

FALL LOVE

a novel by

ANNE WHITEHOUSE

Also by Anne Whitehouse

The Surveyor's Hand (1981)

Copyright 1981 by Anne Whitehouse. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Acknowledgments

From "Easter 1916." Reprinted with permission of Scribner, a Division of Simon and Schuster from The Collected Poems of W.B.Yeats. Revised Second Edition edited by Richard J. Finneran. Copyright (c)1924 by Macmillan Publishing Company, renewed 1952 by Bertha Georgie Yeats.

For the description of the Aeolian harp in Chapter Twenty-one, the author gratefully acknowledges permission to quote from The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, edited by Stanley Sadie, copyright Macmillan Publishers Ltd., 1980.

For Stephen Whitehouse, who endured it

and in memory of the Worthens -

Mark, who encouraged it

and, especially,

Eleanor, who transformed it

It is hard to withstand the heart's desire, and it gets what it wants at the psyche's expense.

\--Herakleitos, 51

Acknowledgments

Mark and Eleanor Worthen, in whose memory this book is dedicated, sustained me through years of writing and rewriting with their love, wisdom, and encouragement. They were my great collaborators. I am most deeply indebted to Eleanor, without whom Fall Love would not exist. I cannot imagine a more generous, diligent, and devoted reader or a more painstaking and accurate editor. I am grateful for her graceful phrasing, infallible ear, precise memory, and logical mind.

In this endeavor, as in so many others, Mark was Eleanor's true partner. I credit his empathy, insight, and balanced judgment.

I thank my husband Stephen Whitehouse, to whom this book is also dedicated, for his support, love, and companionship which helped me stay the course from beginning to end. He is my true partner.

Of other individuals and institutions who offered inspiration and help for Fall Love, I single out for credit:

Ellen Sirot, for her insight into and knowledge of dance, dances, dancers, and dance companies; and for her sensitivity and perspicacity as a reader;

Stuart Caplin of The Center for Musical Antiquities who showed me an Aeolian harp and told me its story;

Dr. Jonathan Deland and Dr. Peter McCann, who told me about Lisfranc fractures;

Staff of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Joyce Theater, and Auer Van and Express Company, Inc. for expertise and assistance;

Hugh and Martha Whitehouse, for Sanibel Island;

The MacDowell Colony, where parts of two chapters were written.

For those of you who helped me and who remain nameless in these pages, a heart-felt thank you.

Chapter One

On vacation on an island in the summer sea, Althea lived the life she aspired to: she devoted herself to painting. All year long in New York City she had scrimped and saved to give herself three weeks of solitary inspiration on Block Island. Renting a house sight unseen over the phone, she had come with empty canvases, paints, brushes, palette knives, and hope; and what she found exceeded her fondest imaginings: Althea believed herself to be in Paradise.

Happiness suffused her like light. She, who considered herself a connoisseur of sights, had fallen in love at once with her island retreat. Low and modest, blue and gray, the house sat on a sloping hillside overlooking fields of bayberries and the sea. She marvelled at how it suited her, as if it had been made for her.

She wondered about the owner. She guessed he had built the house himself, because it was simple, yet with charming, individual touches. She saw signs of his taste and evidence of his handiwork in the odd angles of his rooms, the iron latches that fastened the windows and closed the closets, in the sunny windbreak behind the house which made a perfect breakfast nook, and on the deck outside the bedroom's double door that looked out to the sea. From the real estate agent she had learned that he was elderly and of foreign birth. Eating from his plates, eyes lifted to a view, she speculated as to whether need of money or ill health caused him to rent his retreat. She blessed her good fortune. It was almost as if the house had found her, rather than the other way around.

The August days passed, long, languorous, and utterly free. Watching a spider's web in sunlight, Althea imagined that she was like that, alternately shining and hidden, waiting in speculation. What would stumble in? Every day at dusk she stripped for the sea and ran over sand and flat stones into water as smooth as pale isinglass. Thigh-deep she paused, shivering. Then she surface-dived, and the cool water covered her head. She fluttered to the sea floor like a wind and played her fingers over the soft ridges the waves had made.

She began her paintings, a suite of four which she worked on in succession. They were scenes abstracted from nature: a forest, a meadow, a pond, the sea. So much she knew, the rest she set out to discover. The mud was rinsed from her colors. Each stroke had its place: a center and an edge that met the others. On the flat canvas, she wanted to suggest an inexhaustible depth. "See what drew you in," she told herself as both an admonishment and a rapture, as a jolt to the memory of what had made her turn so long ago to art.

Part by painstaking part, her paintings grew. Very quickly, she poured her mind in a thin layer over the surface and instantly sucked it back, a flash of consideration to balance the obsessive priorities of the brush. It was a way of ferreting out a wrong choice against the harmony she invoked, hard and clear as glass though rendered in the compliance of pigment.

Althea's sense of how she benefitted from painting differed from the opinions of "the outside world." Still, she flinched when she was faced with questions about her earnings from art, for she was ambitious and proud. Though she would have liked it to be otherwise, art was presently her luxury, and teaching art was her livelihood. The time she had off from the latter she felt obliged to give to the former. How wonderful it would be if this house were really hers! But when her tenancy was over, she'd have no money left.

In the meantime Althea relaxed, and her moods were submerged in the island's changeable weathers and her adaptable routines. She worked in the morning, ate at noon, swam at dusk; and many afternoons she whiled away in daydreams, letting the sun tan her, or the fog wrap her in white moisture.

Against the hazy sky, she watched the consecutive flights of swallows constantly defining new spaces in the air that she seemed to possess and then instantly lost. She thought that if, in her paintings, she could manage to evoke the impermanence around her, then she would reclaim it forever.

The waning summer deepened its promise. Each day seemed eternal even as it ended. She conceived of her paintings in isolation, and, while she was contented, she nevertheless began to feel lonely. In New York City she treasured her friendships, and some days she seemed rich; she was blessed by chance encounters, and their comprehending interest wove her to a wider world. Other days she was bereft; she dialed and heard the phone ring uselessly or a rare tape machine click on where she was obliged to record a message. People were always leaving and arriving, and often she missed them. But she, too, was a restless city woman, and the proof was her present removal to an island of farms made over for remote summers.

* * *

On a Friday noon two weeks into her stay, Althea set off for town on her bike to do shopping and errands. She went up and down roads past overgrown fields that were themselves divided by ancient criss-crosses of low stone walls. These were said to have been erected by eighteenth-century slaves who could win their freedom if their wall spanned the island. On her way she stopped at the top of a hill to sit on the coarse green grass above the road. Lavender thistles, black-eyed Susans, and Wedgwood-blue chicory bloomed around dark-green shrubs. The air was almost still. Shielding her eyes from the sun reflected off the sea far below her, she thought of whom she might summon to visit her. "If only letters could fly like birds," she mused, idly picturing an envelope folded like origami paper in the shape of a bird, soaring aloft, bearing its contents to Manhattan.

One guest was expected already: Jeanne was to come the last weekend of Althea's stay. She had offered her car to move Althea back to New York. But Jeanne was more than a useful companion. "Like to a double cherry seeming parted, two lovely berries moulded on one stem," Jeanne once quoted to Althea, and under her teasing, she was sincere. Their friendship went back to their adolescence in the comfortable town of Greenwich, Connecticut.

Jeanne had been timid while they were growing up. She was afraid and in awe of the city of New York, for example, worried about dangers lurking in asphalt alleys, nervous about missing their train back to Greenwich. Althea remembered a brisk autumn weekend long ago, when they'd been allowed to come into Manhattan together to see a matinée theater performance. Afterwards, walking up Fifth Avenue, Althea had watched Jeanne agape before shop windows already decorated for the holidays, and Jeanne's ingenuous stare had made Althea smile. Althea was selective; from the first grasp of her baby fist, she had discriminated. Jeanne remarked and marvelled; the world's variety terrified her at the same time that it brought the rose to her cheeks. Althea remembered standing next to Jeanne at the fiftieth-floor window of Jeanne's father's office on Madison Avenue. Together they had looked down the tall buildings to the toylike traffic and dreamed of falling.

Who would have thought then that they'd both live in New York? Jeanne spoke of California, Althea of Europe, but they moved to Manhattan. Jeanne found a career in theater management; the shy girl grew into a woman capable with accounts, adroit in raising funds and a following. Small, always neatly dressed in a skirt and blouse, her nut-brown hair in bangs across her forehead, Jeanne grew accustomed to being depended on. When her eight hours were put in, she came home, changed into comfortable clothes, and curled up like a kitten that wanted to be entertained. Yet Jeanne admired Althea's strictness, the serious, unswerving track her friend's life had trodden, and when Althea's tongue was trenchant, Jeanne knew how to turn it back with a witty phrase.

It was like Jeanne to be a chauffeur, thought Althea, like her also to get a holiday out of it. And like her to scribble a note when Althea was only dreaming of letters, so that Althea was to receive a message before she wrote one, not borne in on the wings of a bird, but placed in her outstretched palm via general delivery at the Block Island Post Office.

But Althea was not thinking of Jeanne on the noon before she was handed Jeanne's letter. In fact, she was not meditating on any established friendship, but on an acquaintance only recently made but instantly cherished. She admitted a deeper interest; the object of her musings was a man, although the evidence told her that he preferred his own sex. A neighbor of hers in New York City, Paul was a dancer. She hadn't yet seen him perform.

On first sight, his apartment had charmed her: a wooden penthouse constructed right on the roof of a large brick apartment building, with an ornamental garden laid out over the tar strips in raised beds, a tinkling fountain worked by a hidden pump, and another plot of home-grown vegetables.

This home belonged to Paul's companion, Bryce. She'd met him, also, and was expecting to get to know him better at a dinner party they had invited her to after Labor Day. Courtesy and convention prevented her now from issuing an invitation to one if not both. She was thwarted in her desire. Even if Bryce, who rarely left home due to a physical infirmity the details of which she was still in the dark about, were to be miraculously absent, would Paul care to exchange country living in Manhattan for the real thing with her on Block Island?

She couldn't write that in a letter, however roundabout the way in which she might put it. She concluded that her speculations were as idle as her drowsy self on the scratchy grass, and her solitude until Jeanne came would be enlivened only by thoughts of this man. In the warm sun she fell asleep.

In her dream she was squeezed into a seat on a crowded train in the dark noisy depths of the New York subway. She was on her way to teach at a new school, but she had forgotten the street address, and her mind blurred when she tried to place its approximate location in the context of subway routes. Shuttled from station to station, she believed herself to be near only to find herself farther away. The fluorescent lights flickered on illegible graffiti scribbled over the walls of the car. People's backs bumped against the seats; their heads jerked and lolled on their necks. The straphangers were drooping with weariness. The train writhed in a spasm and stopped at a grimy, deserted platform, but the doors of her car stuck. She felt the cold fix of her fellow passengers' eyes on her. The car stank with suspicion, and no one looked away from her puzzled, frightened face.

She woke with a jolt from her nightmare and looked around, startled, at the sunny peaceful scene. She climbed on her bike with a residue of fear, and rode into town.

* * *

On the island of Manhattan in the middle of August, Jeanne stood on the congested subway platform under Fifty-ninth Street and Lexington Avenue, clutching her purse. Briefly she checked to make sure her necklace was safe under the blouse buttoned up despite the humidity. Before her, heat sparked on train rails. She craned her neck to see down the empty tunnel where, alone, a green light winked. She stared at her wristwatch; the second hand pulsed round its measured circle once, twice, half a dozen times. She sighed; again she would be made late, and it was out of her hands.

The city was falling to pieces around her. In summer the benches in the parks were threaded through with dusty weeds, and the streets oozed at their broken cracks. And Jeanne, whose work helped to light the city's spangled gleam, took in its indifference in her mid-August exhaustion. She could hardly breathe the air, so close was it with the stench of dirt grimed in crevasses and over the surfaces of the ground and walls. Next to her a tall, fair man lapped up a melting ice cream cone as it ran over his fingers. A train passed in the other direction, and briefly she envied its boarding passengers. "Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream...Too long a sacrifice/Can make a stone of the heart./O when may it suffice?"

The verse came from her viselike mind like a message. She had been waiting too long for something to happen, for a train to come with its chance meetings and departures, for a new country to visit, a foreign language to learn, preferably with the memory of effort expunged the way an infant acquires its first words: she was waiting for another life to surface into her own.

So intent was she on what was not that she didn't notice the tall man at first who, while wiping his sticky fingers on a diminutive napkin, a leather satchel tucked awkwardly under his arm, was attempting to engage her attention.

"Do you have the time?" he inquired twice before she heard him, for she was involved in her interior recitation and felt the intensity of his concentration on her before she took in his question. There was something so avid in his demeanor that she inadvertently began to step back, but just in time she sensed a person behind her. They were too hemmed in on the crowded platform for her to avoid the tall man, but because the presence of many imposed constraints on the behavior of one, she felt reasonably safe. She might as well answer his question.

It was clear he wanted to talk though she would rather remember verses. He guessed aloud that the train would be air-conditioned; he asked her opinion.

"I wouldn't bet on it," she said.

But he insisted; Jeanne shrugged; and so she found herself slipping into easy familiarity with a stranger as the train pulled into the station, and they discovered they were both in the right. Most of the cars had open windows; a few that were jammed with people hadn't, but it was so hot they had opted for cool though confined air.

"We might get seats at Grand Central," she found herself predicting over the screech of the subway starting its next lap downtown. They were both clutching the center pole, but, while she was limited to a view of nothing but the immediate bodies around her, his head stood over most of the crowd. Still, he watched only her. The subway reached Fifty-first Street; the doors opened. The passengers adjusted their positions; he moved toward her, his largeness around her smallness. She felt a hand heavy and warm on her cotton-clad shoulder though it had recently held an ice cream cone.

Across her back, the muscles contracted. Already small, she tried to grow slighter, but she did not shake her shoulder, nor did his hand attempt to add to its territory. But she resented his easy advances, and at Forty-Second Street, she slipped into the just-vacated, love-seat size bench by the door. People were streaming out before they were streaming in; over a loudspeaker the conductor shouted, "Let them off, let them off," and her self-chosen companion stumbled over another passenger's briefcase in an effort to sit beside her. Under his thin-woven slacks, she saw his thighs flex; how could she help it, at her eye level? She moved for him; he crowded her into a wedge, but he must have felt her earlier cringe, for a narrow division of space kept him from touching but not from talking as the train lurched once more forward.

She instantly guessed his game and refused on principle to participate when he asked her first if she were a secretary and, second, if into fashion. Jeanne, who had chosen to look at his lap instead of his face, was watching the play of his long-fingered hands over his leather satchel when she started as if betrayed and eyed him accusingly. "You're wearing a watch after all."

"I just wanted to check it," he countered. "It's been giving me trouble."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Look," he said anxiously, "I change trains at Fourteenth Street. Where do you get off?"

"After you," she evaded, and as an afterthought added rudely, "I don't care for your questions."

He squinched his elbows into his chest; his body withdrew as if to say he had meant no harm.

She did not have to trust in him for her fear of his aggression to relent; it let up when his body let hers be. After Grand Central, the car had grown emptier and she breathed easier. If he could catch it, forgiveness was implicit in her subsequent statement that it felt good to be sitting down.

"Because the car is air-conditioned," he insisted.

She found herself smiling at his smooth yet angular face as he watched her, eyes wide and blue, and she felt as if a door had just blown open. In letting him attract her, she had changed one of her cardinal rules of behavior, but it didn't matter because, she figured, he would be getting off in three stops.

Was it merely the dependable brevity of their encounter that suddenly made him more amusing in her eyes? He had obeyed her wish and no longer crowded her. This time she made the small talk; she asked him about his watch, a Swatch that showed its inner workings, and told him about hers: the first in her possession, she'd received it from her parents for her ninth birthday, and it still ran beautifully, unchanged except for its band, now one of inlaid Hopi silver in a native sign signifying a prayer feather attached to a row of thunderclouds for rain. "But you have to wind it," she added.

"How many years have you had it now?" he asked.

She wondered if this were a roundabout way of extracting more personal information. "We've shared a subway ride, but we don't have to share our ages," she reprimanded.

"I won't guess," he promised. "My stop's next," and he rose to his feet so fluidly it seemed to her he must have swung himself up, but he held his satchel in his fist. A moment later, he'd switched it to under his arm. His hand reached to take hers, and she gave it to him.

"Nice meeting you."

"For doubtless we won't meet again," he dared to add, and she agreed with him. The train was approaching Union Square. He bent his lips to the back of her hand. "Farewell." It was a flourish.

The car screeched to a stop. One door of the two slid open; people began to file out. "I'm off," he said.

"I'm right after you." She told him after all.

"Astor Place, aha!" He was half out of the door when he said it. He grinned and waved, and she turned her face in the dirty window to watch him leave. When the train staggered forward, she had the whole seat to herself for a single stop.

* * *

Coming out to the blue sky of an August six o'clock was a momentary shock but also a little boost for the evening ahead toward which she propelled her mind as she walked rapidly west: shopping at the greengrocer's, the deli, and the health food store, picking up clothes at the dry cleaners, and what else? She couldn't remember. While the evenings were still long, she had them free, for in August the repertory company was not in residence. So, after shopping she sat for awhile on a bench in an out-of-the-way square, her feet half out of her low-heeled shoes, both arms cradled around brown paper bags, her pocketbook wedged into her waist.

At home Jeanne put her purchases away. Then she poured herself a glass of white wine, sat down, and flicked on her phone's answering machine. The first call was from her mother who'd come to the city to shop for the day but who hadn't been able to reach Jeanne at her office, the next from a retired director she'd once worked with. Then came on a man's voice she didn't recognize, somewhat high in timbre. The speaker identified himself as Paul, Althea's friend, to whom she'd given this number in case he wanted to leave her a message and couldn't reach her.

Jeanne decided to relay Paul's request in a letter instead of by long-distance phone, being influenced by a tradition of writing to Althea going back to when they attended separate schools. After confirming her day of arrival, she added the following note:

A new man named Paul who presumes himself your friend appeared on my answering machine last Friday the 15th with a desire to let you know he'd called off his dinner party, for his friend Bryce was unexpectedly summoned to his Mississippi hometown.

And by the way, though I took the trouble to tell you this, dear friend in your enchanted isle, I may be your means of transportation but I'm not yet your concierge.

Love and kisses,

Jeanne

* * *

That's like Jeanne: to use a French term for what never existed in America, was Althea's second thought as she stood reading Jeanne's letter on the sidewalk outside the post office. The joyous burst of a hitherto denied possibility had curved her lips in a secret smile. Paul was alone in New York. Would she act on an expectation impossibly entwined with conjecture and seize the opportunity to invite Paul to visit while Bryce was away? Then, at the thought of such a stringent test of Paul's attraction to her, she felt a terrible trepidation. What if he were to come only for her to wish him gone, to find in the uncluttered seashore air that what she had dreamt of was a mistake and she was stuck there with it? There was also the question of all of her time. To put it succinctly, would she paint with Paul there?

The day was picture-perfect, the noon light was blue without being blinding, and so nearly was the air cleared of wind that the planted border of geraniums in front of the post office bent but faintly. Cabbage whites and monarch butterflies dipped to the grass in narrowing spirals. How would she communicate with him? Althea, who didn't want to wait, received more letters than she wrote, yet she hesitated to put it to him over the phone. A terse telegram was her alternative: "Received message via J. If you're free for a short visit, I'm here till Sept. 1. Althea." A phone number followed.

That was the wire delivered into Paul's outstretched palm later that very afternoon in New York by a messenger in bleached blue jeans and a Shakespeare festival tee-shirt with an encircled portrait of the Bard on its wearer's left breast. The messenger was antsy because Paul hadn't answered the entrance buzzer, and he had had to wait in the lobby until the porter--there was no doorman--let him in after a long look at his outfit and a couple of sharp questions. Paul had been dancing in his studio and hadn't heard the buzzer. But the second buzzer outside the private door that led to the roof was much louder. Ringing in the penthouse, it broke into the dance music like an alarm. In the midst of a leap, Paul was startled, and he came down hard on his ankle. He was swearing under his breath when he limped across the roof to open the private door on the building's top landing.

Almost injured, he was imptient before he opened the door and astonished afterwards. He thought that telegrams were obsolete, but there was his name, Paul Carmichael, computer-typed on white paper under the envelope's transparent window. He offered a tip and dismissed the messenger. After today's date, August 22, 1980, he read the message, but didn't at once identify the sender. Then, looking at the letters of her name, he pictured the honey-colored hair of Althea sifted with light on a New York street. It was true he was due for a change of scene, but where was her "here"? Was it like this woman he didn't know well, but had, admittedly, imagined touching, to neglect such pertinent information?

He remembered when he had first met Althea in the spring. In his mind he watched her again as she turned a corner, embattled head down, into the March wind, her hands stuck in her trenchcoat pockets. What would she be like, sunburnt in August? Right there, illuminated by a shaft of afternoon sunlight, he read the telegram twice and called her back.

Althea had spent a long time on the beach and then gone shopping, stowing her bag of groceries in a plastic milk crate which she'd strapped to the rack above the rear wheel of her bike. Valiantly, she pedalled back. Just as she rode in a low-gear track across the lawn, she heard from inside the house the island phone exchange's rasping buzz. The screen door banged shut behind her, and she picked up the receiver on the sixth ring.

"I called to say I got your telegram and that you forgot to say from where you sent it," Paul said in Manhattan. But when Althea told him, it appeared he didn't know where Block Island was. Breathless from her bike ride, she elaborated and he listened. It was settled that he would arrive by train and little prop plane on Tuesday (a whole four days, she privately reckoned, before Jeanne came on Saturday).

After Paul hung up the phone, he basked in a sense of pleasure and possibility. Just when he'd been feeling sorry for himself for having been abandoned by Bryce, an attractive woman had offered him a seashore vacation. It stunned him--how eagerly he had accepted Althea's generous invitation, and how easily they had made plans. He was welcome to stay all week if he liked, Althea had said.

He hadn't paused a second to wonder whether or not he ought to visit her, and, once he had decided to do it, he didn't mar his decision with regret. It wasn't hard for him to convince himself that he deserved a change of scene. If Bryce objected, Paul thought, it was his fault for having left me to my own devices in the first place.

In the stream of his thoughts that followed, Paul blamed Bryce. During the year and a half that they had lived together, he had never known Bryce to go anywhere without him. No, he had been the one to go away--on obligatory visits to his family during the holidays, on tours with the companies he danced with--and he'd always felt secure in the knowledge that Bryce was at home waiting for him.

He realized that it was unfair of him to resent Bryce for having left this time, but he couldn't help it. He minded Bryce's secrecy about his trip as much as the trip itself. After all, he lived with Bryce and shared his moods, even the gloomy ones, which at first Bryce had felt obliged to conceal. He thought of how he had encouraged Bryce to open up. As a consequence, he had often been witness to Bryce's helpless anger at having to live with the incurable disease of multiple sclerosis, and he believed he had tried as well as he could to soothe Bryce and ease his intermittent bouts of despair. He recalled the countless nights when he had held Bryce in his arms and wished that he could give him some of his own health and strength.

Over the months, he had grown as familiar with Bryce's opinions as with his own. He remembered how Bryce had liked to say that he was born in a poisoned place. Yet now, after years of exile, he had returned to his native Meridian. Paul didn't know why Bryce had gone back to visit a family he'd claimed he tried to forget because he couldn't bear their disappointment in him and their pity of him. Bryce had not divulged the content of the letter he had received ten days ago, which had caused him to phone his parents, purchase an airplane ticket, and leave precipitously for Mississippi.

"It's a family matter," was all he'd say. "I may be gone a few weeks, perhaps a month." Paul had taken Bryce's reticence as a sign that Bryce distrusted him, and he was so stung that he didn't know what to say. All he could think of was to bring up the end-of-summer dinner party they'd been planning for the Saturday following Labor Day. They had a guest list of fourteen people. "Is the party still on?" Paul asked.

"I don't know, I can't tell you. Maybe you'd better go ahead and cancel it, because I can't make any promises."

Annoyed by Bryce's answer, Paul had grown stonily silent. But for the first time in Paul's memory, Bryce had seemed too preoccupied to notice him. What was going on? he wondered. Bryce's secrecy had infuriated him, but once refused, he was too proud to beg for information. Before Bryce left, Paul had withdrawn from him.

He expected Bryce would phone from Mississippi. After a few days went by without a call, Paul's resentment grew. If he was being unfair to Bryce, he told himself he no longer cared.

Yet as the days passed, his anger was infiltrated by tenderer feelings. Though it hurt him to admit it, he missed Bryce. He thought of calling him, but he didn't know what to say. Still, he didn't sit at home feeling sorry for himself.

Going around town, having to answer to no one, he realized that he had missed his freedom. He considered that perhaps he wasn't meant to live the rest of his life as one half of a couple.

The appeal of Althea's invitation was irresistible. At that moment his wish for revenge was stronger than his desire for a reconciliation with Bryce. He remembered the time last May when he'd introduced Althea to Bryce. He'd known Althea then for about two months--actually, he didn't really know her. He'd met her a few times casually walking along the tree-lined upper promenade of Riverside Park, and twice they'd had a long conversation. They'd learned that they lived on the same block, and that they were both artists, whose arts opposed and complemented one another, she being a painter--a plastic artist--and he being a dancer--a performer.

They'd already established this basis on that afternoon the previous May, when, on an impulse, he had invited her up for tea. He had wanted to show her the roof garden that he and Bryce had built. Actually, he had built it, and Bryce had paid for it, but he hadn't bothered to explain that to Althea. Althea had been graceful and sweet, he recalled. He had enjoyed showing her the garden. Afterwards, when they were having tea, he had thought that Bryce had been brusque with her. Though he couldn't remember what Bryce had said, he could still picture how Althea, sitting straight-backed on a wrought-iron bench with a design of vines and leaves, had responded to Bryce's look by glancing away.

Now, contemplating his revenge, it pleased Paul to suspect that Bryce was already a little jealous of Althea. When he left for Block Island, he deliberately didn't let Bryce know.

Chapter Two

Absorbed in his thoughts about Bryce and the silent war between them, Paul didn't stop to wonder about Althea until Tuesday morning, when he was already ensconced on the Amtrak train that was taking him from Penn Station to Westerly, Rhode Island. He had a seat to himself, facing backward. As the train was propelled forward, it seemed to him that the landscape was fleeing in front of him. While he amused himself by drawing circles with his forefinger in the dusty glass of the window, he began to consider the arrangement he was hurtling into so blindly.

He had pleasant feelings about Althea, though they didn't go very deep. She seemed sincere, she was beautiful, and he was certain that she was attracted to him. Considering this, he was aroused.

For all the time that he and Bryce had lived together, he had never ceased to feel attracted to others. It was his nature, he thought, he couldn't help it. He couldn't control his fantasies, but he hadn't been unfaithful to Bryce.

In Bryce's absence, he had found himself encouraging chance, speaking to strangers he never expected to see again. He believed that Althea's invitation, coming as it did, was Fate's answer to his entreaties.

From the train station in Westerly, he shared a cab with other travellers to the airport. He purchased a ticket and waited outside. The wind was blowing steadily from the west, and the wind sock next to the runway scarcely waved, so perfectly was it horizontal. A small propeller plane painted green and white, with the name "New England Airlines" displayed on the side, waited to be boarded. Just as his name was read out on the manifest, Paul was struck by the thought that he'd forgotten to bring something with him which he needed, but he couldn't remember what it was. Confused, he wavered briefly on the tarmac, until the red-faced pilot motioned to him to go on. Overcoming his hesitation, he approached the plane, stowed his bag in the luggage compartment, and climbed in, one of eight passengers.

He had the window over the wing. As the plane accelerated on the runway and took to the air in a cocoon of noise, he felt a thrill through his nerves. His face pressed to the window, he watched as they passed over the water: wrinkled satin, a skin boiled on blue milk, boats trailing the white slits of their wakes, and then the green island, here long before he'd heard of its existence. The plane flew over the coastline, lapped by gentle waves. He thought the island looked beautiful in the sunlight: rolling green hills dotted with ponds, few trees, and gray arteries of roads with houses planted at uneven intervals alongside them. Steadily the plane descended, and kissed the ground with a single bump. The passengers smiled with relief as the plane sped down the island airport's runway, with the wind streaming past, and came at last to a stop.

Alighting, Paul called out, "Althea!" just as he glimpsed her waiting next to a wooden dolly packed with the luggage of those who were leaving. She smiled and waved. She was wearing faded jeans stained with paint and a man's checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned over a tee-shirt. Her hair blew loose, glinting in the sunlight. Her arms and face were tanned. She looked radiant, he thought, in her old clothes.

He greeted her with a kiss on each cheek, in the continental style, but neglected to set down his canvas bag first, and his embrace was clumsy. "I'm happy to be here," he said, stepping back to study her. Under her smile, he sensed her tension. As a sign of his power, it pleased him.

"Is this all your luggage?" she asked.

"Yes. I like to travel light."

"Oh, I didn't know. I rented a bike for you, but it's back at the house. I thought we'd take a cab from the airport."

"Fine."

He saw that she was nervous, and wanted to reassure her, but didn't know what for. He felt a first inkling of doubt: what was he getting himself into? He shrugged off his worries, not wanting to be influenced by hers.

The taxi was a twenty-year-old sky-blue Cadillac with ivory upholstery, driven by a middle-aged woman with harlequin sunglasses. Paul's arm lay across the back seat, not touching Althea's shoulder, but so close he might almost touch it. While they made small talk about his trip, he was acutely aware of the space between them. Leaning back against the roomy seat, he let himself be tossed by the rumbling motion of the car, but never quite against her.

He paid the driver, and the majestic Cadillac drove away. He sighed with delight at the house and the view. "My estimation of you rises, Althea," he said. "How did you find this place?"

"It found me. I took it sight unseen."

"You were lucky."

"I know."

Paul set down his canvas bag discreetly on the porch, not yet knowing where he should leave it. Noticing the gesture, Althea began to relax. For all his bravado, he's as nervous as I, she thought. "Let me show you around," she offered, as if she were the owner about to display the treasures of her home to her guest. She anticipated pointing out the house's secrets she had discovered, as proud of them as if they were of her own devising.

She no longer felt at a disadvantage as she had last May, when Paul had invited her for tea in his rooftop garden. She hadn't been able to resist the comparison between his penthouse with its river and city views and her dark studio apartment. The discrepancy was painful. She hadn't wanted him to see her place. Now the thought that she would have to return to that studio apartment occurred to her, but she buried it. No use to dwell on that, she told herself. While she could, she'd make the most of her rented wealth.

"You see, the porch leads up to the deck, and both share the view of the Sound," she pointed out. "The porch leads into the living room, and the deck has doors to the bedroom."

She led him inside. They entered the living room. She showed him the long table and the row of windows behind it overlooking the Sound. "You can watch the sun set over the water as you eat dinner. Some mornings I've seen pheasants on the lawn. And here in the kitchen, the window over the sink communicates with the deck, so that you can hand dishes in and out. But you can only exit through the living room or the bedroom. Down this corridor--watch your head! Oops!"

Paul let out an oath, rubbing his forehead where he'd hit the lintel over the doorway. "My only criticism so far--the doorway's too low."

"I know. It's just barely over my head. I'm sorry I didn't warn you in time. Are you all right?"

"I guess so."

"Let me see." His forehead was hot under her fingertips. "It's swelling up."

"Oh, but your fingers are cool. Ministering hands."

He laid his hand on hers, flattening it like a compress over his forehead. They stood still, not speaking. Minutes passed. She couldn't bring herself to look at his face. Instead she gazed at the ground. Taking her hand by the wrist, he drew it across his cheek and over his mouth. He kissed her open palm, and then he released her.

Her hand fell to her side. She still felt the moist, soft imprint of his kiss.

"I'm better already," Paul claimed. "Althea?"

"Yes?"

He paused, as if he thought better of what he'd been about to say. "Show me the rest of the house," he requested instead.

