neighbor over disputed boundaries that took seven godforsaken years to settle. And the lawyers ended up with most of the money."

"Her father's working pro bono," Donna said.

"We know," Jenny said. "That means free except for expenses."

"And we're going to get an early court date," Patti added. "The discovery period is just about complete. My father is going to fly to New Jersey to interview some people there, and then all preparation is done. My father thinks the case is so clear-cut that a settlement will be made to avoid a trial. We could win it this summer. He thinks they'll offer a half million dollars."

Suzy, whom Donna suspected had long been listening to the doubting Jenny, appeared shocked that it could be that close. It was quite possible Jenny didn't have to work too hard to convince her it was unwise to hope. The thought that an unimaginable amount of money could come to them in four or five months was a shock. But Jenny, who had seen the dangerous look in Suzy's eyes, began talking at length about the poor farmer and his boundary squabble, which occasioned much to and fro commentary and contradiction.

Donna noticed during this lengthy conversation that Virgie was not paying attention. Instead she was making eyes at Mark and he was staring back, not afraid now but curious and intrigued. At one point their gazes locked and held, and then Virgie whispered something that caused him to climb down from his chair and bring his coloring book to her. They whispered some more and then he ripped out the page and gave it to her. Virgie smiled sweetly.

Jenny saw them too. She watched Virgie closely, recognizing as did Donna an affinity between the two.

But time was passing and there was some unfinished business. When a pause came in the conversation, Donna addressed Suzy. "There's something else we've found out. You have a son who's run away—is that right?"

Suzy's answer was to turn pale. Agitated, she stood and walked to the clothes dryer. No sooner had she opened the door than she abruptly closed it. "Do you know something?"

"I think so. Does he have a scar on his chin?"

Suzy gasped. "He cut himself skinning a rabbit when he was twelve."

"And his name's Leighton, right?"

"So you've seen him!"

"He's in Portland. I'm afraid he's mixed up with a bad group. But I've seen him at the soup kitchen where I volunteer. He's healthy but...well, he seems to have a chip on his shoulder. I asked him if he was from Waska, and he denied it. He didn't like the question. I think he doesn't want to be found. Virgie has seen him too. Maybe she can tell you more."

Virgie didn't like to be questioned either. She frowned and said, "I don't know him very well. I can't tell you anything." Nervously she began chewing her lip.

Donna turned back to Suzy. "Do you know why he ran away?"

She shook her head, her tear-rimmed eyes filled with an infinite and motherly sadness. "He was always a contrary boy. I think it was that we were very poor. The town kids can be very cruel, you know. I know they made fun of him. But I always gave him love. I don't know why that wasn't enough. I only know that he hated his life here."

"Shall I tell him next time I see him at the soup kitchen that you still love him?"

Tears still glistened in her eyes. "Yes, and tell him I want to see him."

Patti caught Donna's eye. She frowned slightly and tilted her head, saying plainly that the conversation was too painful not only for Suzy but for Virgie too. But it was their human duty to tell a mother of her lost son. There was nothing she was sorry for.

Patti stood and gathered all the signed documents into the manila envelope. Everyone else followed suit and began moving towards the door. While Patti said a few more words about the case to Suzy, Donna listened to Jenny, who had taken Virgie's arm and was speaking to her in a quiet voice.

"You've been quiet as a church mouse. It looks to me like you're troubled about somethin'. At your age I'm suspectin' a man is behind it. Let me pass on some advice my momma gave me. Things are never as bad as they seem or as good as they seem. I've been in both states, mind you, and I know. When I was engaged I had dreams of livin' happily ever after and didn't imagine that a shadow would ever fall across my path. My momma told me then to get my feet on the ground. Marriage is great, but it's still cookin' and cleanin' and payin' bills. It's still work. And she was right. We were poor, you see, farmin' back then and just gettin' by. So by and by I got myself in a funk the other way. I thought life was nothin' but strugglin' and havin' troubles. And momma was there to point out that there'd be days when the kids would make breakfast for you on your birthday, and somehow it all seemed worth it. So whatever is troublin' you will pass, you mark my words and think of me when you do. You've got a good heart, anyone can see that. You'll be all right."

Donna could have hugged her. Had she been writing a script she couldn't have asked for that old woman to say more.

Virgie was smiling in an embarrassed way, but her eyes had the sparkle of hope in them. In her hand she clutched the coloring Mark had given her.

Once they were in the car and driving between the high banks of snow on each side of the road, Donna said, "Virgie, Jenny was right. Things are going to get better. Tonight I'm going to cook your favorite meal, spaghetti. We've got all the ingredients."

"We'll have to thaw the hamburger," Patti said.

"We can do that in the microwave. How's that sound, Virgie?"

"Okay." She spoke flatly, without conviction.

Playfully, and hoping that was the tone that would work, Donna said, "I heard that tone, Virgie. So, okay, it won't happen overnight, but it will happen. You're safe now."

A long silence followed. Donna could see her in the rearview mirror. Chris always said her hooded eyes made her look sleepy all the time, while she thought her eyes made her look sexy and was the prettiest part of her pretty face. But now she really did look sleepy. Donna, who was sure she hadn't been sleeping well, pictured her in that ratty apartment and subject to night terrors. She would listen tonight, and if she heard Virgie tossing and turning, she promised herself that she would get up to comfort her, maybe make some tea for her and talk and help her get through the night. Maybe—for this was scenario-building and there were no rules—Patti would join her in giving support to Virgie. Then they, the women, could feed off the solidarity.

But from the backseat came another statement spoken in a deadened tone. "I don't feel safe now."

"You will," Patti and Donna said in unison. Then Donna alone said, "We'll make you safe."

There was no answer. Patti began talking about the suit and the difference it was going to make in the Kimballs' lives. Donna said she liked both Jenny and Suzy, and added, hoping Virgie was listening, "They've both had hard lives but are strong women. Sometimes you hear about the dignity of poor people and it doesn't sound right, but those two have it."

Patti nodded, and they drove on in silence. By the time they were on the interstate, Virgie was asleep.

"I think that's a good sign," Donna whispered.

"Maybe," Patti said. She sounded doubtful.

Home

Leighton Kimball was bored. He liked playing video games but not talking about them—which is what Dave Duffy and Willy Lindstrom had been doing for the last twenty minutes. They were hanging around Monument Square on the first warm day of spring after a morning of gaming and had just finished hotdogs bought from the old guy who wheeled his stand onto lower Congress Street each noon. Leighton stood leaning against the brick wall near the entrance to the gym where the middle-class office workers would go for their noon workout. He was absently smoking a cigarette and looking down at Dave, who was in his wheelchair, his arms waving as he replayed the game where he defeated the alien invaders. He could walk but just barely. He had suffered nerve damage to his spine when he was in the army and was injured in a helicopter crash at an army base in Texas. The result was that he could only partially control his legs and couldn't tell his knees to bend when they needed to. Leighton, looking at those useless legs now, was filled with disgust. He saw in his mind's eye Dave walking from the bathroom where he'd just peed, his arms outstretched for balance, looking like a walking crucifix and with his face screwed up in a look of intense concentration as if what he was doing was the most important thing in the world. And for what? So he could collapse into his stupid wheelchair with a sigh of relief. After that little display it was always Leighton's job to take his lower legs and bend them. He was sick of it. It disgusted him just like Dave disgusted him. Of course a guy swinging himself into a chair and having his legs stick straight out like two poles could be seen as comic. That's how Leighton used to think of it and chuckle inwardly while being helpful and kind in his role as helper. But the little song and dance was getting old. Only the benefits derived were still useful.

When he first met Dave at the same video arcade they'd played in this morning, what got his attention was the wad of bills in his wallet. In his usual indirect manner, he'd found out that Dave got a big disability check from the army each month by chatting him up and letting him reveal the things he was looking for. He'd played his cards right too, at first by getting to play video games free together with an occasional free lunch or snack, and then by always being friendly and helpful he had gained the real bonanza. Dave's neighbor in an apartment building on the Western Prom, a do-gooder who helped Dave get around his apartment and town, was forced to move when he got a new job. With Dave having no family except a brother who lived in Massachusetts, a need was created that Leighton filled—he could fake the role of a do-gooder with the best of them. Last fall just before it started getting cold and making life on the streets unpleasant, he had moved in with Dave, getting free room and board and occasionally some spending money in exchange for rolling Dave around town, mostly to the video arcade since computer and video games were Dave's principal interest in life. No more shoplifting, doing odd jobs, eating at the soup kitchen and generally surviving. He still had time to deliver drugs for Tim Longo at fifty bucks per delivery, picking them up at the soup kitchen and bringing them to Longo's customers after eating, and plenty of time to hang out where he wanted. So life was good, and the two roomies got along fairly well, especially since Dave always pretended not to notice that Leighton would shortchange him when he went to get groceries and occasionally steal a ten spot from his wallet when he was in the shower. The first bad sign was when Dave started taking his wallet into the shower with him. Then one day when a momentary lapse in concentration on Leighton's part had caused a humiliating accident where Dave fell out of his wheelchair on a hilly street, they had had their first squabble. Many more followed when Dave would question him carefully about the change after he'd gone out to get them beer or groceries. Leighton's position was that he needed spending money for cigarettes and other stuff just like everyone else and thought Dave should pay him for his services with some money as well as room and board. Dave, in contrast, thought a job would be the best answer. At first Leighton ignored the suggestion, but in February when Longo blamed him for allowing one of his bitches to escape, he showed his displeasure by only occasionally using Leighton for drug deliveries. So he ended up surprising Dave by getting a job at McDonald's. Unfortunately the job didn't last long. Customer complaints about him being impolite didn't help the cause, but he didn't actually get dumped off the truck until the manager saw him pick up a hamburger he'd dropped on the floor and put it into a bun.

So he was feeling trapped and looking for a way out. One thing he had learned from his life on the streets was not to let a good thing go until something better showed up. To be forced to move on before you were ready was scary. You only took a chance like that when you had to, like when he left New York City last year after he was forced to sell himself to queers for money. It turned out that coming home to Maine hadn't been too bad a move, but still you wanted to do things on your own terms. But now his mind, always working for him, had come up with a scheme. He'd heard from a guy at the soup kitchen that his parents were suing a rich guy because he'd poisoned his brother Markie. That bitch Donna, who told him every time she saw him that his mother wanted to see him, hadn't told him about the money—and that was why he ignored her. But one day Honker, who was at his table when the goodie-two-shoes bitch was telling him about his mother's longing for him and who had seen a story about the suit in the newspaper, told Leighton about it. He said that they were suing for a million bucks and that according to the paper the case was a strong one.

Leighton didn't see any reason why he shouldn't get a cut from that loot. According to Honker the money could be rolling in by the summer. There was, though, a need for caution. Having run away from home at sixteen and never talked to his family after that, there was a chance that only his mother would be glad to see him. If his father had grown to hate him even one-tenth as much as he hated his father, there could be trouble joining in on the big feed. In the meantime he was staying on Dave's good side until he was sure he could tell that crippled asshole to go fuck himself. That's why he laughed when Dave, pointing to a guy across the way who was drinking one of those fancy coffees with whipped cream and fruit, said, "I bet that guy has whipped cream on his scrambled eggs."

"Look at the silk kerchief around his neck," Willy said. "I bet he's a fag."

"Yeah, probably," Leighton said, feeling uncomfortable as he remembered New York City.

"I hope he doesn't spill his drink on it. It's so exquisite." Willy dragged out the word like a fag would: _exquuuuuisite_. He was a middle-class guy who liked to slum. His clothes reflected the rebellious role he was playing. He wore a black T-shirt with a skull on it, black pants and a black jacket. Until today a black leather jacket would have been his usual coat, but this was a black summer job.

"A guy like that wouldn't last long in the army," Dave said.

He and Willy kept talking, but Leighton concentrated on assuming a sad and woebegone expression like the weight of the world was crushing his tender soul.

It took a long time for the two assholes to notice it. He was about to give it up when Willy said, "Hey, Leighton, what's bothering you?"