She led him through the thoughtful design of the layout, pointed out the third door to the outside, leading from the corridor to a sheltered patio out back. She showed him the views from all the windows, the clever shelves, cabinets, closets, and the built-in furniture. She said, "What I love about this house is that everything is planned with the conviction that what is economical and useful ought also to be beautiful."

He agreed. They had come to the end of the tour. He noticed without comment that there was only one bedroom, with a single, large bed. Did he really want to sleep there with her? he wondered. He had also observed that the built-in couches in the living room had foam mattresses, which could be made into beds. Perhaps he would begin the night there and, later, creep into her room. Imagining the scenario, he grew so absorbed that he was startled by a gust of wind when she opened one of the double doors from the bedroom. He followed her onto the deck. With a bang, the wind blew the door shut after them. The wind flapped the towels hanging from the clothesline next to the house and rustled through the thickets of bayberry bushes that descended the hillside. He felt himself being drawn to her, as if he were a blade of grass blown by the wind and helpless to withstand it. He was caressed by sensations he longed to yield to.

Standing in front of Paul, Althea watched the reeds in the marsh below swept by the wind--an endless ripple, an unbreaking wave--and thought of how the wind can only be seen in what it moves. She heard the distant crash of the surf on the rocks and the bells of the buoys as they were struck by the forces of wind and rocking waters.

She heard Paul's voice next to her ear. "Althea in her island kingdom." She turned to him, the sun in her eyes. "So you invited me here because you were lonely?" he went on.

"I invited you on an impulse when I found out you were free."

"Are you often impulsive?"

"Almost never."

"No? I thought not."

Feeling exposed, she stifled the urge to contradict herself. Why defend myself against the truth? she thought.

"So you've been working hard?" Paul asked. "You've been painting?"

She nodded, grateful for his having changed the subject.

"Where are your paintings?"

"Behind the blue screen in the living room. I usually don't show anyone work-in-progress."

She saw a smile stretch his face and prepared herself to respond to his banter. "Don't worry, I'll respect your wishes," he said.

She was deflated by his response. She actually wanted him to question her about her paintings, while she continued to put him off, flirting with his curiosity until she hd roused it to fever pitch, just as, a few minutes before, inside the house, she had roused his ardor. In fact, she was so proud of her paintings that she was secretly dying to show them to him, despite her fear that, if she showed them now, she wouldn't be able to finish them.

Since she was not yet able to envision them in their finished state, she feared she would be too susceptible to influence from any viewer's ideas of what that would be. She worried that such viewers' expectations would contaminate her ability to see her paintings as they ought to become. She believed that as an Idea her paintings already existed, and it was up to her to discover this existence and create it in the flesh of paint and canvas. No one else could help her. This was her mission alone.

Still, it would have been fun, she thought wistfully, to have had Paul's curiosity to play with, but she couldn't bring herself to ask for it after she'd discouraged him so easily. Lost in her thoughts, she noticed that he had sat down on the deck's built-in bench, his eyelids were drooping, and he was yawning.

"Lie down if you want. It's all right with me," she said.

"Maybe I will."

"Only, if you have a concussion, you ought not to sleep," she remembered. "How's your head?"

"It barely hurts at all. I'm just tired. If you don't mind, I'll move that aluminum chair onto the lawn, and stretch out in the sun."

"Please, do as you like. I want you to feel at home. I'll be happy to paint anyway."

She still hoped he would ask her about her paintings, but he simply got up and did as he had suggested, while silently she berated herself for thinking that she could get a response with such a feeble attempt. She watched him as he folded the chair and carried it out to the lawn, aligned it with the descending sun, and set it up, lowering the back until it resembled a cot with a latticed support and two aluminum arms. These simple actions, she thought, look lovely when he performs them.

Without any self-consciousness he lay down and closed his eyes. Seeing him slumber so easily, she grew calm and then reflective. Inside the house, behind her screen, she lightly tapped her brush against a glass jar of turpentine and set to work. For minutes at a time, she was able to forget his startling presence asleep on her front lawn. She congratulated herself on her self-possession. She had proved to herself at least that having him as visitor would not prevent her from working. Perhaps it's for the best, she thought, that I keep my paintings separate from him.

She had not yet heard him stir when she put her paints away and went out to the porch. The chair was still on the lawn, but it was empty. He was nowhere in sight. For an instant she was seized by a spasm of fear: he'd left her, he was gone. She called his name in the waning afternoon, her voice carrying a note of panic. She walked all around the house without finding him. Returning to the front yard, she thought, I might as well put the chair up. She was annoyed, but resigned. Yet before she folded the chair, she saw him emerging from the thicket of bushes that sloped down the hill from the edge of the lawn. The glare of the western sun was behind him, and she shielded her eyes with her hand.

"Where were you? Didn't you hear me calling?" she asked and immediately afterwards was ashamed of herself.

He ignored her second question to answer the first. "I've been gathering blackberries. There are plenty more, but I didn't have a container with me."

He sounded too pleased with himself to be annoyed with her. As he climbed the lawn, she saw that he had made a pouch of his tee-shirt to hold the berries. She glimpsed several inches of sleek torso and forced herself not to stare. "Would you like some? They're warm and sweet." He popped one into his mouth as he spoke.

"Your lips are purple, and your shirt is stained."

"I'm all scratched up, too."

"Poor Paul, are you hurt?" For the moment, she didn't care how silly she sounded.

He smiled, shaking his head. "Here, have a berry."

"And you're sunburned," she continued. "That's quite a lot for your first day."

She ate from his hand. The tiny globes of the fruit burst against her teeth. She sucked the juice from his fingertips. Yet she was afraid. She had been celibate for so long.

She recovered herself. They seemed to lean into each other as they both ate the berries until they were all gone. Her lips were as stained as his. "We'll gather more," she promised. "Did you sleep well? Are you rested?"

She hated her unimaginative conversation, but what she was saying wasn't important, she thought. It was only words filling up the space until their bodies, coming together, obliterated it. But she wanted to prolong the approach, and so she pulled away from him.

"I got carried away, too," he said in response to her unspoken thoughts. "You're so beautiful, with your skin and hair turned all to gold. Don't be sad. We should rejoice at being here together, make the most of it." His eyes challenged her, electric blue.

He had come out of the blackberry bushes and found her framed by the yard and the house. He saw her face drawn by vertical worry lines from nose to mouth and between the eyes. She'll end up getting hurt, he thought, but she must already know that. He had an impulse to slip away, but, believing it was unworthy of him, he suppressed it. He could sense her attraction to him as strongly as if it were an aura. It flattered him, and he felt himself responding. Why not give her what she wants? he thought, considering how pleasant it is when desire and duty coincide.

"What shall we do now?" he appealed to her.

She suggested a swim at a secluded beach with the backdrop of sunset behind them. "If we go by bike, we'll get there just in time."

"I'll follow you."

They cycled out to the West Road and climbed a hill crowned by the white steeple of a church. The road fell and rose, winding past houses, fields with horses, ponds, and overgrown orchards. Eventually, she guided him onto a dirt road cobbled with sea-smooth stones, which ended abruptly at the top of a cliff. There they parked their bikes and followed the path down to a beach in a cove ringed by boulders.

They were alone on the beach. The tide had recently turned, and was coming in. "It's smoothest now," said Althea. Smiling, she abruptly stripped and, without hesitating, ran over the stones into the water. He followed her, a newcomer taking his time. She was a flash past the breaking surf when he submerged. She hadn't watched him enter the water without his clothes. She floated on her back, eyes shut and face up to the sky, whose color deepened as the sun lowered.

Before she noticed him, she felt his touch on her toes. She raised her head and lowered her legs to see him treading water. Like seaweed his wet hair clasped his head. A single drop of water hung from each earlobe like a transparent pearl. Moisture fretted his eyelashes. He shook his head, the water flew. The sun slipped into the cloudless horizon. At her eye level, across the raised pattern of water diamonds, she watched it disappear, watched all the gold leaving the sky to soft pink, more floral than atmospheric, that reflected back on the rocking surface of the sea. She backstroked. He dived under her. They touched again, and she broke away into a crawl.

She didn't swim too far, for she was out much deeper than she could stand, near the edge of the cove, where the surf spilled and roared on a rockier coast. He followed behind her. She faced him, and, tentative, reached out to touch him. To her dripping fingers his arm was both warm and cool. She felt his tightening tendons and between them she found his pulse.

She drew herself across him, and shivered, shrinking at letting herself be found so open. Their mouths met, they were swayed and splashed, and they had to separate before they sank. In his embrace she was malleable, and she came back to him.

When he held her, she remembered that he was a dancer, for he was full of grace, and his touch was a blessing. But the water temperature was too brisk for bliss. They both felt a sudden chill and decided it was time to get out. Swimming against the undertow, they let the rising tide wash them in. A group of middle-aged people who had arrived on the beach in their absence were starting a bonfire. While the group talked loudly among themselves, drank beer, and watched the flames catch, Paul and Althea dried off and wordlessly put on their clothes in the flickering shadow of a rock fifty yards away. Giggling like naughty children surprised by grown-ups, they walked arm in arm up the path in the cliff to retrieve their bikes.

When they reached the paved road, the sky was still light, but the bushes at either side of the road appeared black. The spokes of the bicycle wheels blurred in motion, and then, as they stopped for a truck at the foot of the hill, resolved into separate radii. The sunburnt arm of the driver bent out the window. He was transporting a load of bricks. Althea saw that his hand, resting on the door where the paint was scraped and rusting, was missing part of the forefinger below its second joint. A signet ring flashed on the adjacent knuckle. The truck turned.

Althea looked at Paul, at his long fingers curved over the handlebars and the smooth backs of his hands. She nodded to him that she was going on. He passed her easily as she was climbing the hill. She watched him reach the crest ahead of her, then lost sight of him, only to catch another glimpse of him from the top, as he rounded the bend below, with no hands holding. When she arrived at the house, he was waiting to greet her, his breathing as shallow as if he'd strolled. She dismounted and leaned her bike against the side of the house, next to his. When she let go of the bike, he was there to embrace her. He nuzzled her neck, tickling her with his nose. His skin was cold, his hair lank and damp, smelling of the sea. She held him close, her eyes shut, and kissed him. His mouth tasted of salt. Her knees weakened, and she went limp, leaning against him.

"I know you want me." His voice sounded strangely thick, exultant. His breath fell warm and ragged on her ear. Instantly, she tensed, and struggled to free herself as if she were being strangled. Why had he said that? she wondered. She resisted him for sounding so sure of her.

"Don't take me for granted," she said sharply.

"Why fight so hard against your desire?"

"I'm afraid of what I want."

"How serious you are. Are you always so serious?"

She didn't answer, but she let him take her in his arms. "There, that's better," he said. "Don't turn away from me. I want you so much."

From Althea's eyes, a graveness arrowed to Paul. Her fingers were hesitant and familiar, tracing the vines of his veins. Her mouth left invisible prints on his sunburnt flesh, called up a sob from his throat to surprise him. Through the glass doors of the bedroom, the night was dark enough to reveal the blinking arc of the Montauk lighthouse across Long Island Sound. Althea, seeing it, was reminded that it was the easternmost tip of New York State. With the flash of light came her thought of the City miles and miles away, of their two lives there, now joining among country splendors, and of a look passed in March that ripened on an island in August.

Chapter Three

Light spliced the bed in two. Althea awoke to find herself in sun and Paul beside her in shadow, still asleep. She was astounded to see him, not because she had forgotten about him, but because he seemed so alien and beautiful in her bed. He would never belong to her. Like the house, he had been lent to her, for a time.

She watched him sleep. As the morning light wobbled and spread through the room, she noticed the deepness of her tan contrasted with the whiteness of the sheet, and realized that the sun had aged her skin as it darkened. I'm twenty-six, she thought, and how old is Paul? Maybe close to thirty. She considered how she might paint when old and as blind as Monet, but Paul's performances were numbered. She felt a pang for him. Somehow the thought of his fleeting art made her desire for him seem more poignant.

She wondered if he would wake to regret her. She was almost afraid to greet him when he yawned, stretched, and blinked open his short-lashed, startling blue eyes. Instinctively, she held her breath, waiting for him to speak.

He acted as if he wasn't surprised to find himself in her bed. "Good morning, Althea. It's nice to see you." He touched the tip of her nose. The vague, pleasant words were in a tone that seemed to Althea full of promise which evaporated as soon as she tried to grasp what it meant. He smiled, and she smiled back. She exhaled a sigh of relief: the first hurdle was already crossed.

Sometimes in the past either she or the man she'd waked up next to hadn't wanted to be there. But now, gazing back into Paul's eyes with their smile lines crinkled in the corners, she did not want to be elsewhere.

Paul laid his palm against her cheek, breathed in her ear, smoothed back her hair, while murmuring caressing endearments. He did all this to her, and more, thrilling her until she felt hollowed out by sensation. When she finally got up, she could only speak in monosyllables, and she walked in a daze, as if drugged.

She went through the motions of making breakfast, and somehow it got prepared: coffee and hot milk, buttered toast and honey, sectioned oranges arranged in fans. She and Paul took the meal outside to eat in the sheltered little nook at the back of the house. The space was a small, uneven polygon, paved with flat stones and furnished with a round glass-topped table and four chairs. The backyard ran down to it, and on two sides a low cement wall had been built up, set with sea-washed, speckled stones, their contours worn smooth as eggs.

Sun-warmed, protected, Althea and Paul sat at the table, slowly eating and gazing about at the new day. The wind danced around them, in the grasses, in the trees.

It's as beautiful as the day before, Althea thought. And the day before that.

She found herself focusing myopically on the separate parts of him: first his hands, now involved in the duties of eating. She stared at the shape of the indentation where his thumb met his hand as he picked a piece of bread from his plate, and then licked his tapered, oval fingertips, dripping with the creamy local honey. She gazed at his face: his soft, lank hair, the sharp angles of his cheekbone and jaw. She wanted to memorize every detail of his presence. The beauty in each new revelation of his body enticed and absorbed her. Only his face was not beautiful, but this somehow made him more appealing, the whole of him more interesting and attractive, as if a slight dissonance were required in order to appreciate his perfect symmetries.

He didn't object to her scrutiny. It appeared that she was free to study him. She believed he welcomed it, and so she relaxed. She finished her toast and laid her bare arm on the table next to him. She stared at it until the tanned skin and the fine blond hairs blown every which way down the length of it looked like a stranger's. She predicted just how he would take her arm, and she was right. Her sense of connectedness to him seemed too strong to be only a coincidence. She felt his eyes questioning her as he cupped her wrist, and knew that she did not have to speak to reply. Between them a chord vibrated: alive, mysterious, hypersensitive.

It was as if she had been starved of a food she could barely remember the taste of, but now, eating it again, she desired it. She wanted to laugh and cry all at once, and yet she sat silently spellbound by the touches of sun and soft breeze and his hand circling her wrist and calmly stroking her arm.

She thought of how she had scrimped and slaved to earn the money for this vacation. Until Paul arrived, she had been happy but lonely; she needed him to make her vacation complete. All this she had predicted; she had counted on it even while she had worried that his coming would crimp her style. What she had not counted on was falling in love. She realized that she had already invested too much in her belief in him. But it was too late; she wanted this love, this late-summer passion, and she was bound to have it. She gave herself permission to enjoy whatever he offered her.

With excitement and a sinking heart, Paul realized that Althea was in love with him. He couldn't help comparing women and men. Women become attached so quickly; then they drag you down, he thought. Men are more skeptical; they want space.

He certainly did. But he wasn't ready to run away from Althea yet. He desired the sensation of her leaning up against him; he wanted to see their reflection together, as alike as brother and sister. He wanted to see how far she would go; he wanted to measure himself against her.

"I want to show you a place I discovered yesterday when I was picking blackberries," he told her.

"All right." I probably know it, she thought, but I'll humor him anyway.

Yet she never had explored the thick bayberry bushes and blackberry brambles that grew past the low stone wall at the edge of the front yard. Now he led her into them. He went first, folding the branches back so she could pass. "You see, there is a trail," he said.

And so there was: a narrow indentation, almost a shadow, which continued when the brush gave way to tall grasses down a slope. At the bottom was a pond drying up, its mud banks exposed.

"Who made this trail?" she asked, keeping up with him.

"You don't know?" He turned around to face her. She shook her head. They were standing in the grasses. She smelled a rank animal smell, and suddenly guessed the answer, but said nothing. Yet she saw the look of recognition cross his face, that he knew what she knew. He smiled, and took her hand. "Look!"

A female mallard and her baby were swimming in the pond. As they approached, the ducks scooted out of the water and disappeared into the grasses on the other side.

"I never knew about this pond, though it's so close to the house. If it weren't for the bushes, you might see the roof and the porch from here," she said.

They had reached the water's edge. She bent to pick up a down feather. Around the pond were hoof tracks that had dried and hardened in the mud. "I've seen a doe and fawn in the front yard," she said. "So this is where they drink."

"And that's not all. Come with me."

She followed him away from the pond, in the other direction from the house, up part of the slope they hadn't travelled. He drew apart the brush to show her a hidden clearing, oval in shape, shorter than a person's length. The grasses and vegetation were packed and brown.

"It's the deer's bed," he explained.

Surprised and delighted, Althea watched Paul changing before her eyes from a city-bred dancer to a man versed in country ways. She stepped past him into the deer's bed. Not knowing what had come over her, she crouched in it like a deer. Feeling his eyes on her back, she stared at the ground, pretending she was an animal, exposed to him. I'm really letting myself go, she thought.

She was dizzy. His arm went around her waist, supporting her.

* * *

The days started and faded in the pastel palettes of sunrise and sunset. Althea woke up happy and went to sleep happy. Hers was a thin, all-inclusive happiness that went skimming over the surface of things. It was satisfying as long as she didn't breach it with doubt. For the first time in her life, she was living for the moment, and she was determined not to question it.

She had rested on sandy beaches and been buoyed by ocean waves; she had cycled past ponds and green fields and shingled gray houses long enough to have gotten the city out of her system. First she was rejuvenated by the earth and sea. Then she was transformed into Paul's lover. She couldn't remember when she had last been so uninhibited. To her delight, silly, sensual intimacies had quickly developed between them.

They teased each other and talked nonsense. She was lighthearted, and so was he. They didn't explain themselves or ask for explanations. It's been a long time, she reflected, since she had been so relaxed. But it wasn't only that. There was no logical way for her to explain her bond to him, a compound of recognition, attraction, and opposition.

For her, love had begun with seeing, with how Paul had let her study him. Ever since his arrival, she had observed how he looked around him with curiosity and interest, his glance alighting on her and flying off. Yet, if he wished, he could gaze at her so that she felt he was effortlessly seeing into her soul; she carried the memory into her sleep of his blue eyes, focused on her. If he continued to see her like that, she thought, she would soon have no secrets from him.

But he didn't. He practiced a number of subtle withdrawals, and she, observing them, followed his lead. That is why, in the next days, she did not press him or question why he failed to ask her about her life or wonder aloud about her paintings, though he punctiliously allowed her time to work on them.

Or, rather, she continued to devote several hours each day to them, which he soon accepted as a matter of course. Their time was comfortably divided into periods of solitude and togetherness.

Although Althea knew he was a lost cause, she couldn't stop herself. In the days that followed, he never turned on her, denigrated, or belittled her, though she knew that many men do so when they feel trapped. She believed that, despite his past or his future, he wanted her; she could feel him weaken when she touched him, the way a woman is said to weaken at the touch of her beloved. Though she was aware that these moments did not reciprocate for the intensity of her feeling, she nevertheless cherished them with a tenderness that matched his sensitivity--that is, when he wished to show it.

* * *

Althea and Paul sat together at the edge of a bluff overlooking the sea, ten yards off the trail to the beach at Black Rock. Tall grasses camouflaged them from passers-by. Althea sat on the ground between Paul's legs, leaning against his chest. His arms wound loosely around her neck; his fingertips rested lightly on her collarbone; his chin grazed her neck. Below the cliff, waves swelled and crashed on the sea, flinging off gauzy veils of mist. The roar periodically drowned her thoughts. She felt drowsy, yet also enlivened.

"I don't know why I never get tired of watching the waves come in. Why is such a monotonous sight so endlessly fascinating?" she wondered aloud.

"It's like watching a fire," said Paul. "Its flames are monotonous, too, yet never quite the same."

Far out to sea, the triangular white speck of a sailboat reflected the sun's glare. Althea clasped Paul's fingers, which lay loosely over her chest. She felt his hand under hers move with the shallow rise and fall of her own breath.

They had been together four days. She was like a sleuth looking for clues he dropped about himself: comments made casually, descriptions of habits, any possibly revealing detail. She was always on the alert. Already she had memorized any facts of his upbringing and anecdotes from his past that he had thoughtlessly disclosed.

She knew that he'd grown up in the Midwest: he was born in Michigan and moved to Minnesota before he started school. He had attended the Chicago Art Institute before dropping out to dance. He had come to dance relatively late, but was now performing with two small, well-regarded companies--he had raised his eyebrows as he told her this, to detach himself from the praise.

"I'd love to see you perform," Althea said now, remembering this conversation. As she spoke, she pictured a darkened theater and a spotlit stage where Paul transformed a sequence of steps into an exalted, fleeting vision. As proof of his enchantment, she imagined an enraptured audience, men and women alike who smiled on him, their chins sweetly upturned, their eyes misted. "You're graceful even when you turn in your sleep."

He laughed and stroked her windblown hair. They heard some people approaching on the path and grew silent, not wanting to give themselves away. The people passed. Althea felt a sudden desire to make Paul speak about the two of them, to acknowledge her presence in his life, but she did not dare. He would not like it, she knew. She would only hurt herself.

So instead she asked him about his garden, which she had seen, and which for her was a roundabout way of asking him about his life with Bryce that she was not brave enough to broach directly. Though they hadn't discussed it, she could tell that this area of inquiry was off-bounds to her. She chafed at the limits he imposed, but she was too insecure to offend him deliberately.

She knew that he liked being admired, and she assumed that he wanted to be understood, just as she craved his understanding of her. Love demanded it of her, and she exclaimed suddenly, without thinking, "I wish I knew all about you!"

Instantly she felt him cringe and withdraw. "You never will," he said, "for I don't intend to let you." He was shocked, she was hurt. A glum, stunned silence lasted until they biked into town to go food shopping. Then they each seemed to decide that there was no point in squabbling, and that a truce, in which they ignored their dissonant wishes, was preferable. As expiation, Althea filled the shopping basket with foods Paul said he liked. She automatically took out her wallet in the check-out line, and he did not protest. Yet she was so accustomed to feeling poor and to counting every penny that it was impossible for her not to consider that he was taking advantage of her. She reminded herself that he was her guest and that she should have no objections to footing the bill. Nevertheless, when he paid at their next stop, a seasonal farm stand offering local produce, she was relieved. Her feelings reverted to goodwill towards him.

They carted the groceries back in sturdy plastic milk crates lashed to racks mounted over their bikes' rear wheels. They were tired out by the time they reached the house. The exertion was cathartic: Althea's hurt had faded, and she sensed that Paul's resentment had, too.

Yet a pall had descended, compounded of his disillusion and her disappointment--she was too aware of him not to notice it. She imagined how she must have sounded to him--"I wish to know all about you!"--and she shrank from the shame of it. She reproached herself; her stupidity pained her.

Still, they ate lunch companionably, but she was relieved when, afterwards, he went off by himself, leaving her to paint. The routine of putting on work clothes, getting out supplies, and mixing colors was soothing. Shielded by the blue screen to one side, with light streaming through the windows to the north and west, she stood, safe on her island of solitude. How grateful I am to be alone with my work for a while, she thought. I need this. I need to forget everything else. She reflected, It can feel like Heaven just to be left alone to look at what's yours.

Now, facing her unfinished works, she acknowledged one inspiration: Monet's waterlilies. A way of painting without edges or outlines, without drawing, where the images seem to rise from depths of movement and stillness, she enumerated to herself.

But today she couldn't find her way in the paintings. She was too distracted by the unpleasantness with Paul to give them the concentration they required. She thought, not for the first time, of how stringent art was, at least for her. Art exacted total devotion from her without the promise of any immediate return.

I think of myself as frugal, she thought, but look what I've done: I've spent all my money on a vacation, and I've fallen in love with a man who will never marry me.

Althea paused in her revery. I might as well give up my fruitless efforts to paint and enjoy what's left of the day, she decided. She began to put the paints away. She gathered the brushes to wash them. On her way to the kitchen, she stopped before the front windows. The sloping yard, the spreading landscape, the sea in the distance--all were gilded in the late afternoon light. She wondered where Paul was, and then she saw him entering the yard. Her serious thoughts and worries about him drifted away like dust at his return. She was pleased to see him, and she came running out to the porch to greet him.

* * *

Paul saw Althea entering the edge of his vision; he felt her energy floating out before her to seize him with invisible fingers. He envisaged them as a couple in a romantic movie, impelled across a landscape toward each other. With this idea, he thus distanced himself from her even as they met and embraced.

It had become his habit in the afternoons to wander freely while she remained behind in the house. She was working on her paintings--so she said. Each day, when he left, he pictured her in his absence applying herself diligently to whatever she was doing. He liked to think that she was preoccupied while he played.

As soon as he was past the yard, he ceased to conjure her. The beautiful Block Island summer afternoon invited him. He considered where he might go, by bike or on foot, exploring. He followed the winding coast. Balancing on rocks, he peered into tidepools. He gazed at dark mussels and periwinkles in the clear, cold water. He pursued his thoughts.

Why is it that I'm only interested in what is intense, yet I'm exhausted by intensity? he wondered. He was a little afraid of Althea, because she connected to his inner self in ways that he had not anticipated. Out of boredom and curiosity he had come to her, and to get even with Bryce for leaving him so abruptly. He had found her transformed by her vacation, turned all to gold. She had appeared to him like a vision waiting on the tarmac, tall, her tawny-flecked eyes radiating hope. Under her welcoming smile, her mouth was serious, almost afraid. He believed he understood her, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to. He knew that he did not wish for her to understand him. When he remembered how avidly she'd said she wanted to understand him, he felt uncomfortable and apprehensive all over again.

The fact was that, having betrayed Bryce, he began to feel kindly towards him. It was as if, having purged his resentment in revenge, he could now afford to be generous, at least in his thoughts. He believed he had the psychological advantage, and that it made him secretly powerful.

As he dreamily watched the waves wash over the rocks, recede, and wash over them again, drowning the tidepools and then exposing them, he looked back on his life with Bryce. He thought of their roof garden in the spring, a green oasis overlooking the city. With nostalgia he remembered May dusks full of murmuring voices, children playing on their narrow side street, and mothers watching from the stoops. He recalled the feathery green fronds of locust trees in the late sunlight and the slanted shadows of fire escapes against the glowing brick walls of tenements and apartment buildings.

He pictured their roof at twilight as if it were a stage, the penthouse part of a set, and he and Bryce actors. Barechested, in loose, old jeans, he tended the garden, while Bryce lounged by the fountain feeding the goldfish and sipping a drink. The penthouse was behind them, and behind it was the sky and the lowering sun.

He thought of how, years and years ago, he'd left his home in Minnesota, in the heartland of the continent (fields of wheat clean and yellow in September, a blaze of sumac by a blue lake) for a city life of more sordid circumstances. At first every day had been an adventure, and he'd congratulated himself for having escaped the blandness and dullness of life back home. For a long time he'd lived hand-to-mouth and thought it romantic. He had come to New York to dance, he'd had some triumphs on the stage, and he looked forward to more. Dance hadn't made him rich, but he hadn't expected it to. He'd always survived and sometimes he'd flourished. However, this existence had begun to pall even before Bryce had offered him a life comfortable enough to be luxurious in Manhattan. He had every intention of going back to that life, but he planned to make the most of this vacation while it lasted.

* * *

Althea and Paul were preparing dinner. It was after eight o'clock, and the late August sun had sunk past the horizon, leaving a velvet-blue sky striped faintly with pink. The mild air smelled of wild roses and meadows and the sea. The kitchen in the little house was scarcely more than an alcove, yet it was airy, with a wide window open to the deck and the curtains blowing. In the kitchen there was a stainless steel sink with a gooseneck faucet, a gas stove, cabinets, a medium-sized refrigerator, and oddly-matched implements that Althea thought might have been assembled piece by piece over the years.

She had poured two glasses of white wine. Paul was shucking corn. The pale silks splayed over his hand and then slipped and fell into a brown paper bag. A fillet of bluefish, its satiny gray flesh exposed, lay on a baking sheet. Althea was making a sauce for it, squeezing lemon juice, mixing it with fresh dill, olive oil, minced garlic, and mayonnaise. There was a loaf of Italian bread, green beans, a tender Boston lettuce, and a ripe red tomato.

Pots of water were heating to a boil for the corn and the beans. Althea slid the side of fish, spread with the sauce, into the preheated oven. Paul snapped the beans while she made the salad. They chatted as they worked, their shoulders occasionally brushing in the confined space. All was easy again between them. From time to time Paul let drop titbits about his life which she immediately gathered and filed carefully away in her memory.

The corn and beans were boiling, the fish was almost baked. Althea put the bread in the oven to warm it and poured them each more wine. They set the table. She lit candles, which multiplied in glossy reflections in the dark windows.

The sky had grown dark. The stars were coming out, she knew, though she couldn't see them from the windows. She and Paul brought the food to the table, sat down, and filled their plates. Paul admired the result: "delicious."

"It's nice to cook and eat together," Althea said. "I don't get a chance to do it too often. Who usually cooks, you or Bryce?"

Paul flashed her a warning look, yet replied, "It depends. We often cook together. But I guess Bryce probably does more. Sometimes we go out or order out. When I'm performing, we rarely eat together."

"But you know your way around a kitchen."

"I should. I've been on my own a while."

"And you do a lot of entertaining."

"That's Bryce's influence. Before I moved in with him, I rarely bothered. Too lazy or disorganized, I guess. But Bryce has got me so that I enjoy it."

"But it was your idea to invite me to your party?"

Paul smiled. "Yes, it was."

"I guess you'll reschedule it now."

"I expect so."

"Will I be included again?"

"Do you want to be?"

She stared into Paul's unfathomable blue eyes. He does not realize how desperate I feel, she thought. She lifted a forkful of fish to her mouth and chewed and swallowed it. She took a deep breath. "Will you tell Bryce about me?"

"No."

Paul's lips tightened in a thin line. She knew it was a mistake to ask him. She sat silently, miserably. Then she said, "All right. It's your life. You be the judge of it." Yet an icy shiver of dread washed over her as she spoke. Then it was gone, leaving a shadow. The fainter the light, the fainter the shadow, she thought. But she said, "Have some more wine."

* * *

After dinner they sat on the deck, bundled in sweaters, listening to the sea and watching the star-studded night sky. Every few minutes, it seemed, a shooting star would fall through the heavens, a white fireball burning itself up until it disappeared. "Oh!" exclaimed Paul with delight as a vivid streak illuminated the dome of the sky.

Althea was somber. Today's Friday, she thought. Jeanne arrives tomorrow. Before Paul came, I was looking forward to Jeanne's arrival, but now I wish she weren't coming. It makes me uncomfortable to think of Jeanne observing me with Paul. "Why are you involved with him? It's crazy," Althea could imagine Jeanne asking her. But I need her to come, she reminded herself. I'm depending on her to transport me and my canvases and supplies luggage back to New York on Labor Day. That was the deal we struck: a weekend vacation in exchange for a free ride.

She knew she ought to inform Paul of these plans, but she didn't. Once more, with my question about Bryce, I damaged the harmony between us, she thought. She felt aggrieved. She was chilly and tired. She stood up. "I'm going to bed," she announced.

"All right."

"Will you come, too?"

"I'm wide-awake. I'll be in later." Paul sounded remote; his eyes were still fixed on the sky.

Her spirits fell. She couldn't help it; she felt rejected. I'm too sensitive for my own good, she thought. She did not bother to wash her face or brush her teeth. She dropped her clothes in a soft heap on the floor, except for a tee-shirt which she wore as she slipped between the sheets. She closed her eyes. She felt she was sliding, though she lay still. As if I could feel herself moving with the rotation of the earth, she thought, before sleep overcame her. When she awoke in the morning, Paul was beside her.

* * *

Althea and Paul had gone out and come back. The sun was high in the sky, the weather still and hot. Althea poured two glasses of lemonade, which she and Paul drank quickly in long swallows. She fretted, I still haven't told him that Jeanne's coming. I'd like to make the most of our time left together.

"You look melancholy," Paul observed.

"Summer's almost over."

"Yes, that's a sad thought." But he did not sound sad. He took the empty glass from her and set it in the sink along with his.

"I haven't finished my paintings yet."

"You will. I have faith in you."

"You do?" She waited for him to ask to see her work at last. But he did not.

"Yes. You're one of the most disciplined people I know."

Was his comment meant as a compliment? She did not think it sounded like one. "Oh." She shrugged her shoulders, dejected.

"Althea." There was both exasperation and tenderness in his voice. She looked at him, her eyes wide, and felt his returning gaze filling her, discerning her desire. She sensed his wavering and his capitulation. She felt him preparing for the weakening in himself when he would touch her.

"Come," he said. She let him lead her down the hall to the bedroom. He brought her close, folding her into him, kissing her, until they fell dizzily on the bed, the blue-and-white spread bunched around them.

"Do you want to?" he asked, as if the impulse were his.

She nodded. They undressed. He pressed against her, his weight full over her. She was aware of the heat, the silence. His shoulder fitted into the curve of her neck, and over it she could see out the window to a pure patch of brilliant blue sky. The blue-and-white curtains, the same material as the spread, looked faded next to that blue.

He instantly broke into a sweat that coated her skin. She wrapped her arms and legs across his back as he strained into her. There was resistance between them. It was not a force of will, but an impediment that had to be worn away. Their need to go deeper was an effort. They were struggling.

She felt herself dissolving, softening. He turned her around and crouched over her. She bent under him and he into her. The silence was broken by her small, sharp cries. His breathing was labored.

It seemed to her that the world had shrunk to just this--the blue-and-white room and the bed and the fathomless blue of the bottomless sky. In a sense he was distant from her, for they were like animals, and yet they had never been so close. He was both procrastinating and urgent, pulling her back with him. She felt pain like the stings of needles deep within her body, and at the same time pleasure stretching her, opening her, taking her in its charge.

She wondered whose force did this, his or hers? He stopped for a moment, stilling her, as if to listen. Without moving, she felt him swell inside her, and then he withdrew. She sighed, but not in protest, as he guided her round and possessed her again. She was moving under influence, as in a dream. She looked straight up, at the blue void and his face lowering to hers; then her eyes closed involuntarily, and his tongue filled her mouth.

It seemed as if he might bury her, but she rose against him. Their bodies no longer matched blows; they were as one: the same wave bore them aloft and brought them down. The creaking of the bed entered her awareness. In what she held, in what was holding her, she felt the turbulence resolving, until it exploded into release.

So much had been grappled with to be set free that she hadn't been certain how far Paul was with her. He paused, as if he balanced on an edge, while he waited for her, and then leaped, falling through her, taking her, too, past the sensations still shuddering through her.

It was all they could do, afterwards, to lie prone, their bodies still locked into each other, as motionless as the dead. Only their breathing was close and regular and deep as they shared the air between them. A stray breeze lifted the curtains and dried the film of sweat on their bodies. Sighing, he withdrew, and they lay apart, with only their fingers entwined.

She felt the comfort of their shared contentment. She thought this a great moment, for both of them. It was not his grace, his skill, and instinct that she'd been aware of as much as this other, creature consciousness of him. She felt drained and fulfilled. This love, because it went further, was both more terrifying and satisfying than the sweeter love she'd shown to him before.

When she spoke, it was to shatter the mood between them. She roused herself to check the clock and saw that they had half an hour to meet Jeanne's boat. At last she blurted out the news to Paul that she was expecting her friend for a visit.

"How secretive you are." He gave her a quizzical look, obviously amused. She wanted him to recognize that she shared this trait with him; she thought that he did. "We'd better hurry, then," he continued, "if we don't want to keep your friend waiting."

Chapter Four

Paul lingered at the top of the street that led to the harbor and let Althea ride ahead of him down to the parking lot. He wondered, Why have I come with her to meet her friend? It's the polite thing to do, but I'm usually not inspired by politeness. I'm curious, I admit it.

He couldn't tell if Althea wanted him there or not. He held himself back on purpose to watch the reunion. The ferry had already docked and was being unloaded. There was the usual hustle-bustle in the harbor. Althea braked, approaching. She walked her bike through the crowd. She spotted Jeanne already in the parking lot, waiting for her car to be driven off the boat.

"Jeanne, I'm over here," she called out.

"Althea! Hi there."

Althea put down the kickstand of her bike and stepped clear of it. She and Jeanne met and embraced. Althea babbled on for a few seconds before she realized that Jeanne wasn't paying attention. She saw Jeanne's eyes widen, but not at her. She followed Jeanne's gaze, and it led her to Paul, coming up behind her.

Paul was suddenly lightheaded, seeing Jeanne with Althea. He felt unreal. He was dizzy without being sick. It was a marvelous feeling. "It's you!" he exclaimed to Jeanne as if they were alone. "What are you doing here? Don't tell me you're Althea's friend!" He heard himself laugh--loudly, boldly. He so enjoyed watching Jeanne blush that he did not notice Althea's reaction.

Althea was confused. She opened her mouth and closed it. A sense of unease, of dread, as yet nameless, pervaded her. "What's going on?" she asked, looking from Paul to Jeanne.

Paul spoke first. "We've met before, but we didn't have the pleasure of exchanging names," he explained. "This woman ran away from me," he added, to tease Jeanne.

"I got off at my stop," she corrected him.

"I also left a message on your machine without knowing it was you," he said, smiling.

"The message for Althea, yes."

Althea flinched to hear herself being discussed as if she weren't there. "I still don't understand," she complained.

Now Paul registered Althea's anxiety, and he gave her his consideration. Matter-of-factly he mentioned the encounter that had taken place two weeks ago on the line of the Lexington Avenue local subway. "Someone makes an impression, whom you never expect to see again, and then by coincidence she turns out to be the friend of your friend."

"A coincidence," Jeanne echoed. Unlike Paul, she did not smile. Althea wondered what impression Paul had made on Jeanne. What can I do? she asked herself. I'm their hostess. It seems to me that I have very little choice.

"Let's go," she said, taking charge. "We can continue this conversation later. Because we came by bike, we'll have to follow you," she explained to Jeanne.

"But I don't know the way," objected Jeanne.

"I'll tell you," said Althea.

"I'll ride ahead. You can follow me," Paul offered.

The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Jeanne's car off the ferry. Jeanne claimed the pale yellow Nissan compact with a hatchback. While she climbed in, Paul took off on his bike without waiting for a decision.

Althea let Paul and Jeanne ride ahead of her. The bike and the car merged into the traffic on Water Street. She watched as they rounded the curve past the Surf Hotel, with its weathered clapboard and wide porches, and then disappeared.

She followed slowly behind. She felt inclined not to return to the house, so that they would have to think about her and wonder where she had gone. She admitted to herself that she was afraid of Paul's interest in Jeanne. She felt like a teenager again, jealous of her boyfriend's attraction to her girlfriend. Except that when they really were teenagers, she'd never experienced this jealousy about Jeanne. She remembered Paul's weakening when he touched her. At least she had that hold on him, she assured herself. Jeanne couldn't take that away.

As she rode along on her bike, these thoughts absorbed her. Soon she'd left the town behind. She felt the wind at her back. She passed marshes and crossed a bridge over a pond. New Harbor came into view, and, rising on the high hill behind it, the island cemetery. She liked the fact that the beautiful vista belonged to the dead. Instead of houses climbing the slope, there were only the weatherbeaten tombstones and silence among the overgrown grasses. She imagined that the spirits of the dead watched over the island from their high hill. Who were they? Fishermen who knew of storms, and the women who once long ago had watched them set out and waited for them to return.

She could feel her body anticipating each dip and turn of the road, so well had she come to know it. Between breaths, she repeated to herself, like a litany, the catalogue of blessings that was her hedge against depression: painting, the act of love, caring friendship, engrossing conversation, a sense of the earth's lovely variety and of man's possible and unlikely genius, and the knowledge that, in my absence, I am missed.

Meanwhile, the weather was changing. Low clouds blew in, bringing fog and mist. She thought of how she had been happy with Paul. She wished that she could make Jeanne disappear.

As she pedalled into the yard, she saw Jeanne's car parked on the grass and Paul's bike leaning against the side of the house. She found them drinking lemonade on the porch, each sitting in one of the blue-painted Adirondack chairs.

"Welcome back," said Paul.

"We were wondering where you were," Jeanne chimed in. Her voice betrayed no anxiety. She did not bother to spring to her feet, but remained seated languidly in the slanting chair. "There's lemonade in the kitchen," she told Althea.

Althea felt her face turning red. She had mixed the lemonade herself. She did not want to look at Paul. She went into the house. Entering, she noticed Jeanne's sunglasses and scarf lying on the dining table and overnight bag sitting, already opened, on a couch. It appeared to Althea that her house had been invaded. As her days in it were coming to an end, it suddenly seemed much less like hers. She felt misplaced, or replaced.

It was mid-afternoon, a time she'd been accustomed to work, but she couldn't bring herself to paint now. The thought of it was impossible. She'd never be able to concentrate. In the kitchen she poured herself a glass of lemonade and found a bag of potato chips. Wearing a careful smile, she returned with them to Jeanne and Paul.

A white cloud of fog was blowing up the hill from the sea, blotting out the view. They could not see beyond the stone wall at the yard's edge. The fog seemed to be anchoring itself to the lawn's sharp grassblades, like a diaphanous tent.

"I was telling Jeanne that she brought the bad weather," Paul said to Althea in an attempt to include her in their conversation.

"I like fog," Jeanne commented. "I think it's romantic. But I guess the weather reporter got fooled. The forecast I heard over the radio this morning was for sunny skies."

Althea noticed that Jeanne's mood had changed. She was no longer languid, but animated. Soon she was chattering about her trip, her impressions of the island, the house. Listening, Althea was reminded of the flighty teen-ager who she thought had vanished forever under Jeanne's grown-up polish. She watched Jeanne jiggle the ice cubes in her lemonade and laugh nervously as the fog crept through the yard. She observed Jeanne's agitation, and, in contrast, she grew calm.

"I still can't get over the fact that my subway stranger is your friend," Paul remarked to Althea. He recounted the meeting again. Hearing the excitement in his voice, Althea thought, It doesn't occur to him to conceal it. He is thinking of himself, not of me. He will never think of me before himself. Not as I think of him, she realized. And that is my own misfortune.

When we made love this morning, I believed it meant as much to him as it did to me, she thought. But now it seems he's already forgotten it. Althea saw in her mind that patch of blue sky she had watched over his shoulder. Now that blue sky has disappeared, she thought. It seemed to hold so much substance, but in reality it was pure emptiness.

She glanced at Jeanne. Under her brown bangs, her friend's dark eyes were wide, her face almost expressionless. She wondered what Jeanne was thinking. She still wished that Jeanne hadn't come, but she was almost resigned to it.

"Do you believe in coincidence?" Paul asked, glancing at them both.

"Do you mean that things happen for a reason?" asked Jeanne.

"No, that they happen at random," said Paul. The melancholy bellow of a foghorn trailed his words. A towhee repeated its three shrill notes again and again, like a theme. Althea paced the porch restlessly. The fog was still blowing, white and ephemeral.

"What time is it? Three o'clock? Let's have something to eat and then go for a walk," Althea proposed. "It might rain a bit, but neither of you mind too much, do you?"

They did not, for they agreed to her suggestion.

* * *

"Evening primrose, butter-and-eggs, celandine, and cinquefoil"--naming the yellow flowers that bloomed in the late summer grass, Althea made them real in Jeanne's city eyes. Jeanne found herself looking up at Althea, a familiar sensation. Though she had refrained from adding to Paul's description of their meeting, she in turn marvelled that Althea's Paul had turned out to be the stranger whom, of all her recent chance encounters, she remembered most vividly. She was attracted to Paul--she had to admit it. Once more, Althea seemed powerful to her, with a power that was unconscious and significant. It came to what she had surmised on that long-ago autumn afternoon when they had stared side by side from her father's lofty office into the terrible miniature traffic: Althea was imperial. It was as if the taller woman held sway over a domain she was always discovering.

They were on a muddy dirt road--two ruts separated by a rise--with narrower trails off of it that led to private houses. Paul was quick and light on his feet, his sneakers still white after mud had spattered the two women's. Jeanne didn't want to struggle to keep up with him.

"Let him go ahead if he wants to," she panted. She linked her arm in Althea's; they drew close. "We're in no hurry."

"You're right."

Jeanne's attention flattered Althea. She felt indulgent towards her friend, even tender. Together they watched Paul flitting ahead like a human dragonfly, a slender, dark shape enveloped in the mist. Althea didn't mind his disappearing. Soon, she knew, he'd reach the shore and have to stop.

Althea preferred loop trails and planned to take her guests back another way, after they lingered for awhile on the narrow, rocky coast. Under the fog came a rain so fine it was a cobweb on their faces. Where the waves broke, the water was a whitened aqua; farther out it was slate green, and then the fog was too thick to see through. Paul was skipping stones when Althea and Jeanne arrived, or trying to, for they flip-flopped on the crests and fell into the surf. It was too choppy for a swim; they sat on some rocks.

While playing with a shell, Paul was watching Jeanne. Althea he perceived whole, like a shaft of water, but Jeanne to him was in the scattered pieces of snatched looks. The wisps of hair around her forehead were clotted with mist. She was pulling apart a reed in thread-fine ringlets. Her back turned to them, Althea looked out to sea. Paul slipped over next to Jeanne.

"Let me see," he said, placing her half-skinned reed between his angular thumbs. He blew at it, the threads frayed. He sucked in his cheeks for another effort, his lips pursed to a pinhole, and an eerie, high-pitched tone burst between them till the thread broke.

As if in return, a foghorn sounded somberly. Suddenly Jeanne felt afraid. The blankness of Althea's back to her and Paul's instant approach conspired to make her feel she was being given away without having been asked.

She assumed that Paul thought she was willing if he thought at all. Was he right? Jeanne admitted to herself that, depending on the occasion, she might accept his advances, but now, next to Althea? She'd seen the house; she knew the sleeping arrangements; she'd glimpsed their clothing thrown carelessly together on the spread in the only bedroom. While Paul sat next to her, Jeanne pictured him prone beside a willing Althea; when he pulled back the sweatshirt hood from her head, smoothing her tousled, moisture-plumped hair, she was motionless. She felt afraid she was being played with, that Paul was attempting to control her against her will. She felt the tips of his fingers following the whorl of her ear. Althea had walked away, and was hidden behind a jutting cliff. That was the crux: greater than Jeanne's other qualms was the salient question of Althea. She was like a serene statue surrounded by a sacred taboo.

When they were girls, Jeanne and Althea had often undressed together. They had shared showers, slept in the same room. Jeanne could still picture Althea at thirteen in a flannel nightgown smelling of soap, her head bent forward under her hairbrush, as she asked Jeanne to unclasp her necklace. Jeanne could recall the feel of her finger working the catch above the downy hair at the nape of Althea's neck.

The adult gave less to friendship than the child. Other commitments and attractions were supposed to subsume that one, yet Jeanne secretly grieved for this early and equal intimacy, this sharing she had lost.

She bent her head; and Paul, thinking she meant to instruct him, began massaging her neck, her shoulders, the nodes of her spine. She relaxed and then, abruptly, stiffened.

"Wait!" Stricken, she twisted around to face him. Paul dropped his hands. Again, he was faster than she. Looking past Jeanne, he called out, "Althea, have you had enough?"

Althea didn't answer at once. She had deliberately walked away from them. She was concentrating her attention on the kelp-strewn, stony beach, noticing how, in the white overcast light, certain colors were intensified--the fuchsias, the greens, the beige, the blacks--she named them to herself.

One part of Althea was always in solitude. Her vacation had been a lesson in being alone as well as a romantic interlude, and perhaps one more than the other. She had four paintings in progress that no one else had seen. She had a separate life that only they would reveal. She tried to keep her eyes open for possible influences, but that didn't mean that she didn't blink sometimes, as now, against the salt spray.

Althea, who, watching the waves breaking, could feel at her back Paul stroking Jeanne, had a tendency to overestimate her own strength, which was her greatest danger. Miscalculation might devastate her, no less in love than in a worked-over painting. She felt bruised by Paul's attentions to Jeanne in her presence. While, behind her, Paul's hand moved from Jeanne's hair to her white neck, Althea considered a worse dread: Paul would permanently let her drop when back with Bryce. She concluded that Paul on a part-time basis might be better than nothing at all. She had more to lose if she cast Jeanne in the role of rival.

There were other elements as well. A lonely woman haunted even on vacation by subway dreams, an eager eavesdropper--for yes, she admitted that she often listened to strangers on New York streets--wanted company to banish the cobwebs that seemed to grow naturally from her application to art. It was solitude or intimacy for Althea. She dared herself to take a chance.

She came back to them holding a green ribbon of dripping kelp, a moon snail, a crab claw colored white, pink, and magenta. "Look what you've brought!" Paul's tone was soothing and light. He put his arms around them both before he backed off in exaggerated disgust at the offensive odor of Althea's seaweed, but Althea didn't seem to mind his holding Jeanne. "What a wonderful color," she sighed, flinging the kelp on the sand and wiping her slimy fingers on her shirt. "Well, are you ready to go?"

She told them she thought they could cut through an abandoned field and link up with another path. What she hadn't predicted was the poison ivy, shiny leaves drooping, already tinged with scarlet blotches. Jeanne hung back; she alone was in shorts, but she didn't expect Paul to scoop her up in his arms as he did.

"I'm used to lifting women, and you're not large. We wouldn't want that skin to get all red and itchy," he murmured like a solicitous mother, stroking her shin.

Jeanne laughed and relaxed. Though pinned in his arms, she felt herself mentally step back, as if she were watching herself in a dream.

Althea plunged ahead to find a way through overgrown fields bounded by tumbling stone walls. Over the next rise, three deer emerged in single file from a stand of sweet pepperbush so fragrant Althea could smell it from yards away. With a finger over her lips, she warned Paul as he stalked behind her, holding Jeanne like a bridegroom. First came a stag with young antlers, then a doe and fawn. In spite of her efforts, the deer shied at their presence. Nose in the air, the stag sniffed and, revolving his head, bounded off from her, the doe and fawn following. After the deer disappeared, they could still hear the swish of limbs through the underbrush.

Sighting the path ahead of her, Althea breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn't gotten lost. The rain ended, though fog was still suspended over the wind-waved grasses. Past the poison ivy, Paul let go of Jeanne. Her legs accepted her weight joyfully as she slid to the ground. Suddenly energetic, she broke into a full-tilt run to the road. Passing Paul and Althea, she sprinted uphill, spattering mud, the scarlet hood of her sweatshirt bouncing. Holding hands, fingers laced together, Althea and Paul followed.

Jeanne reached the road well ahead of them, and walked back down to meet them, panting, her face flushed. She'd raised a sweat; now the air cooled it. She felt loose-limbed, like a jerking puppet maneuvered downhill. She hadn't run away; she hadn't even waited. She'd gone back and they forward, and it mattered less where they met than that they met at all.

The fog was too full around them for even a glimpse of the sunset. Warm from exercise, Jeanne took off her sweatshirt, and Paul found himself watching her breasts through her thin tee-shirt while his arm was in Althea's. Jeanne could feel him watching her, and she didn't put her sweatshirt back on.

They returned to a darkened house. Althea hadn't locked the door when they left, and, as she went inside ahead of them, she wondered if an intruder had disturbed their absence. She sensed a change in the house, as if it harbored an alien presence. The curtains blew back in the open windows, rounded and fluttering, and she realized that the animation she sensed might be nothing but the wind.

Outside, in the gathering gloom, Jeanne shivered with a sudden chill. From the shadows of the porch, she felt Paul approaching her. He gathered her in his arms, folding her against him. He breathed into her ears, stroking her throat until she gasped.

Inside the house, Althea switched on a lamp. "Turn it off," she heard Paul saying behind her. "It's nicer without it." Without a word she obeyed him. In the silence she couldn't say how she knew that Paul was kissing Jeanne.

She wasn't surprised, but she was still hurt. Her step quickened through the living room, leaving them alone. She heard Paul say, "Come, come, Althea, don't stalk off like that. Don't be left out."

Paul startled Jeanne when he spoke to Althea. Jeanne hid her face in his chest. He held her close, molded against him. She felt exposed, ashamed, and yet thrilled. She dreaded to face her friend, not wanting her to see how weak she was. She was afraid that Althea would despise her.

"Come, don't be afraid," Paul coaxed again. Althea felt herself being drawn to the open doorway and back outside. In the dim light she made out their linked shapes. Then she saw him release Jeanne and turn to face her.

"Althea."

He waited, hardly breathing. Wordlessly she approached. He felt desire rising in his body, opening him, making him vivid. It was not a hunger, but an intoxication--a thrill, and a dreaminess in which the body absorbed the mind. He wondered, If the mind is caught by the body, can the body then release it?

It was as if he were entirely within a spell, as if a drug worked on him through the air. He felt his nerves quickening. He saw both women looking at him, Althea calm like the smooth face of a stone, Jeanne slightly trembling.

To each he gave a hand as he led them inside the house, leaving the door open. Silently they all watched their hands' caresses. Gently withdrawing his palm from Jeanne's, Paul smoothed back Althea's heavy, honey-light-dark hair with both his hands and kissed her face, first her forehead and then her mouth. Then he turned back to Jeanne, kissing her again. He was quivering, charged, flowing between a febrile surface and a still depth, his embraces returned, encircling him.

The fog had settled in fine threads of moisture in the women's hair that, taken in his hands, wet them. "You seem so alike. You both smell like the sea. Oh yes," he said, his voice rising from a whisper, rich and smooth. "I want you both."

Lightning flared outside in the gloomy sky, shuddering through the fog, above the darkening bushes and low trees. A gust of wind rang the chimes hanging from the porch rafters and blew the smell of rain through the house.

Althea felt her heart pounding as Paul caressed her, opening her shirt of oxford cloth, slipping it off so that she felt the ends of her hair brush her bare shoulders. Jeanne had never thought she would see Althea, so private and so proud, share a lover's kisses with her. This shock was followed by the greater one of witnessing Paul deliberately unclothing Althea, and Althea letting him.

Althea stood as still as a statue. She heard Jeanne sigh, felt her watching, Jeanne, who had watched her undress so many times in the past when it was innocent, and she did not cover herself. Jeanne, meanwhile, wondered what Althea was thinking. She could see, though not clearly, a deep cleft of shadow between Althea's pale breasts. Whether it was unnatural or not, she could not say, but she realized that the love she felt at that moment for her friend was desire.

Jeanne shocked herself, sensing what she was capable of. The pale illumination trembled again in the sky. They felt the rumble of thunder as if it came from the earth.

"Once. What's the harm in once?" said Paul. "I promise that nothing will happen if you don't want it to."

Althea shivered, feeling exposed. She thought, All afternoon has been leading to this moment. It is inevitable. I have been dreading it, and now it is happening. If I say no, he will stay with her.

"We'll keep the storm out," said Paul. Jeanne watched as he shut the windows, unrolled the blinds, and drew fast the heavy front door, plunging the room into darkness. She felt a mixture of sensations--curiosity, fear, eagerness. She could hardly believe what was happening. In the darkness Paul found her. His chest was bare. He put his hands under her tee-shirt, closing his palms over her breasts. He slipped the garment over her head, discarding it on the floor. "No, not in here," he whispered.

Althea felt his arm brush against hers, and he took her wrist, guiding them both down the short corridor into the bedroom, bending his head in the low doorway. He asked for a candle. "I want to see you together," he murmured.

* * *

I love you more than money, more than my past. We meet with the tips of all our fingers, our bodies open, swollen, risen, expectant, tense. Our arms and legs are quivering with hope and dread. Ease this trembling, this emptiness we call desire, or else increase it, enlarge it, augment it with the meanings of wordless sounds. Whose mouth is this, whose eyes, whose breast? Whose softness, whose wetness, whose breathing life do I feel as close as mine, and louder?

* * *

Althea moved to make room for Jeanne between her and Paul. In the flickering light of the candle, she smoothed back Jeanne's brown hair, following the curve of her brow and cheek, and then confided her to Paul.

It was Paul that she watched then. He appeared unearthly to her, like someone in a dream, moving so close to her, and yet as if she were not there at all. It felt terrible to her, to be so affected and to have no effect.

At last Paul and Jeanne separated silently and lay apart. Beyond her, he lay clothed in shadow, his features smoothed out in the gloom, as if he were submerged. They were silent except for their breathing. Then the two women turned to each other as if blindly, with hands and lips.

Gently, without urgency, he lay beside them. From the perimeter, he watched them swaying, rocking against each other like weeds in a sea. Tentatively, he caressed a limb, then drew back his fingers; his presence, unacknowledged, was implicit between them.

It puzzled Althea that while she caressed Jeanne's pale skin and kissed her, she felt herself resisting the meaning that glowed in Jeanne's dark, shining eyes. It seemed to her that she was making love to Jeanne with her eyes veiled, that in a deep sense she was contriving not to see the feelings that Jeanne was baring to her. Even as they lay as if lapped by the same sea, she felt a removal in herself that at first was like passivity and then was more.

When she sensed a hand along her thigh that she knew to be Paul's, she did not stiffen, but instead acted as if desire were indulgence. Yet her indulgence soon had its limits. Lightly she touched Jeanne's cheek and drew back. Quietly she removed Jeanne's hand from her waist. The women lay quite still; then Jeanne shifted, making room for Paul between them.

Lying on her stomach, her face pressed into the pillow, Althea closed her eyes. Soon she was asleep. In fact, they all fell asleep easily and remained asleep effortlessly. They slumbered dreamlessly, or else forgetful of their dreams.

* * *

Althea waked to the bedroom's pallor before six o'clock. Beside her, they were asleep, Paul's face half-hidden in the pillow, in sideways repose, while Jeanne curled next to him, brown hair stranded across her cheek. Althea slipped out of bed and into shorts and a shirt, tiptoeing outside, sneakers in hand.

A thin fog lay over the early morning. The grass was wet, and birds were active on the lawn and in the underbrush. Catbirds and robins and towhees were trilling and chirping, starlings were scattering in flocks. Down the hill she went, following the dirt road. A white gate swung invitingly open. She passed it, wondering what time the sun reached the western cove. She thought of how soon she wouldn't be able to take a swim from a shaded beach and come out to the sparkling sun, the water dripping down her as if it were alive.

She etched this image on her mind so that it might warm her in the frozen mud of a future November. She had seen a moon swell and shrink, the days thin. Her path was still in shadow but a gradual lightening led her to hope that the sun would burn through the fog and the wind would sweep the fog away.

She passed a shingled cottage. Through a blue-shuttered window, she saw a family of early-risers applying themselves to breakfast, the man buttering a slice of toast, a woman with a cup raised to her lips, a book by her plate turned face-down, its spine creased. To be so close and yet distanced by glass: automatic frames were always suggesting themselves to the artist in Althea. Then, as she saw the fog lifting, she ran the rest of the way. After the dirt road ended, she followed a path between rocks to the beach. Spatters of morning light touched the cove before the water could wet her.

In two motions she shed her clothes, and then walked into the sea. Carefully she stepped over pebbles and larger, flat stones. The ocean was calm. Water lapped gently against her thighs and hips as she paused, half-dry, half-wet. Then a small wave broke and she dove into it. Her head felt wonderfully cold. She swam under water and then emerged into the air again, wetness streaming from her skin and hair. In long, easy strokes, she swam far out in the deep water. For a long time she floated on her back, gazing up at the vast sky, which was clearing quickly now, but not with the blue promise of the day before. The color of the Sound in the distance was light, milky blue, but when she looked down into the water she was treading, she saw a liquid both dark and translucent. There her skin, though tanned, appeared white.

She swam to a rock poking out in the sea and climbed it. Seaweeds grew over it, and baby mussels no larger than a fingernail. Naked in the morning summer light, she sat on the rock in the midst of the gently rocking sea, utterly alone except for seagulls and sandpipers and a fishing boat out in the Sound that was passing by. She waited until it was gone, then stood and dived cleanly back into the water. For a while she swam happily, and then headed back to the shore.

Emerging from her swim, she felt magnificently alive. As she stood on the beach, the light slanting over her, the sea water dripping off of her, with the whole world around her and no one to see her, she felt almost as if she were a goddess risen from the foam. She was conscious of such vastness in herself, of love and desire, that, even had she wanted to, she did not think that she could have held herself back from returning to Paul and to Jeanne.

* * *

The morning had been alive inside Althea before the night had left her lovers. Waking next to a still-sleeping Paul, Jeanne didn't know why she suddenly thought of meetings in French cafés, varnished wooden tables, and flower arrangements. Sunlight flooded the room, over the blue dresser, the painted floor and hooked throw rugs, and Paul spoke next to her in his sleep. She couldn't make out if the sounds were words. She called his name softly.

He awakened to light streaming through the curtains, Althea missing beside him, and Jeanne's face bent over his as she leaned on one elbow, tracing, with her forefinger, the bridge of his nose. When he smiled, she traced that, too, and he lifted his head and brushed her finger away by meeting her lips. She gave no resistance; her eyes were wide on his, yet he felt her shudder, as if she were fleeing from him. One moment split into infinitesimal hairs, like a dandelion bloomed to filaments of silver seed.

* * *

Althea entered the bedroom from the deck, and stood looking at Paul and Jeanne from the doorway, as they sat side by side with the sheet pulled over them. Paul laughed and beckoned, and then his laughter died in his throat as she approached. Under her straight bangs, Jeanne's brown eyes gazed levelly at her. She smiled, welcoming Althea as if the bed were hers and Althea were the visitor.

It surprised Althea to note that she wasn't disturbed by Jeanne's attitude. It would have made her miserable instead to have found Jeanne clinging to the pillow and crying, or hidden speechless in the sheets, remote and ashamed, and to have felt herself to blame for it. Not until she saw Jeanne, relaxed and gratified--Althea sensed--by more than sleep, did she understand how hesitant she'd been to face her, and how she must have wanted to leave her first to Paul's ministrations. She couldn't help but sense what they had been up to while she was under the waves. As she slipped off her shorts and shirt, she felt radiant, sublime, eternal.

If the similarity between the women had struck Paul first the evening before, the morning conveyed to him their difference: Jeanne, softened and still warm from sleep; Althea, cold and exuberant, her hair like tangled seaweed, wet and rough, her skin as tawny as the grains of sand that stuck to it and made touching it like touching a fine grade of sandpaper.

But not all of her was tan and much of her was smooth. There was a sweetness in Paul's mouth as if he had sunk his teeth in the skin of a fruit and burst it. Here was what he could not fathom: a shifting yet definite boundary. Three had not become one, not really, but in their fluid, altering unions he felt a rapture that even at its apex was agonizing for what it couldn't contain, couldn't connect, couldn't unite.

Now they pressed further; they seemed to want to acquire a conviction of what they were, together, like this. For they were no longer innocent, and each knew that they would soon be parting.

Chapter Five

Bryce had truly been surprised to receive the letter postmarked August 8, 1980, from Meridian and addressed to him in his mother's looping, slanting handwriting. Communications between him and his family had become so rare that it might be more accurately said there wasn't communication.

He was an adolescent when it was discovered he had multiple sclerosis. One of his grandfathers had died from that disease as a young man, and Bryce's worry for himself made him not only careless but sometimes cruel. In his own eyes, if not in others', his second secret seemed less shameful: that only a man could arouse his desire. Yet the encounters preceding his affair with Paul hadn't generally managed to raise his estimate of mankind.