He shrugged. Nothing. It's just that I was feeling a bit ashamed of myself."

"About what?"

"I been in Maine since last June and still I haven't gone home."

"Really? How come?"

"He's embarrassed,:" Dave said.

Willy looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

"I ran away when I was sixteen. I wouldn't know what to say."

Willy smacked him on the shoulder. "Man, you're crazy. That's the only reason stopping you? They're your parents." He paused and looked into Leighton's eyes with deep concern. "They didn't abuse you in any way, did they?"

He shook his head sadly. "No, nothing like that. They were just so poor and there was no future. I felt I had to escape or I'd explode." He sighed wistfully.

"Then there's no problem. Just go home. Things will work themselves out."

"You think so?"

"I know so. I know people who ran away because they were sexually molested or abused. Them I wouldn't expect to go home. But embarrassment? That's no reason."

Dave tapped him on the side of his leg. "Family is important, Leighton," he said.

So there it was, his plan falling into place just as he wanted: first Dave insisting he go as a family duty followed immediately with Willy volunteering to get Dave home. After saying he would be back tonight, Leighton walked down Congress Street and began hitchhiking after he passed the bus station. The first guy to pick him up was only going to South Portland, but his second ride took him all the way to Waska. The driver was a college kid studying biology at the University of Southern Maine. He talked Leighton's ear off about dissecting a live frog and never seemed to understand that Leighton was not interested in the topic in the least. The third ride from downtown Waska to upcountry was slower in coming. He had to walk a couple miles before a rusty, late-model car picked him up because, it turned out, he was recognized by the driver, the father of one of his old friends, Carl Nelson. "Ain't seen you in these paarts faw a long time," he said in his soft-spoken way that hid just how tough a man he was. Leighton remembered when Carl was hit by a car while riding his bicycle how old man Nelson had looked the man up who injured his son and beaten him up. So he was respectful though guarded in talking about the places he'd been. Mr. Nelson lived a half mile or so before their road, but he kindly drove Leighton to the shack. They drove past Hoot Berry, who nodded as he stood by his truck, from under which another pair of legs were sticking out, probably belonging to his son Luke, who was an auto mechanic.

The shack looked pretty much the same except for a newer red car parked in front that made Leighton frown. He had hoped to see his mother alone.

For a moment he stood gathering his thoughts before knocking on the door.

It was his mother who opened it. She looked at him with her eyes widening and then shrieked. "Leighton, you've come home!"

Before he could say anything, she had thrown herself at him and wrapped her arms around him tightly. And for a moment he knew for the first time in many years complete and utter peace. "My boy, my boy," she kept murmuring.

Finally, she pulled back and looked into his face, her arms still around his waist. "Why didn't you come home earlier? We heard you've been in Portland since last summer."

He dropped his eyes. "I was embarrassed. I didn't know how... I didn't know what to say."

"Donna talked to you, didn't she? She told you you'd be welcome. That's what I told her to say."

He nodded. "I've almost come several times, but I chickened out."

"You see it was unnecessary. You're always welcome. Donna—"

Her face was shining, but he didn't like the way she said that bitch's name, like she was some kind of a saint or something. "Momma, don't make a fuss, okay? I'm just here for a visit."

Her face grew serious. In a calm voice she asked him why he ran away.

For that he had an answer ready—one that was actually the truth. "I felt trapped. We were so poor and there was no future. I couldn't stand thinking of spending all my days just struggling to eat."

"Your father thinks it was something else."

He tensed, looking at her inquiringly.

"He thinks it was him."

He took a deep breath. "Well, in a way he's right. It sure wasn't you, Momma."

She kept the thought she was about to utter to herself. Instead she said, "Well, come on inside."

Markie was sleeping on the couch. He'd heard that the boy wasn't right, but sleeping he looked normal, though very thin and very pale. Last time he saw him he still had all his baby fat and was really nothing but a blob of meat.

He looked at his mother and sensed that she was waiting for him to say something fitting. Okay, then. "I heard that the poor little guy was very sick. How is he?"

She shook her head sadly. "No better, no worse. I pray to Jesus every day, but like your grandmother reminds me, the age of miracles has passed."

There were tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said, knowing it was the right thing to say. He made his face look sad and added, "I wish there was something I could do."

Still gazing at the sleeping boy, she spoke very softly. "We all do. Malcolm plays the old games with him whenever he gets a chance. Sharon hugs him every chance she gets. Even Sissy takes him for walks sometimes, and she's so boy crazy now that's all she usually thinks about."

"So everyone else is fine?"

Momma shrugged philosophically. "More or less. No one else was poisoned. Only poor Mark."

"How'd it happen? I've heard different things."

Momma went over and adjusted the blanket, then gently touched Markie's cheek before backing up quietly. "It was the fish we ate from the pond," she said in a whisper.

Leighton nodded gravely. "Yes, I heard that some evil guy dumped chemicals, right?"

She nodded. He was hoping she would mention the civil suit, but she didn't, and he was wise enough to know he shouldn't bring it up himself.

He sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. "Are you hungry?" Momma asked.

"A little."

"Your father is working steadily now after another bad winter. So we have things in the house. I have ham and chips and pickles I've been using for his lunches. Would you like a ham sandwich?"

"Yeah, that'd be great."

While she busied herself preparing lunch, Markie was showing signs of waking. When he opened his eyes and stared at him, it was time to be the big brother. "Hi, Markie. I'm your brother."

Then he looked at his mother, noticing that she was putting mayonnaise on his sandwich. She had remembered he didn't like mustard. He turned back to his little brother, expecting to find a pleased grin on the little thing's face, but instead Markie started wailing so loudly that Leighton had to stifle an impulse to go over and smack the little shit.

Momma abandoned the sandwich and hurried over to the couch. "He's afraid of strangers," she explained as she picked the boy up. Then she started cooing at him in baby talk. "It's okay, sweetie-pooh. That's your brother Leighton. He lovey-doves you very much."

Leighton, still bristling from the hostile wails, winced. _That little shit isn't on my Valentine list,_ he thought, but he pulled himself together and said in a soothing voice in imitation of his mother, "Sorry I frightened you, Markie. You're okay, little guy."

Safely in his mother's arms, Mark merely stared at him. But the second Momma went back to the counter to finish the sandwich, he started wailing louder than ever so that Leighton could hardly stand it. He clenched and unclenched his fists.

But it took the little shit a long time to calm down. Whenever Leighton looked up from eating his sandwich, Markie would begin fussing and crying, so after a while he kept his eyes to himself.

Finally Momma went over to turn on the TV and put him in front of it, and that did it. He started staring at it like a zombie. No doubt about it, that kid was giving him the creeps. But thank god for small miracles—he did shut up.

Momma returned to the table and sat across from him. She reached over and touched his hand as if convincing herself he was real. "I have a million questions. Mainly I want to know what did you do when you ran away and where did you go?"

"I hitchhiked and ended up in New York City. I worked at odd jobs and ate at soup kitchens."

Her face showed concern. "It must have been hard. Every night I would pray to Jesus that you were safe."

As if that did any good. He remembered the times he was beaten up, the nights sleeping outside in the cold where fear would not let him sleep, the times the fags paid him. A fat lot of good praying did. Maybe at best it took your mind off your problems for a moment, that's all.

She was watching him carefully and seemed puzzled. His face was giving too much away, he knew, and chastised himself. Changing the subject was the best thing to do. "I see Dad's got a new car."

"You mean the red car out front? No, that's Malcolm's car."

"Malcolm's?"

Momma smiled. "You've been gone five years now, you've got to remember. He's sixteen now. He dropped out of school last fall and is working twenty-eight hours a week at the service station Luke Berry works at. He's become quite an auto mechanic. Luke says he's a natural. He has a girlfriend too. He's doing all right. He gives me seventy-five dollars every week."

Leighton didn't like her tone of proud motherhood at all. He felt jealousy burning a hole inside him and couldn't stop himself from saying something cruel. "I bet the girl's a real dog."

"Dog? You mean something bad? No, Alison is the sweetest girl in the world. She lives upcountry and her family, the Bentleys, are our kind of people."

"I think I remember her brother. He was a jerk."

Momma ignored the remark. "She paints beautifully too. See that picture of the sun coming up over the trees and that faded red barn?" She pointed to a watercolor taped to the refrigerator. "She painted it."

"And see the birds on the shelf? The chickadee, blue jay and hawk? Malcolm carved and painted them."

"Well, well, a couple artists..." But he stopped, seeing she didn't like the sarcasm.

A worried look had been growing on her face. Now she looked sad as she asked, "Life's been hard for you, hasn't it?"

"No, I'm doing okay." He shrugged, deflecting the pity. "It's just he's my little brother. I find it amusing he's so grown up."

"It's more than that, Leighton. I can tell you're bitter. Why?"

He looked at her, then looked down. Fumbling for a cigarette, he thought quickly. He reached into his pocket for the lighter he'd shoplifted from the drugstore on Congress Street and lit his cigarette. "Well, it's just that I always knew Dad liked Malcolm better than me."

"We loved all our children."

"I know, I know," he said with an artfully wistful sigh. "I felt that when I thought about Markie. The whole family was victims, _all of us_ ," he added, hoping this would get him back on track to complete his mission.

But again she didn't take the bait. Gazing sadly at Markie, she said, "But Mark was the one who was hurt. A sweet innocent boy."

He felt a flash of anger that was difficult to suppress. He stood, deciding to leave and searching for some excuse. But his mind, usually so quick and dependable, failed him, and he slumped back into his chair. "Aren't you getting revenge on that guy?"

Surprised at his sudden motion, she turned from watching Markie and frowned. She didn't like the word, being a good Christian and all, but she was a mother too and chose not to comment. "I have to start getting supper ready. Malcolm will be home pretty soon. He's helping Hoot Berry with his car right now, but I'm sure he'll be glad to see you—you are staying for supper, of course?"

He shook his head. "I can't, Momma. I've got an important engagement in Portland tonight. It's about a job."

She turned from filling a pot with water from the pump. "But you'll wait to see your father, won't you. He should be home a little after four o'clock. He's clearing some land for a new house only a little over a mile from here."

He nodded, trying to appear enthusiastic.

"And now that you've visited, you'll come often, won't you?"

"Yeah, I will. I won't be embarrassed after today."

She brought the pot to the stove and then reached into a sack of potatoes to choose four or five. "I wanted Malcolm and your father to go looking for you in Portland."

"What did they say?"

"Malcolm wanted to, but your father said that you knew where we lived, and if you wanted to see us you'd come home."

He snubbed his cigarette out. "So Dad didn't care."

"No, that's not it. Your father is not himself. He caught the fish that poisoned Mark, and he blames himself. He hasn't been himself since it happened. He never goes fishing or hunting anymore. He's afraid whatever he killed or caught would have mercury in it."

"Well, it was his fault, wasn't it?"

"No!" She spoke sharply as she looked up from peeling the potatoes. "He did what he always did—he fished for food. It was that Ridlon who was at fault."

Leighton leaned forward. Finally the reason for his visit was taking shape. Wisely he pretended ignorance. "Who's he?"

"He was the man who dumped illegal stuff that had mercury in it in the pond. Your father couldn't have known about it. It is _not_ his fault. That's what I keep trying to tell him."

"I hope that this man is being punished. Is he?"

"Well, he deserves to go to jail, but in the meantime we are suing him for damages."

"What does that mean?" he asked, proud of the naive way he asked the question.

"We'll get money, that's what it means. Maybe it can help Markie get better."

He saw that the money bothered her, but that was a good sign. It meant the money was so certain she was already feeling guilt to be taking it for her son's sake when she'd rather have her son healthy. That was how mothers thought, he supposed, but if she felt guilty he'd be glad to help her get rid of the guilt. So his mission was accomplished, and he lit another cigarette and relaxed.

With the spuds all peeled, Momma started putting them into the pot. Feeling comfortable and secure, he watched her; then suddenly the mood was broken by sounds of voices talking excitedly outside.