It was strange, Bryce thought, how, when he was growing up, he had suffered from his parents' overprotection, but, once he came to New York, he rarely heard from them. It made him wonder if they had really been so worried about him after all, if all the attention they had showed him were something other than true concern. It was almost as if, once he'd left Mississippi, he'd ceased to exist for them.

They hadn't wanted him to move to New York. They didn't like New York; it was too dangerous, full of criminals, radicals, and weirdos; they had no wish to go there themselves. They couldn't understand why anyone would want to live in such a chaotic and expensive city--a city so "un-American" (their adjective). What repelled them attracted Bryce. Since he was financially independent, having inherited a trust fund from his grandfather, they couldn't stop him. It was as if they were in unspoken agreement with him: the disappointment was mutual, and from now on they would expect nothing from each other. Bryce had never discussed his homosexuality with his parents, but he assumed they knew, and that this was at the core of their attitude that he had somehow failed them.

He was hardly a flaming rebel. Six years earlier he had graduated from the University of Mississippi with highest honors and with the reputation of a sophisticated eccentric. Like so many bright, liberal-arts oriented young people of his generation who were vaguely uncertain about what they wanted to do, he decided to study law.

The state university had been his parents' choice; Columbia was his--not for the school, but for New York City. He didn't like law school, but he hadn't expected to like it. He skipped many classes because of ill-health or indifference, but he showed up for his exams and passed with average grades. He didn't care, for he had no wish to be a whiz on Wall Street. Nor did he want to confront brutal courtroom dramas, issues of life and death. He desired safety, a comfortable life without too many headaches. He wasn't particularly ambitious about a career, but was more interested instead in keeping abreast of the cultural life of the city, about which he was enthusiastic, selective, critical, often disparaging, and always knowledgeable.

After two years in Columbia housing, Bryce bought his penthouse apartment in 1977, in an Upper West Side building. He got a handyman's special at a rock-bottom price. The owner had died; it hadn't been inhabited for years, and now the son, who lived in California, was selling it. About the apartment, as about everything else, Bryce had definite ideas, and little by little he had it fixed up according to his eclectic yet traditional tastes.

The next year he got his degree and passed the bar. He had a part-time, easy-going practice. He drew up business contracts and real estate agreements. It was pretty standard stuff, which came his way through word of mouth, through people he knew. He worked out of his apartment and set his own schedule, according to his inclination and his health. In addition, he managed his investments wisely, he was not extravagant, and, when he wasn't having an exacerbation of his disease, he lived quite pleasantly.

Bryce thought he'd come a long way from Meridian, yet still he felt a sense of dread when he held his mother's letter in his hand. He stared at the flap of the envelope with a stencil of daisies around the border. He didn't want to open it. He imagined it contained bad news, followed by a reproach of some kind. Otherwise, he wondered, why would she have written him?

Nor was he mistaken. Under the perky print at the top of the page, "A Note from Mary Crawford," was a somber communication. "Your uncle Bill is very sick with the cancer," his mother wrote. "The doctor expects the Lord will call him soon. It could be weeks, it could be months. We know you've always done just as you pleased, but hadn't you better come down to see him before it's too late."

At the inference that he would prefer not to do what he ought to do, Bryce felt a pinprick of anger that interfered with his grief at the news that his favorite relative was dying. He could practically hear his mother's aggrieved tone. At the bottom of the page, his father, elder brother of Bill, had added a single line, "Bill asked for you," and he'd signed it, not "Dad," but "Russell." That message had clinched it. Bryce called his parents, resolved to return. They both got on the phone to speak to him.

Surprising him once more, they betrayed no emotion at his decision, but acted as if his homecoming were the most normal event in the world. They discussed travel plans as if they'd never been estranged from each other. Bryce was relieved, but also a little let-down. He'd expected more from them--at least some polite curiosity regarding his life, about which they knew nothing, but they seemed indifferent. Even the information about his uncle was offered in guarded terms. Maybe when I get home, we'll talk, Bryce thought. He astonished himself by the depth of his hope. He wasn't sure himself why he kept the news a secret from Paul. Maybe it was because he'd always been so negative about his family. He just knew he didn't feel like discussing it. Perhaps he was more like his family than he'd realized.

* * *

In mid-August the airplane was half-empty. No one, it seemed, was flying south for the dog days. The atmosphere the day Bryce left New York was amazingly clear and remained so as they flew over the range of raised brown folds that was the Appalachians. Bryce looked down thirty-thousand feet of cloudless space. A single passenger on a row for three, he raised the armrests, stretched his legs, and nursed a beer. Approaching, he recognized the arterial highways of his hometown Meridian and could pick out the city's landmarks from his lowering height.

Both of his parents were at the airport to pick him up. As he emerged from the gate, Bryce spotted them first before they found him. They stood side by side, just behind the railing past the waiting area. His heart constricted as he recognized the hopefulness on the faces five years older than he last remembered them. He wished he could prolong the moment before they met and inevitably disappointed each other.

But then they saw him, and he forced himself to smile broadly and call out, "Mom, Dad," loudly, so that everyone around overheard him. He hated himself for doing it, but he felt it was expected of him.

He was surrounded by strangers embracing his fellow passengers and exclaiming theatrically, as Southerners like to do. He had almost forgotten his reaction, which was to feel more withdrawn. Yet in this he was like his parents, and it brought them together. Unused, his greeting felt stiff when he hugged and kissed them in the airport corridor, first his mother and then his father. He almost didn't look at them when he did it. He felt his father's moustache tickle his cheek.

Then Russell slapped him heartily on the back, and immediately Bryce saw him think twice about it and cringe. It was as if Russell were mimicking the reaction he'd expected in his son. On cue, his mother started chattering, to distract them. Because they were his parents, Bryce knew them well, even though he hadn't seen them in years. He felt that he could read their thoughts--thoughts that, except for indirect allusions, they would keep to themselves.

Naturally they wanted to introduce him to acquaintances they happened to run into at the airport. He had returned to a city where people were as likely as not to know each other, at least people of a certain social stratum, and it occurred to him that his parents were more comfortable when they were displaying him to others, because then they didn't have to speak to him, and they were protected by social decorum.

But Bryce soon tired of it. He excused himself, expressing a wish to retrieve his luggage, and so his parents set off with him for the baggage claim. Mary waved good-byes to her friends.

"What are you doing these days?" Bryce asked his father.

"Oh, I usually make a few calls around ten o'clock about some deals. I get out in the afternoon, play golf, shmooze with the fellas. Your mother doesn't want me around the house all day." Russell winked at Mary when he said this last.

"It's just that I'm so busy I don't want to be responsible for you." Mary reacted predictably to her husband's teasing, defending herself with a description of her days' activities. "I've still got to run the house, do the shopping, oversee Bessie--who, you know, is still with us, although she's getting feebler. I also have my ladies clubs, my charities, and of course Peggy and the children. I'm always filling in for her. Then there are all the other people who are always calling me. I know you'll think it's strange"--she directed this last to Bryce--"but there are a lot of people in Meridian who seem to value my advice quite highly."

"I'm sure they do," said Bryce mildly. Once he would have protested, and they would have gotten into an argument. He'd let her make him angry, and then he'd regret it. But now she calmed down, and he thought to himself that maybe he'd learned something.

For Mary, her son's degenerative disease had been a sad surprise, but she blamed "his accompanying mental attitude that made him impossible to live with," without inquiring into her own attitude or that of her husband.

"How are the grandchildren?" Bryce asked now, to change the subject.

"They're just splendid," said Mary, and began to describe them. Bryce's sister Peggy, seven years his senior, had her own home with three girls and a husband who sold insurance, but who had never persuaded his sickly brother-in-law to put a premium on his life. There were cousins as well, and aunts, and the aforesaid uncle whom Bryce remembered as slim and sleekly handsome.

There was a family party the first evening. It was a shock for Bryce to enter the general hubbub of his mother's sister's living room: cocktails on the sideboard, the swell of chitchat in Southern intonations he was accustomed to in his own speech but not in others'. On all sides he felt warmly welcomed, though, just as it used to do, his cane got in the way of cordial hugs and handshakes. This seeming aloofness had always been taken for arrogance in Mississippi. In New York Bryce was allowed to be severe.

He was given a seat on the sofa and a whisky and soda and was inducted into light gossip that tactfully didn't deal with himself, but with a spattering of births, deaths, and marriages, real estate developments, business finaglings, and early plans for the opening of the hunting season in late October. It had been so long since Bryce had heard this kind of conversation that it didn't make him as impatient as it used to. He was eased into regional rituals and not asked to explain himself; and because he wanted to make amends, he kept his razor-edged tongue well-sheathed and actually found himself enjoying a party of familiar faces after such a long absence.

* * *

On the morning after his return to the South, Bryce waited outside his uncle's room for the first time in years. The door was cracked open enough to reveal an ashy, penetrable darkness and a voice with a thinner timbre than he remembered saying something whose meaning he didn't make out. His mother had offered to accompany him, but he'd refused and gone alone. A nurse had answered his cautious knock. She let him come just inside the front door before telling him that his aunt was with his uncle and that she'd have to inform her employer first of his arrival.

Bryce waited awkwardly while he watched the incongruously uniformed woman in white recede down the hallway. He had braced himself for even more unpleasant surprises, but now he wondered if he were adequately mustered for what he would find different on returning to his Mississippi home in the wake of his uncle's grave illness. Sleeping alone, for instance, Bryce observed to himself as he awaited the nurse's return, is not such a brave act, after all, but on the first night in his boyhood bedroom, he had suffered an attack of homesickness. His life had grown unaccustomed to the feeling of singleness that was suddenly severing it like a whip line too faint to see. It was already with the sense of someone missing that he had received the summons to the invalid's bedside.

The door opened to a braided rug that lay on the floor like an oval pool in the dimness. Ahead of him, against the wall, stood a shiny, dark dresser surmounted by a half-length mirror. Before the looking glass, on a lace-edged doily, were arranged old photographs in gilt and silver frames that glimmered in the weak light coming in from the doorway.

Bryce's eyes fell on this well-remembered piece of furniture first, and then on the glass-doored bookcase beside it lined with books about jungles and deserts, European castles and rock formations: mute testimonies to the eccentric wanderings of an eclectic mentality that had enjoyed examining information about the far-flung world. As a child Bryce had pored over these volumes and played with the two carved bookends of Mexican boys in sombrero and sarape taking a siesta. Now, their backs against the books, eyes hidden in their arms, the statuettes evaded the dim light that washed over the sparse fur of dust on the glass. Across the room, on a hospital bed close to a window lay his uncle. The blind was down, the sick man resting on his side, the drawn skin over his temples taking on a translucency under the low wattage of the night-table lamp.

Though the sheet was pulled up over Bill's shoulders, there was no denying how the body beneath it had shrunk. A gleam filmed the eye of Bryce's aunt as she got up to greet him. She had been sitting in a chintz-covered armchair wedged in the shadowy corner next to the bookcase. A tall woman, she clasped Bryce by the shoulders, then dropped her red-knuckled hands and wiped them on her apron, her clumsy uncertainty betraying an unsuccessful attempt to conceal her agitation.

When she told him she was glad to see him, Bryce knew her words were meant. Genuinely grateful, he kissed her cheek and let her lead him, her fingers laid on his wrist, thus easing his approach to Bill.

At first, the high, metal-railed bed effectively barred him from Bill who, according to his aunt, was not asleep but just resting after a rough night. "He was so excited to see you," she said in a quavering voice. Wisps of gray hair escaped from her pinned-back bun. Ten years ago, Bryce had seen his uncle stealthily creep up behind his oblivious, chattering wife, remove her hairpins one by one, until he held the heft of her hair in his hands, black-brown and silken enough for the inner threads of a swallow's nest. It had either coarsened when it greyed or perhaps just wasn't brushed. While Bryce inwardly smoothed his voice for speech, he recalled that affectionate act of this seemingly slumbering man.

Later, through reacquaintance, Bryce was to realize that Bill was more attentive than he appeared at this first meeting. He hadn't known for certain what he would find in his uncle's bed--an auburn leaf caught in a cluster of pine needles? Even in August images of autumn already were uppermost in his mind, and he could foresee the ending.

A southern sky had not been sweltering; late summer was "just easing out of itself," was the way Bryce's father described the unseasonable and refreshing coolness, the sun's serene slant in the mornings, the rustling winds already dropping mockernut hickories to the ground. Bryce enjoyed being inland now that he didn't feel trapped, enjoyed Meridian's smallness after massive Manhattan, and, most of all, he enjoyed the matinal chirping of birds against quiet, even if it took only a day or so for the ennui of suburbia to set in.

Bryce had always been good about taking pains, and his appearance in Meridian was carefully contrived. He rose early in the morning and arrived at breakfast in a silk scarf and a custom-made shirt. He found he still fitted in to Southern society, though at an angle, and no one yet blamed him for its being oblique. And if visiting the sick was an act of sacrifice, he got more from Bill's joy in seeing him than he believed he gave. You reap what you sow, his mother had said, but Bryce wasn't sure if he were planting or gathering a harvest.

* * *

After a few days, Bryce visited a public Japanese garden, cited by local citizens as evidence that Meridian was growing cosmopolitan. Meditating on a wooden bridge with carved railings, he stood over a murky green pond. He glimpsed flashes of an immense red-gold carp swimming among the lily pads. Miniature maples flanked a stone pagoda. He crossed the bridge and walked under a cherry tree with weeping branches and a silver-birch-like bark. Was the effect Japanese? Bryce could hear the automobiles on the nearby highway and, on a bench beside his path, a courting couple conversing. Without a doubt he was in Mississippi, and yet he felt no disgust nor disdain nor even a mild dislike. Instead he absorbed the tranquility of a place where people had chosen to live out of the limelight.

Now his perceptions were softened by a sentiment that hinted that he'd end by having an affection for at least some aspects of all that he had once opposed. After all, there was hardly a need of his former contempt if he had escaped. Bryce surprised himself with his regret, mild and bearable, for the person he could never have been, even had he remained in the South.

Though he missed Paul, he didn't call him at first, telling himself that he didn't know what he wanted to say to him. He wasn't sure how to explain the delicate, ambivalent feelings he was experiencing about his past. It had been easier to express his anger and resentment about Mississippi to Paul. Returning to Meridian, he felt his old attitudes undergoing a transition. He was so absorbed in figuring out who he currently was in the context of his family that he didn't know how to put the experience together with the life he'd left behind in Manhattan. Sometimes New York seemed almost like a dream to him, so swept up was he in this Mississippi existence.

He'd realized, before he left, that he'd made Paul angry by not confiding in him. In part, he put off calling Paul because he didn't want to have to justify himself, but after more than a week, he found himself thinking of his lover late one night, and phoned him on an impulse. At first it didn't unnerve Bryce to find no one at home, but after unsuccessful attempts on different days to get in touch, he began to worry.

A bitter taste rose in his thought, a sneaking suspicion he couldn't swallow. In the South he was loved by reason of birth, but no one asked for the benefit of his thought. Bryce missed his and Paul's intimate nonsense, their teasing, their games. Unable to reach Paul, he felt insecure. Still, he gave in to the wish of his dying uncle and extended his stay.

His note posted north was picked up by the porter in his building and placed with the other mail on the table in his foyer. The sealed message read as follows: "Dear Paul, I've tried to call you without success. Mississippi is overwhelming, Manhattan seems far away, I miss you. Will you phone me when you get this? The number's in the address book on my desk. B."

Chapter Six

Paul sat in the back seat behind Jeanne and Althea as they drove to the ferry in Jeanne's Nissan packed full with Althea's belongings. They were leaving Block Island behind. Jeanne was telling them a story about someone she knew, but Paul wasn't listening. He leaned back and closed his eyes. She glimpsed him through the rear-view mirror. Only their arrival at the dock and the appearance of the attendant who was to take her automobile aboard prevented her from letting him see how his inattention had hurt her.

Leavetakers and wellwishers lined the decks and the dock, the smoke-stack belched up grey-black exhaust, and they were off. The ocean surface was wrinkled like battle-green fatigue cloth laid over an extensive scaffold. Althea sat on a bench between Paul and Jeanne on the ferry's upper deck. For as long as she could, she watched the last house visible on the island, fixing her gaze on its windows, like dark unwinking pools, and on its three-gabled roof rising gravely under a sky that was dull with a sun effaced.

A watery division blurred the time between island and mainland. The first buoys appeared in the Connecticut bay. Lobster traps rocked on the wake-whipped water. On narrow knives of land extending into the water or half-hidden behind windbreaks of fir and oak sat immense historical houses, too grandly conceived to be presently kept up to the scale for which their splendor was intended.

No passenger pulling in could help but see a resort given over to darker endeavors, for between the great houses and the grimier town, the olive-green shells of submarines nosed each other. What might suggest from a distance a row of reptiles half-submerged in cold water, sunning their spines, wouldn't be taken for fauna close up. A sign advertised New London's foremost product like a message meant to perform a public service; and yet unpleasant premonitions were clearly present on the passengers' riveted faces. Althea found herself watching the people as searchingly as she studied the undersea ships. She was a prism separating the vast gloomy light into refrangent rays and waves and points.

At the breakwater the ferry cut its engines, drifted downharbor, pulled gingerly in. Its lines were tossed ashore and made fast. Althea overheard a blond-haired boy's query to his parents as they lined up before they were let off.

"If Adam was first, then what am I?" the child asked, his head, like his inflection, inclined upward.

His tall, blue-jeaned mother didn't respond at once. He tugged her jacket, repeated his question, and she paused before she answered that she didn't know. She looked at her husband, who stretched a smile into a shake of the head and placed his hands affectionately on his boy's shoulders. Aware he was being humored, the son pulled away and ran around the seats and the smokestack. His father had to chase after him while his mother held their place in the line.

Bags at her feet and hands on her hips, Althea shook her hair behind her shoulders in a thick fall. Jeanne was still sitting; Paul leaned against the metal railing. His knuckles discovered the steel's hollowness, a dull vibration that drew forth a muffled echo. There were other stirrings, people gathering up their belongings, admonishing their children, before they were allowed to disembark. Jeanne and Paul and Althea drew together, three friends among a ferry of families.

Again, Paul and Althea were passengers, while Jeanne drove. Car lights and overhanging lamps lit the darkening freeway. The opposite traffic east sent pinwheels of light through the freeway's concrete dividers, like a revolving artillery fire through which they, immune, flung headlong. Althea felt a dissociation grow in her. She seemed to be sliding over the spinning earth. Her hands smoothed the folded roadmap over her knees, its red and blue lines twisted together like arteries and veins, as she watched Jeanne's profile, as Jeanne watched the road for them all.

They had grown quiet as the rhythm of the ride settled into their bones. Paul dozed the drive away in a dream where he saw Bryce's dark eyes and the lustreless pallor of his cheek.

Undaunted by the heavy weekend traffic, Jeanne maneuvered her car. As she accelerated, she experienced brief sensations of free fall that fortunately weren't reflected in an outward loss of control. She conducted them smoothly through the interstate interchanges all the way to Manhattan. It was late when she pulled up to the West Siders' curb. She helped unload Althea's belongings and Paul's bag, and then left, explaining that she was tired, with a big day ahead.

While Paul remained at the curb, watching over their possessions, Althea carefully carried inside her two double-divided portfolios packed with her four paintings-in-progress. She didn't want anyone else to handle them. She had speed-dried them in Jeanne's hot, closed car hours before their departure. After she had taken in the portfolios to her apartment, Paul proved enough of a gentleman to help her make two more trips inside, up the one flight of stairs, through a narrow vestibule, and down a short hall. At her door, he handed over the bags, the boxes, and the folded easel. Then he hesitated at her threshold, and when she asked him in, he politely declined.

At first Althea was sad to be left alone to her unpacking. Surprised as always at the compactness her life would have to assume in a single room, she concentrated on putting her things away, and she wasn't sorry when at last she could lie down in bed with Vasari's Lives of the Artists.

* * *

Paul watched Althea's door close over a forlorn face. She hadn't had to speak for him to understand that she didn't want to see him leave. He passed the row of shiny mailboxes, went out the door and down the steps, his hand gliding over the railing, to the street-lit penumbra of a city night. A slender Puerto Rican girl passed him, led by the leashes of two Golden Retrievers. Three boys bounced a tennis ball coated with bright yellow fuzz.

Paul wondered if Bryce was waiting for him, eleven stories closer to the sky, bearing the hurt of his neglect. Pausing to put off a return that frankly scared him, he found himself facing straight down the long aisle of his block. At the end of the block, across the intersection, people and cars crossed in parallel paths as if this were a pasteboard stage with paper dolls pulled across cut-out lines.

Narrowing his eyes, Paul pondered how it was possible for movement to be both smooth and jerky. In the hazy distance the traffic light was a circle of red smoke. He swooned with tiredness, so much did he desire rest in familiar surroundings. His address was a substantial brick building with a heavy wrought-iron door. In the lobby the guard who should have been on duty wasn't present, but the elevator was, and he took it up all the way to the top landing. He unlocked the private door that led to the roof. He could see the outline of the penthouse. Its interior looked dark.

He switched on an outdoor light, crossed the roof, unlocked the door to the penthouse and entered, closing it behind him. He called Bryce's name. No sound came back. He stepped cautiously to the hall. The rooms off it were closeted in darkness. Bryce was gone.

Though he was grateful at not having to face Bryce's anger, he couldn't help feeling let down at being left all alone. As he reached for the light, he noticed the stack of mail that the porter had brought in. Letters, brochures, and magazines were all piled indiscriminately together on top of a low bookcase in the hall.

Such a lot of mail, thought Paul. I bet there's almost nothing that I want.

Setting his bag on the floor, he half-heartedly began to sift through the publications and envelopes. But he wasn't in the mood to go through the mail or sort it, and soon he abandoned his efforts until another day. Hastily, he rearranged the pile, not noticing, in his carelessness, when a small, thin envelope fell behind the bookcase and soundlessly landed between its four squat legs, on the floor. Bryce's letter to Paul lay undisturbed under the bookcase, presumably lost.

Next, Paul unlatched the door to the garden and switched on the floodlight. Crimped orange and red dahlias were opened like miniature, intricate paper party decorations, but the roses' petals were fallen and bruised. There were other signs of neglect: in the kitchen garden the herbs and cultivated weeds were ragged and overgrown. Overripe tomatoes, split and fallen, rolled together on the soil.

Paul stood on the rooftop, gazing at his wild garden. He found himself thinking back on the past, recalling a grandfather who had influenced him. He was an idiosyncratic man, an opera singer, who had also performed as a yearly cantor for a Minneapolis synagogue at the High Holy Days. Although a Presbyterian, he was inclined, when moved, to break out in a Hebrew medley. Paul wasn't in the habit of speaking to God, but he took after his grandfather in his desire to be onstage. It seemed to him that dance was how he expressed the mutability of his yearnings.

Abruptly shaking off his reflective mood, he came inside the penthouse, checked the locks on the doors and windows. He reached for the pull to let down a shade, and the long rope slithered across the floor. As if it were alive, it went for his feet. He caught the inanimate rope in his hand, but he never discovered what had sent it twisting after him. The room grew dark except for a slight sheen on the wavy antique mirror. Paul tucked himself in a neatly-made bed. A flower folded up, petals gripping the blind center.

* * *

After leaving her passengers late that evening, Jeanne drove down the Upper West Side and then through midtown. On a whim, she turned off Seventh Avenue in the flower district instead of continuing straight downtown. As she crossed the intersection, she automatically checked that her doors were locked. Her car bumped over the exposed cobbles and she slowed down. It was as if she were proceeding down a tunnel whose lower walls emanated light, for the city sky was starless and the skyscrapers distant enough here not to impinge on the bright band of lit-up display windows on either side through which Jeanne drove.

Some of the windows were empty, the aluminum shelves scrubbed down, waiting to embody the next shipment, while other glass revealed masses of greenery, spikes of gladioli about to open, pom-pom flowers dyed all different colors, heavy painted crockery wound with ivy. Before one store a truck was pulled up and men were unloading. So flowers come like this, she thought, in long cardboard boxes, in the middle of the night.

She wondered, What are they packed in to keep them fresh? Are they sheathed in an icy gas to preserve them, like a fairy princess under a spell, until they are delivered into their future? What vanishes as completely as flowers, whose season is not only brief but leaves so little trace of itself?

Except that it becomes something else, the thought occurred to her as she arrived at the corner of Broadway. The flower stores ended across the intersection. There were other wholesale establishments: novelty stores and Indian importers whose displays featured items of brass and cheap cotton. This part of the city was busy in the day and was fled from at night. Now Jeanne felt the strangeness of its stillness, as if it and she were submerged in water. Though she was driving at a steady speed, it seemed that it was the city that was moving and not she.

It was not only place that affected her this way, but time as well. For how long had she been away? Three days? This nocturnal drive through New York was familiar to her, so why, she wondered, did she suddenly feel so shaky and unsure of the way she wanted to go, so uncharacteristically inept? Would her life change because of how she'd spent her weekend?

In the springs of her girlhood that were always becoming more distant, she had eagerly awaited the blossoming of the wild bindweed that grew on a certain hillside in her hometown of Greenwich. She had loved the flowers, like white-pink morning glories. It didn't take much wind to bend them down. She had thought in her childhood that they were the color of the dawn that she was so rarely up in time to see, but that she imagined had more pallor in its sky than a sunset. In a heavy city night past the close of August, Jeanne's vision of that hillside was unclouded, but it was also brief.

There was a hollowness to her footstep on the pavement as she went from the garage to her brownstone building on West Thirteenth Street. No block was bare of people here. She overtook the ones that didn't pass her first. The weight of the week wasn't pressing on her yet, though she sensed now she'd sleep lightly tonight. A reprieve from her routine life had lasted just a little: what had it given her? Or, better yet, she thought, finding herself staring at some geraniums just above her eye level in a window box that, under the electric glare of the street lamp, were tinted orange and brown--better yet, what did she want it to have given her?

She had loved Althea, and she had loved Paul: the two feelings twisted around her, tendrilled together. Could she untangle them; would she wish to? If she hadn't put the people together in the first place, then she had found them out. She had always thought it was she who deferred to Althea. Now Jeanne sensed, as her fingertip touch on the wrought-iron gate sent it squeakily swinging, that the old situations might no longer apply. The field between her and Althea was now wide open.

What either of them wanted, and what would happen next, and later on, were different though connected questions. Success might come to Jeanne mostly in small measures; it was her place to be prepared enough to see it. If all her life she had most wanted to know how she fitted in, it seemed to her now, with the autumn almost again before her, that she could take a position and enlarge it.

Thus it was, as she went inside to her silent home after being away, that her world began to open out, if but slightly at the onset, then all the more significantly in her sense of what that world could be. As she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and crawled into bed, she reflected on the volatile events of the weekend. She imagined love like a light illuminating what, like dust in the air, had previously been invisible.

Perhaps it was because Paul had turned up in a surprising place before that she hadn't felt as dismayed as she might have after having dropped her passengers off, or hadn't worried at Paul's proximity to Althea, and her own distance from the two of them. When she had found herself between them, she hadn't been afraid; she had, she admitted, liked it. Then why was it that, once in her own home again, she still felt cautious?

Cautious about seeing the two of them again together, she thought to herself, but not necessarily about meeting separately. In general, Jeanne didn't envy her friends for what they had, but sometimes she felt yearning and resentment towards what they were, even while she loved them. With Althea and Paul, her passion had begun in her passivity; a flow had filled her. Her ascendancy to the manipulations of persuasion was an astonishment to a woman who hadn't thought she'd dare to entice those who at the beginning had beguiled her.

Jeanne's fear had come first, and then had disintegrated under the mesmerizing touch of a man who held her in his arms while he kept watch over another woman, a woman she had thought she knew almost as well as herself. But then, contrary to a prediction she found herself making of this friend who had always seemed self-contained and hence remote, Althea had acted suddenly. When Jeanne had Althea lying beside her, there had been more than a moment when she thought she found in the woman's opacity, if not a mirror, then a mental space that was closer, shallower, than she had sensed.

Althea's absence in the morning had altered things in another way. Jeanne had known how to take advantage of the moment when the sleeping man still lay beside her. She realized that Althea, on her return, surmised instantly what had happened and was, in a way, glad about it.

The second time between the three had seemed like an awaited welcome. Still, it was their occasional clumsiness, the flickering offs-and-ons between a semi-attached threesome, the biological inevitability that made one, at intervals, into a watcher that Jeanne recalled with a feeling of melting intimacy now that she was alone. But a warning tremor travelled through this sensation like an oracle of a possible danger. No more than a shudder, yet it was disquieting enough to induce Jeanne to turn her thoughts over and allow them to be covered by the earth of sleep. For, despite her prediction on the street, drowsiness surrounded her quite suddenly, and she accepted it gratefully.

* * *

Althea's light often burned late into the night. Vasari was for her a proven antidote to fruitless and unpleasant self-absorption. She read to escape from her worried thoughts, and gradually she would forget herself, willing to be fascinated and instructed by the lives of the great artists. In their struggles which were so much more momentous than her own, she looked for inspiration, and often she found it. She clung to the details of great and distant lives, and she was exalted by profound themes of life and art.

After Jeanne had dropped her off, and she had unpacked her clothes and prepared for bed, she opened Vasari to the chapter on Michelangelo--her favorite, because Vasari had known him well and had been his pupil. This time she was struck by an anecdote about Michelangelo's youth with the Medici, casually dropped by Vasari, that she had never noticed in her previous readings. "When Lorenzo died, Michelangelo, in great sorrow for the loss of his patron, returned to his father's house. Piero, Lorenzo's heir, often sent for Michelangelo when he was buying antiques, and once sent to have him make a snow statue in the courtyard when the snow fell heavily in Florence."

Wakeful, Althea wove a story from Vasari's tantalizing anecdote, a poignant bedtime tale for an artist, in which she drew on all she had learned about Michelangelo. She imagined him at twenty years old, on fire with ambition, but for the moment depressed, grieving for his patron's death, and not wanting to return to the palace when summoned by Piero's frequent requests, yet knowing he had to.

What was the statue that Michelangelo sculpted out of snow for the foolish Piero, who, two paragraphs later in Vasari's chronicle, would be driven from Florence?

Althea imagined a heavy snowfall as rare as an act of God in fifteenth-century Florence. On a cold January day, a dull cloud blotted out the morning sun. Before noon the first flakes began to fall, and the storm continued into the night. By the next day, the wind had blown up drifts against the walls of the uneven streets and narrow alleys, into the sills of doors and windows. Snow girdled the columns in the courtyards of the great palaces and lay untrammeled over cobbles that for once did not resound with the ringing clatter of horseshoes or carriage wheels.

Althea imagined the glittering white silence as the day dawned clear and cold. She pictured Michelangelo's surprise at receiving Piero's messenger while the city still slept under snow. What did he make of the frivolous request? Was he annoyed by Piero's presumption, or was he amused? Was his sculpture of snow a practice for stone? She thought of how, on his deathbed, Michelangelo destroyed many of his preliminary sketches, so that no one would know of the process by which he arrived at his conceptions.

Perhaps his sculpture was the model for the sleeping cupid which he, uncharacteristically acting on the advice of an art dealer, would scar, bury for a time, dig up, and send off to Rome as an antique in order to fetch a higher price. The life-size figure would be bought by a cardinal who, when he discovered the fraud, demanded his money, but who was to be laughed at and even blamed for not having appreciated the merit of young Michelangelo's work.

Yet it was unlike Michelangelo, as sensitive, proud, and jealous an artist who has ever lived, to fake antiquity to flatter a fashion. He must have acted on a whim that wasn't to be repeated when he passed his statue off as Roman. Perhaps it wasn't the pagan at all, concluded Althea, but a Christian theme that drew his sympathy in the molding of the slightly wet snow, a vision of a Pietà he was already contemplating. On its stunning completion, so proud of that first Pietà was he that, after overhearing strangers dispute his authorship, he engraved his name in secret one night on the ribbon crossing the Virgin's bosom.