Momma turned to look at him over her right shoulder. "That'll be Sharon and Malcolm. He must've met her bus. She was playing soccer today and took the late bus."

Leighton looked at the door and waited. Nervous, he began drumming his left leg under the table.

"Hey, Momma, look who I found coming down the lane," Malcolm said as he burst through the door. His voice was strangely jovial and nothing like what he remembered. In Leighton's day Malcolm was always quiet and sad, the spitting image of their sour-pussed father. Seeing Leighton, though, Malcolm suddenly became his old self. He stopped and stared for a moment. "Hi, Leighton. You've come home." He spoke guardedly.

Sharon, too young to remember much about him, was staring at him shyly.

"Just for a visit, little brother. I'm leaving shortly."

"How are you getting back to Portland?"

"The same way I came. I'll hitchhike."

"I can give you a ride to Route 1. I leave for work at 5:30. I have the night shift tonight."

"Okay. I heard you've got a job and a girlfriend."

Malcolm nodded in a way that said he didn't want to talk about it. Instead he asked a question. "Where have you been all these years?"

"Mostly New York City. I came back to Portland last June."

"Yeah, we heard."

Momma came over to Sharon, who was still staring in wide-eyed shyness at this strange brother. Putting her hand on the girl's shoulder, she brought her to the table and introduced her to Leighton. Saying "Hi" in a quiet voice, she suddenly became brave. "Do you want to see my paper? I got a star on it, and my teacher said it was good."

He couldn't care less about her schoolwork, but Malcolm was giving him the creeps. Again the jealousy and envy he'd felt when he learned the red car was Malcolm's simmered as a dull ache deep inside. He tried to think of a putdown as he looked over Sharon's paper. It was simple sentences like "I live in a house," "I go to school." Pretty dumb stuff, but of course he pretended to be impressed. He remembered that unlike Malcolm he was good at school. He had his mother's intelligence, while Malcolm was as stupid as their father.

In the meantime Malcolm went into the bedroom and soon emerged wearing a dark green shirt and matching pants.

"I see you've joined the army."

It was a pretty weak putdown and only brought a slight smile to Malcolm's ugly face and a dismissive, "Yeah, right."

Malcolm got out an old beat-up hockey game and played with Markie on the floor in front of the TV. The loud sound of the levers clacking made it hard to think. Leighton got the impression that Markie expected to do this every time Malcolm came home. Nobody but him seemed to think it was a distraction. Sharon worked at a drawing and asked Malcolm to help her draw a bird, which he did when the game was over. It was pretty obvious that Malcolm let his little brother win as much as possible, which was quite a trick since the little thing was not very coordinated. And of course he started wailing when Malcolm turned his attention to Sharon. Somehow that noise did not bother the rest of them either. They seemed to indulge Markie because he was sick.

His mother kept asking questions. She wanted to know if he got enough to eat, and he explained that he was taking care of a man in a wheelchair and had a nice place to live and ate all he wanted. Malcolm asked him about New York City. "Isn't it scary? he asked. "On TV it was always filled with dangerous and bad men."

Leighton shrugged it off and said people were people, to which Malcolm said, "Yeah, but you've got more guts than I do. I know I wouldn't dare to go to that place alone."

It was a compliment, and he sounded sincere, but you could never really tell if people were feeding you a line. Usually it was a song and dance so that they could get something off you. So he felt confused and uncomfortable because he wasn't sure. Did he really think being a brother was special? Leighton remembered Dave's stupid and sugary remark about family being important. He glanced at Markie, quiet now because Malcolm had started another game with him. If he was sick, would they all indulge him? He knew his mother would, but the others? And that feeling when she hugged him, it was dangerous. Love was dangerous. It made you put your guard down. That was why he only got high sniffing glue, smoking marijuana or doing cocaine or heroin when he felt completely safe. Usually that meant when he was alone where no one could find him. Laughing and joking, like others did when they were high—that wasn't for him. He wanted to forget.

He was pretending to watch some stupid game show on the TV, but really he was trying to think, wondering if what he saw in Malcolm could have been him. And if it was, would he be happy? Malcolm, he knew, was his father's favorite.

In high school boys would talk about their fathers. Not surprisingly, many of the richer kids thought their fathers, like their mothers, were impossibly stupid and didn't understand what it was like to be young, but just as many were proud of their old man, even if they were a little embarrassed to admit it. It was the country folk especially that talked this way. One guy would say his father was the best electrician in Maine. Others would say his father was a great hunter and taught him everything about the woods. A third would say there was nothing about a car that his old man couldn't fix. Leighton never took part in these conversations. Words like "best" and "most" didn't apply to his father, not unless you were to say he was the best asshole in the world or the most ignorant idiot that ever lived. There came a point in his life when just to see his father filled him with loathing. He always acted as if he had to apologize for being alive, as if he had no right to want things and dream things. He acted guilty, as if he had done some unspeakably shameful thing. He had no courage and people scared him. He was a doormat and people wiped their shoes filled with dog shit on him.

That is why Leighton hated him. At a time in his life when he was struggling to fit into the world and desperate for someone to show him the way, his father failed him.

He looked up, aware Malcolm was asking him something. The question was repeated: "Were you in New York City when the twin towers were blown up?"

He liked Malcolm's tone. The little hick brother was wondering what it was like to be a sophisticated traveler who had seen things that made history. For a moment he thought about lying, but then shrugged. "No, I was in southern New Jersey then picking tomatoes, but I was back in the city a few weeks later and watched some of the cleanup."

"So was that the kinds of jobs you did?"

He noticed his mother was listening with great interest. He was enjoying this. "I did whatever came my way. I worked on the docks, I delivered messages on a bicycle, I painted apartments—you name it, I did it."

"And did you meet all kinds of people?"

"Yeah, I suppose I did. Mostly it was spicks when I was picking tomatoes, but I worked for rich Jews and with African immigrants, copper-colored people from the Dominican Republic, blacks, Italians, Russians, some people who didn't even speak English."

"I think Maine is best," Malcolm said, "I don't think I'll ever see New York City."

"Then you'll miss a lot. There ain't much in Maine."

"But you came home," Momma said. "Maine is your home."

He considered how to answer this and decided that he'd keep his real opinions to himself. "You're my home, not the state."

That went over well. Momma smiled happily. Sharon said that Maine had the most forest of any state in the union. "I learned that in school today," she added.

"I think they mean in percentage of land, don't they?" Momma asked, but Sharon didn't know.

After looking perplexed for a minute, she asked, "Where's Sissy?"

"She's working tonight."

They all turned and looked at the door at the same time. The grinding, crunching sound of tires going over gravel was heard. Leighton braced himself for the most difficult role in his career of role-playing.

There he was.

That hooked nose and pointed jaw, that ugly caveman protruding forehead, those beady eyes, the bad teeth, none of it had changed, only he was older now and his dark hair had gray on the sides. Yeah, definitely older. He was only a little over forty but he looked sixty-five. He hated every bit of that face, hated it even more because he saw it every time he looked into a mirror. He and Malcolm especially inherited their father's ugliness, and yet Malcolm despite that—but he wasn't going to go there.

Dad took in the room with Leighton in it and stopped short. He cast his eyes down, uncertain of what to do, then looked directly at Leighton and said, "Hi, Leighton. Good to see you." He stood by the door, not moving, and watching Leighton's face.

Leighton had a pretty good idea that his father saw through him and knew the hatred he felt. Still, for the sake of the others he tried his best to sound pleasant when he said, "Good to see you too, Dad."

But he didn't fool that ugly old bastard. He saw him stiffen, and he didn't offer to shake his hand. He went over to the counter and put his lunch bucket down. "What's for supper?" he asked Momma.

"Hamburger patties, potatoes and corn. Did you get a lot of work done today?"

He nodded, then looked at Leighton. "You know about Markie, I s'pect?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Then you know what the city folks are doin' to us. Things have changed here since you left. Now they're moving up here with their big fancy houses and big fancy cars, and I'm helping clear the land so more of 'em can come."

"But they ain't the ones who poisoned Markie," Malcolm said. He seemed puzzled by what Dad was implying.

"No, but it's all changed now. The poisoning was the worst of it, but our way of life will soon be gone. I s'pect you're a city guy now. Is that so?"

Leighton saw his mother watching him closely. "I guess I am. The country life ain't for me."

"Even when you see what they do to us?"

His attitude was hostile and at the same time defeatist and abject. Leighton, feeling the anger growing, suddenly lost it and became enraged. "But what have you done about it?"

"You mean about Markie? What am supposed to do? I ain't a doctor."

"No, but you're a man, ain't you? Letting lawyers do your work? What's that good for?'

"It's a legal matter now. But I know I'm at fault. You don't have to tell me who brought that fish into the house. I did. It's my fault."

Momma gave Leighton a sharp look before turning to Dad. "It isn't your fault, Luke. You couldn't know. Don't listen to Leighton. He's angry. Maybe he's got reasons, but it ain't your fault Markie got sick."

"But you could remedy it. You talk about country ways, and yet you use city ways. Some fancy woman talks you into a lawsuit, but you haven't looked the man up. I mean the guy who dumped the poison."

"Ridlon's his name."

"Yeah, him. Would Hoot Berry take it lying down."

Momma stepped between them. "Stop it, Leighton! You don't know what you're saying. Stop it! Just stop it!"

It was too late for that. To hell with the money, to hell with it. His heart was pounding in his chest like an engine skipping a cylinder, and he couldn't stop himself now. "Carl Nelson's father gave me a ride up here from town. I remember when Carl got hit by a car and the man had no insurance and no money, Carl's daddy did things the country way. He beat the shit out that guy. And you? You take it lying down."

"Okay," Momma said. "I've heard enough. I know you're bitter. You've had a hard life, just like all of us have." Her eyes flashed and she spoke in a very angry tone. "But you're blaming your father for poverty and nothing more. It's not his fault. It's not the fault of any of us that we're poor. Your father is the best man with a saw and a tree in the area, but the work is not steady. We come from farming folk and now you just can't make a living farming. That's why we're poor and that's why we could never give you the things others kids got. We wanted to, but we couldn't. But to blame your father..."

Her anger stung him and he wanted to defend himself. "But Dad's a—"

But she cut him off. "Your father's a shy man. It's his nature. You want him to be someone he isn't, and that too isn't fair. You should apologize to your father. Heaven knows I love you, but right now the way you're behaving makes me ashamed of you. I know you're better than that. I hope when you have time to think, you'll be ashamed. Now what do you have to say for yourself?"

He thought for a moment. He'd been a fool and let his hatred get away from him. Maybe, even probably, he'd lost any chance to get a cut of the money. But he felt abused and strangely proud at the same time for saying what he felt. So he knew what he was doing when he said, "I can't apologize for telling the truth. I think, then, I'd better leave."

"Wait a minute, Leighton," Malcolm said. "I can give you a ride after supper."

"That's okay, little brother. I'll get home the same way I came without your help."

Then he walked out of the house without looking back.

### Alles Vergängliche Ist Nur ein Gleichnis

The Reverend John Covington came up to the counter at the Wentworth Library and smiled at Nellie Olson. It was almost noon, closing time for the library on Saturdays, and he was a bit breathless, having hurried through a morning of errands on this cloudy day in May. "Returning _The Courage To Be_ , Nellie, a book I would have had if I hadn't lent it to a fellow minister years ago."

"I hope he didn't steal it, Rev. Covington."

She spoke facetiously, and John answered her in kind. "I think we can say it was a matter of forgetfulness, very convenient forgetfulness, no doubt."

He was about to turn and leave when to his surprise Myron Seavey came out of the office and greeted him. Usually Annette Duval, the retired librarian, was on duty on Saturdays. "You don't look a bit like Annette," he said.

Myron went through the side door into the reading room and came out to the lobby. "She's feeling poorly today, so I came in."

"I was just talking to Barbara about you yesterday."

He and Barbara Hallam were going to co-officiate at Myron and Becky's wedding next month. Myron's sigh indicated that he knew what the conversation was about. "I don't know what else there is to talk about. The music's been chosen, the vows are all set, the church is ready, the reception is organized and the food chosen, and yet people are still talking."

John smiled. "Are you thinking it would be easier to just elope?"

"Not quite that extreme. Weddings, though, are for families more than the couple. Becky tells me that her mother calls several times a week with another idea about either the wedding or the reception. I feel uncomfortable with all this planning and would prefer a good dose of Quaker spontaneity—you know, no plans, everyone just shows up and does what the spirit moves them to do."

"Your father was a Quaker, wasn't he."

Myron nodded. "My parents weren't quite married like that, but they did keep it small. Two witnesses and their parents for guests. But," he said, abruptly changing the subject, "did you find what you were looking for in _The Courage To Be_?"

"Yes," he said in a low voice. He started walking across the spacious lobby to where large double windows offered a view of the parking lot. Myron, understanding that he wanted a private conversation, followed.

"So what made you want to reread Tillich now?"

John watched a robin hopping across the asphalt surface and pausing to cock his head to listen, unaware that no worms slithered beneath his feet. "Now that's a long story, but I think it begins with Adam Kaminski. I made a pastoral visit to his house a few weeks ago—I buried his wife five years ago and he's technically a member of the congregation. We had a long conversation."

"Did he tell you anything further about his temple?"

"No, he's in a different place now, almost indifferent about the temple. Or maybe it's too painful to think about. He's not recovering from his stroke very well, you see. In fact, he's had a couple more minor strokes. He thinks he's on his deathbed."

"Thinks?"

"Well, it's hard to say. The mind plays a dominant role in these things, and if he thinks he is, he might be. But the doctor says there's no immediate danger. One thing's for sure—he's depressed. He can't use half his body and he feels useless."

"I gather he's not a Christian."

"Yeah, only in name. He's more like an ancient Stoic, that along with being a modern existentialist. He talked about coming to a place where billions have gone before. He said death used to be an abstraction to him and occasionally a chill of horror when he felt its reality. But now that he was facing it directly, it was different. He made an interesting observation too. He said it wasn't the big moments in life that he remembered vividly—not weddings and births and so forth. It was quiet and unexpected memories that filled his mind, like seeing his wife in the backyard at sunset with a bunch of flowers in her hand and a halo from the setting sun lighting up her blond hair, or his two-year-old son staring in fascination at the first butterfly he had ever seen. Kaminski had come to believe that was what life was—those moments when time stands still and you remember why you love someone."

"And this somehow led you to reread Tillich?"

"It was his existentialist faith, I suppose. That and his lack of belief in a personal God. I haven't peeked into Tillich for over twenty years, and didn't have the time or heart for _Systematic Theology_ , so I settled on _The Courage To Be_ for a refresher course."

He spoke casually, but actually Tillich was his favorite theologian, though he also loved Luther's works for their sparks of humanity and brilliance and respected (if not loved) Calvin's _Institutes of the Christian Religion_. Tillich spoke of faith in a world of doubt, the modern world. But how much of his thoughts and opinions should he share with Myron? How boldly should he speak of his doubts? A minister, according to the conventional view, was not supposed to be subject to such negative thoughts. There were not many people with whom he could do so, but he liked and respected Myron—and trusted him. They had known each other since John was on the search committee for a new head librarian; lately they had become personal friends. He and his wife Wendy had even gone cross-country skiing with Myron and Becky twice this past winter, and each had had the other couple over to dinner during the spring. Their friendship blossomed when John supported him during the Richard Nevins business in the fall. Barbara Hallam had asked him to sign a petition in support of Myron, and he had called him at the library to ask if there was anything further he could do. Then around Christmas when rumors had circulated about a strange temple Adam Kaminski had built in the woods upcountry, he had talked to Myron about it. He was doubtful, but Myron with his treasure-trove of knowledge had mentioned Facteur Chevel, the eccentric French postman who had single-handedly built a strange hybrid palace in the nineteenth century. Together they had visited the bedridden Kaminski and gotten permission to see his work. Myron had taken numerous digital photographs of the site and made a poster display where all the architectural details were explained, but lacking Mr. Kaminski's permission to make it public, he had only shown it to John and a few others...

But his mind was wandering. He saw Myron was waiting for a further explanation. "I long ago discovered that faith wasn't something you put in a bank vault. It is dynamic and continually tested. One thing Tillich understood was that faith implies doubt. You can't tell that to a fundamentalist or to many conservative Catholics, but it is a fact. Tillich makes a great argument for this modern world of doubt. I mean the Protestant Principle."

He could see Myron searching his memory and could further see that it was a good one. "You mean justification through faith."

"And the existential leap. Never mind Pascal's wager. Full hearted, full steam ahead."

Myron nodded. "I remember that a lot of people thought he was agnostic and denied a personal God."

"But he always insisted on the reality of the presence of the spirit of God in life."

"A subtle concept, of course, just like Matthew Arnold's definition—that stream of tendencies not ourselves that makes for righteousness. Of course many people would call such subtlety agnostic."

John knew Myron was being facetious, but he retorted rather heatedly and rather too loudly, "Not necessarily." He glanced across the spacious hall at Nellie. She was clearing her desk and getting ready to leave and didn't seem to notice. In a lower tone he continued. "To me faith is an ongoing process. It needs constant testing."

"Yes, I respect that attitude very much. It's certainly more honest and human than the rigidity of the fundamentalists, that's for sure."

"Yes, it is. I had a parishioner once who—"

He was interrupted by a phone ringing, and it took a few seconds before he realized it was his cellphone. "Sorry," he said. "I meant to turn it off when I came into the library. Obviously I forgot."

"It's okay. We're just about ready to close and the place is empty."

John fumbled at his pocket before extracting the phone and turning it on. A frantic woman's voice, speaking so rapidly and indistinctly that he couldn't understand her, buzzed in his ear.

"Excuse me? I can't understand you."

He heard her take a deep breath. "This is Suzy Kimball. Do you remember me?"

He did. She was the mother of the boy poisoned by mercury. He had seen her at the hospital when he was on chaplain duty and had talked with her several times. At Christmas he had brought gifts that the congregation collected to her for her sick son. "Yes, of course. What's the matter?"

"My husband is in trouble. Or he will be if he isn't stopped."

"What do you mean?"

There was a pause before she said hesitantly, "He's started drinking, something he never did before. It's because he's so distressed about that Ridlon man."

John watched Myron walk over to a shelf that displayed upcoming events as well as brochures and catalogs from publishers and start straight-ening things up. "But didn't you win the suit? I thought you already got the money?"

"We did. It's not that. It's the way that man acted at the settlement. He was told by the judge to apologize. He did, but in a very bad way. He showed contempt. He was impolite. He wouldn't shake hands. He made my husband feel awful, like he was a worm."

"I see. But...?"

"But it's worse. It's my son Leighton. He ran away. He hates his father. He taunted him about country justice. See?"

"You mean physical violence?"

"Yes," she wailed. "He's got a gun."

"Who's got a gun?"

Myron, leafing through a catalog, looked up.

"My husband. He's looking for Ridlon right now."

"Shouldn't the police—"

"No, I don't want the police. I called my minister but he's out of town at a meeting. I thought of you. He thinks God hates him."

He had been wondering why she called him. But the explanation was strange. He couldn't hide a note of incredulity when he asked, "Your husband thinks God hates him?"

"Yes, yes. Because when he was a little boy he was responsible for another boy drowning. It was an accident really, but he blames himself. He never spoke of it before. I didn't know until today. He thinks Markie is sick because he's payment for the drowned boy. But when he's told it's Ridlon's fault, he gets confused."

"Where is your husband now?"

"He drove off. My son Malcolm is looking for him too. He's going to the Ridlon office. Could you also look?"

"You mean at Ridlon's house?"

"Yes, yes," she said, glad to be understood. "He's got to be talked out of it."

John caught Myron's eye. "Myron, could you look up Ridlon's home address?"

With a nod, Myron went into the reading room to consult the phone book while John got a description of Luke's car and discussed some logistics before hanging up. He got her phone number at her in-laws' farm and the cellphone number of Malcolm's boss, who had lent him his phone.

Myron returned just as he hung up. "You heard that, didn't you?"

"Enough to understand what was being said. It was Mrs. Kimball. Her husband has a gun and is looking for Ridlon and wants your help. Is that right?"

"Pretty much. That poor woman was spiritually naked and desperate. She told me things ordinarily left unsaid."

"But you're a minister..."

He nodded grimly. He felt very nervous and unsure of himself. Impulsively he asked, "Myron, can you help me? Can you come with me?"

"Of course," he said without hesitation.

Quickly they prepared to leave. While Myron phoned Becky and filled Nellie in on the situation, John called Wendy and told her he had to help someone and would be home as soon as he could. Having been the one to give his cellphone number to Suzy Kimball, she already understood something was up. Myron got his briefcase from his office and asked Nellie to lock the place up. Within minutes they were pulling out of the parking lot in John's late-model car.

"You've got the address?" he asked, suddenly feeling panicky.

Myron tapped his head. "Ridge Road, Bedford, number 123."

"That's near the river." As he turned onto Elm Street on the way to Bedford, he began relating the details of the phone conversation.

Myron was silent for a while. He seemed to be weighing possibilities. "I haven't met the Kimballs," he said presently, "but I know they're dirt poor and probably not well educated."

"Suzy sounded intelligent to me," John interrupted.

"I don't doubt it. I just meant—well, I don't know what I meant. I was trying to figure out if the man is really dangerous."

John braked to allow an elderly lady to cross the street. Saturday traffic between the two towns was heavy and the going was slow. He remembered that when he spoke with the Kimballs at the hospital Suzy had done almost all of the talking. Luke had hung back, occasionally nodding, other times agreeing with a murmur. "I don't think so. I think he lacks self-confidence. Poverty doesn't do much for self-esteem, you know. He's a homely fellow and awkward. I say that because Suzy is quite pretty—or could be if she wasn't ground down by poverty."

"Now they're rich, though."

"Yeah, but a lifetime of poverty has formed them."

"You say a son taunted him about country justice?"

"And that he's drunk. A bad combination. The son has been out of the picture for a long time. He ran away when he was sixteen."

They were approaching Ridlon's neighborhood. John slowed down, watching for street signs. He glanced at Myron, who appeared lost in thought.

"What are you thinking about?"

"I was thinking of the boy who drowned. That poor man has been carrying that load of guilt around his whole life."

"But that's a good sign," John said.

"What do you mean by that?"

"It shows he has a moral sense. I remember reading about some hunter who accidentally shot someone in the woods and then finished him off and buried him so that he wouldn't be bothered. That man was amoral, evil, or very morally obtuse."

"I see what you mean. The guilt humanizes Luke. We can hope that he's not very dangerous—unless he's very drunk."

John turned onto Ridge Road and they began looking for 123. It was around the bend about a quarter of a mile down the road. The house was of the type some called Mcmansions, a large ostentatious affair with vinyl siding and shoddy construction which typically—for many a sturdy Congregationalist at his church inhabited such places—would be filled with everything money could buy except taste. It was surrounded by many others of the same genre. John recalled someone telling him that this area used to be heavily wooded before it fell into developers' hands. Ridlon's house had two large third-story dormers and a first-story wing that was supposed to be for plants and the like but which looked quite barren through the large windows. There were two cars in the driveway, but that didn't necessarily mean anyone was at home—these people collected cars as others of a distant generation collected stamps.

He looked at Myron, who raised his eyebrows. "Now what are we supposed to do?"

"I don't know. He'd be here if he left over an hour ago. Perhaps we should report in to Suzy Kimball."

Just then John spotted a man working on his garden at the neighboring house. "We could ask that man if he's seen Luke's car."

He got out of the car and walked over to the man. He was in his fifties with a sunburnt bald pate and a narrow face dominated by a large nose likewise sunburnt. He appeared nervous observing John's approach.