Althea knew the story of his second Pietà, intended in the twilight of his life for his own tomb. As it emerged from the stone, it came to dissatisfy him. A piece broke from the Madonna's arm, a vein appeared in the marble that tried his patience. Instead of abandoning this work as he had done with others before, Michelangelo impulsively picked up his hammer and began to smash the statue to bits. He had cracked the Virgin's hand, scarred Christ's arm, knocked off one of his nipples, and would have entirely destroyed his labor had not a friend's hand stopped his, and an offer of generous payment reached the practical side of the sculptor, who then allowed his Pietà, in pieces, to be taken away from his sight.

But as Michelangelo handled the malleable snow in the dimming afternoon of that January day, the moment when he would be moved to mangle his own work must have seemed unimaginable. Althea pictured him, still practically a boy, failure still unknown to him, stopping to shy snowballs at servant boys crossing the great, solemn courtyard. Perhaps it was a fantasy he sculpted for Piero--a centaur, a faun, some mythical creature that claimed his ability to make of the deceiving, melting medium a being in a state of slow metamorphosis, a changing shape that produced, in the minds of its viewers, a mystification and a subtle, awesome, tangible fear.

A shiver went through Althea as she turned a page and found again Vasari's tribute, just as she had remembered it: "This master was certainly sent by God as an example of what an artist could be. I, who can thank God for unusual happiness, count it among the greatest of my blessings that I was born while Michelangelo still lived, was found worthy to have him for my master, and was accepted as his trusted friend."

She had been afraid to sleep; she resisted sleep, but when at last she relaxed, sleep overcame her as she sat up in bed, propped against her pillow, with the light on, still holding her book open on her lap, as if it were an anchor, steadying her.

Chapter Seven

The light behind the slats of her shade the morning after Althea's return to the city was flat and dull. It was the second of September, and she wasn't surprised to note, when she pulled the cord and anchored it firmly, that outside it was raining. Not the false drizzle of air conditioners, but a real drenching rain that filled puddles and ran rivulets in the bare earth of the backyard. The tiers of windows before her held all manner of objects on their sills: the usual geraniums, old tennis shoes, a bedraggled ball of yarn, an empty jar, a broken piece from a plastic toy. As she watched, a rotting window box gave way, and a cascade of rainwater and mud spilled into the yard, a miniature torrent sheering and blurring the mortared brick. For a moment she thought she discerned behind the rushing water a fainter music, like the plucking of harp strings, but as the rain slackened, it ceased, and later she thought she must have imagined it. Practicing musicians were commonplace in this part of town. To one of this invisible host, she first ascribed the melody behind the noise. Then she shut out the shifting sheets of rain for a reclusive and cozy breakfast.

After breakfast she sorted her laundry, separating the white and color-fast from what might bleed. The laundromat on Tuesday morning was half-empty: the bad weather had discouraged customers. As she set out for home, holding her umbrella over her shopping cart piled high with folded clothes, the rainfall briefly became a downpour.

From the alley behind the laundromat, surging billows of white steam were issuing out of the exhaust pipes. In the gloom, they were dully luminous, funnelled between the tarred brick walls of the alley, while arrows of rain smashed to the ground, bursting into shapes with the geometry of gentians, an eye at the heart where the stamen is. The flowers of rain bloomed and exploded, and the spikes of rain struck Althea's shoulders.

Down the sedate and narrow side street came a battered pick-up truck, more suited to muddy backroads than city wayfare. The driver, she noticed, was singing lustily, banging on the dashboard with the hand he wasn't driving with, keeping time. "Well, shake it up baby, now, shake it up baby! Twist and shout, twist and shout!"

Paul loved that song, she knew. He was singing it one evening on Block Island, when he was out in the yard, cleaning mussels they had collected for dinner. From inside the house she had heard him, and she paused in the kitchen window to watch him exultantly drumming the kitchen knife on the side of the pot as he belted out the words at the top of his voice.

"Come on, come on, come on, come on, baby now, come on, baby": now she listened to this unknown singer while he waited at the stoplight. As his tempo quickened and then slowed, she saw him stick his arm out of the open window and beat the truck's worn body.

She'd noticed that gesture before. She remembered the sunburnt driver of another truck she'd glimpsed from a bike as she rode next to Paul back home from the beach on their first evening. The yellow light of that dusk formed a natural halo around the memory of her and Paul's initial encounter.

She didn't doubt that she loved Paul just as she knew she couldn't have him on the conditions that she wanted. She wasn't conventional, so perhaps it wasn't surprising that she'd chosen for her mate a man already attached to another man, yet she was likewise unaccustomed to giving shocking exhibitions. In loving Jeanne, had she really meant to speak to Paul?

To tell him what? That the love she bore for him could be accommodating: did she mean to tempt him with easeful attentions? Her excesses where Jeanne was concerned as well as her good graces might have been indications to Paul of how far she'd be willing to go to keep holding onto a part of him.

Paul had seen her as womanly and had wanted her. From the evening of his arrival on the island, she had felt him weaken at her touch. Trundling her laundry down the street after the traffic light had changed and the singing truck driver was gone, Althea felt a desire she'd already known dissolving her, followed by a perilous sadness that was almost as precious.

Rain made Althea naturally pensive, urged her after putting her clothes away (still luckily dry) to sit with her head in her hands before her window, watching, without actually meaning to, the tiers of windows in the tan brick wall of the building opposite, with patches of pink and gray cement on its bottom story. Against the wall, a long rope with a large looped knot at its end waved to and fro in the driven rain and the wind.

Like the swaying rope, her troubled thoughts went back and forth. Had she been wrong to rouse her old friend by caresses and in Paul's company? It was as if Jeanne's seduction had resulted from an unspoken will shared by Paul and her, but which was odder: their complicity or Jeanne's compliance? The strangeness beyond strangeness was that she had known what Jeanne would feel. There was an undeniable familiarity to their unaccustomed act: if it was only that, then she could bear it.

But she was encumbering one kind of love with another. The Althea who had made love to Jeanne was the same woman who, after college, had urged her friend to relocate to Manhattan, had helped her marshal her energies through those first, peripheral jobs towards the creation of a career. Althea knew she was a tower to Jeanne. She rather liked being leaned on, and enjoyed the pleasant sensation of private power in knowing her advice had prompted happy results. She and Jeanne could talk famously or sit quietly, each following a private train of thought, but when they met, the occasion had meaning, which isn't to say it necessarily partook of a purpose any grander than that of making dinner. But awareness and wisdom may come in meandering ways; and Althea and Jeanne loved each other like sisters, collaborated like friends, and, like sensible cousins, reserved a respectful distance between themselves in some things. Now, however, Althea had recklessly broached an area off bounds, an unshared space like a corridor between them which had left the movements of desire in their bodies separate and sacred.

Before the sad back faces of the buildings, the rope fell and rose. This was Althea's lookout on the world. A gap existed between her circumstances and her expectations that she'd almost filled in with a rented house, but her tenure there had terminated, and she found herself again in an all-too-familiar spot. It was the awareness of a quickening of life she had shared that shrank from her now, with the white noise of the rain all around her, as she watched a rope swinging in inertia.

Like an exile she longed for Block Island. How she had been dazzled there by presences, been loved, been lulled! Wistfully she recalled the feelings of splendor that had come to her as the qualities of an island submitted themselves to her knowledge. She pictured heart-shaped lilypads cupping fresh water, a light rain in a swamp. After having been below the ocean's surface and seen that what was there was not blue, she could not easily forget. Shafts of sunlight became blunted in bottle-green water, reflecting particles of suspended sand. In contrast the floors of ponds were black and still.

Now she stared at the rain and the swaying rope until her eyes became unfocused, and then blinked. Turning from the window, she restlessly paced the confines of her apartment.

She slowed in her tracks. Humble as it was, it was still hers. As if she were discovering her room all over again, she paused before a reproduction that she had hung on the wall. It was of a Chinese scroll in pen-and-ink wash. She had originally put it there to remind her that a brush's stroke could be subtle, humorous, and wise, as in the depiction of the straw rainhat of the man on the bridge, and could then erase that personality in the delicacy of a grey mist.

In the upper left corner of the scroll, a sixteenth-century poem in effortless calligraphy merged with the scene that illustrated it. On a card she had written out the translation and taped it to the wall.

Even in the spring mists

One hears the sound of water

Trickling through the rocks.

There were three red squares across the sky in her Chinese reproduction, each printed by a separate stamp, of a calligraphy obscure to her. Upon inquiry, she had discovered that these were the names of the original's various owners set by them there at diverse intervals. The Metropolitan Museum, which presently exhibited the scroll, was content with a chaste label and the sale of copies. An institution was happy to let many own a glimpse, but the three individuals must have wanted exclusive proprietorship and, in the act of blotting a sky with their names, tried to claim it forever.

Thus, a work of art became a fetish, mused Althea, and not just for the artist. "It is the spectator that art really mirrors": what wisdom there was in Oscar Wilde's remark was valid in spite of an owner's false occupation of his object. A casual viewer with perspicacious eye might see more than an owner. Still, she thought, day in and day out living with something, one absorbs it in fragments and sometimes forgets to see it, and then one day finds oneself looking at it again with all the ardor of novelty.

Where would all her art end up? Did Althea wish her images to be familiar to the minds of many? Many was a crowd with dispensable flanks: there were the many now and the many to come, when she wouldn't be around. An absurd part of her cared more about what didn't exist, and then rationalized that concern by allowing it a nexus with her private aims. If she wasn't appreciated "now," she would be "then," but how was she to be considered in the first place if she wasn't seen?

Althea instinctively tried to hide this aspect of herself. She knew that most people would consider these worries and anxieties quixotic, believing that she ought to be concerned with improving the roof over her head, the food on her table, and her clothes. Even when she was a child she had wanted to be an artist. Though the years had inevitably altered her, she wouldn't let them change her single-mindedness and her essential seriousness that she had learned to keep to herself, because she didn't want to be ridiculed or humored by people who didn't understand what her life was about. She wanted her paintings to be admired, even loved, but she wasn't sure she wanted to submit her art to the scrutiny necessary to provoke such compelling reactions.

On some days Althea believed in herself more than on others, and there were times when she didn't give credence to herself at all. Then it was death to lift a brush, degradation even to examine an unfinished painting. Her mind felt like paper put through a shredder, her life in as many pieces as the money she had to scatter to sustain it.

Gradually her confidence would come back. An imperious girl found the lesson of her maturity in the acquisition of patience. Althea had to wait until the light burst forth on her. It suited her style to be a loner, but she also knew that if what she was working on didn't live up to her hopes, then she had wasted her time. Nevertheless she had to be fair to herself; she had to allow for occasions, opportunities.

She glanced from the scroll. Leaning against the wall where she'd left them the night before were her four unfinished paintings, still wrapped up for travel. Without inspecting them, she shut them away in the large walk-in closet that served as her storeroom. She wasn't yet ready to submit what she'd done to a New York light even when dimmed to a pewter gleam by a blurring rain.

She never felt her paintings were complete if they didn't look right from a multiplicity of perspectives. She had to get her paintings to contain them. Somehow she had developed her own way of progressing, and she had persevered at it. Each time she touched her brush down, she made a contact. One stroke told her what would come next, though sometimes she'd stand so long with her arm poised that it ached. Still, she'd had ideas, and their light had grown.

As her life entered September, Althea foresaw how she would be dulled and drawn out on the rack of wage-earning days, how she would be humbled by acknowledgements of the services she would be obliged to render and of what the world deemed them worth. Working alone at the expendable fringe, Althea had learned how to be useful by teaching art to children.

At least the work was more debilitating than depressing; and there was a positive pleasure in the warmth of the attention she found she could attract. She was moved by a throat-catching beauty in certain children, and she had the satisfaction of well-performed service in addition to a paycheck. Yet, though there were agreeable moments in her employment, Althea longed to receive more angelic visitations. She wanted the bliss of complete absorption, the humming feeling in her head, the leap that let her rise to a higher plane where, momentarily, she was almost impervious to minor misfortunes, impecunious periods in her life.

Still, school hadn't started and she wasn't teaching yet. Because she felt afraid to work on her paintings, she knew that she couldn't afford to let herself mope around her apartment. She'd only feel worse. In her spattered sneakers and her yellow slicker, she ventured out in the rain again.

The bus let her off in front of the Metropolitan Museum. She ran up the steps and passed under the banners, removing her wet slicker in the blast of warm air at the entrance. People milled in the spacious hall or sat on the circular benches around majestic arrangements of late summer flowers. Althea felt her pulse quicken with anticipation. Of all the choices open to her under the museum's many sprawling roofs, she went in search of beauty to the rooms of Classical Art.

A statue in Pentelic marble about thirty inches tall of a mourning woman, one hand striking her breast and the other flung behind her head, her idealized features abandoned to sorrow, attracted Althea's attention in a display of similar, funereal pieces. Althea thought the figure must be a fragment, for she discerned the suggestion of a man's hand over the woman's marble knee.

Did she want her paintings to end in the celestial stillness, the immutability, the embrace of a museum? She felt comfortable--indeed, almost at home--in the high-ceilinged galleries of this museum, with its floors of planked wood that sounded so hollowly under her step; and if the thought of leaving a couple of items to a catalogue of thousands didn't daunt her, then perhaps she deserved to have something survive.

Naturally, she would have liked to have been sought after, or have been part of a group of supportive artists that got together for drinks, tough criticism, exhibition gossip, and keep-your-chin-up talk on rainy days. She would have liked a mentor to keep her moving, but things didn't seem to be turning out that way.

Perhaps the very concept of a collection was ludicrous; one only had to walk the streets of Manhattan to see what got thrown out in the trash for the wrecker to devour. As yet Althea had no income from her art, but neither was she accustomed to giving her paintings away. Surely it was not the idea of a museum that she worked for, but what was it? Could it be that she needed to paint to feel alive?

Perhaps it was childish after all that she still enjoyed the daubing, the mucking about making pigments with all the equipment for color spread around her. The equivalent of finger paints and mud pies still engrossed her, paint smears across her face, reeking of turpentine. She reminded herself that here was an activity that had entranced her all her life, and that was play before it was work. And just as surely as time could modify the tints of a painting and public taste lend an additional contour to what people saw; so, indeed, there was no telling how Althea would be thought of.

For a long time she studied the statue of the woman, whose beautiful features were worn with time. Afterwards she left the museum without looking at anything else, wanting to keep the memory of what she had seen clearly in her mind.

The rain had stopped. From the top of the museum steps she watched a flock of pigeons waddling over the brick pavement in front of the fountain. Their folded-back wings looked like mottled marbled paper. In a burst they flew up together, creating a black-and-white herringbone pattern against the sky, which made Althea think of other, equally abrupt transformations. As she returned home, she imagined running into Paul by chance in the neighborhood. She planned what she would say to him if they met. As she passed by his building on the way to her own, she peered up to where his penthouse perched at its top, but the set-back was too great for her to see it. There were a lot of people on the street, but Paul was not among them.

During the first days of her readjustment to city life, Althea half-dialed Paul's digits a dozen times and then cowardly hung up. She wanted to be the one who was called. Yet all her hopes were to no avail. While she conjured him enough, she couldn't manage to encounter him. Although she couldn't help but fabricate heart-rushing meetings, she never was to storm Paul's bastion.

Althea was ever quick to make assumptions, and it soothed her self-esteem to put the fact that Paul dropped out of her life as suddenly as he had flown in to the reappearance of Bryce. An instinctive caution told her it was best not to inquire. It seemed to her that, since the initial invitation had been her doing, the next action must come from Paul.

At first she didn't realize how long she would have to wait for it; or perhaps she wouldn't have had the strength to will herself to the practice of such patience. Each time she passed Paul's address, her nerves grew faint, and a paradoxical pain kept her love alive: after all, in order to feel the loss she had to have been happy.

As the weeks went by without bringing her Paul, she felt their deprivation most acutely, in bed, in her bath, or climbing four flights of stairs to a New York City classroom, her fingers already flinching in anticipation of holding sticks of powdery chalk and breathing chalk dust.

Chapter Eight

On September and October Sunday mornings in Mississippi, Bryce heard church bells reverberating with the call to worship, and then the air was given over again to the rustling of leaves and grasses. Thickets of trees invited a man who as a boy had romped among the pines. Bryce sometimes went for a walk in the woods while the rest of his family spent their Sabbath day sitting in services.

For if, as he maintained, devotion was an attitude, then an organ's grandest chords were no more a connection to the sound of prayer inside a person than was a more rustic music: rippling brooks or whippoorwills twittering, for example, could be more peaceful presences than the peal of bells or a keyboard's chorus. The youthful Bryce had despised the rural retreats sponsored by his family's church. He couldn't interest himself in a group pursuit that wanted to weave the enclosure of itself around the complex questions; to Bryce it was too much like netting water with a sieve. Even then he ambled off by himself; even then meaning seemed to come mostly in private to a somewhat troublesome boy who, although he certainly knew how to sulk, at least liked to be active if he didn't enjoy games, and was apt to shinny up a tree trunk on a moment's impulse. He had no inkling then of how illness would fell him, and if he had, would anything have really changed? An avowal of agnosticism couldn't keep a stricken adolescent from wondering if his condition was not a judgment, but against what, and why? His universe had never felt firm; now it crumpled, and he tasted the ash against the slick velvet insides of his mouth.

It wasn't often that Bryce wondered what would have become of that solitary but outspoken tree-climbing boy had he stayed healthy. More than old adages reminded him there was little use in conjuring what might have been, but was not. Was he ever a bouncing baby boy? In Meridian, he inspected family documents, letters written in faded inks and family photographs. In a brown vinyl album titled "Keepsakes" and embellished with the picture of a rose, he turned crumbling, cream-colored pages mounted with black-and-white photographs, musing over the images of himself. The dark-eyed child he saw was good-looking enough, though now a stranger.

Bryce noticed his deepening curiosity with some surprise. It was natural enough that a trip home should turn a person towards his past, but such backward reflection was not a characteristic he had expected to acquire. Perhaps he was simple after all and ought not to feel so superior, for it was almost with a greed that he sat on the floor, taking his childhood out of boxes that had stayed up on a closet shelf for so long untouched by anyone else that it seemed as if the things inside had all the while been waiting confidently in their dark for him to return to them.

It was hard enough for a man to inspect his early promise if it hadn't been realized, but there were satisfactions to be had in the retrieval of memories Bryce thought he'd irrevocably spent or lost. A faded diagram of a treasure hunt he had once composed seemed more substantial when he held the slip of paper in his hand. He'd done the job so well then that no one found the prize, and in the end he had had to pass on transparent hints to a younger cousin. Had his intrigue been spoiled because no one could follow it, or was it perfect in that it wasn't discovered? Only now did Bryce come to these ponderings, meditating on his intricate if boyishly ingenious plan as if it were the project for a philosophy class, or else as if the real clues had been unsuspectingly included by him then for him now. With old papers and junk spread out on the floor around his cross-legged form, Bryce felt the early entanglements entwining him again.

Was his past to trap him after all, was there no use in having grown older? The ties that bound and confused him in his boyhood had been twisted in a singular direction a few years later, and his subsequent development had been contorted when it should have been shooting straight upward.

Gradually he had come to recognize and then to classify the reactions of others to his illness. At times he let these hurt him. Yet, in his deep contemplations of his tragedy he was freed. When he was suspended as from a knife tip over the abyss in the midst of his nights, he was liberated from resented relationships. It was like a fairy tale that tells how an unworthy wish is ironically granted. Startled out of sleep, in a sudden sweat, he recognized the whole shape of his life beside him; he beheld the dreaded other, that shadow of the self; he saw how he would fall, and constantly fall; and the frigid brilliance of his insight briefly lit up the darkness into which he was plummeting; then his accelerations dropped him further. Motionless in bed he experienced vertigo. In free fall, in a vacuum, he touched a being whose substance was not his, and yet his fingertips knew the contours of certain features as if he had laid his hands over his own face. Like a vision glimpsed through water, as close and distant as sleep, his own life turned before him, and the motion was graceful, for he hadn't always been crippled. Tenderly he reached to what lay near him, to what both was and was not himself, while he and it were flung as rapidly and irresistibly as twinned stars through space.

However Bryce was persuaded by his night-time visitations, he kept his conclusions to himself and didn't let them stop him from shrewd daytime appraisals. The healthy boy was now almost mythically beyond him, but the stricken, hopeless adolescent still claimed the mature man. If the adult couldn't redeem his youth, he had learned that, though it was understandable, it was also malicious to wish to antagonize those who meant well when they wanted to sympathize by feeling sorry for him.

To make oneself invisible to the world at large, one only needs a place. A middle-class man daydreamed his notions of grandeur; still, Bryce's modest efforts had yielded most comfortable results, and many an able-bodied person had less vantage on a city than he. He had carved out his niche up where he could see the crowd, but it couldn't crush him. First he had made a home for himself, and then he'd manned it.

Bryce furnished the setting and Paul the action. Having a dancer underneath the arches might not make them more solid, but it gave them a lift. With Paul around, Bryce encountered space differently, not only his own space or outer space but a mutual space where two men met, and if unequally, the disparity this time didn't seem to matter. For the lucky part, the true and cherished part, was that there was this thing between them, a real, invisible thing that Bryce felt as far as his Meridian remove. All his recollections of youthful sentiments and plagues, all his reconnections to his still-questioning past didn't quell it.

Now that he was old enough to feel the distance, Bryce had come to greet a hometown that still proffered his childhood in the guise of recent events. He soon fell to puzzling out his reactions in order to see the old, odd context beside the newer, even odder one. Though he was to have more distress than joy this time in Mississippi, his life in Manhattan had made a breach in him, a remove like the contradictory spaces of glass. It wasn't that Bryce wasn't deeply touched by the reunion with his family; it was that he felt the contacts at once on separate selves which split the pain that he might bear it better.

It was the nature of his illness to reveal itself by an assortment of symptoms that came and went separately. His nerves, as it was explained to Bryce, were laid bare. Confusing apprehensions of reality as intense as drug-induced psychedelic states went hand-in-glove with the body's debility. His clinical presentations, from the prickling of his skin to lapses of vision, conformed to the usual range of symptoms shared by other victims of multiple sclerosis. He also had enjoyed such remissions as to almost lead him to hope he would be well again. Alternating fits of despair and euphoria were the poles of a shameful intimacy that had transformed his life and could end it.

Although his doctors tried to make him comfortable, Bryce felt they ignored him in their affair with his disease. They did not trouble themselves too much in wondering to what extent his character claimed and molded the subsequent course of his illness through his body.

There were mornings when Bryce awoke with the unreasonable aura of hope that something had happened while he slept and he was cured, but his first conscious movements changed this to depression, and how best to get through the day then? Sometimes he wondered if it would not have been preferable if his symptoms were delusions, and he were mad. Yet he had not been feeling particularly bad before he left Manhattan to find, surprisingly, in Meridian, himself standing beside the bed this time.

Bryce had seen his shadow, cast by lamplight, fall across his uncle's face at that first meeting. Through the cool sheet he had lightly touched his uncle's shoulder. In reaction, Bill's eyes had fluttered open, pale and blue, disclosing a crystalline astonishment, like the blankness of a new baby's eyes first beholding the world--a look lasting only a moment before registering recognition of the nephew. Or had Bryce imagined that instant of indifference, so completely had Bill's attention turned it away, as it took hold of Bryce?

There weren't many words between the men that morning, and sometimes still less in the following days. At other intervals, they talked together quite contentedly, though briefly. For, reunited across the divide of Bill's sickbed, they had instantly found an intimacy. Bryce had known they would; it was why he had flown to Mississippi with an open return, and why he had put the ticket away, for the present, on his closet shelf.

Beyond the lowered blind and the eight glass panes of the window, a mild wind fluttered in the green, light branches of two plum trees. The hovering smell of disease had seeped in the walls, but no matter; Bill was alert and willing, at least in August, to enter into a green dream of the past with his nephew. It was a fiercer current than nostalgia that attracted each to the other, for there was an enemy, an evil entity, in the room with them, though neither spoke of it.

The days were to pass their light and dark faces and absorb him in Bill. He saw the rest of his family and other people he had lost track of and didn't particularly care to know now but was polite enough to give the time of day to. And because his reclusive habits were not conducive to company, there were occasions in September and October when he just went off by himself.

He made himself agreeable to errands; he let down his guard and told himself it was character improvement. In the important ways, he protected his privacy. There were two sides to his daily trips to Bill's house: it was precisely when he wasn't next to Bill that he mentally conjured what the man had once been, at least for him. Like a ritual act, this gave him courage. These recollections were vividly engendered, a lining of light behind a dark cloud.

Bryce remembered a man with a boy behind him on horseback ambling among nodding grasses and waving leaves, the spring air fresh enough for only a flannel shirt. He vowed that these moments in the past would remain fixed permanently in the inner eye, unharmed by what had already damaged so much.

Access to the sickroom, as Bill's condition worsened, was gradually limited, yet Bryce was always let inside. Given the timetable that was to assert itself as the leaves changed their color and furled, Bryce had come soon enough for a long-held love to reaffirm itself.

This was a fact of greater fervor in the shortening days, in those hours when Bill scarcely seemed to notice anyone, in the entire week when he left the blind drawn all day and didn't want to look out anymore on the lawn and the sky and the trees hung with their last fruit, already pitted and spoiled by marauding birds. After a while Bill's doctor withdrew the injections of poisonous chemicals. He gave pills for pain and little else. The protracted death prolonged Bryce's visit to Mississippi, a tame death in the old style that would happen at home.

But in the meantime, in the still summertime September when the frosts seemed as far off as stars, there was an afternoon when Bill felt well enough to sit on the porch with a blanket over his knees and Bryce beside him, when he asked for a chunk of wood from the pile in the shed, even requested "white pine."

"Got your knife on you, boy?" Bill asked Bryce after he had come back with a handsome piece, but the "boy" couldn't even find a penknife on his person. The blade that Bill brought out from his bathrobe pocket was dangerously sharp, set in a handle of inlaid bone; and so it was that Bill took to whittling all by himself, his empty-handed nephew looking on.

Bryce found this sight of his uncle in quiet absorption soothing, as he watched the thin shavings curl and pile at his uncle's feet, blonder than straw. There was a patience in the sick man's hands, even if they shook just perceptibly where they had been steady, slipped once and took off a good-sized chip, pointed jaggedly at one end and rounded at the other, which Bryce picked up and held in his palm.

Though he sat a yard away, Bryce didn't pull his chair any closer, nor did he break the silence to ask his uncle what he was making. Bill was to abandon the whittling whimsically begun this autumn afternoon, leaving unfinished a disk in the shape of an oyster shell. With the first strokes of his knife that day, he might have been sculpting the wood into any number of things. Between the shadows cast by the porch's columns, elongated stripes of sunlight were a cautionary clock. "Tell me when you're tired, Uncle Bill," Bryce had planned to say but didn't, too moved to speak by the beauty of the delicate, exposed face downslanting away from him, intent on the task, despite a throbbing pulse at the base of the left eye. Like the involuntary tremor of the hand, it was a motion Bill hadn't willed and couldn't control.

Each day spent with Bill has turned out to be different from what preceded or is bound to follow, mused Bryce. As he watched his uncle's hand still confidently wield the knife, he slipped the wood chip he had salvaged into his pocket, feeling, despite their desultory conversation, the rareness of the moment. When his fingers trembled, Bill halted until the shaking passed, and when he had had enough, he closed the knife blade and stood up by himself while Bryce held open the back door. Bryce kept the chip of wood. He liked to lay it in his palm and turn it over, press the tip into his forefinger, run his thumb with the smoothness of the grain along the sides.

* * *

On a cloudy Sunday morning in mid-October, Bryce drove to a state forest in the adjoining county and selected a trail which he had hiked in his boyhood and which wasn't too steep.

He parked his parents' second car and locked it, put on a parka, and, wielding a stick, entered the woods where the heads of the trails converged. They fanned out at the onset and then continued in parallel tracks down and along valleys and ridges before meeting again at a waterfall. Bryce wouldn't tackle that trip today but would instead take a shortcut that crossed to the valley trail from the one on the ridge.

So, he'd have to climb first and get it over with. He stumbled on a tree root, but caught himself with the stick and made the climb rather easily, breathing lightly. Not until he reached the top did he realize that a soft mist of rain clung to the pine needles and the changing leaves. The ground was damp, but not wet. By a trick of the light the woods appeared to recede before Bryce just as he approached them, upright and evergreen, with patches of hardwood, darkening hickory, and bare rocks as lookout points and open weedy places where the day looked in, as dim as a summer twilight though it was close to noon.

Stretched in a single plane across the trail where Bryce was to pass was an immense cobweb as tall as a man. Its numerous long guy lines were anchored in three dimensions, attached to nodding reeds and small-leafed bushes, to the coarse white edges of grassblades, to snags in the peeling bark of a pine tree, and to dead twigs on living trees and fallen logs. He didn't spot the web until almost upon it, and then only because its threads were fretted with moisture.

At once he started back; he saw the spider, large and spotted, and the several trapped and tied insects whose death had preserved their delicate structures. He wouldn't have wanted to tangle with those sticky threads himself, but before he made a detour, he inspected the web more closely. Hanging liquid from the lines, rain droplets expanded to translucent globes that distorted what they reflected. Standing thus in sight of the web's static symmetry, Bryce experienced the curious disorientation that either it was revolving or he was.

It chilled him, seeing a web like that strung across the trail as if it were meant for a person. He had almost been snared, but now he looked at the loveliness, the long looping lines and the radii that extended their design. That was what he recognized first, the pattern, and then the empty spaces it spanned: a stretched framework that suggested, by obverse, the absence it bridged in that its lines met around holes.

Thus, a void opened for Bryce in the taut breathing mesh his life made with the mortal world. He felt himself in a dream landscape, green, moist, and muted, with something nightmarish in the way that the light was muffled. Besides the threat to himself, he sensed a space, an absence like a sudden chilly breath of air that settled from the open sky on his bare head.

The web was something he'd seen through, but hadn't penetrated. He bypassed it and the other, smaller webs he came across later by leaving the path and walking around them. Just as he left the woods, he caught himself listening for the slip of his step on fallen pine needles. It was the slightness of that sound that accentuated the stillness he had found himself travelling past.

The rain never fell in full force that day and, driving back to his parents' house, Bryce kept flicking on and off the windshield wipers. Though the day was still gloomy, he felt gladder after his walk, and the glow stayed with him, calm and cool in the pit of his being, like phosphorescent gleams in water.

* * *

In October Bill no longer left his bed. The major care fell to Margaret or the nurses--by this time there were two, one during the day and another all night. Sometimes Bryce helped by feeding Bill his simple meals of semi-liquid food or by rearranging his body that now seemed as light as balsa wood. When he concerned himself with his uncle's comfort, his dread was somewhat eased.

Four days after his October woodland walk, Bryce saw Bill lift his hand from the sheet. It soon began to tremble and he let it fall back. Was it a signal? Bryce was holding the piece of wood Bill had begun to carve, that someone had left on the bureau among the antique photographs. Bryce found the other piece, the wood chip, in his pocket, but he couldn't make them join exactly. He played with the chip on the plush of his palm.

"What does it look like to you?" he asked Bill, holding it in his uncle's view.

Bill's stare back was a blue astonishment, as though from another world. Bryce had partially opened the blind; a slatted light fell across the room's furnishings. He ought to have felt perfectly at home here, but, before the look of serene puzzlement in Bill's eyes, the familiar room, with its books and pictures, receded. Grief smarted Bryce's eyes with tears, his jaw was stiff, his cheeks puffed and achy.

"It might look like a shoe," he said in reply to himself, "but it's not. Guess again....No, it's not a cradle either," he continued. "Do you give up yet? One more? No? Well, all right. When you stand it up like this, it's nothing substantial, but it ends in a regular shape.

"That's why it's a point of reflection." Bryce threw his thought up in the air, caught it, and repocketed it. A found sculpture was a token consolation in a grievous time.