"Excuse me. Have you seen a man in a late-model green car in the neighborhood?"

The man nodded and suddenly became animated. He had a garden trowel in his hand, which he waved in the air as he spoke. "I was just talking about him to my wife. We were thinking of calling the cops. He was parked near where your car is until half an hour or so ago and was acting strangely."

"How?"

"He was twitching, know what I mean? He couldn't sit still. He was very nervous."

"Is that all he did? I mean, did he get out of the car?"

"No. He seemed to be waiting for someone or looking for someone. He wasn't very respectable looking either. He looked like a derelict. I'm pretty sure he was drunk too."

"Okay, thank you."

"Is the man in trouble?'

"He has some personal difficulties," John said in a way that cut off further questions. "Thanks for the information."

Back at the car Myron already had Suzy on the line. "He's at the temple," he said, hanging up just as John got in the car.

"You mean Kaminski's temple?"

"Yeah. A neighbor saw him drive to his house and head across the field in that direction. Her son is already heading that way. She still hopes you can talk to him."

They retraced their route back to downtown Bedford but turned off immediately after crossing the Waska River. They would approach the temple from Kaminski's house, which was on the other side of the woods from the Kimballs' land. Earlier in the day clouds had threatened rain, but suddenly the sun came out and caused such a glare in the rear window of the car in front of them that John reached for his sunglasses. He looked up to see blue skies overtaking the retreating clouds. He should take this as a good omen, but he couldn't kid himself about the unmistakable feeling of panic that rose before sinking to the bottom of his stomach whenever he thought about what he would say to Luke. He had counseled suicidal and desperate people before but never one who had a gun in his hand. It wasn't fear for his personal safety; it was that he knew this meeting with Luke Kimball was going to be not just a test of his faith but also of his humanity.

He was glad Myron was quiet. It gave him some time to think. In telling him that his pastoral visit to Adam Kaminski had led him to reread Tillich, he had withheld the most disturbing information. He had quickly seen that Kaminski was not interested in any conventional pastoral advice. He was difficult, hostile, not in good spirits at all and didn't want to see him. It was his housekeeper who had called John and urged him to try to reach the man. After fumbling about for a while trying to find a topic that would make him open up, he had started questioning him about the temple. At some point they started talking about the inscriptions, particularly, " _Alles Vergängliche/ Ist nur ein Gleichnis_." John, who had minored in German at Yale, was familiar with Goethe's _Faust_ and knew the lines as a typically Romantic Neo-Platonic statement on the presence of spirit in life, but that wasn't Kaminski's take. The discussion started benignly enough with the sick man explaining that his wife, who was a music lover, took him to concerts where he had twice heard Mahler's eighth symphony with its setting of the final scene from _Faus_ t. Then his mood suddenly darkened, and with a harsh laugh that turned into a snort of self-contempt, he explained how he had started reading literature and philosophy after his wife's death and had come upon it again that way. But as quickly as it appeared, his scorn melted away and he became serious. He told John how after his wife Phoebe died he was possessed by an acute sense of loss. Simultaneously he was aware of Phoebe's presence everywhere. But he was perfectly aware that that was because she lived in his memory. For a while he didn't think past that conclusion, but one day long after he had started construction of the temple, unbidden the question insinuated itself into his mind: what happened when the people carrying the memories of the beloved departed also passed into eternity? In a thousand years who would remember Phoebe Kaminski, née Phoebe Brown? He had stared into space for a long moment, obviously thinking of his wife, then looked piercingly into John's eyes. Eventually everything is swallowed up, he said, even memory. When the universe expands to cold atoms or collapses back into another cosmic atom, what then of human life? "No," he said, "I realized with absolute certitude that somehow all the eternity I was ever going to face happened in time." Even if everything was forgotten, even without witnesses, evidence, anything material, his life and Phoebe's life happened. They were here. They lived. He loved her and she loved him.

"And that is why," he said before turning his face to the wall to indicate he was through talking, "I now realize building the temple was a waste of time."

John realized that there was no way he could comfort a man who turned a poetic statement about the presence of spirit in life into a bleakly existential absolute. The very idea of comforting this man seemed childish and ineffective. At the same time his rejection of the temple, made from uncounted hours of labor and a universe of love and carefully researched with a scholar's passion for accuracy, was one of the saddest things he had ever heard a man utter.

It made him doubt everything, even exactly what it was he doubted—himself, God, goodness, or whatever. This rendezvous with Luke Kimball would be the first time since his meeting with Kaminski that he would be called upon to try to alleviate pain and suffering. He hoped the Protestant Principle and the presence of divine spirit would be with him, but it was only a hope. His confidence had deserted him.

Myron, who had maintained so respectful a silence that John almost forgot he was there, broke the silence when they were about a mile from Kaminski's house by saying he was going to call Malcolm's phone to make sure they were at the temple. But the cellphone was either turned off or ignored, for no one answered. "I don't know if that's a good or bad sign," he said as he gave up and put the phone down.

"We'll soon find out," John said as he pulled off the road a few hundred feet from Kaminski's house, where an old lumber road led to the temple. The sky was totally blue now and the sun had warmed the earth enough that one knew summer was fast approaching. There were NO TRESPASSING signs posted every fifty or so feet, but this was no time to stop and ask permission. The woods were very quiet. The air was perfectly still so that no branches or leaves rustled, and being early afternoon all the birds were silent. John, searching for landmarks they had seen last winter when they came down this road, was starting to get worried. Their _Winterreise_ to the temple had been on a cold early January day after a brief thaw had melted all the snow and left the woods bleak and naked, but now with everything—ferns, bushes, and trees—all green the woods looked different. He was about to panic when Myron discovered the three birch trees growing close together that he remembered seeing in the winter. Cutting through the woods at that point, they soon came upon the back side of the temple. John remembered that in the winter it looked strangely out of place, but now it was stunningly beautiful and mysterious as its rich brown and gray earth tones were complemented by the varying shades of green from pine and poplar and oak, bright in places where shafts of light reached it, darker in shaded areas. It was not a waste of Adam Kaminski's time, he thought, not unless.... But he let the thought stay unexpressed and unacknowledged.

Coming around the corner to the front of the edifice, they saw Malcolm first. He was standing with his back to them and looking down at his father, who was sitting on a large rock with the gun in his hand. The boy turned, but it was to the inanimate danger of the cold metal that John's attention was drawn. He felt his pulse quicken before noticing that Luke held it lightly and his finger was not on the trigger. Then he saw Luke's wizened face was slack, as if he hadn't slept in a week, and the way he slouched made him look utterly exhausted and defeated. A wave of profound sorrow replaced the apprehension the gun had engendered and made John come to a sudden halt.

"He's not dangerous," Myron whispered. He too had seen that Luke was a beaten man.

John nodded. "Suicide..." he whispered and left that thought unfinished as well. He had seen that face before and knew it was the face of a man whose life was too painful to bear.

They stepped forward slowly so as not to alarm Luke. When they did, they saw the girl Mrs. Kimball had spoken of. She was about fifteen feet away, leaning against one of the Doric pillars of the temple. John could see that her face was twisted in empathetic pain for the broken and suffering man, and instantly he knew she was a good person who could be trusted.

She was relieved to see them. She rushed over to them, wiping her tear-rimmed eyes.

She was about to speak when Myron, his face lit up in recognition, said, "Hello there. I remember you. You were researching Van Gogh."

She nodded, but it was John she spoke to. "It's awful," she whispered. "He's thinking of suicide. Malcolm is trying to talk him out of it. He keeps talking about an eye for an eye and says the Lord is smiting him. He even uses the word 'retribution' and thinks he owes God his death because he was responsible for a friend drowning when he was a little boy. He thinks his death will save little Markie. He's drunk too. Malcolm's trying to tell him he's wrong, but he doesn't know enough about religion. Rev. Covington, you've got to help him."

He patted her reassuringly on the shoulder and turned. Walking towards the two males, he saw Luke cringe like a guilty little boy. The unconscious gesture reminded John of Jason Buckley, whom he counseled several years ago after he was sexually molested by a priest. He was at Juilliard in New York now and doing well. That thought emboldened him. Here was his calling, here the work at hand. There was no time for doubts in the face of suffering humanity.

Malcolm waited for him to come up to them before saying to his father, "Dad, this is Rev. Covington. He'll be able to explain things to you."

He spoke very gently and with deep feeling. John nodded to him in a way that communicated his respect for the young man. He watched the boy join the other two, then turned. "Luke, I'm John Covington, a minister of the lord. Your wife told me about that boy who drowned when you were a boy. I think we need to talk about him."

He frowned, but a look of panic flashed in his eyes. "She shouldn't have."

"No, it was good she told me. Do you mind if I sit?' When Luke shrugged, he sat at his side. This position would be better, for first it made them equals in a way that standing and looking down at him precluded, and secondly it would allow Luke to speak without having to look at him. He already understood that the man's guilt, together with his low self-esteem, made him avoid eye contact.

"No, it was a good thing," he repeated. "It's the sort of thing that you can tell a minister."

Luke grunted, expressing his doubts.

John glanced over at the other three grouped together and trying not to stare. Myron was saying something, and the two young people were listening respectfully. Above them he could see at the front of the portico PHOEBE VIVET and above it on the Mayan pyramid ALLES VERGÄNGLICHE IST NUR EIN GLEICHNIS. _All that is passing is but an emblem_ flashed through his mind, followed by Shelley's line, _The One remains, the many change and pass_ , and suddenly his soul surged with confidence. He looked at the gun, still held loosely in Luke's right hand, but this was not the right time to ask him to put it down.

"Luke, it's no good blaming yourself for that boy's death. You were a little boy then. You didn't understand fully the risks."

Again Luke grunted, but he was listening.

"I had a parishioner at the last church where I preached in Portsmouth. He had a son who was four or five. Do you know what he did? He backed his car over the little one and killed him accidentally. He blamed himself and his wife blamed herself. The phone had rung and she turned to answer it before deciding to wait. But in those three or four seconds her back was turned, the little boy ran into the driveway just as his father was backing out of the garage, Their driveway was a hill, so the man was used to gunning the engine to give the car the momentum to get up the hill. You see it was no one's fault, just a terrible tragic accident?

Luke, listening to this with his head down, both elbows on his knees and his arms hanging between his legs with the gun in his right hand, stole an inquiring glance at John, but he said nothing.

John, deciding another tactic was needed, recalled the words he and Myron had exchanged about guilt and the moral sense. "Let me ask you something, Luke. Do you know what kind of people are bothered by these tragic accidents?"

Luke, looking steadily at the ground, said in a low voice, "Every-one."

"But it isn't everyone. It's good people. I've heard of cases—and I bet you have too—where hunters have shot a person thinking it was a deer and instead of coming clean have tried to hide the evidence. And that Ridlon man. Everything I know about him tells me he didn't care if someone was poisoned by his illegal dumping. He only cared that he was caught. But your feeling guilty tells me you are a good and moral man. You cared for your friend. His life was precious to you."

"Yeah, but all I know is that my son ain't right in the head and he's clumsy, don't have no balance."

"Blame that on Ridlon. What we know, God knows. He won't escape responsibility for his evil. More than the fine awaits him."

Luke grunted, sounding doubtful. He gave John a troubled, perplexed look before instantly dropping his eyes. "I dared him to swim out. He didn't want to."

"Boys do such things. How old were you?"

He recollected for a moment. "Nine."

"What do you know when you're nine? You're a boy. You haven't learned about responsibilities. You wouldn't expect Markie to be responsible for himself, would you?"

He made a gesture with his gun hand like shooing a fly away.

"No," John said emphatically, watching the gun, "his parents have to do that. Now you've got the means to get the best help for him."

He said nothing, and after waiting a few seconds, John shifted gears. "Let me ask you this. Why'd you fish in the pond?"

He frowned, then rubbed his fingers across his lower lip. "I always do, always have." He spoke impatiently.

"But why? What was the purpose?"