Several days later Bill no longer spoke; he refused to eat. Bryce watched his aunt sitting before her husband, spoon in hand, gently persuading. Her Irish countenance turned to her nephew--tilted nose, low forehead, wide mouth. Even neglected, she was still a pretty woman. She hadn't gotten down a single mouthful. The spoon clattered against Bill's closed teeth, a brown broth spilled on the sheet. She took back the utensil, shrugged her shoulders, and turned away from Bryce to the blinded window, but not before he sensed as much as saw a tear slide in a satin line down her cheek.

Such recoveries of composure were necessary in the last days. Bill's presence in his own house had been growing increasingly more shadowlike. Conversely, it was the things in the room which seemed to gain in substance for Bryce, as though an intimacy had developed between them and him, fellow witnesses. One afternoon, when he was sitting alone with his uncle, he got up from his chair by the bed and wandered around the room. Idly he opened the top bureau drawer and found a forgotten collection of Bill's: pebbles picked up in Bill's western travels mounted on little wooden stands turned out identically on a lathe, a typed label neatly affixed to the side of the base, each specimen placed protectively under a wine glass. The first row was red sandstone, river shale, a glittery tuft of pyrite, and glassy smooth obsidian from the Yellowstone cliffs. The interests of the man now dwelled outside him. They would outlast him, made by his absence into evidence.

Bryce was also a testimony to the dying man. He saw the cycle of generations, saw himself old, wondered whom he'd pass himself onto. He'd have no children. His throat melted, his eyes stung. Bill's company felt like a privacy so remote as to not exist. But it wasn't death. Not yet. Signs of life were there, but they were almost invisible.

Bryce was not present at the actual demise. He was told about it by his mother who monitored incoming phone calls to the house. "It was a very peaceful death. He went into a coma and never woke up." Bryce's mother leaned towards him convincingly; he sensed that she was straining to sound sincere.

As elder brother, Bryce's father made the funeral arrangements. The ceremony was to be two days hence, the principal service at the church and a smaller one at the cemetery.

Bryce came with the others to the funeral parlor. They stood in a semi-circle across from the bier which, one by one, they approached. Bryce peered into the open coffin and saw a mask with his uncle's features. The body was so small that it had been wrapped in a shroud.

After they got home, Bryce's mother took him aside and asked him if he would mind spending the night after the funeral with his aunt. "We're putting up the Memphis cousins here," she said, "and we need your room. I don't think it's good for Margaret to be alone that night, but she can't possibly take in a lot of people."

It turned out well that relatives and friends came and filled Bryce's father's house, people his aunt was willing to see, if not to receive in her own home. Margaret was at first startled yet essentially gratified by how many showed up. It wasn't so much that her grief was bared to the public, as it was reflected in it.

The hubbub came to a hush the next day at the funeral. The minister's sonorous voice intoned the solemn prayerbook service. The coffin was kept closed by request of the family; and after the eulogy and hymn were over, the mourners filed out in small groups, still silent or whispering among themselves.

Only the family gathered at the graveside. It was another misty day, like Bryce's noon on the mountain ridge. The sky was both menacing and mild, the air almost balmy. Most in the huddled group carried umbrellas, but in the end there was no rain. Bryce watched the coffin being lowered, then turned his back and left with the others before the caretakers began to raise their shovels.

He was feeling more blue after the funeral and began to drink whisky before dinner. He had already packed an overnight bag so as not to disturb his visiting relatives, but he postponed going. It was after ten-thirty when he finally took his leave. The road that led to the highway from his parents' to his uncle's house was a dark tunnel of dissolving mist. The yellow reflectors that warned of curves seemed to disintegrate like lit dust in his headlights. Bryce kept rehearsing his uncle's face in his mind, as if he were already accusing himself of forgetfulness.

Bryce's sister's maid was there to open the door. "Where were you?" she asked. "We've been waiting."

He shrugged. "It was hard to get away." He almost missed Margaret sitting in the living room without a light on, staring into the empty fireplace. She motioned to a bottle of Cointreau on a silver tray on a sidetable and asked him if he would have a glass with her. Her eyes were downcast, her lips dumb. She kissed him on his forehead when he left the room. Her hands on his brow were uncomfortably clammy, and he found himself ducking to avoid her touch.

A bittersweet savor of oranges lingered on his tongue. He had to pass his uncle's room on the second floor to reach the staircase that led to the spare room on the third floor. He couldn't prevent himself from peeking his head into what he would always call "Bill's room."

He noticed a difference at once. The blind was pulled up. Rectangles of light from the outdoor lamp came in the window and lay down on the floor, holding the quivering shadows of the plum trees. The acrid odors of medicines, pungent sniffs of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant, the benign smells of lotion and body powder, and, underlying all these other smells, the sour smell of the dying--they were gone. He hadn't thought they would disappear as easily as did the rented hospital bed, but now, save for a trace scent in a sensitive nostril, they had yielded to the richer aromas of floor wax and furniture polish.

Bryce caught his breath. He might have been expecting his uncle's ghost, rummaging among his things, shiftless and genial. That was another Bill to conjure, but when Bryce tried, he could only remember the weary invalid or the fixed features of the face inside the coffin. He continued down the hall, switched on the light in the stairwell, and laboriously climbed the steps.

Bryce hadn't ventured up here once in all his visits with Bill, and he couldn't remember what else besides the spare room and its bath was located up here. When he reached the top of the stairs, he was out of breath. He could feel the liquor in his head. He opened the door of the bedroom, turned on the light, and put his bag on the floor. The ceiling sloped; he was under the eaves. There was a coverlet on the bed, a chest of drawers, a wooden table and chair, a lamp. The bathroom had an old-fashioned tub on claw feet, no shower, and a blue stain around the drain. He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot, but his face was still handsome, perhaps more handsome now that it was a little worn. Bryce didn't feel like sleep. He didn't know what he wanted.

In the hallway were two other doors, both closed. He tried the first. It wasn't locked. Bryce knew immediately from the musty smell and the obvious outlines of objects in storage that he was in the attic. He found the light. Before a box full to the brim with pictures and papers, he knelt and dipped in his hand as one might trowel in a trough of sand, lifting up the fine and coarse, the beige and black grains without differentiation, dropping them back. So he picked up and let fall sheets of paper, envelopes, photographs, frayed leaves from scrapbook albums, not reading anything, scarcely looking. Dreamily he passed his fingers through the rustling documents, as unconcerned as a sleepwalker in a rote motion. Then he noticed, at first with only a flitting attention, that the glare of the light bulb had shrunk and he was kneeling in shadow.

Then the shadow shifted. Bryce heard his name spoken furiously, a hiss. His head jerked; he stood up. Margaret's face was hanging just over his. He had always thought of her as a large woman; now he saw she was merely taller than he. Myopically near, her enraged features were distorted in his vision to two equally rigid faces, one a blur of the other, like a reflection and its light.

She pressed her cold fingers into the wingtips of his shoulders, squeezing his skin until her grip was like a band around his bones. Her face resolved back in his focus to reprimand him. The tendons stood out on her neck.

"No right," she was saying, "you had no right to come in here and go through my things."

It was a blessing Bryce wasn't more clear-minded. He didn't know himself why he'd opened that door or what he had hoped to find inside the attic. In the absence of his uncle's ghost, a photograph of his face, an envelope addressed in his scrawling hand? He wanted to be reassured that the past had happened, but he wasn't planning to take it away with him.

That he'd seen it at all aroused his aunt. In the horrible minute she held him hard in her clenched grip, he felt an oppressive, paralyzing guilt that made him into an intruder where he had once felt almost at home. That was the real shock, that she faced him now as an adversary. He was guilty, but he'd meant no harm. In chiding him, in clutching him so cruelly, she cast him out, but when Bill was alive, he remembered, she had clung to him with clearly another intent.

Bryce did not like surprises in the dark, midnight melodramas with irate relatives where he felt trapped and which still revealed the blank space where someone was missing. His aunt's animosity anguished him in the airless attic. She evidently meant him to think she would hurt him, and she made a thief in name of him. Held too close to Margaret's distorted face in an insistent embrace, Bryce's strongest sensation was of a future when his parents, also, would have died.

Clasping her wrists, he removed her hands and stepped away from her. Without relinquishing his grasp that inhibited hers, he repeated apologies to placate her, and at last was able to close the attic door with them both outside it.

In the hallway he saw her open her mouth and inhale as if to continue her tirade, but walking her out had given him back his will, and his voice vanquished hers. Still, it surprised him to see her gulping on empty air. He escaped from her into the spare room and shut the door. He lay down on the bed without waiting to see if she'd stand guard outside the attic, but in a little while he got up again. She'd left the hall light burning. Once more, his eyes fell across the two closed doors on the landing; then he closed his own. Even as he slipped his body between the softnesses of the worn sheets, Bryce doubted that he would ever again sleep in his uncle's house which now belonged to his aunt.

His head reeled, but he must have drifted off, for he woke with a parched throat. Not only the slaking of thirst, but a total immersion took place at four in the morning. No one else was there to see Bryce's tears scar the lucent surface of the water in the bathtub or care that he went under without soaping himself.

The next morning he was half-inclined to disbelieve the incident. Before he saw his aunt again, he had determined not to speak of their midnight meeting. He took polite, distant leave of her without waiting for breakfast. By the time he arrived at his parents' house, the Memphis relatives had gone.

He went straight to his room. The bed was made and the curtains tied back and blowing as if no one at all had spent the night there. He thought of how, after over two months, he had gotten used to sleeping alone, but not to waking up that way. All this time while he had been suffering the loss of Bill, he had missed Paul. But there was no communication between them.

He went outside and lay down on the lawn, looking up at the sky. In the clear air, small leaves twirled and fell. He felt the chill of the grass through the clothes on his back and heard the squeak of a dead tree in the wind. Passing shadows left their stain on him: wheeling, soundless shadows cast from a flock of birds so far away in flight their very existence seemed a divine one.

As the season passed, Bryce stayed on in his native state. Long before the somber silvers and browns covered the earth of a Southern November, an elegiac tone came to temper his autumn. He tried to salvage his love--for Paul, for Bill--and kept himself company all the while.

Chapter Nine

Paul had first come into Bryce's life nearly two years earlier, in October, 1978. One afternoon late in that month, Bryce had had an unexpected call from his jet-set friend Simón, Latin American by birth and now a European resident. Three years before he had been Bryce's lover, and, after he had moved to Paris, he had continued to keep in touch when he regularly passed through New York on his inter-continental jaunts. Now he was back again, with an evening free. Bryce proposed dinner followed by the theater and left the choice to his friend. Simón was intrigued by a drama based on a traditional fairy tale retold as a modern dilemma with a politically relevant moral.

At the first intermission Bryce and Simón remained in their seats in the first row center of the mezzanine. So far Bryce had found the play a bit thin. While Simón studied the program, he diverted himself by observing the people below him in the orchestra. Now the rows were half-empty, and there were people shuffling in and out, while others stood to let them pass. The tall, straight figure and bright blond locks of a man sitting with an auburn-haired woman and a dark-haired man caught Bryce's attention like a beacon of light. The woman sat between the men, and the blond man leaned across her, evidently speaking to the other man. His face was sharply angled, with smooth planes. Almost like a cubist face, Bryce thought, not handsome, but unforgettable.

Just then Bryce's vision tricked him, though he had been seeing the stage perfectly, for the blond man blurred, appeared double, in indistinct outline. Bryce worried that he might be having an exacerbation of his illness. He turned to Simón beside him and was relieved to see his friend's bent head resolve into focus, grey at the temples and creased around the eyes. Simón was absorbed in his program, and Bryce found his calmness reassuring. When the second act began, Bryce's vision had become entirely normal again, and he hoped that his eyesight had only blurred because he was tired.

The play was more interesting in the second act, the dialogue witty and satirical, and Bryce forgot to worry about himself. At the second intermission, he and Simón went into the lobby and bought drinks. As soon as they returned to their seats, the theater went dark. Bryce didn't see the blond man again until after the show was over. His tall, light head stood above the crowd in the lobby. With Simón beside him, Bryce hung back, waiting for the crowd to disperse. He felt exhausted and leaned on his cane. The blond man disappeared out the door.

Call it chance, coincidence, or fate: Bryce's initial gaze at Paul was followed several weeks later by an actual meeting in a café downtown on a gray, gloomy afternoon. It was November, not yet winter, though the day held the promise of winter--or the threat of it. Bryce, brought downtown by an errand, had sought a refuge and a hot cup of coffee when the cold drizzle finally fell from the sodden sky that had been urging it all along. Miserable in the rain, he had felt instantly better inside the humid warmth of the café. Its crowded interior was dim with age. Oil paintings in heavy, ornate frames hung on the dark walls, their surfaces obscured by dirt and layers of yellow varnish. Bryce heard the hiss of steam being released through the valves of a cappuccino machine. Automatically a feeling of security came over him, without explanation. His mind searched for other sounds that had comforted him in the past. He remembered Mississippi nights in the 1960s, when, lying in bed, waiting for sleep, he'd listened for the distant whistle of a train, and the bullfrogs bellowing after it. But, in the meantime, he reflected, Meridian had changed, and so had the trains. He had left the South for New York where there were many more exotic stories than his, and all that mattered about the trains was that they came. In New York there would always be passengers to fill them.

Bryce looked up from his reverie to see an influx of people at the door of the café. They were dripping wet. Evidently it was pouring. In front was a group of four college-aged youths. Two women had shorter haircuts than the man between them, and the third woman had a purple streak dyed in her hair. Under outsized, secondhand overcoats, they wore mandatory black accessorized by an assortment of earrings, studs, and chains. They were being stared at by a middle-aged man in a mackintosh, who stood in the doorway shaking out his umbrella, until another man behind him tapped him once on the shoulder in a gesture of impatience. This man was taller; his blond head was uncovered and yet didn't appear wet. At once Bryce recognized the man who had attracted his attention at the theater a few weeks before.

Suddenly it seemed that all the tables were taken, but the tall man hadn't gotten one. He had remained too long in the doorway. Bryce observed him as he navigated the narrow spaces between tables, unable to avoid brushing up against damp coats hung over the backs of chairs. For several minutes the man studied the display of pastries in the glass case, while two waiters hurried to and fro, taking orders, carrying trays. No one seemed to take any notice of him except Bryce, who sat as motionless as the ruined painting behind him, unwilling to do anything but watch.

The blond man turned from the display, scanning the room. His glance fell on Bryce and the empty seat across from him. Their eyes met. The man gestured, pointing to the chair, and Bryce nodded. The man smiled. He exchanged words with a waiter crossing directly in front of him and then came striding toward Bryce.

"Is it all right if I join you? You're quite sure I won't disarrange you?" he asked. His voice was flat, somewhat high in timbre, not the voice Bryce had been expecting.

"Of course not," said Bryce politely, rising to his feet to welcome the man and deliberately omitting the fact that he'd seen him once before. But his balance was unsteady, and he gripped the table's edge. He saw a quick, observant look cross the man's face, but its expression was unreadable when he addressed Bryce next.

"Thanks, I'm looking forward to this," he said smiling, and introduced himself, but before Bryce could do likewise, a waiter had arrived and was setting down dishes.

"I took the liberty of ordering you a pastry," said the man whom Bryce now knew as Paul. "The lemon tart is delicious, but I'm having chocolate cravings today," he continued, directing to himself the plate with the eclair.

Not critical but curious, Bryce asked, "What made you decide on the lemon tart for me?"

"Because it's subtle and elegant," Paul replied, not skipping a beat.

Not knowing what to make of him, Bryce laughed. In fact, he preferred the lemon tart. Though he didn't foresee their eventual relationship, living together, sharing their nights and days, Bryce realized when he took the tart that he was accepting more than a sweet. But he liked Paul's energy and didn't mind his pretensions. Paul's banter banished the remains of Bryce's bleakness, and it didn't seem to matter to Paul that Bryce wasn't as healthy as he was.

That Bryce had actually seen Paul first, literally picking him out in a theater audience, he would never divulge to Paul. He wanted Paul to believe that he had been the discoverer. Bryce was not accustomed to holding forth on the spur of the moment, but Paul evidently was. While Bryce listened, Paul spoke of music and movies. Abruptly, Bryce asked Paul what kind of performer he was.

"One who never need talk as much as this," Paul said, and Bryce wondered, had this man, who seemed so cool, gotten nervous?

"No?"

"I dance," said Paul.

"Oh," said Bryce. He thought he ought to have guessed it, yet still surprised himself with his offer to see Paul perform. Paul didn't seem startled at all. Apparently he was accustomed to such interest, perhaps even expected it. He promised to mail Bryce a flyer and with this reason noted down his address.

Together they walked out of the café, into the gray, still dripping afternoon, and parted immediately at the door. "I've got to run," Paul said, and did. So Bryce had left it up to Paul in the beginning, and he hadn't had to wait very long. The following week, before Bryce had received a flyer in the mail, Paul called to ask him to a rehearsal. With the phone at his ear and Paul's voice at the other end, Bryce found himself unaccountably shielding his eyes. He was almost ashamed of his degree of gladness at Paul's invitation.

Warned by Paul that what he would see was only a practice, Bryce ascended the front steps of a theater existing in isolation on the Upper East Side at the appointed time, in the early evening. Flanking the porch, supporting a classical pediment, were wide wooden columns whose peeling paint gave a decrepit look to what once must have been a noble facade. Bryce wondered how old the building was. Most of the old wooden construction in Manhattan had burned down long ago and been replaced by brick or stone or steel-and-glass. It pleased him to discover that this entrance, while dilapidated, had survived.

Following Paul's directions, Bryce took the wheezing elevator up to the third floor. Around a corner, down a corridor, two doors faced each other. Bryce heard the tinkling of a piano through one and selected it. He was mistaken. He had opened the door on a children's ballet class. There was the instructress, thin, strong, and sallow, with rod in hand, and there were the little girls in black leotards, pink tights, and soft shoes, their hair twisted back into neat small buns, already assuming a dancer's silhouette.

Embarrassed by his intrusion, Bryce quickly closed the door. His brief glimpse left its impression on him of these children's concentration made careful by a sterner authority.

He hesitated and then knocked on the other door. It was opened by a petite Oriental woman wearing a shiny lycra unitard and striped legwarmers. Under her straight black bangs, her eyes questioned Bryce. He looked past her for Paul and found him kneeling beside a portable tape player on the floor.

"He invited me," Bryce said, and she nodded.

"Come in," she said.

Paul didn't look up at first. He seemed absorbed. Bryce stood over him, feeling shy, an intruder in street clothes. "Hello."

"Hi there!" Paul sprang up, embracing him warmly. "I didn't see you come in."

He introduced Bryce, trying to put him at ease. Bryce nodded politely each time he was told a name, though the names came in one ear and went out the other. One man was quite a bit older, already gray. He was the artistic director. Paul unfolded a chair for Bryce to sit on. The six dancers took their places as if the two ends of the long, bare room were the wings of a stage. Bryce sat by the tape player. When he was asked to, he'd change the cassette.

The dance began, and the director interrupted. He went over a particular placement, and they started again. The music was Ravel, for violin and piano. Hearing it, Bryce pictured a cold night, a bright moon, silvery ice, and darkness. The dancers were weaving spaces around each other. Then they formed three pairs, meeting and turning in intricate patterns. The men lifted the women, first by grasping their thighs. They raised them higher, supporting the smalls of their backs.

These rising movements seemed to Bryce like surges of a feeling still mostly submerged. He watched carefully, even critically. He observed that twice Paul fell out of step with the other dancers and then quickly recovered. He saw that Paul caught on, but did not catch fire, and still it seemed to Bryce that Paul's presence was too great for the spare, dusty room.

Several times the director stopped the dancers to correct them or to emphasize a movement. At last they went through the entire dance without a pause. Abruptly, the rehearsal was over.

Bryce was too self-conscious to applaud. He was surprised at the extent to which he'd felt involved with the dance and the music. He recalled the melody afterwards as he waited for Paul to change. Paul came out, appearing paler and slighter in jeans and a jacket. He had taken so long that the others were already gone, and Bryce had the pleasure of Paul's approach all to himself. The blond hair was dampened, combed back.

"I'm starving," Paul said. "How about dinner?"

It was all right with Bryce. Because the neighborhood was familiar to Paul, it was he who made the selection, leading Bryce to a fish and seafood restaurant. It was popular and noisy, with nets draped over panelled walls as a marine motif, dim lighting, and candles on the tables. Faced with a half-hour wait, the two men sat at the bar. As he took a stool, Paul's thigh brushed negligently against Bryce's.

For Bryce, no touch could be casual. Instinctively he drew away, but his thoughts were on the other man's body. He did not yet desire Paul, nor yet adore him, but he admired him, though he had hardly an idea of what Paul was really like.

The waiter motioned them to an empty table. Continuing their conversation, Paul held forth, describing the members of the company for Bryce's benefit, but he was not quite as exuberant as on that other day. The rehearsal had tired him. Bryce thought of how Paul's strength must be regularly sapped and regularly renewed.

Grilled red snapper and pan-fried flounder accompanied by salad, garlic bread, and baked potato made up the second of several meals they enjoyed together over the course of the next couple of months. Bryce remained reserved with Paul, but a friendship slowly began to develop. Their meetings took place in restaurants, cafés, and bars. It was Paul who first invited Bryce to visit his home.

They had planned to hear some music in a club, but when they arrived, they found that the set was sold out. They stood outside on the sidewalk in the cold, wondering what to do. A freezing wind scattered debris in the street. "Why don't we bag it and go over to my place?" Paul suggested, and, not having an alternative plan, Bryce was willing to let Paul take charge. He agreed instantly, without considering the implications.

His apartment was a temporary arrangement, Paul explained to Bryce as they headed east together in a cab, an illegal sublet in the East Village that he was lucky to get because the rent was low. But it probably wasn't what Bryce was used to, he continued, as if he knew. The cab turned down a narrow side street lined with tenement buildings. Some were in better shape than others, but none were really nice. Paul told the driver to stop in front of one painted a dull red, which appeared to be in decent condition. The two men split the fare, and got out.

"Well, here we are," said Paul. "It's one flight up, facing the back."

Bryce had been curious to see how Paul lived, but it wasn't only the neighborhood that made him nervous. On the grimy second-floor landing outside Paul's door, he felt himself shrinking and wondered why he had agreed to come. Long after he had given Paul keys to his penthouse and invited him to live there, Bryce would recall standing next to Paul on the landing before this first visit to his apartment.

Did he feel in retrospect that he ought to have turned back? From alternate viewpoints in the future, Bryce, surveying his past, would be left with confused thoughts, ideas that contradicted one another, conflicting interpretations that called into question his purpose, his reason, even his sense of self. These he would then strive to recover. He saw moments when he might have departed, opportunities for refusals, but the short interlude with Paul on his landing was not one of these.

As if Paul were a sun--he seemed that bright--or a vision of the future, Bryce would remember with peculiar clarity Paul's vibrancy in the gloomy hall just outside his apartment. He saw Paul's face outlined, its sharp planes carved perhaps too insistently for beauty. His thought settled on Paul's body now close to him. He sensed Paul's potential for intensity; he appreciated him, but he did not yet truly desire him.

Only in hindsight would Bryce recognize the uniqueness of that moment when Paul stood beside him engrossed, shining, still unrevealed. Along with his expectant sense of that moment, verging on this entrance, he perceived it also as a stasis wherein Paul appeared fixed, in a frozen, absolute clarity, wholly unconnected with Bryce. It was a vision that grew vivid in Bryce's memory after he lost it in life, a conviction of Paul defined, finished, complete, that he could not recapture though they grew intimate. It was strange how the sensation, though not insignificant at the time, only impressed Bryce in retrospect, when he would feel for it the kind of wonder reserved for ancien regimes after they topple, or of times that are only called innocent long after they have ended.

At that time Bryce did not receive any sign of a destiny preparing itself outside Paul's door, nor did he anticipate the atmosphere that would envelop him once he was behind it. He was interested in clues that Paul's apartment might provide to his habits. Bryce knew about the poverty of dancers in small New York companies and had wondered more than once how Paul lived. So far the places where they had met to eat had been moderately priced. Paul's clothes were casual and sometimes flamboyant. While Bryce thought Paul's fashions suited him, they were clearly--he could tell--low-budget. If so far he hadn't invited Paul to his apartment, it was not only because he didn't feel ready to entertain him, but also because he wasn't yet prepared to confront Paul's inevitable perception that he, Bryce, was undeniably the more affluent.

Bryce was as sensitive to his advantages as he was to his afflictions. By the time he invited Paul to his home, he was already involved with him to the extent that his initial scruples no longer mattered. And yet, as perspicacious as Bryce thought he was, he was to discover he was mistaken in some early convictions about Paul.

But he felt all his ideas fleeing him as he stepped inside Paul's door into darkness and stood waiting for him to turn on a light. He heard the door close abruptly behind him and felt Paul brush invisibly past him. When he next could see, Paul was across the room, standing by a tall lamp, which cast a mild glow muted further by a fringed shawl draped over the shade. By a trick of height, Paul's body came within its circle of soft, rosy light, but his face did not.

This made of his form a strange apparition at some distance from Bryce. The room was submerged in fantastic shadows cast by the lamplight through the shawl's long fringe and by the sparser light which came in through the bare window. The view was of an alley shared by rows of other apartments, with just a patch of sky. To Bryce the night glare outside seemed glazed, dull, almost opaque, and he momentarily had an illusion that they were under water, and that the window was a porthole in a boat looking across to other portholes in other boats. Then he realized that the denseness of the atmosphere was within also, that it was inside the room.

Yet the room was sparsely furnished, indeed almost bare, except for a rug, the lamp, a couch with a carved wooden back, and a table and chairs. Even in the dim light Bryce recognized in the rug and couch a dilapidated elegance, a threadbare gentility.

"Won't you sit down?" Paul urged.

The upholstery of the couch sank under Bryce's weight. Paul, passing behind, patted him on the shoulder and then left the room. He came back with two tiny glasses, each half filled with an amber liqueur.

Paul handed one glass to Bryce and lifted his own. "To night," he said. He sat down on a chair opposite Bryce, his legs neatly crossed at the knee. They were about ten feet apart as the sweet liquid melted on Bryce's tongue, but he felt again in memory the light impress of Paul's fingers on his shoulder.

It was as if Paul's mild touch had a deeper effect on Bryce after it ended, an effect that was amplified by Paul's consequent, careful distance. The space between them allowed for animating influences which seemed to come from the atmosphere, permeating them as they sat and sipped and talked. Sitting apart from Paul in a darkened room, Bryce's guard was down, and still he felt somewhat threatened, because he was moved by what seemed so slight.

Paul did not touch Bryce again. Their conversation was their catalyst. Paul drew Bryce out, and Bryce found himself willing to speak of things which he was used to keeping silent about. He felt Paul's concern like the faint glow of the lamp, the warmth in the liqueur's taste: it was nothing that would sustain him. Yet he opened his vulnerable heart to this man. From their first coffee klatsch scant months ago, Bryce had felt in Paul's presence that he might say virtually anything, and now, reclining in the ramshackle ease of Paul's apartment, Bryce began to feel that he might one day want to.

It seemed to him that Paul lived his life with an amazing lack of forethought, for so many of Paul's arrangements, like this apartment, were temporary. Bryce had taught himself to manage his assets, to try to make wise decisions, to plan for himself. Paul, it appeared, did not do any of these things, and yet he always seemed to be riding the crest of a wave. This pleased Bryce, for he would have liked to have been more impulsive himself could he have survived it. Later, when he came to love Paul, his feelings for him stayed colored by his perception of Paul's brilliance against this impoverished backdrop, and by what Bryce saw as Paul's insouciance.

In contrast, he believed himself more subject to hesitation and doubt, and more naive. In this regard, Paul appeared to him as courageous, even while he admitted to himself that this seemed a curious adjective to describe such a self-proclaimed pleasure seeker. It was the qualities Bryce didn't have that he had noticed first in Paul: the physical grace of a dancer, his light head tall in the crowd, his implicit assurance of his effect. Bryce thought this was why Paul seemed willing to expose himself, as he was not. Yet, already, Paul had loosened Bryce's tongue.

He suddenly wondered if he had said too much. While he had been talking, Paul had leaned back his head and closed his eyes. It was obvious to Bryce that Paul was fond of striking poses. His gesture was dramatic and effacing at the same time. Outside the window, Bryce could see both dark windows and lit-up ones, and he thought of city dwellers' lives, close yet unconnected. In the shadows, the very space of the room seemed shifting, equivocal, undefined.

At last he had drained his glass, but Paul did not refill it. Paul opened his eyes and looked at Bryce, smiling very sweetly, with closed, curving lips. Bryce wondered what he was thinking. Unlike Paul, he had not asked for difficult confidences. That evening, he had felt more receptive than inquisitive. He had allowed himself to grow complacent. Now, realizing it, he became vaguely anxious and on edge.

Alone with Paul but not physically near to him, he sensed more strongly their kinship of loneliness. He could not say for sure how he had discovered this. In their previous meetings, he had listened to Paul holding forth. In the stories Paul told, the world was beguiling, and he was always succumbing to its various charms. Yet Bryce thought he had sometimes heard a hollowness behind Paul's bravado. Tonight, in Paul's apartment, he had begun to feel that at the heart of Paul's energy there was lethargy.

That evening Paul did not display his gift of narrative. His questions ceased, and he fell silent. Then he asked Bryce if he wanted to stay.

Bryce declined instantly, dropping his eyes. He couldn't help being afraid of the feelings aroused in him. He didn't think that Paul seemed afraid.

Paul said mildly, "Well, it's getting late. I didn't know how you felt about going home."

"I'll take a cab."

As he spoke, Bryce made an effort to be cautious; already, as soon as Paul's question slipped out, he half thought he'd imagined what sort of question it was. Just when he was growing more and more sensitive to the shifting, subtle sensations between them, the abruptness of Paul's question had caught him off-guard and upset him. Ever since Bryce had first glimpsed Paul, he hadn't been able to forget him, and in his own careful way he was seeking to understand why. Where the understanding led, he was willing to follow, but he wasn't yet prepared to face a proposition. Nevertheless, in all of his being he acknowledged changes, if still obscure, that were part of this encounter between them under a veiled light where even the room's sparse, graceful, threadbare furnishings appeared mysterious, voluptuous.

He wasn't quite ready to leave, but he couldn't linger long after he'd said he wouldn't. In the wake of his refusal, heading uptown in a taxi, Bryce felt numbed by the suddenness of his departure. He was being borne home with the questions born of Paul's question still in him, overlaid by a temporary shock. Having seen Paul's apartment, Bryce thought he understood both the profligacy and the penury of Paul's life. That room was lonely, yet at night, it had cast its spell. He pictured Paul wandering through his room in the morning, lost like a ghost in the daylight, and he was glad that he hadn't stayed the night. The next morning, brewing coffee in his quiet, familiar kitchen, Bryce could momentarily believe that his sensations of the evening before were an illusion wrought by the unusual circumstances.

But in the days that followed, desire ambushed him, sneaking up on him when he was unaware. He couldn't keep thoughts of Paul from his mind. He kept remembering slight gestures and comments, studying them for their suggestions. In his imagination, he heard Paul's question again, and he changed his mind and said yes. His desire was mixed with fear. He knew he was obsessed with Paul.

Paul called within the week. Bryce suggested a movie, naming a revival showing at an Upper West Side theater. They agreed to meet the following evening. Bryce thought that Paul sounded relieved.

The next morning it rained and then cleared. In the afternoon the weather grew cold and overcast. By the time Bryce left for the theater, it had begun to snow. He arrived first and bought the tickets, waiting for Paul just inside the entrance, watching the street and the passers-by. He was habitually punctual, and tardiness in others usually irritated him, but tonight he minded less, probably because he'd seen the movie before, and because the snow was falling in large, wet flakes, and the entire city appeared to have slowed down.

He thought of trying to leave Paul's ticket for him, but the arrangement seemed too complicated. How would Paul know? The show time came and passed. Bryce listened to the muffled sounds of the coming attractions through the closed doors and then the feature beginning. He began to feel annoyed. He thought of trying to sell back Paul's ticket, but decided to wait. A quarter of an hour later, Paul appeared in front of his eyes through the falling snow, holding a black umbrella just like Bryce's.

For a moment he was the stranger that Bryce had seen on a rainy day with his head bare. Then he saw Bryce through the glass and tried to come into the theater, but the door was barred to him. Bryce had his ticket.

Bryce went out into the cold and wet night to meet him. "I'd just about given up on you," Bryce heard himself saying. "We've missed the beginning. Do you want to stay?"

Faced with Bryce's reprimand, Paul apologized and asked Bryce why he hadn't gone in anyway. Shrugging, Bryce said he'd seen the film before, and Paul admitted he had, too. They spent a few moments wondering why neither of them had mentioned this to the other, but because it was cold and wet and dark, with large snowflakes that fell seemingly out of nowhere and melted on the street, they decided to remain for the rest of the film after all. Bryce gave Paul his ticket, and they both went in.

The audience was sparse, scattered in the rows of seats. Paul chose the center, towards the front, and Bryce followed. He was thinking of the other theater, crowded and lively, with a play in progress, where he'd first noticed Paul. They sat down together, laying their coats over an empty seat. The film was Italian, shot in black-and-white in the nineteen-fifties, a story of the war. It had been many years since Bryce had seen it. At first he was lost, but the scenes began to grow more familiar, though he didn't remember the story. Next to him, Paul slouched in his seat, his elbow on the armrest between them, staring ahead, apparently engrossed. Casually, comfortably, his body seemed to invite Bryce, and very naturally their shoulders came together, and they touched.

Bryce scarcely knew how to account for the happiness he felt then. He dared not stir for fear that Paul might move away. Paul's arm rested motionlessly against his, a solid weight, and remained for what seemed a long time until Paul burrowed deeper in his seat, shifting his arm to his lap. They sat apart for the rest of the movie, but Bryce's attention often wandered from the screen. As long as the movie lasted, he felt safe sitting in the dark next to Paul, even though their silence still had too many questions in it to be entirely companionable. At the end, they sat silently through the credits.

"Do you want to stay for the beginning?" asked Bryce.

"No, do you?"

"No."

Outside, on the street, Bryce observed their reflections in a mirror set in the theater's facade. He saw himself standing next to Paul, a few inches shorter, each with his identical black umbrella. Paul opened his and raised it high over their heads, against the falling snow, which was slushier than it had been. The air seemed less cold and practically windless. Soundlessly, the wet snow slipped down the umbrella's ribs to the street. The two men stood next to each other, their heads close. It was Bryce who lifted his face first, who offered his lips, and it was Paul who met them, but this Bryce did not see. His eyes were closed. He felt a stranger's mouth, a stranger's kiss--it was both light and searching, and it ended before it opened.

Paul's kiss felt like a prelude to Bryce, yet Paul then stepped back, as if he were about to bid goodbye. Bryce saw the snow falling around him, but, as Paul held his umbrella aloft, it didn't touch him. Bryce felt his will inclining towards Paul, wanting him to speak, though in reality he didn't stir. Then Paul asked him very gently if he was tired.

It was actually Paul who felt the fatigue. If he could not say which of them had begun their kiss, Paul knew it was he who had ended it. He stared back at Bryce from his slight perspective, Bryce's handsome face rapt, his eyes bright, framed by dark hair. At that instant, Bryce looked young to Paul--though for all Paul knew, Bryce was older than he--young in his eagerness because it was so uncustomary in him; it made him seem vulnerable. In contrast, Paul felt jaded and old.

And still it was a kiss that remained to be transformed, a kiss that had begun as Paul's parted lips slowly, softly searched the contours of Bryce's mouth in outline, and then paused and withdrew. The response was in both men, yet unexpressed. Paul beheld Bryce as if he were a rare and fragile object that he hesitated to touch. Yet Bryce was radiant at that moment, and, surely, Paul thought, pain was far from him.

"No, not tired," said Bryce, "only cold."

"We could have a drink," Paul said. "We could go out somewhere here, or I could give you one at home."

The question lay lightly between them, another puddle in the snow. At first Paul believed Bryce had not heard him since he didn't answer, but then Bryce's mouth twitched, and a teasing, mischievous look came on his face. "We'll get a cab," he said, and glanced up the street.

Thus it was that, during the night, little flickers of the will would be expressed first by one, then the other. Bryce flung up his arm, and a taxi stopped. He opened the door and held it for Paul. As Paul bent to ease himself into its accommodations, Bryce noticed a tightening around Paul's eyes, and he felt the brief pressure of Paul's fingers on his wrist as he passed before Bryce and then drew him in.

Love, though never simple, might seem so for a while in a cab in a city made remote by snow. It was Bryce who said, "Let's go around the park and then decide." Their driver was an obliging kid who did not mind a stately promenade full circle after he perceived there was a good tip in it for him. Paul rolled down his window halfway, and the cold air entered the cab. In their slow passage through the park, they glimpsed incidents of loveliness: V's of snow collecting high up in the crooks of trees and the pools of light cast by wrought-iron lamps at intervals on the fallen snow's thin accumulations.

Weeks of winter still lay before them; they were settling into it. Under the layer of cold blowing over their heads, each inhaled the other's breath. Every least movement, every tremor between them was a suggestion of the potential that was now inclining their bodies. The wait between them was prolonged, attenuated--a slight strain that felt so natural that neither man was thinking at all as their lips met in a second kiss. In Bryce a certainty was growing that with Paul he would not falter. Could one behave so well, he wondered, as to be loved for it? It was not only that he imagined himself different with Paul; he believed that he was different. Broaching Paul's mouth, he felt pleasure and a growing wonder. But he wasn't urgent--not yet--and Paul was still less so.

For a while it seemed that their ride might go on forever. Past the trees was the lake, and, across the drive, the garish lights of the restaurant. They rounded a curve, and another, and headed north. They were backtracking, making the revolution they had asked for in spite of its cost, because they weren't in a hurry to get anywhere. Each knew before either spoke that they had just one destination that night.

Bryce kissed a mouth bearing delight, a mouth that did not devour. Thus was Paul to him on a winter night in the mangy back of a hired cab. It had ceased to snow. For a little while yet the spell would endure, quiet, untrampled. Bryce thought of returning to the darkness of Paul's rooms, remembering their atmosphere of faded luxury implying a resigned despair, where his desire had first surprised him. Now he would truly enter that darkness. He could feel his body preparing, receiving, accepting the imminence of the event.

Bryce would have claimed then that the certainty and the energy emanated from Paul, that Paul was the source in which he basked. At that time, finding courage in Paul, Bryce didn't consider his own portion and hence neglected to appreciate his influence, only thinking of Paul's. He failed to recognize that Paul for the moment could not help being what he was, living as he did, and, while he tried all in his power to make his life appear beguiling, it wasn't necessarily what he wished for himself. Courage, on the other hand, was what Paul perceived in Bryce, and he would have disliked it indeed had he known meanwhile that Bryce was attributing courage to him.

Paul wasn't in the mood for living up to expectations of that sort in his private life in those days. But all the same he couldn't help feeling strongly drawn to Bryce, to the beauty of Bryce's face eased of its usual restraint, flowering with desire. He remembered that in one of the Eastern philosophies it is said that the softest in the world will overpower the hardest, that the insubstantial will penetrate where there is no opening. In Bryce, he glimpsed a man more profoundly unattached than himself. He sensed vaguely that Bryce had a strength that somehow was paradoxically connected to his illness. There was, then, in his feeling for Bryce, this respect veiling his pity, which might assure a solicitousness, a gentle deference.

Paul knew that Bryce wanted him to bring him home, though neither had spoken to the other about it. He knew that he would do it, but knew also that, had Bryce felt otherwise, he would have acquiesced without a word.

"Are you going to be around for awhile?" Bryce asked Paul wistfully.

"Do you mean, will I stay to the bitter end?"

Paul's reply and his abrupt laugh which followed it sounded cruel to Bryce. But Paul embraced him again, and he forgot to worry about what Paul meant.

Paul took Bryce to a home he would be losing when his subtenancy ended in a matter of weeks. Sitting back in the cab with Bryce's head resting against his shoulder, he couldn't help remembering other rooms where he'd made love, now lost to him, and other lovers also lost. Some of his attachments in the past had been so easy, but then there had come a disillusionment. Yet he didn't dwell on these thoughts--he was too aware of Bryce for that.

If I am beautiful, Paul thought, let it be for you. My beauty will mean more to me if it is for you.

Thus does the lover discover that he, too, is beloved.

Inevitably, the snow will fall and collect and melt, leases will expire, property change hands, people move away or die; but, for a portion of an hour, it seemed to Paul and Bryce, taking a ride around the park only for the pleasure of it, and of being together, that for awhile they had removed themselves from that world and entered another, a world where all was suspended, breathless, in reverence and anticipation of the irrevocable changes of love.

Chapter Ten

Early in their acquaintance, Paul intuited that Bryce dreaded being condescended to, scorned, or pitied. He observed how difficult it was for Bryce to ask anything of anyone and saw how guarded he was, in consequence, in his offers. He perceived that Bryce held himself back as much from a dread of dependency as from a fear of being taken advantage of.

They were lovers for three weeks before Bryce invited Paul to his Upper West Side apartment. In the beginning they always used Paul's East Village sublet. On the January day when Paul finally stepped out onto the tar roof of Bryce's building and saw the penthouse, he fell in love with it. An hour later, reclining on Bryce's green velvet couch, he wondered if he would be happy living anywhere else.

He thought to himself, Bryce already knows that I have to leave my apartment at the end of February. What are the chances that he'll ask me to move in?

In the days that followed, Paul dropped hints to Bryce in the hopes that Bryce would make him an offer. But as he came to know Bryce better, he realized that he would have to ask. He wasn't quite sure how to broach the subject of their living together. At last, one night as they stood side by side brushing their teeth in Bryce's bathroom, he simply said, "You know, I might as well move in."

As soon as he'd said it, he wished he hadn't. It sounded so rude. But soon after they'd rinsed their mouths and were cleaning their toothbrushes, he heard Bryce answer, "You might," and he realized that Bryce had been expecting him to ask, and that he was prepared to say yes.

"Do you really mean it?" Paul asked, addressing Bryce's reflection in the mirror.

"I think I do," admitted Bryce.

The qualification made him sound sincere to Paul. Joyfully, he flung his arms around Bryce.

"Do you think we can adjust to each other?" Bryce wondered aloud, after he had extricated himself.

"We can try," said Paul.

In the past, Paul had been known to change his residence three times in a single year. Because of the difficulty of finding Manhattan apartments and his relative poverty, he had grown accustomed to impermanent arrangements. He owned very little furniture and could move his belongings, if he had to, all by himself. In contrast to the places where he had been living, Bryce's apartment was palatial, and so he was grateful to Bryce.

He was also nervous. He had expected more resistance from Bryce and in turn was prepared to suggest some advantages to him. Bryce's ready acquiescence left him somewhat at a loss, and he found himself blurting out his proposal anyway, which concerned his plans for a garden. Except for some meager potted shrubs, Bryce had done nothing in the way of planting. To Bryce, Paul depicted the roof expanse as an empty canvas waiting to be filled in. He became animated as he talked about installing raised beds, building a fountain. He inspired Bryce's enthusiasm.

Planning the garden became an indirect way for the men to feel each other out in their new arrangements. The topic was a pleasant one, full of hope and promise, implying that they were truly making a home, planning for the future. When Paul described the garden, it appeared before Bryce like a mirage, attracting him.

As Paul began to gradually transfer his possessions to Bryce's, a box at a time, many particulars remained undiscussed between them. They had not, for instance, spoken of money. Paul hadn't asked Bryce what his expenses were for the penthouse, and Bryce hadn't offered the information. Paul assumed that Bryce's law practice was lucrative and suspected that he had savings and investments in addition to his earnings. For years Paul had survived as a dancer by spending as little as possible and taking odd jobs when it was necessary. He didn't intend to pay half of Bryce's bills; he was certain that he couldn't afford to. He justified his intentions to himself by thinking of services that he could perform for Bryce, to help earn his keep. Yet these remained private vows, made in his mind, subject to revision, and not a bargain he struck openly with Bryce.

Bryce's disinclination to bring up the subject of money led Paul to believe that Bryce was either too good-mannered to mention it, or else that he was really unconcerned about it. In any case, Paul could think of no better proof of love than generosity, and if Bryce could afford to be generous, Paul was willing to love him.

Paul told himself that, over time, the arrangements would work themselves out, and if they didn't, well, then, he'd leave. As he packed his belongings, he felt no grief at giving up his sublet, only relief that he was coming up in the world. Yet, on the cold February afternoon when a cab let him out on Bryce's corner, with two suitcases stuffed with his clothes and a knapsack over his shoulders, he was suddenly tormented by apprehension. He tried to calm himself. I'm not desperate, I'm not destitute, he reminded himself. In the past I've always been able to find a place to stay at a moment's notice. I'm not making any step that I can't retrace later if I have to.

Under a gunmetal gray sky, the air was raw. As Paul entered his new building, water dripped on top of his head from its high cornice, precipitated there by the morning's rain. He shook his head, and his blond hair flew about his face, scattering drops of rain. Inside the lobby, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror--dressed boldly in a red-and-purple striped sweater-coat, hand-knit in South America, that he'd found in a boutique on East Fifth Street. Underneath the bright coat, he wore black and gray.

He took the elevator up to the roof and set down his suitcases on the landing. He buzzed the door that led outside. Against his back he could feel the bottle of champagne in his knapsack that he'd taken care to procure--his form of insurance. He was about to buzz again when the door opened, and he saw Bryce just outside, leaning on a cane.

Smiling, Paul went outside, tossing his hair back, out of habit. Silently he gazed at Bryce, at his enigmatic smile, which seemed both glad and rueful, at the dark hair blown across his forehead, the bony hollows around his eyes. He waited, willing Bryce to speak.

"Welcome," said Bryce, just as Paul wished. "Welcome to your new home."

"I'm glad to be here," said Paul, and meant it, his doubts instantly dissipated. He felt both bold and tender as he embraced Bryce warmly. The sun came out from a cloud and was immediately dimmed behind another: a sun like a moon, bald white. As Bryce led, Paul followed with his suitcases into the penthouse.

In the living room, Paul looked around in fresh delight at the green velvet couch and the comfortable chairs, the Persian rug, the shelves holding books and a stereo. In the cast-iron stove, a fire was burning. A rich aroma of roasting lamb perfumed the air. Already he felt at home.

"What can I do to help?" he asked.

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll check the kitchen." In a few minutes Bryce was back. "Everything's under control," he announced, looking so pleased that Paul couldn't resist embracing him again.

"I'll do my best to make you happy," he promised impulsively, gazing into Bryce's eyes, his hands on Bryce's shoulders. "You heard it here first." Transported by emotion, Paul blinked back tears.

A smile played on Bryce's lips, a melancholy, private, inner smile. Paul met that smile with his lips, and with his kiss he erased it.

A single kiss, a thousand kisses: over the months, Bryce's house became Paul's also, in all but name. A garden bloomed by Paul's design. He also performed household repairs, assisted in renovations. When an addition was planned and built, it was for a dance studio for Paul. Bryce, normally cautious when it came to money, had made no protest and provided all the outlay for the construction. In a little speech he had explained to Paul that he got as much pleasure from seeing Paul dance as Paul did from dancing. Bryce controlled the finances, but soon that distinction was softened. They opened a joint checking account, and eventually Paul had access to charge accounts and credit cards. Paul deposited all his wages from dance into the account, but he no longer took odd jobs just to get by. Paul's contributions never equalled his share of the expenditures, but if Bryce occasionally thought Paul profligate, he in return was sarcastic, and the one attitude mitigated the other.

Paul believed that Bryce, as well as he, was better off than before in their life together. While admiring Bryce's stoicism, his reason, his sharp wit, he introduced lighthearted, trifling games, exaggerated opinions, a private language. He was, as he knew how to be, affectionate.

Moving in with Bryce, Paul adapted. All of a sudden he revelled in domesticity. He and Bryce drew up guest lists, entertained with gusto, and recorded the occasions with snapshots. They settled into routines and got away with taking the other for granted.

From the penthouse they watched the river and the boats that travelled it, mainly barges and tugboats, sometimes pleasure craft with sails. They gazed up at the sky, at cloud castles billowed so high they made the features of the land appear smaller, even the great palisades that faced them across the river.

It was a view Paul never tired of. Sometimes during their days together that first spring, Paul would look up from his work on the roof garden and see, through the windows of the penthouse, Bryce passing inside. Bryce would appear with cold drinks and a snack that they would consume together companionably, out-of-doors. For Paul, there was a feeling of well-being and contentment in these moments, and even a sense of poignancy, as he perceived himself through Bryce's eyes.

He thought, In the strange territory of the other, man seeks a clue to his most secret self. Bryce's illness was a constant revelation, or, rather, not the disease itself, but the man who suffered it. The intimacy had felt precious to Paul from its outset. Sometimes, when he was with Bryce, he felt superhuman, but sometimes it was Bryce who seemed so. The alternations of greatness that he experienced with Bryce were mysterious and rare. But if life with Bryce was a privilege, it was also a burden.

Still, he had desired Bryce's confidence before he knew what it was, or how it would affect him. And after all, it was Bryce who had opened his home and his heart and taken him in. It wasn't an issue of what Bryce could afford; he had not done so before.

That first spring Paul devoted his free time to making the roof bloom. He worked--so Bryce described it--like a man possessed. He laid down cedar pallets for a deck. He built two raised beds, measuring four feet by eight feet and twenty inches deep. Dozens of heavy bags of soil were delivered to the roof, so many that Bryce thought the co-op board would complain, but no one tried to prevent him.

In the beds Paul planted spring flowers--the wizened bulbs of daffodils and tulips, and bleeding hearts and snapdragons from seed. After they bloomed, he planned to remove the bulbs and plant dahlias and chrysanthemums. He would experiment over time, he decided, with other ornamental plantings. Perhaps he would try his hand with a hardy rosebush in its own planter.

He constructed a third raised bed, at a short distance from the others. This was his kitchen garden: four tomato plants, herbs, greens, and edible green weeds--curly lamb's quarters, purslane, and dandelions. For color he planted black-eyed Susans, mallow, and buttercups.

Paul bought three square wooden planters and filled them with two small pine trees and a Japanese maple with dark red, narrow leaves. He bought pots of juniper with tiny blue berries.

He constructed a fountain of fiberglass, bordered with thin slabs of marble, which he purchased as seconds from an East Harlem stoneyard. He hooked up an electric pump. He and Bryce found a wrought-iron bench in a design of vines and leaves, a glass-topped table, and matching chairs.

He pored over nursery catalogues and gardening manuals. He learned as he went along. He discovered that because the garden was on the roof, it had to be watered every day. He made mistakes and there were surprises, but generally the plants flourished under his care. On a whim he purchased two goldfish, with showy red-orange fins and tails which swirled gracefully as the fish swam in ovals in the fiberglass basin of the fountain. He and Bryce listened by the hour to the pleasant sound of water splashing in the fountain, as they inhaled the junipers' tangy scent.

Paul described to Bryce how next he hoped to train wisteria over a trellis. By his second spring with Bryce, he began to feel that he, too, was the product of his own cultivation or of Bryce's. While their life continued, domestic and quiet, the awareness of habit lay more heavily on him. Nevertheless, as the year blossomed into its longest days, there were times when he felt beautifully happy at home, puttering in the garden, sitting with Bryce on the cast-iron bench by the fountain and listening to the placid tinkling of its waters, watching the late light, slanting and yellow over the river and treetops, cast on the sides of buildings. He basked in contentment. Yet sometimes he found himself slightly holding back, as if cautious of Bryce's fragility, or as if he sensed, like a shadow, Bryce's indifference.

* * *

Summer was a leafy whisper in the deepening foliage. It was mid-June, mid-morning, and Paul was going out to pick up some groceries as he often did, stop at the cleaner's, and maybe browse at the florist's. Just as he opened the door, he called to Bryce from the foyer, "I'm leaving. I'll be back in an hour or two."

From the bedroom Bryce heard the door close. He had been reading over a contract, writing in corrections, but now he laid down his pencil and put the contract back in its folder. He sat for a while, listening to the silence of the empty house. He heard from outside the harsh cawing of a crow, and considered that it might be interested in the garden, but he didn't feel like going out to chase it away. One of his neighbors on the top floor below him was practicing the saxophone, playing the same refrain over and over, like a broken record.

Annoyed, he closed the windows, and then he drew the blinds, shutting out the summer day. He felt himself pause, and he sat on the edge of the bed, all his thoughts leaving him except for one. Deliberately, he took off his clothes and shut the bedroom door. Then he lay down on the bed.

In the beginning, he was sad, finding his need a weakness, and knowing he wouldn't resist. Was this a sin, he wondered, was he ashamed? Or was this just a habit that he picked up in his adolescence, and never lost? He put aside his scruples, his mind unhooked, and he lay emptied in a vast emptiness.

Images of fancy peopled his solitude, and he came apart in it. Idly he stroked the warm, smooth skin over his ribs and in the hollows between them, following the lay of the dark, silky hairs. Only his hands were moving at first. Gradually, he grew intent. Through every parched pore of himself, he felt the concentration of his substance. He was taut, tense with it, all flame in a single flame. It seemed to him that he probed his very life while he grasped this living core. Absorbed in himself, he didn't hear Paul return.

* * *

After leisurely strolling the half-mile to his favorite deli, standing in line to be served, and gathering his purchases, Paul discovered at the check-out that he had forgotten to bring his wallet. Leaving his bags with the cashier, he returned home. As he entered the penthouse, he sensed an unusual quiet.

He called. There was no answer. He walked through the living room and the kitchen and down the corridor. He looked in at the bathroom. All were empty. He noticed the door to the bedroom was closed. At first he hesitated, and then, soundlessly, he opened it.

The blinds were drawn, the room was darkened. Like an anchor, the low bulk of the bed weighted the room. There was a feeling of a dense medium, like being under water. A sparse light had crystallized on the antique mirror. Paul didn't stir from the door. He was aware, first, of the silence, then of a shuttered, low, regular breathing. The spread lay rumpled at the end of the bed. Part of the sheet was flung back over it. He discerned another shape there. He approached; his step was soft.

He stood away, his hands clasped behind his back. It seemed to him the white sheet made an aura around Bryce, and he was the one in shadow. Bryce lay on his side, facing him, but his eyes were closed, his chin tucked into his chest. He lay curled around the source of himself which rose, engorged with blood, from the base of his body. His hand ran over it in a rapid stroke; he broke the silence with a moan.

Discerning Bryce, Paul felt hushed, as if he had walked in a wood and stumbled, unbeknownst, on an enactment of an ancient rite, for he perceived a mystery in Bryce's blind obeisance, his passion, and his power. Paul saw Bryce's features smoothed out, as if he had been asleep. He thought that his lover, so completely absorbed in himself, looked innocent, even pure. His face was as sealed as a dreaming infant's.

Paul felt a questioning dissolve within himself, a dislocation with the ordinary, as if it had turned inside out and showed him its strangeness. He was attracted, but was it by love? he wondered.

He could neither stay, nor leave Bryce. He had to approach, though it seemed, as his hand stretched over the white sheet, as if he encroached on a sacred ground. But the touch was fated; it fell in the soft hollow under Bryce's right shoulder.

Bryce opened his eyes. They were wide and very dark. "I thought you had gone," he said.

"Don't stop," said Paul.

Paul caressed Bryce's side. Bryce watched him. His own hand was still, then moved, then was still again.

"I don't think I can now with you here."

"Why not? It's nothing we haven't done together."

"That's why. We've always done it together. But this time I was alone."

In response, Paul knelt by the low bed, and he was closer. "I don't think the distinction really matters. Don't think of me as a watcher," he said. "Think of me as a participant." He rubbed his cheek against Bryce's thigh and against his hip. He hid his face in Bryce's chest. His lips traced a trail through this hair to the fluffier, springier hair below. He moved Bryce's hand away and put his own mouth there. His clinging lips were smooth and wet. His tongue caught a drop of clear moisture at the tip.

But Paul did not lie down beside Bryce or loosen his own clothes. He waited until Bryce relaxed back into his rhythmic swoon, and then he let go, and with his hand put Bryce's hand back where it had been.

"Don't be afraid," Paul said, "I want you to."

Bryce looked up at Paul crouching just beyond the faint rim of light cast around the bed. Even in that dark, Paul was a fair shape, but indistinct: a light, hovering figure. Then Paul's face came close again, and Bryce felt its clear, very searching look. He shuddered, and drew back. He wondered why Paul had tantalized him with the promise of love, and then had withdrawn it.

Paul leaned towards him again, and laid his cheek against Bryce's chest attentively, seriously, as if he were listening to Bryce's body. He was thinking of how strange it was that this had never happened before in their year and a half of living together. It seemed to him that the discovery was almost involuntary. Before he had opened the bedroom door, he had anticipated what he would find behind it.

He wondered if he ought to feel sorry for Bryce. But pity had not been in his mind when he stood in the doorway and stepped silently into the room.

He moved his mouth to Bryce's ear. "I want to be absorbed in you," he whispered, "Think of me as part of your sensation."

Bryce closed his eyes. He imagined himself being delivered up to Paul as a sacrifice, shamelessly exposed. It was a relief to let go like this, he discovered. He was able to do as Paul wished. Paul's touch fluttered, but only Bryce's was necessary. A vein pulsed at the base of Bryce's groin, but Paul, though his head was up, did not see it. He was gazing at Bryce's face. How long he watched it he could not say: first Bryce looked as when Paul had found him, his expression blank and smooth as if turned inward. Then his face contorted, his jaw clenched, and his lips pulled back, baring his teeth. His forehead wrinkled, and his eyelids were hidden except for the lashes, curled, thick, dark. He seemed entirely oblivious, obedient. Paul felt Bryce's desire for his conclusion as if it had grown within himself. It pained Paul as it thrilled him to see the effort revealed in the grimace on Bryce's face, and to recognize the release, at first just visible and then inevitable, that then gripped Bryce and purged him and left him at peace.

Bryce lay in a lucid calm, his eyes half-closed, Paul's firm weight against him. He looked up and saw, through Paul's woven summer shirt, the swell of his back and the strong, straight column of his spine. The beauty of Paul's body awed him, and, while he loved it, it also made him feel envious and sad.

Very early in their friendship, and as surely as he'd seen Paul's beauty, Bryce had recognized that Paul did not despise him. Bryce was happier in their life together than he had been alone. The knowledge of Paul's presence had been in his every sensation.

He wanted Paul to speak to him, but Paul looked away. Bryce sensed his isolation then, and he thought he could hate Paul for his influence.

Paul did not want to meet Bryce's openness with his own. He had abjured the role of watcher, but, he wondered, what else was he? He felt he ought to console Bryce, and yet he shrank from it.

After he averted his face, he was ashamed of himself, and he turned back when Bryce touched him tentatively, questioningly, on the elbow, as if he had never hesitated at all. He drew up the sheet around Bryce's waist. His ministrations were gentle but abrupt. He left the room and came back bearing two glasses of iced tea, a sugar bowl, and two long spoons. Bryce drank his tea in bed, while Paul sat across from him in a high-backed Shaker chair, rocking and sipping.

Paul found a temporary refuge in domesticity, and before his tea was half-finished, he had set it down and was going around the room, gathering up things and putting them away, opening drawers and dropping things in, placing things on shelves. While Paul was moving about restlessly, Bryce lay calmly back on the pillows, sipped his tea, and watched. To him, Paul's motions seemed like a dream. Interspersed between what was actual, he thought he glimpsed an earlier Paul, a Paul when Paul was new to him, before they had ever lived together. That Paul had not been domestic by any regard.

Chapter Eleven

After his return from Block Island in September, Paul found himself reinstated in solitude. Though he was lonely, he was unwilling to disturb his isolation. The two modern dance companies he was currently appearing with were not yet in rehearsal, and he kept to himself. In the middle of the month he had a vivid dream.

In his dream, it was also night and he was outside on his own rooftop in New York, cleared for once of its usual furnishings and covered with a gleaming, sparkling, crystalline whiteness. Poised standing up in this gleaming substance, for as far as he could see, were well-worn pairs of satin toe shoes. They were of all colors and discolored, frayed, split and restitched by amateur hands. In stillness they balanced, trailing their ribbons over the snow.

And yet it wasn't snow; it wasn't even cold. In an artificial wind provided by a portable fan, it blew into little piles and drifts around the shoes, which began to move. Some of the pairs spiralled around each other and gently toppled, others skidded and sank, or fell right over, or stayed just as they were as the glittering whiteness filled and buried them. The fan accelerated, a gust of the tiny particles flew up and stung Paul in the face. The stuff was gritty, like sand, and just as dry. When he touched his tongue to his lip, however, what he tasted was sweet sugar, not of the ordinary texture but grained superfine.

He stepped back so as to see better: in the swirling eddies of sugar, insubstantial sequins gleamed, diamonds in the air that settled to dust. There was more than one fan, he noted now; like the four winds the gusts came from the corners of the roof, but in this world they differed in that they blew simultaneously, and the shoes spun up and revolved in higher, wilder, more exuberant turns.

First Paul heard the tinkling of small bells; then he looked up and saw them looped and quivering on several strings over his head. They had a gay, crystalline peal, and yet it seemed to him that that silvery sound fractured the night. The sugar was an enshrouding, dazzling mist in which these discarded toe shoes appeared to have come to life.

Opening his eyes, Paul was so startled to see the pallid moonlight stark on the white pillow next to him that he wondered if it had awakened him. He strained to keep the magical atmosphere of his dream, but it was already gone. A performance where I was the only audience, he thought, and he gave it a name, The Toe Shoes' Finale. It seemed to him an absurd, beautiful dream, and he wanted it back, to see how the dance would end. He tossed and turned, but it was no use; he was wide awake. Though the bedroom wasn't cold, he shivered under the sheet, blanket, and spread, and he got up for a second blanket.

On his way to the linen closet, Paul impulsively detoured into the kitchen and selected a nectarine from the wicker basket piled with fruit. He bit into it immediately, without bothering to rinse off the skin. He let the juice trickle under his tongue. The texture was even better than the taste.

It's a bad habit to eat at night; it will spoil my stomach for breakfast, Paul thought, even as he reached for a plum to take back to bed with him. Slowly he began to walk, eating the luscious fruit. He listened to the sounds of the house: random clicks and rustles, he decided, that probably didn't mean anything. From far below he heard the muffled thunder of a night delivery truck rolling over a pothole in the street.

He extracted the nectarine stone from his mouth and tossed it in the air, intending to catch it, but he missed. He heard it hit the wooden floor of the hall and slide away from him. He turned on the light to find it, but it was nowhere in sight. He got down on his hands and knees to look for it, and that was how he discovered Bryce's lost letter next to it on the dusty floor under the bookcase.

He tore open the envelope and read Bryce's plaintive note. It was not dated, but he looked at the postmark and discovered that it had been mailed over two weeks ago. Bryce's request, long overdue, was for a phone call. Glancing at the wall clock, Paul calculated that it was past two in the morning in Mississippi.

It's way too late to phone, he thought, and he realized that he was relieved. I'll call Bryce tomorrow, he told himself without conviction. Deep down he knew that he wouldn't call, and he knew that it was cruel of him. Yet he wasn't ready to explain to Bryce where he'd been. He told himself that he wasn't willing to fabricate a lie. Although he felt guilty for not contacting Bryce while he continued to live at his expense, he dreaded a confrontation. The mournful tone of Bryce's note made him feel ashamed of himself even as he began to make a practice of neglect. What he didn't admit to himself was that he actually was afraid.

He went back to bed with another blanket and lay under its added weight, willing sleep to come. But it would not. He thought of times as a boy when he had lain in bed and felt almost weightless, as if he were suspended above the earth. If he could reach that sensation again, he thought, then perhaps he'd be able to sleep. He lay listening to his own breathing in the darkness, as the moonlight crept from his room.