He was silent for a long time and still seemed impatient, as if he was trying to figure the answer John wanted to humor him or make him stop bothering him. "I suppose you mean it was to feed my family."

"Well, wasn't it?"

He nodded.

"And it was because you weren't working, wasn't it? I mean your work is seasonal and there's no call for a timberman in the winter."

"No, there ain't."

"And you come from farm folk, I know. That's what you learned to do."

"Ayuh, that's all I know. That and what to do with a chain saw."

"And again farming doesn't pay much." John leaned forward and touched Luke's shoulder. "Look, Luke, it isn't your fault. God knows your heart, and it isn't your fault. He knows you didn't mean for your friend to drown, and he knows you were fishing to help your family. He also knows the things that make farming not pay are the results of decisions that were made in New York, Chicago and Washington. You had no control over any of that."

He waited for a response, but as Luke was thinking and looked puzzled, John drew the conclusion for him. "See? It wasn't your fault. You were doing the best you could for your family. You couldn't have known someone was poisoning the fish. And think of the court case. The government agrees—they found Ridlon guilty. A lot of people think he should have gone to jail—I'm one of them—but the law didn't quite go that far. So for him, we'll have to have faith in God's law."

"I know what you're talking about. It's called retribution. You think God doesn't want retribution for me?"

"You mean as if he was hurting your son because of that friend who drowned?"

Luke nodded and looked at him. This time his eyes lingered for a moment, and they looked clearer, as if he was sobering up.

"Not a bit of it," John said. "God knew what was in your heart just as you know it. You didn't mean to harm anyone. God knows that. An eye for an eye is Old Testament thinking. Jesus teaches us that it is better to suffer evil than to inflict it. He also said let he who is without sin cast the first stone. We're all sinners. We all make mistakes. God forgives us just as we are to forgive those who trespass against us."

He gave Luke time to think and let the message sink in, then he took the next step. "Luke, I understand you haven't spent any of that money from the trial yet. Can you tell me why?"

Luke looked across the open space to his son, regarding him with a strange longing, but he said nothing.

"I'm going to guess. It doesn't seem right to you to be spending money because Markie is sick."

He nodded.

"But the money is for him. I think you should get the best professional help for Markie and then build a nice house."

Luke thought about the suggestion for a long time, and his answer was to lean forward and put the gun on the ground.

"What does Suzy want to do?"

"She wants what I want. She hasn't asked me to spend the money, hasn't said a word. She's waitin' for me."

That was the most words he'd said. "You mean she's respecting your feelings?"

"Ayuh."

"She's a good woman, isn't she?"

He nodded.

"And a good mother. I've seen her concern for Markie. I know she loves all her children."

A pained expression passed across his face, but now John knew his man. "Don't think that, Luke. You do deserve her. You're a good man too. Money or no money—it doesn't make any difference. Doing what you can, that's what counts. I think both of you have always done that. You've both been bigger than your poverty. I don't know young Malcolm over there very well, but I can tell you've turned out a fine young man in him."

For the first time Luke smiled—a smile of parental pride.

"Why should all those strangers build houses on old farmland when you, the people who tilled that land for centuries, don't have a house? It's only fair that on your family's land you build a house, just as it's only fair to use the money from Ridlon to nurse Markie back to health. Remember God sees all. He knows an accident when he sees one. Suzy wants the best for her little one. For her sake, for Markie's sake, you should put that money to good use."

"Do you think... Markie...?"

"Will get better? Well, I'm not a doctor, but I do know with intensive therapy there is a good chance he might get so much better you'll forget he's been sick. Wouldn't that be wonderful."

"It would," he whispered.

John took a deep breath and relaxed. He knew his work was done and that he had been successful. He looked up again at the inscription on the temple: _Alles Vergängliche ist nur ein Gleichnis_. Below it he could see that the sweet girl who had had tears in her eyes for Luke's suffering was looking at them hopefully. He knew Phoebe Kaminski must have been a wonderful woman to inspire this monument to her honor. He thought of his wife's steady and loving support through all the years of his ministry and the strength it took a woman like Suzy to be a mother for her sick boy and a helpmeet for her damaged husband, and with a surge of joy he remembered the lines that followed and finished Goethe's poem:

Das Ewig-Weibliche

Zieht uns hinan.

The Horizon

The first thought Patti Ryan had when she woke was that Chris was coming home today. It was her last waking thought last night as well, for she had tossed and turned for hours thinking of him before she finally fell asleep sometime after two o'clock. Before she had crawled into bed she had reenacted her nightly ritual, this time with more than usual intensity, of looking at the photograph of her and Chris that the couple at Bedford Point had taken last summer and losing herself in the loving smiles and happiness they shared. To recover that moment and hold it forever had been the work of her mind, and yet it was impossible. She'd remember his smile, then have it dissolve away when confronted with everything she knew about his hard, savage single-minded devotion to his causes. Try as she might, she couldn't trust him. She told herself his cold ego knew nothing of fidelity and steadfastness and that it was better to forget him. No sooner was that vow made than she would remember his shy need for her when meeting strangers such as when they attended the meeting of the Greens last summer, and she would be off again dreaming of a love that lasted forever. Then to rein herself in from such madness she would catalog all the times he had failed her: the big and little things, almost daily in occurrence, like forgetting to get something at the store she had asked him to get, the waiting for him at some street corner until it was clear he wasn't going to show, the innumerable times he took her for granted, the times she wore new clothes and he did not notice, the favors done without thanks, the failure to remember a birthday or that she didn't like vinegar on her french fries, the time in high school when they were rebel students and decided to mock the senior prom by attending and him not understanding that she really wanted to go and how disappointed she was after buying a prom dress to hear him say it was a joke and that he never intended to go and so of course they didn't—enough remembrances to fill a book as long as _War and Peace_ and ending when he walked out on her last fall without saying good-bye.

Such was her night and the reason she woke feeling unrefreshed and oppressively uncertain. And she was glad he was coming home? Filled with hope for the future, was she? Thinking he could change and become forever the smiling companion in that picture? So again reason did battle with hope, and reason, that pathetic, ridiculous thing that merely used logic and knowledge verified by experience—it lost.

She could hear someone coming out of the shower—probably Virgie since Donna usually was an extremely early riser who liked some quiet time alone every working morning, but maybe Alex if he had an early appointment now that he was working for his father this summer as he approached his final year of law school—but whichever it was, the prospect of facing her housemates caused her to turn her mind to last night's phone conversation with Chris.

They were having a quiet evening. Alex was out somewhere, but Virgie was watching television while reclining on the living room couch, her usual practice since her deliverance from Tim Longo. Donna was sitting at the dining room table from where, in the small house without walls dividing kitchen, dining room and living room, she would occasionally watch the television while working on a jigsaw puzzle of Botticelli's _La Primavera_ that her boss at the daycare center had given her upon her return from a trip to Tuscany. She had bought cups and the like as gifts for all the women who worked for her but had miscalculated the numbers, and as a result Donna ended up with the puzzle. For weeks it remained unopened in its box, Donna never being interested in such pastimes, but something, boredom perhaps, had recently led her to break it out, and she had periodically worked on it since. Patti was sitting at the kitchen table finishing the last chapter of a biography of Margaret Sanger that Carl Stone had lent her. Carl was specializing in prenatal care, and all aspects of reproduction, including means and methods to avoid pregnancy, interested him. Patti had gone with him to the end-of-the-semester party for the nursing program a few weeks ago while Donna looked on like a proud mother seeing her daughter off to the senior prom. Patti, recollecting her face now, became aware that she had hardly given a thought to Carl Stone last night while wrestling with Chris's ghost. But, then, the engagement had been less a date and more a matter of two colleagues carpooling—though she knew Carl didn't see it that way. She had begun to try to think of Carl in a different way—he was after all a solid and decent man, unexciting perhaps, but steady and dependable—but that ringing phone had driven him clean out of her head.

Patti, at the kitchen table and therefore nearest to the phone, had answered it. As soon as she excitedly exclaimed, "Oh hi, Chris!" Donna and Virgie had turned to listen. Virgie's eyes and mouth widened, while Donna's eyebrows furrowed into a disapproving frown.

He was matter-of-fact, maddeningly so, but feeling the thrill of excitement energizing her body, she ignored his tone, telling herself it was just Chris being Chris. His court case for breaking and entering, which had been postponed in February, was scheduled for tomorrow at one o'clock in Waska, and he wanted her to accompany him.

"I'm leaving early and should get into Portland before ten o'clock," he said. "Listen, could you come with me?"

"Of course," she said without any hesitation.

"I don't think it will take too long. I just talked to the lawyer Natalie Feldman arranged for me, and he told me that."

"Okay," she said. She didn't dare ask him what his plans were after his case was heard. "How have you been?"

"Fine—and busy. Okay, gotta go. See ya tomorrow."

Hanging up, she saw Donna staring at her. "He wants me to go with him to court in Waska tomorrow," she explained.

Donna rolled her eyes. "He calls you at seven on the night before and expects you to drop everything?"

"I didn't have anything to drop. I'm on vacation now, remember?"

"But what if you had? What if you had to work tomorrow or had a class? What if you had a final exam or something? He expected you to forget your life and yield to his."

"It's just Chris's way. I bet he forgot all about the court date until today. He always thinks of appointments at the last minute. How many times have we seen that?"

Donna frowned impatiently. "Yeah, until someone reminds him."

They both knew who the "someone" was in this case. Patti hadn't forgotten, but to close off any further discussion, she said, "Don't worry. I have my eyes open." Right then she couldn't stand another lecture from her self-appointed big sister on Chris's self-absorption and unreliability.

Donna wisely refrained from any further comments, but Patti could see her mind working. It was that glimpse into her friend's psyche that made her dread going downstairs. Somehow, she knew, Donna had formulated a plan of attack and would not let her off lightly.

She got up, wearing her usual long T-shirt and panties, and after making the bed cautiously opened the door. She could hear sounds from the kitchen and could tell both were either eating or getting their breakfast. Her bare feet on the carpeted hall and stairs made no sound as she came down the stairs. From the landing she could see Virgie eating a bowl of cereal. She looked different, and for a moment she paused to think of what it was. It wasn't her clothes. She had been dressing slightly better for several months—though the transformation was a subtle one. Where she used to favor jeans with worn and torn knees and T-shirts, now she wore new jeans and colored jerseys. Most days sneakers replaced sandals. And now she almost always wore a bra. Her work was no different—in fact she was back at the UPS working for close to minimum wages just as she had in the past. The biggest change was her lack of any social life. Her experiences with Tim Longo seemed to have made her leery of love and males. Except for when she attended the group therapy meetings for recovering drug addicts, she rarely left the house unless with Patti or Donna. She didn't consider herself a drug addict—her experience years ago with bad grass had already taught her that fire burns, and the cocaine and heroin she used under Longo's sway was involuntary, she maintained—but let Donna talk her into going. She never mentioned Longo after the first week home when Donna had taken on the role of a psychotherapist and explained how Longo had manipulated her, and that was why Donna felt she should have a place to speak freely. It was hard to tell if the sessions were doing any good. She was physically healthier but psychologically was, well, different, more flattened, as if she was just existing, not living. But this morning she looked different in another way, more like her old self, younger, maybe, happier. Then Virgie looked up from her bowl of cereal, and Patti came into the kitchen.

Virgie watched her progress, her hooded eyes shining brighter than they had in ages and appearing more energetic and alive. When she spoke, it was suddenly clear that it was a special day for her because Chris was coming home. In a voice that could not disguise her anxious expectations, she asked, "When do you expect Chris to arrive?"

"Around ten, I'd guess. He said he was starting before six."

She spoke casually, trying to deflect overblown expectations. She saw Donna, who was bent down looking for something in the refrigerator, turn with the container of orange juice in her hand and regard her critically. She had caught the casual tone and was assessing its meaning suspiciously.

It made Patti feel faintly ridiculous, and she had to suppress the smile she could feel prancing at the corners of her mouth like horses at the starting gate. Perhaps Donna saw it too—the irony of her trying to dampen Virgie's excitement while she shared it. Last night she had forgotten about Virgie's love for Chris—she had in fact never taken it too seriously—but now she changed her mind. She could understand hidden love, its gnawing need, the irrational longing of it, and felt bad for her friend. There was not one iota of jealousy in her, of that she was quite sure, no fear that Chris would ever choose Virgie, but she could understand that had nothing to do with the feelings Virgie was experiencing.

The sense of the ludicrousness of her situation grew in her. She was actually doing to Virgie what Donna was doing to her! The funny thing was that she knew better than anyone that such maneuvers didn't work. She who had spent half the night trying to dampen her own hopes and found it impossible knew that hope was like a hangnail. The slightest bump reminded you it was there and wasn't going away. Wishes wouldn't affect it. Reasoning with it was absurd. She thought of the photo of her and Chris again, how happy they looked with their arms entwined and wide smiles glorifying their faces in the best moment they had ever shared together. That couple _was_ in love. They loved each other. It was hard evidence, strong enough proof to convince a jury.

And yet the hangnail hope was also like faith: it could not exist without doubt. That thought freed her from fearing Donna's sharp tongue. She couldn't say anything she hadn't already thought.

Though not fearful, she still felt uncomfortable waiting for Donna's expected assault on her and Chris. She got a bowl of cereal and poured milk while Donna, who was watching her weight having recently gained five pounds, toasted a single slice of whole-wheat bread and spread margarine on it while joking about how she really would prefer a couple gooey glazed donuts or at least real butter and a generous portion of strawberry preserves. That her laughter rang hollow told Patti that she was still biding her time.

In the meantime Virgie, who had finished her cereal, remained at the table. She seemed preoccupied until suddenly coming to a decision. "Don't you think we should have a special meal for Chris tonight?"

She addressed Patti, but Donna answered.

"You're assuming he's staying?"

"Won't he?"

She spoke so hopefully in a tiny voice and looked so earnest that momentarily a dark, sad cloud threw Patti's soul into the shadows.

"He didn't say anything about staying," Donna said sharply as Virgie's face fell. She turned to Patti. "Did he?"

She knew Donna was being cruel to be kind, but she also knew she would not be capable of destroying dreams. She thought of the time Lexi and Donna talked about male egoism and in so doing led to her losing Chris, and a flash of anger rose in her. But she stifled the impulse and merely shook her head.

"I'd guess that it would depend on if his work upstate is finished," Donna said in the same cold tone.

"Well, he'd at least spend the night, wouldn't he?" Virgie asked, her voice sweetly hopeful again. She exchanged a glance with Patti that seemed to imply she saw them as coconspirators against Donna. The alignments were certainly shifting. It was getting dizzying.

Then Donna finally played her hand. She rose from the table and walked to the sink to rinse her dishes. With her back to them, she said, "I don't think it's wise to depend on Chris, and I wouldn't plan on anything special for dinner."

After that she went upstairs into the bathroom. It appeared that that was all she planned to say, but when she came downstairs with the car key in her hand and said, "Come on, Virgie. It's time for work," she had one more thought to impart. At the door she looked back at Patti, who was just opening the newspaper, and said, "Oh, by the way, did you finish that biography of Margaret Sanger?"

Her tone put Patti on her guard. "Almost."

"Do you still think she's a feminist saint after reading it?"

"More so. But why do you ask?"

"Only because many biographies turn out to be so disillusioning. Your hero suddenly turns out to be a creep or an egomaniac—or both."

"Well, she wasn't perfect, but she's still a great woman."

"Okay, sounds promising. Next time you see Carl, ask him if I can read it too. See you tonight." Then she was gone, but not before her face assumed a pleased, satisfied expression. And perhaps her minimalist and oblique technique worked, for instead of reading the paper while she waited for Alex, whom she could hear in the shower, Patti thought about Carl Stone.

He was tall, with a long face dominated by large wire-rimmed glasses. His dark hair was never quite combed, giving him a just-got-up-and-rushed-out appearance, a quality that Patti actually liked in him since it showed he was not in the least affected. He also had a self-deprecating humor that was equally admirable. It took a special kind of man to be a male nurse, one who was compassionate and caring of others, qualities that too many of the male sex were sadly deficient in, but whenever people asked him how he came to be a male nurse, he would answer that it was because he was too dumb to be a doctor—a statement of very doubtful accuracy since he was a brilliant student. So not only was he intelligent, self-effacing and caring; he was also honest, decent and dependable. His only real fault, Patti knew, was that he was not Chris Andrews.

And maybe Chris's fault was that he was not Carl Stone. But no sooner had that thought occurred than she rejected it. Life wasn't a beaker where different substances are mixed together to create a greater whole from disparate qualities. Oil and water never combined. It was equally foolish to compare the two. Donna hadn't inserted any new doubts into her mind, but she had certainly awoken all the old ones. Sometimes Patti wondered if she was ever going to feel at rest and living without uncertainty, ever going to stand at a place where she could see more than a few hours into the future. Sometimes she thought all that Chris was doing to her was postponing her life and that she ought to forget him. But maybe the uncertainty was what made life exciting. Maybe Chris was life incarnate, always seeking, never finding. Maybe people gave up the best part of themselves when they settled for normalcy and routine. Is that what Donna wanted for her? What was gained from such a choice? Relief, rest, nothing more? She had no answers to these questions. She knew they were directly or indirectly all questions about Chris. He was the one she had to see clearly and without illusion. Doing that, all her questions would have answers.

She was standing by the sink, looking out the window hardly seeing the warm June day with the green leaves swaying in a soft breeze and the blue sky above, but with a sudden motion she turned and walked to the table.

One thing she could do was talk with Alex. She could trust his opinion. He wouldn't try to save her; he would let her be herself and make her own way.

Feeling calmer and more in control, she glanced through the paper without really reading much of it as she waited for Alex to finish his shower and get dressed. The latter procedure as always took a long time, so that it was 8:30 before he came downstairs. Having to be at the office at nine, he wasn't going to have much time.

That's why the moment he came downstairs she told him about Chris's call and the fact that he was coming. Without going into much detail, she also retailed Donna's objections, especially her main argument that Chris was unreliable.

Alex, eating his cereal, paused thoughtfully. "Well, you know she's probably right. I like Chris, but I wouldn't depend on him for anything important."

"People change," Patti said. She was standing on the other side of the table with her arms folded, slightly swaying as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "They grow. What if Chris is still in the young stage of life where you fight the world and want to change it?"

"I think some people live that life permanently."

"And you think Chris is one of them?"

Alex rose and went to the sink to rinse out his cereal bowl. With a low, deep growl the garbage disposal pulverized the remnant of all the breakfasts this morning. "Probably," he finally said when it was quiet. He started taking his vitamins. About seven different bottles had to be opened and a pill extracted.

While he was busy with that, Patti was thinking. She saw the photograph in her mind, the smiles and the entwined arms. "We've always had something special," she said quietly, without any pleading.

Alex threw the collected vitamins in his mouth and washed them down with orange juice. Rinsing out his glass, he said, "I know. I've always known you two were soul mates. But sometimes a love made in heaven can only exist there."

"You mean...?"

"Probably. But I understand where you stand. I thought Carleton was that special person for me, but living with him for just two weeks opened my eyes."

"You say he was fussy and—"

"Fussy doesn't begin to describe him. He's actually a control freak. A plate couldn't be a quarter of an inch from where it belonged without him getting upset. From a distance we were perfect. We just couldn't live together."

She didn't have to verbalize the conclusion. Instead she said with false jocularity, "And you're not exactly a slob."

He smiled ironically. "Well, I'm not saying Chris can't change. But Carleton is a different story."

He was opening a small window and saying it was possible to be hopeful without being foolish. Love was bigger than any impediment thrown in its way. Life was always opening new possibilities. If they loved one another, anything could happen.

She looked up to see Alex watching her with a bemused expression on his face. She had the feeling he was reading her thoughts. "Well, I've got to get downtown. Is Chris staying here tonight?"

"He didn't say."

"Well, if he does I'll see him. If he doesn't, say hi for me." Then he did something he hadn't done in ages. He hugged her, squeezing her warmly and with feeling.

After he left she tried to figure out what it meant. Was he trying to tell he she was loved and needed regardless of what Chris did, or was it his way of saying he understood her situation and was wishing her luck?

She couldn't say. She couldn't even see two hours into the future. The future was somewhere on the road north of Portland heading this way.

She showered, thinking of him, and shaved her legs, then dressed carefully, choosing a red top, khaki shorts and Birkenstock sandals. Downstairs she thought of having another cup of coffee, but the possibility that she might have to pee a long way from a bathroom and the growing warmth of the day made her nix that idea. Instead she turned the coffeemaker off but did not throw away the remainder in case Chris would like a cup upon his arrival. Then she decided to sit on the front steps and let her hair dry. In the shade under the large oak tree in the front yard, it was a beautiful day, warm, not oppressively hot, and for a while she simply relaxed and let her mind go blank, though not too far off was the thought that she mustn't stay here too long. It would look too anxious if Chris saw her on the front steps.

Her neighbor Bart Aurelieu came out whistling a tune and paused to chat over the hedge for a few minutes. He was a pleasant man in his fifties who worked in administration at the University of Southern Maine but whose mania and first love was fishing. Rubbing a sunburnt bald pate, he told her about his bass-fishing exploits last weekend and sheepishly explained when she asked if that was where he got the sunburn that he had fallen asleep in the backyard yesterday afternoon.

"Any new development with your gang? Virgie, is she still doing okay?" Patti had told him and his wife all about Tim Longo.

"She's doing as fine as can be expected. The big news is that Chris is coming by today—he should be here within the hour, in fact."

Bart was of a conservative bent but because of his love of fishing approved of Chris's environmental work. "Must mean he's got that pollution upstate under control," he said with a grin. "You tell him for me to keep up the good work, though I know he doesn't need me to remind him of that."

She started thinking about Chris's work after Bart strolled off, briefcase in hand, to the university. In the present state of society that work made him bang his head against the Powers That Be and The Way Things Are. Those with power tried to marginalize him, and he hated American culture as a result. But how far off the mainstream could he be when a Republican fisherman approved of him? Maybe he would not always be an outsider at war with society.

The thought—or was it a hope?—was cut short. A woman walking a baby in a stroller came by, and the little one, a dark-haired girl of about two, threw something onto the sidewalk. When the mother patiently retrieved it, she promptly threw it down again.

The mother smiled at Patti. "She seems to find this fun," she said." It's the fifth time she's done it."

"Babies have minds of their own," Patti said, returning the smile.

The mother, wiping the child's drooling mouth with her bib, said, "They sure do."

The baby's crinkled-up face made Patti's smile broaden into a grin. Watching the mother fussing and cooing at the child, she had the sudden desire to pick the baby up and hold her.

"You've got a mind of your own, don't you, sweetie. Samantha's getting to be such a big girl. Well, Mommy's going to trick you and put the rattle under the cushion. Then we'll see if you can get it."

She spoke in the high-pitched tone one uses addressing a little child. She was so absorbed in her love that for a moment Patti thought she might have forgotten she had an audience.

"How old is Samantha?" she asked.

"Twenty months."

"She looks very healthy."

The mother smiled proudly. "She is. She's never had a cold or even an upset stomach." Then again modulating her voice up to the high-pitched range, she said, "You're Momma's little perfect girl, aren't you," while the child grinned happily.

After the mother and baby continued on their way down the street, Patti went inside. She sat in the easy chair that afforded a view of the street and tried reading the paper again. She looked for some environmental news that would offer conversational material, but found nothing.

The minutes ticked away slowly as they always do when one is waiting. Ten o'clock came and then 10:15, at which point she started pacing around the small house, going in a circle that brought her to a view out the window every ten seconds or so. While thus employing herself in the maelstrom of slow time, her mind began racing through all the possibilities awaiting her until she could not think coherently. She was gripped by the physical need to be with Chris—that, ultimately, was all that filled her mind. Finally a few minutes after 10:30 she saw his familiar Japanese car pull up.

Chris got out of the car, and from the window she could instantly see a change. His blond ponytail was gone; his hair, in length just over the ears, was consequently darker, more brown than blond. But she didn't have time to think about it. Forgetting all about unseemly haste, she flew through the door and down the walk as he walked around the car, only to feel the smile on her face deflate when she saw his angry look.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He came up to her. "Oh, nothing, just a dead moose hit by a car on the road when I first left and then people dumping stuff by the road outside of Portland. Nothing ever changes."

He was beside her now. There was an awkward moment when she was prepared to kiss him and he looked away. "The street still looks the same," he said for the sake of saying something.

"Yeah, same old same old," she said, feeling deflated. "Do you want some coffee or something to eat?"

"No, I'm okay. I had breakfast outside of Bangor. I could use the bathroom, though."

When he went into the house, she walked over to his car to look inside. What she was looking for was there: two worn suitcases, one faded leather and the other canvas, the canvas one jammed on the floor and the other lying on its side on the backseat. If they were there, then the truck was full. That told her all his worldly possessions were in the car. He had left northern Maine for good.

She felt her heart leaping at this sign, which took some of the sting out of his cold greeting. She looked up the street at a car slamming on its brakes and told herself it was just his way. She wasn't surprised. He was shy, that's all.

Chris came out of the house and asked if she was ready.

She had her wallet, keys and things in her fanny pack. She nodded.

"I've got to make a brief stop at USM to give some samples to Ted Autello. Will only take a sec."

"Did you get all your work done upstate?" she asked as he started the car.

"It's done except for these last tests." He spoke in a way that said he didn't want to discuss it any further. He was more closemouthed today than usual. Patti knew it could be a bad sign—he was preoccupied with something important or unpleasant, and it wasn't the court appearance, she was quite sure. But now before anything was said, she was free to take it in its positive light. Maybe the many months away had made him aware of how much he missed her, but he was too shy and afraid to bring it up. She could understand that.

"I like your hair," she said.

"Oh, that. It happened accidentally—a haircut gone bad." He grinned for the first time, making her feel instantly comfortable.

"So it has nothing to do with looking distinguished for the trial."

"Nope."

They had arrived at the campus now, but Chris couldn't find a parking spot. He drove down to Forest Avenue and circled around, finally pulling into a pickup and delivery slot. "I'll leave the keys in the ignition. If you have to move it, just circle around once or twice. I'll be right out."

"Except for one smile, all business," she murmured out loud as soon as she was alone. First the drop-off, then the court appearance. Well, after that they could talk. If he avoided it, she decided, she'd force the issue. One way or another, her fate was going to be decided today.

True to his word, Chris returned to the car within five minutes. He remained closemouthed, neither explaining what he had given Ted Autello nor what results he hoped for. Instead he grumbled about the traffic as they drove out of the city. After a period of small talk about that and little else, Patti told him the details about the outcome of the Ridlon case. He had heard about the Kimballs' civil suit, but almost nothing about the victims. She noticed that he never asked how little Markie was doing and didn't seem interested in the least in the news that the Kimballs were now building a house. As always with him, the past was the past. The only follow-up questions he asked concerned the EPA proceedings against Ridlon, and he did say that he was glad to hear Ridlon Recycling was out of business.

In Waska they stopped for lunch at a fast-food place before proceeding to the court. While they sat in a booth eating, Chris asked her if she was still planning on becoming a doctor. She hadn't expected that question, which made her blush and instantly feel nervous. She had told him her aspirations to become a doctor on the day the picture of them was taken at Bedford Point. Was it his way of approaching the question of their relationship? His words seemed to hang in the air for the moment it took her to pull herself together. "I'm not sure. I'm beginning to think it would take too much work and time."

The "time" was the honest part of her answer. She thought of the mother and child and their unalloyed happiness. Becoming a doctor would postpone her life. Then and there she decided being a nurse would be enough, but she didn't explain that decision to Chris.

He in fact merely nodded and ate a french fry. "We might have to park a few blocks from the courthouse," he said in the most mundane voice imaginable.

Which they did. Ten minutes later they parked on a side street and walked to the court on Main Street. Now that a piece of business connected to his calling confronted him, Chris was not a bit nervous and even assumed an air of cocky self-confidence. Inside, a heavyset and phlegmatic man in his late fifties recognized Chris, apparently from a description given by Natalie Feldman. He came up to them and asked, "Chris Andrews?" Briefly and in a very businesslike way he told them that the prosecutor was willing to cut a deal. Patti was left alone in the darkened and windowless hall, where she sat on a wooden bench. As a little girl she was once in a similar hall in a Portland court where she and her mother had waited for her father, and she still remembered how scary and inhuman the court had seemed to her. This one was no different. But she only had to wait about ten minutes before Chris and the lawyer came out of the prosecutor's office. Chris nodded when she asked if everything was all right. "It'll be a fifty-dollar fine. I'm to plead to trespassing, that's all. They went into the court to listen to a man being charged with drunk driving. When he couldn't make bail, he was remanded to the country jail. Apparently it was his second or third citation for drunken driving, and this time driving without a license was an added charge. Then a poor, miserable scrap of humanity, looking nervous and even terrified, was charged with shop-lifting. His public defender entered a plea of guilty for him, and a fine was imposed. But again, he was also sent to the county jail for a thirty-day sentence when he was unable to pay the fine. Next came Chris's case. Patti was afraid he might grandstand, for he still appeared cocky and even arrogant, and she noticed the judge looking at him through narrowed eyes. But his only words were "Guilty, your honor," and soon they were outside the court thanking the lawyer for his help and then waiting at the clerk's office for a moment before paying the fine and leaving.

When they got out of the courthouse and were walking back to the car, Patti was very nervous. "Well, that was easy," she said, stalling for time.

"Yeah, just as I figured."

She took a deep breath and stole a glance at him. No longer cocky or confident, he was walking with his head down watching the ground. He looked nervous or preoccupied—it was hard to say which. "What will we do now?" she asked, her tongue almost not working her mouth was so dry.

He didn't answer for a while. They were at the car and he fumbled for his keys. Then he straightened his back and seemed to become resolved. "What d'ya say we take ride out to Bedford Point?"

So he also wanted to talk. But not yet. During the drive across the bridge into Bedford and then down to the coast, she was nervous and could sense that he was too. The little that was said was forced, a strained effort to cut the tension rather than the easy and spontaneous communication between friends. She asked him if he thought his lawyer was a leftist. Chris answered that he didn't think so. It was just a case to him, but he was competent and did his job, just as Natalie Feldman said he would. They saw some Canada geese flying overhead and decided they were locals. A car passed them with many bumper stickers, PEACE NOW and SAVE THE EARTH being two that Patti could read. The car honked, probably because they saw the GREENPEACE sign on Chris's front bumper, and they talked about solidarity for a few minutes before it petered out to silence.

Despite the beautiful day, there were only three cars in front of the path that led to the ocean. Walking quickly, they were soon at the cliffs overlooking the rockbound coast. They made their way over the rocks carefully. Unlike last time, Chris didn't offer his hand when they came upon difficulties, and a few times Patti used her hands and knees to negotiate. The sky was blue and the sun had burned away any morning fog so that they could see down the coast a great distance. The white of the lighthouse shone in the sun across the bay, as did the glossy red paint of a sailboat tacking through the water a quarter of a mile offshore. With the tide coming in, a strong sea breeze was surprisingly cool for what inland was a very warm day in the upper seventies or even lower eighties. Many eiders and gulls bobbed in the swells. The sea was rough, and they could see whitecaps far offshore. Large waves crashing against the rocks threw up spray that would be exhilarating if this was a day where nervous anticipation didn't preclude simple enjoyments. The whooshing sound of the retreating waves, followed by the large crash of the next incoming wave was so insistently and rhythmically regular that it sounded like the heartbeat of the living ocean. They sat on the same rock which offered a backrest they had used last year. Occasionally a particularly large wave would throw spray that reached them as a cold mist seventy-five feet away. After a while that spray together with the cool sea breeze caused her nipples to perk up, and she folded her arms across her chest to hide her embarrassment.

As in the car, both were nervous and tentative, both existing in an uncomfortable isolation side by side. Neither knowing where to begin, the scenery was remarked, a few birds noticed, and the coolness of the salt air discussed before Patti brought up the trial again, and that topic finally led to the serious discussion they had to have.

"That court business was surprisingly easy," she said.

"Yeah. Everyone knew Ridlon was just trying to obscure the issue. I didn't need the higher laws defense."

Patti caught the reference to the conversation they had with Myron Seavey at the meeting of the Greens in Waska last year. "You mean what that librarian, Myron Seavey, suggested? Thoreau's higher laws?"

"Yeah."

"I saw his marriage announcement in the paper just last week."

"He's a good man."

"I thought so too. I hope he'll be very happy in his new life."

"Yeah, maybe. Librarian in a small town. It'll be a quiet life, entirely normal."

He emphasized the last word strangely, almost in contempt and yet with a hint of despair. "If you mean by 'normal' wanting a life of contentment and fulfillment, a family, love, a sense of continuity, then I'm sure he and his wife will have all that."

He turned to her. "We've never been normal people."

What was he trying to say? She thought rapidly and then said, "Remember the time we were planning to go to the prom and you backed out. Why?"

He stood and rubbed his back. "Well, that's my point. Why were we going? We joked about it, but the impulse was there to be normal. But we weren't normal. That life was not for us."

"Us?"

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. "Yeah, us. You aren't conventionally bourgeois. You're not _normal_."

He was defining her, not seeing her. "You can still be a decent person and be what you call normal. Myron Seavey is both of those things."

His eyes narrowed even further. "Well, maybe you've changed."

_And maybe I've always been me and you didn't see it_. The thought was on her tongue, but she didn't say it. She stood and hovered beside him, both of them looking out at the vast Atlantic.

"Patti," he said in a low tone that announced something different.

She looked at him. For a moment he looked into her eyes questioningly, then again directed his glance to the open sea. "You know I love you more than any other person in the world..."

She pursed her lips grimly. "Yes, but I hear a but. But it's not enough. Love's not enough."

"You can put it that way. I have enough money for three, maybe four, more years of independent activism. The world's environment needs fighters."

She knew later she would feel the pain of what he was saying. Now she felt numbness. "So what are your plans?"

"I'm going tonight to Amherst, then I'm driving out west. I'm stopping in Cleveland, Madison, and Missoula, Montana to see some people. But I'm heading for Seattle. Orca whales are dying in Puget Sound from pollution, and the Hanford nuclear site is a national disgrace. A friend called me a few weeks ago and needs my help."

"You're not staying for supper?"

He shook his head. "It would be too awkward. I'll drive you home and drop you off."

He turned to start walking back to the car, but he stopped when she said, "You understand I can't wait for you?"

"I wouldn't expect you too."

She could hear the effort to suppress emotions, and it suddenly became very important to her that she explain herself to him. Carl Stone's honest and decent face passed through her mind. "I was watching a mother and her baby go by the house this morning. You could tell she loved that baby to distraction. Is that so wrong?"

He started to say something but cut it off, realizing that this was no time to hide behind a flippant remark. "No, I understand it. I really do, and I've been tempted to have that sort of life with you. But I can't do it. Do you understand?"

She didn't really think she did, but she nodded slightly. She looked out at the ocean, remembering how she used to love the feeling of limitless possibilities the vast expansiveness gave her. Now, with tears stinging at the corner of her eyes, she only saw the horizon.

"Well," she said, "you'd better take me home."

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. Four other novels, _Envious Shadows,On a Darkling Plain_ , _A Robin Redbreast in a Cage_ , and _The Two Paths_ have previously been published by The Wessex Collective. Burnham was educated at the University of Southern Maine (undergraduate) and The University of Wisconsin–Madison (graduate). He is married to Kathleen FitzPatrick, an associate professor of Health Science at Merrimack College in North Andover, Massachusetts.