Another memory came back to him of a summer Sunday when he was five or six. His father had taken him to a nearby lake for a canoe outing--just the two of them. But Paul had gotten sunburned, and, after they had beached and eaten sandwiches at lunchtime, his father had taken the old sheet they had been sitting on, soaked it in lake water, and wrung it out. Then he removed Paul's swimming trunks and wrapped the little boy in the wet sheet like a mummy. Saying he'd be back soon, he had left his son lying on the sand while he paddled out in the canoe again.

Paul recalled lying partly on his back and his side, his arms strapped close to his body under the sheet but with one hand free to hold the binoculars through which he'd seen his father grow smaller and then come back. He remembered the short shape of his father kneeling in the longer shape of the canoe, how he had darkened with distance, and then how the separate features had come clear again. "I never once let you get out of my sight," he had boasted as his father unwound him. Unlike his son, Paul's father tanned. In the evening Paul's skin was pink but hardly painful.

"An Indian cure," his father had proclaimed predictably. He ascribed most home remedies to indigenous practice, as if this honored them. It was one of his jokes, like that of finding arrowheads in common chips of stone. "We'll go out again sometime when you're used to the sun," his dad had said, patting Paul on the back for being a good sport and so agreeably lingering to let his father have his fun. Paul could not have explained that he liked watching his father in the private, magnified ring of the binoculars more than he had liked paddling with him, that he'd even enjoyed his own immobility and the coolness of the sheet between his bare skin and the warm sand. But when two older, already bronzed boys had happened by and laughed at him, he'd felt ashamed. He realized how silly he must look to them.

As an innocent, he had let other people's opinions influence his; later he didn't care. For Paul, as he eventually came to see it, was probably born aberrant. Early on, he understood that other people didn't get the thrills he did from the same things, and he knew enough not to try to make them understand him if he wanted his peace of mind and his pleasure, too. He altered his activities with his age and discovered equivalent delights, even intenser ones. He had even modified his mummy memory for a dance once, when he'd played the part of a prince put under a spell. Immobility was a requirement of the performance, and so he had remembered the time his father imprisoned him naked in a sheet on the beach.

In retrospect it was terrible that he'd lain there, almost a dummy except for his hand and his curious gaze gratified by the binoculars, waiting for his father to come and unwind him. It was terrible to be at the mercy of anyone, terrible to be a helpless child helped by an adult. And yet, with his eyes magnified and trained on the man in the canoe, the child Paul had felt privy to his father's most secret wishes, his unsaid, unfledged hopes, to whatever made the man go out by himself and come back for his son. Something was shared through separation, even if Paul couldn't confirm what it was or put it into words.

Over the years that image of his father which he had so diligently kept in focus increased in importance for Paul until it even seemed to him to stand for something. He thought his father probably wouldn't remember the incident, one of many summer Sundays. With the passing of time the event became wholly his, with the glass trained on the child as well as the adult, in anticipation of that moment of surprise when Paul had looked at that lank, dark hair waving in a lake breeze across the canoeist's forehead and had seen in an instant, as if it were a vision, his father grown unfamiliar, with the still young, almost beautiful face of a total stranger.

Now Paul mused, In frailty are born our greatest moments. The world didn't often approve of him, he thought, yet it liked to watch him. When he had danced the solo that followed the prince's release from his spell, he had almost been taken in by the fantasy. In front of a painted backdrop, he had leapt across space while the hot lights shone on him, and in his mind they might have been the sun.

Sometimes his body felt like a costume which, while gorgeous indeed, pinned him so close he couldn't peel it back to see his other skin. "It's a difficult and beautiful puzzle: in the body, around the body, and between two bodies"--as he lay in bed, Paul recalled this quote from a dance program. It implied for him all he could muster of a sensitivity to touch, balance, momentum, and center of gravity. He strove for a personal dynamics that would be fluid and not formless, that would urge the creation of shapes on those who watched even as it diverted them. For Paul was a witness of himself, though he could never act as his own audience. Sometimes, when his reward for it all seemed no more than an utter, bone-prostrating exhaustion and he felt he was a sacrifice offered up on the stage, he surprised himself by discovering even in that final state some useful resource.

For he'd had other evenings onstage also, when even from the wings he'd sensed excitement, expectation stirring in the audience and thought, They are feeling this for me, they are waiting for me to arrive. And Paul experienced an authentic awe, a happy reverence that he had inspired this thing which was greater than himself. When his cue came, he'd scarcely dared to look out in the darkness. "I danced my damnedest not to disappoint them," he had said later with the modesty allowed those who succeed; for Paul had had a share of triumph on the stage, though it hadn't made him rich as yet.

Leaving a theater after a performance, he would stand for a moment on the sidewalk, inhaling the atmosphere of the late, still active night, as if he were assuring himself of where and what he was. So full was he of the emotion he'd enacted that it sometimes seemed that he didn't so much walk as glide, and he would be all the way down the street before he knew it.

If the love Paul bore his audience was for his own image reflected in their eyes, would he be damned for that? So much in the world enchanted him, persuaded him to meet it, hold it, merge with it, be it. Yet now, as he lay sleepless in bed, he realized that he had come back to himself.

Towards dawn he drifted off, and he dozed through the morning. In the afternoon he shut himself away in the studio that Bryce had had built for him. For dance to emerge, the body must be patient, he thought. As he bent to the barre and began his warm-up exercises, he felt his thoughts draining away.

There he was in the looking glass; he was all the life there was in the room, and he more than made up for it. He couldn't take his eyes off himself. The mirror was at once Paul's muse and his malediction. He wondered if he was cursed to dance his best for his reflection. In the dusty room Paul saw himself move in the mirror and it seemed his body was speaking to him. He felt a tenderness for himself that was so terrible it was like an affliction. It seemed it would undo him, yet he danced and danced until he felt in this concert of movement, with the recorded music swelling in him like breath, an infusion of new energy.

It was as miraculous as an angelic aura, and it seemed as if it were what he was made for. When he was dancing like this with the flow of energy effortless through him, he felt as if he could go on forever and go farther, as if he were as elemental as weather. In the midst of a movement, he felt the power in his own presence with a fine intensity even as he found in his own reflection something to yearn for.

Transfixed in his transformations, Paul in his euphoria felt the mantle of immortality. This blessing, however brief, was his most magnificent encouragement. He danced not so much with a single mind as with a dissolved one. The rapture swelled in him, and he felt powerless before his own strength. Afterwards his body ached.

Ballet was in his background, but it was not his forte. The classical line and the grand companies' hierarchies were restraints too binding for his personality. He carried himself through off-balanced positions as happily as through the traditional ones. The repertoires of the two companies he was currently appearing with were in the classical-modern tradition, but their styles were quite distinct. Adapting to each was an enjoyable challenge. It was his nature not to resist an influence, but he wondered which of these days might bring such a singular, arresting event that it changed his life for good.

That possibility chilled him as it attracted him. It was as if he were gradually readying himself, but he didn't know what for. It happened first in ways he couldn't fathom although he bore witness to the effects. His equilibrium was being disturbed; he felt the pull without knowing what was behind it.

* * *

On a beautiful blue Sunday a week later, Paul stood on his roof. The trees below in the park were barely tinged with autumn color. Holding binoculars over eyes shadowed by sleeplessness, he watched migrating geese follow the Hudson south to the sea. He wondered if they kept to the coastline afterwards. The distant dark V's of their flight impressed him as a pattern conveying loss.

It was as if something were streaming out of him and gone with the birds across the sky. The realization of the loss made him feel paradoxically full; he was brimming with sorrow. A dormant fear was touched awake in him by the fleeing, beating wings, a fear that had always been there, despite the colored spotlights and the sensuous music, of emptiness, of darkness, of inevitable loneliness. He had assumed he could remain indifferent to virtues he hadn't possessed because of those he had, but this practice, over so long a period, had flawed his self-knowledge and made a stain where a light should be.

While he had danced in the public gaze, secret shadows had met in him and formed dark crossings. Uncertainty was plaguing him. Under the high light of day, he felt threatened by something he couldn't even put his finger on, but only knew it was internal. Had it been otherwise, had he known what haunted him, Paul would not have spent his September on the edges of dreams, or in lonely physical disciplines and the vagrancies of his mind.

From childhood on he had been aware that others disapproved of his nonconformities, but he felt fortunate in that no one had ever really tried to hold him back. Someone, perhaps, might have been able to once, but not any longer. Now what hurt Paul and made him feel unable came from within himself.

The geese had gone. Paul laid Bryce's binoculars down on the glass-topped table. He felt remote from himself. He wondered if he no longer had qualms about the use he was making of Bryce's possessions or his money. Perhaps his advantages had become a habit too hard to break, even while he didn't want to have to answer for them.

First he was to feel, then he knew, that a cost was extracted from him all the same.

The pump was working in the fountain, and spurts of water were jetting up, curving over. The splashing made a pleasant sound, and Paul moved closer. The sun glistened on the pool's altering surface; the small fish swimming underneath glittered like gold flags. Although in the sky a migration had passed like a warning shadow, the sun was still high and warm, and the air as soft as the distant, rounded, feathery clouds. From high up on the roof, Paul felt the billowing air while the fountain's gentle fall soothed his ears. He should have been content with his accustomed comfort and the perfect weather, but he was not.

He switched off the fountain pump, took the binoculars into the house, locked the front and back doors and the door to his private landing, rode down in the elevator, and stepped through the dim lobby onto the sunny sidewalk. Just as he paused by the curb, he saw a pigeon several stories aloft swoop and veer straight into the darkness of an open window on the third floor of a rowhouse across the street, and the ease of its passage shocked him as he pictured it startled in the strange interior.

Paul did not wait to see if the bird flew out. He walked south on Broadway, looking in store windows. Some doors were closed and others were open. He thought of the transience of shops, how they changed overnight when the lease ran out, and one forgot what they had sold before. The sun went behind a cloud and came out from it, and he saw, in the renewed light, the glitter of the gold chain at his throat in his passing reflection in plate glass superimposed on the dark lustre of the furs displayed behind it.

The thick, silken opulence and the precious glint against it wrenched him, though he kept on walking. Now he felt, in the midst of an ordinary walk, a wholly new movement, reflection turning inward. It was as if all his recognitions of himself were preliminary to his perception of the fact that he now wished, for his own revelation, to cast the reflection within himself.

He followed Broadway as one might follow a river at its banks, meandering. He was unencumbered, strolling at his ease in a gray cotton jumpsuit that had more buttons than zippers and an assortment of pockets which divided keys, cash, credit cards, sunglasses, and a comb. He put on the sunglasses; he looked under awnings and peered into stores. He saw a hand reach for a perfume in a display and a woman lift her wrist to be sprayed. Movie marquees were dull by day; none of the titles interested him. Obstructing the way in front of a building under construction was a red crane, its arm frozen in mid-air over the weekend till Monday. Several blocks down, an abandoned building stood waiting for the verdict of renovation or demolition. As he passed, he saw, within the darkness through a gap where a door should have been, a flash like the blade of a knife in a man's fist and a dark figure moving behind it.

Paul smelled the cool breath coming from the concrete and from the earth itself, when what was buried is exposed. Though he kept walking, he still felt vaguely oppressed. He looked above the noisy traffic on the streets and the tall buildings at the placid azure of the upper atmosphere. In spite of its serenity, he felt an uneasy presentiment, as if a change had already occurred to which he might never be reconciled.

Passing a store with an awning the color of his jumpsuit, he paused to admire a fluted vase in the window, and in that suspension he sensed, with a growing intensity, the salesman's glance from behind the counter inside fix on him. He pressed the bell, and the salesman, out of his sight for a moment, buzzed the door, freeing the lock.

Paul kept his sunglasses on when he entered. On one knee, he knelt before a cabinet, examining the porcelain figures behind its glass doors. As if by a breeze, he felt the crown of his head ever so lightly brushed from above. He did not immediately stand up, but he felt the tinge to his whole self from that touch. Yet he did not tremble, did not stir, still appeared impervious.

From his low stance, Paul saw the salesman's thighs behind the glass move away from him. He stood up; he was not incurious, but reticent. He fingered scarves knotted by their ends to a plastic tree, paisleys, solids, stripes, all silk. He was not the only customer at the counter. He walked to the back of the store. On a shelf, a voluted seashell, pink, with light and dark bands, rested on a silver stand. He picked it up and put it to his ear, closing his eyes. The sound enlarged in his consciousness, more persistent if fainter than an echo, and he felt as alone with it as if it were the sound of eternity itself.

He put back the shell and turned around. He saw the salesman at the counter folding for a customer one of the scarves that Paul had touched. It was red and blue with silk fringes. The salesman put it in a white cardboard box, inside tissue paper. Then he closed the box with gold seals and gave it to the waiting customer, but his hands were moving mechanically, for his eyes had returned to Paul.

Aware of Paul's attention even behind his sunglasses, the man jerked his chin forward as if he were indicating a direction they might go together. His eyes blazed suddenly with the challenge.

Paul shook his head. He experienced a disinclination, even resistance, and yet at the same time felt a longing so strongly inside him it hollowed him out.

The customer had left. Standing alone, the salesman took Paul's refusal with the same quick ease with which he'd picked him out on the street. Paul had to approach him on the way to the door. "Is there nothing here you want?" he asked Paul.

"Not today," said Paul.

The man cocked his head a second time. "Well, come back."

When Paul didn't answer, the man shrugged. He was not in the least upset; it was not attraction he disclaimed, but need. "Have it your way," he said without rancor.

Paul was accustomed to believe he always had had his own way, but once on the street again, the salesman's words repeated in his mind, teasing him. At the corner, outside a florist shop, a boy watered bunches of pompoms, stattice, irises, and chrysanthemums. The sprinkles from the can were steel needles in the sunlight. Paul waited to cross the street; an ancient, lumbering truck rumbled through the intersection, trailing a heavy black plume of acrid smoke.

He was hungry, he realized. There was a café he knew that was close by, with watercolors on the walls and pale, formica-topped tables. The door swung easily at the touch of his hand, and he went in.

Removing his sunglasses, he ordered tea and scones. The tea came in a pot, brewed with loose leaves. The café was full of people on Sunday afternoon, and conversations merged around him. He glanced up to see the man from the store framed in the sunlight-flooded doorway. Across the crowded tables, Paul observed him ordering a selection of pastries to be laid in a box and tied up with the thinnest red and white string. He hadn't noticed Paul.

Paul put his head in his hands as if to shield himself, and, just then, he saw an image of Bryce in his mind. Bryce was lying in bed, his face pale, his expression beseeching, but just as Paul mentally reached out to touch him, the image dissolved, before he could complete the touch. He tried to will the image back, but he couldn't. To wish for a touch is all but to feel it, and the wish that began with a sense of lack at once so vague and searing left an ache in him.

Raising his head in the light, lively room, he thought that he could not have borne anyone's scrutiny now. As he departed, he felt the pinpricks of tears start in his eyes. He realized he was suffering. In part it was from a fear of himself if left too long to his own devices, and in part from a fear, too, that the images which he projected of himself might come to mean too much, if not to himself, then to those who received them. It occurred to Paul that his light might be borrowed, like the moon's, and might one day go, or have to be given back.

The tears burned in his eyes, and then subsided. He turned on a side street, crossed, went down another, and spied, from the center of the block, a handsome-looking cluster of people near the end of it.

Approaching, he observed a wedding party arranged and posed for their portrait on the steps of a church. The men wore tuxedos, the bridesmaids pastel pink. Paul could hear their Caribbean accents when they spoke. Broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, of medium height, the groom held hands with his bride. Their forearms touched at wrist and elbow. Paul admired the bride in her white, lacy dress. Her veil was lifted back over her dark hair, like foam on a wave, filmy and light. It was as if she were assimilated by her dress, before she took it off forever. Mindful of the photographer's flash, she posed sweetly, easily pleasing, her bridesmaids at her side. At her feet, in a white dress with a thin pink sash, stood the little flower girl holding her basket.

The photographer pressed the shutter release and stepped back. He waved his arm, "That's all. T'ank you very much." His speech swayed like a song, as theirs all did. Released from obligation, the bride and groom kissed, their lips briefly, chastely, in contact, as the attendants smiled. The flower girl wandered apart from them, murmuring to herself.

The adults were talking, and Paul couldn't hear what the child was saying, but he watched her dreamily lifting the flowers inside the basket that was looped on her wrist. She released a swirl of pink and white; the blossoms landed so lightly on the pavement that Paul thought only she and he had noticed them.

She watched them settle, and then she stooped to gather them up, as the drivers were coming around with the cars. A woman called to her, "Clarisse!" Paul bent good-naturedly to help the child, and, for a moment, their faces were close--the tall man and the tiny girl--but she was going. She laid a finger over her lips as if swearing him to a secret. Just as she ran off, she pointed to the open side door of the church.

Three limousines, black and shiny, waited to convey the party. Paul watched the people making a to-do, getting into the big, fine cars, and driving away, one car behind another, in procession. Then he collected from the sidewalk a few blossoms the little girl had left, and entered the church.

From outside the open doorway appeared black. Inside, he stood under a dome, in dim light. In the air, shafts of light were suspended, slanting, cast from a high panel of stained-glass windows, tilted open at a hinge across their centers. Below them, glowing and obscure, were longer, closed windows depicting gospel scenes. He gazed about him, at the altar and the folding chairs before it arranged in rows for the wedding guests, and noticed a door opposite the one he had come through.

It led him to a cloister surrounding a garden divided by gravel paths into four plots. At the center of the garden was a fountain. In the opposite wall was another low door, partially ajar. The garden was overgrown, with grass coming up between the pansies and mignonette and with Queen Anne's lace twisted in the asters. The place was not only unworldly, but unearthly, impregnated by a green light as if it existed out of time.

The light reminded him of Block Island, and he felt suddenly transported there, to his memories and his feelings for Althea and for Jeanne, and to the effects of that time that were still developing in him three weeks later.

He had not felt overwhelmed then; did he now? If it was not love that moved him, he wondered, then what caused his confusion, the aching sadness that circulated in him right to his fingertips?

He had been satiated, and yet his satisfaction was incomplete. It was the eternal mystery--union and separation--that he sought to explore if never to resolve. In assuaging longing, he only increased it. He thought, The lesson of so many fairytales lies simply in this: the unbearableness of a wish made reality.

He stood in a garden cloister, imbued with its green light that was bringing the island back to him so vividly. The memory of his fervent caresses and of the closeness of the two women made him feel afraid in the core of his heart. He wondered if pain was a nimbus around a kernel of pleasure, or if the inroads of pleasure led eventually to pain. But then, when he had made love to them, the sweetness had been so great that, even had he known that this fear would follow, he would not have cared.

He thought, To experience desire anew, one must first forget it. What his mind revived he felt again in all the nerves of his body, but with a great difference, for an experience that began in the mind ended there, and nothing was obliterated. Its intensity made him realize that absence had not ended his involvement. Perhaps it was unavoidable that the consequence of what had happened already was injury, but if Paul was dangerous, he was not wicked, and he wanted to avoid further damage, particularly to himself. By the cultivation of a finer nature, he meant one not more moral but more finely attuned. He endeavored to sense before he acted, not through sensation, though he expressed himself through his body, but through instinct.

Now he was able to comprehend what he hadn't before: how, for curious example, he had imagined he felt the seal of Bryce's lips on him as he lay between Althea and Jeanne. Those lips were affixed to his, and his sharpest, sweetest pang had been for the man his caresses were betraying. It was to this configuration that Paul came back and knew his own place at the heart of it. The sadness he felt was more profound than guilt; it was a grief without reparation.

No breeze stirred the flowers at his feet. The slender branches of a willow tree hung straight as fishing lines sunk in the air. The stillness was like the intake of a breath; Paul felt an anticipation rise in him like sap, and so he didn't even jump when he heard the shrill squawk behind him.

There were two shrieks, short and long, uttered in succession. Curious, he turned to gaze into the dark beady eye of a large bird. Of course he could not mistake a peacock. It had walked, not flown, through the door opposite the one leading to the sanctuary, and then had screamed as if this cloistered garden were the forest it meant to warn.

The peacock's step was both stealthy and unsteady. As it approached, Paul saw that its train was mostly molted, with only a few quills remaining at the center. Their long, disintegrated barbs of metallic green and bronze made a straggly appearance in so small a quantity. The peacock did not repeat its call, but continued around the fountain. The short, silky feathers of its back shone for an instant, light-green as a spring leaf. It retraced its walk up the gravel. Paul casually followed. The peacock waddled through the partly open door from which it had entered the cloister, the wispy remnants of its train dragging carelessly on the ground. Paul pushed the door further open and watched the peacock's progress around the fenced-in yard at the side and back of the church. The sun had left the grass to shade, but the day was still bright, the September sky brilliantly blue under which the peacock walked, its breast yet bluer.

Paul turned back to the cloister and the fountain. Slender willow leaves floated on its surface, a bright contrast. It seemed to him that he was like that peacock, its train molted, its beauty diminished. The idea pleased him. He imagined the peacock's rejuvenation in the spring, as if it might stand as a symbol for him of his own renewal.

He pictured the garden cloister on a mild, windy-to-rainy day in mid-March, its grass only faintly tinged with green, its paths damp, its earth soggy. In his vision, the peacock is standing with its back to him. All the feathers of its train have grown back and are standing up erect in a great semi-circle, supported by its stiff brown tail feathers. From the back, the peacock is dull; it turns, and is brilliant. Behind its bright blue body, the spreading fan of its train is iridescent green and bronze. Upraised, the short feathers over its back create a shining, golden-green border for the head it exhibits in profile, as befits a king.

In Paul's fantasy, the peacock pauses, then suddenly rushes forward. With a shiver of its entire body, it rustles the hundred quills of its train. A music comes forth, beginning like wind in trees and growing more penetrating, like the patter of rain on dry leaves. At the margins of the train the quivering is greatest, a fleeting shimmer of the deep blue ocelli ringed by gold.

It was a beautiful vision: the peacock renewed, triumphant. Paul realized he was trembling. He sensed himself on the edge of some revelation, but what? The peacock's dance was like his own culmination. He imagined it, he felt it--the radiance he strove to create each time he went onstage.

It was tragic, he thought, that his radiance would neither endure nor sustain him. He danced, and the dance disappeared. He believed that dancing freed him even while he knew that it enslaved him. His submission, his willingness to be other, to express, to act as instrument was a desire for a self-transcendence which he could not humanly sustain. He thought of how the supreme triumph of the self is its own effacement, and in its ability to be what it is not lies its greatest power. He grieved for that perfection which he might glimpse, but could not attain.

Yet, in fact, he realized, he was glad. He didn't want to lose himself entirely, he didn't wish to cease to be unique. He thought of how his feeling for dance was like his feeling for love, that in both he sought a transcendence which eluded him. Instead of making him free, desire released him to a deeper enslavement. Perhaps all the monks in cloisters were right, he considered. Perhaps there are other existences to which this one is but slavery, a realm of perfection separated from earth by an unbreachable chaos.

He thought of how, for hundreds of years, men have joined religious orders, renouncing the world to seek solace in cloisters. When he tried to summon up such a belief, he failed. It was like a foreign language that he knew he'd never be able to learn. He had no feeling for a religion that denied his body to save his soul. Soul--I'm not sure what that means, he thought. The spark of life? And what after death?

He shrugged, gladly giving up the inquiry. He heard bells naming the hour: four--no, five o'clock. Time had passed, and he had lost track of it. He considered how, since his return to New York, he had been reluctant to call, write, see anyone, reluctant to abandon his solitude even though it was sorrowful. But he wasn't renouncing anything. Not in the least. It was more as if he had gone into hiding. He had passed whole days in apathy. He'd assumed he was protecting himself.

But from what? He had been afraid--now he admitted it. He had dreaded that they would all descend on him--Bryce, Althea, and Jeanne--each demanding, pleading for a part of him. Between them, he had imagined, they would tear him to pieces.

Well, he thought, he ought to feel foolish now. It appeared that he had invented this danger. Since his return three weeks ago, only Bryce, with his plaintive, posted wish, had tried to contact him. And he had ignored it.

What did this mean? He should be relieved, perhaps even disappointed. Probably he had exaggerated his own importance. He was quite aware of how vain he was. But whatever he meant to them--any one of them, but particularly Bryce--he saw that he would not be forced to do anything. He realized that he might not even be approached.

Maybe he had deceived himself all along, and it was his own feelings--not theirs--that had made him afraid. He understood he had been punishing himself, not with remorse, but with unexamined dread.

By denying it, he'd grown numb, and that was almost worse. Now he believed that his vision of the peacock was a good sign. Why else, he thought, did he feel more alive than he had in weeks, and happy, even unreasonably happy? Just as a season had passed and another was coming to take its place, so, too, was his fear passing, like a season.

Chapter Twelve

On the way back from Block Island, Jeanne had felt more glad about what had happened there than guilty, but as the days passed and Althea still didn't call her, she began to grow apprehensive. The pages in her engagement book were scribbled with reminders of September appointments, but that wasn't why she herself didn't arrange to meet with Althea.

Was a double desire a jinx for Jeanne? One was less licit than the other, but both beckoned her. Take Paul away, put the long friendship to the other side, and what was left? She could not discount an early awe of Althea who, while certainly not an angel, was still a shade unearthly. It wasn't just because she was taller than Jeanne that Althea seemed to her friend to go around with her head in the clouds. And yet, Jeanne's plunge towards the depths of Althea had not been very great.

What she had sought in Althea was emphatically not herself, though it was like her. Her feelings also included the conviction of having committed a sacrilege on her friend. That she had been afraid had made her tremble and, trembling, she wanted to go on. Yet she had gone farther with Paul than with Althea. Her solitude in September was founded on these two separations.

* * *

On an early evening at the onset of October, Jeanne found herself working late and all alone at her office. The season hadn't started. Before she left, she entered the empty theater on a whim and flicked on the lights. The theater was smallish and old, and the stage traditional, with a proscenium, wings, and a shallow pit in front. The chairs were covered in a worn aqua velvet, their shabby gentility repeated in the speckled gilt of the armrests and seat backs. Jeanne wandered dreamily down the aisle.

Suddenly she sensed that she was not alone. It was hard to say how she first felt it, not as close as a breath on the back of her neck; and yet those tiny hairs still tingled, as if charges in the atmosphere were being disturbed.

"Jeanne."

Before she saw him, she recognized his voice. "Where are you?" she called.

"Find me."

She heard him laugh, and trembled. She had forgotten that he was as at home in a theater as she. "Paul." Her tone held reproach, not quite teasing. She scanned the rows of empty seats, her nerves racing. She wasn't pleased at his invasion of what, at that moment, was her private sanctum, but when she saw his bright head lifted from the shadows where he had been hiding, in a center row, she felt, in spite of herself, a kind of wonder. He showed her his back and, silent as an idol, waited for her to come around to face him.

When she did, she saw that he was lounging comfortably, with a pleased smile spread over his face, as if this theater were his space, rather than hers. She thought she ought to be annoyed, yet felt glad. "How did you get in?"

"I was passing by, found myself in front of the theater, and thought I'd try to see you. The door was open, no one was there, and I just walked in and ended up in here."

"That's odd," said Jeanne. "The door shouldn't be left unlocked. I'll have to check on that. Why didn't you come find me?"

"But, you see, I didn't need to."

She didn't answer him at once. In spite of herself, she wondered if he could be right, and somehow it had been fated that she'd find him. He seemed so sure of it. He reached out his arms to her, and she hesitated. Then, lightly, she touched her hands to his, fingertips to fingertips. She felt the sympathy between them, their very breaths in synchronization.

When he asked her to come closer, she obeyed. He drew her down into his lap, and kissed her, and she forgot to be affronted, or upset. He slid up the armrests between the seats.

"Really, aren't you frightened?" she asked him.

"Why should I be? Aren't we alone?"

"We should be. Come with me. I want to make sure the doors are locked. Otherwise, I'll keep thinking about it." They rose up together. She found her keys in the pocket of her skirt, and jingled them authoritatively in her hand. At the door she said, "You know, we could go over to my place."

"No." His voice was low, his arm tightened around her. "I want to make love to you in the empty theater."

Once again she sensed he was making her an accomplice in his fantasy. It was his gift--or his power--to make her aware of a recklessness in her that she almost hadn't realized she possessed and to inspire her to act on it. She saw that he was serious, and she felt protective of him, unwilling to disappoint him. She turned off all but the "Exit" lights. Taking her by the hand, he guided her behind the stage, and onto it. They sat side by side, close, their legs dangling over the edge into the pit, gazing out to the rows of darkness.

"Is this what it's like for you when you face an audience?" she asked. "Are you imagining that the seats are full?"

She could feel his smile, kinder now. "Not at this very moment, no. Why, is that what you were thinking?"

"I was trying to see it through your eyes."

She turned to him as she spoke. His face appeared smooth, its angles softened. He touched her hair so lightly it almost seemed he was touching an aura around her head, and she grew very still.

They made love with their clothes on, lying on the stage floor. Afterwards she found herself looking up into the recesses of the ceiling, trying to make out in the semi-darkness the tangle of stage lights, the track for the curtain. He lay beside her, watching her. She was grateful for his attention, for the empty theater suddenly seemed a lonesome and melancholy place.

She sat up quickly, rearranging her clothes. She felt grimy. But he lay still, peaceful, in no hurry. She knelt beside him, her hair falling into her face

"You know, I haven't seen Althea since we got back from Block Island, or even talked to her," she heard herself telling him.

"I haven't either," he admitted to her surprise. In the next breath he asked her if she'd see him again, provided, of course, that they both kept it quiet.

Paul was proposing a new orientation--would she give up coincidence for a plan? Leaning over him so that it seemed to her that she was the one in heaven and he below, she realized that she'd go where he wanted her to and she wouldn't tell Althea. She had seen, in some over-forties women recently left by their husbands after an average of twenty years of marriage, a daze, as if they were just waking up, but weren't sure to what. She didn't want to be caught out like that. She had no guarantee of the future, but she vowed she'd try hard not to deceive herself as to Paul's designs or her desire. If he were flighty, then she'd fly with him, but she wouldn't try to feather his nest. She was partial to him, but she could also part easily.

"We could allow ourselves a little more luxury next time," she said, rubbing her side as she stood up. In essence she was agreeing to his conditions. It was his idea to make a getaway on the coming Columbus Day weekend to a country inn he knew of (she didn't ask how) in northwestern Connecticut. She found herself assenting, even though--she told him--she didn't have Monday off and would have to return on Sunday. She offered to drive them in her car, and he accepted.

A soreness in her right hip from making love on a wooden floor troubled Jeanne with twinges for two days. If she had second thoughts about going with Paul, she overrode them in the end. She picked him up on the morning of Saturday the eleventh on a corner of Broadway.

The traffic was moderate out of the city, but they hadn't counted on the inconvenience of engine trouble that suddenly began in lower Connecticut. The motor jerked and jumped when Jeanne tried to speed up, and the problem persisted. She had to buy gas anyway, so after the sign for the next service area, she exited.

She could identify the parts under the hood of her Japanese car, but she didn't know how to proceed after that, and if Paul was mechanically minded, he wasn't showing it. The gas station mechanic told her that the problem was when the sparks were firing. "The timing's off," he said, peering through the windshield at Paul as he lowered the hood. Even as he spoke to her, Jeanne saw in the mechanic's look at her front-seat passenger a frank curiosity, which she distracted with a question. Yes, if she drove slowly, she could let it go, but not for long.

Unwilling to throw a wrench into their plans, Jeanne proposed that they continue to the inn, take it easy with the driving, and on the way back she'd drop the car off at the Greenwich garage her parents used, and take the train into the city.

As she re-entered the highway, the cars came up quickly in her rear-view mirror. When Paul laid a hand on her knee, she shook her head; a fear had a finger on her, too. She imagined automobile accidents, and then, by an effort of will, she put such thoughts out of her mind. On a day so faultlessly blue, she wouldn't let herself give in to morbid musings. The scenery was all she could wish for as the roads became more rural, and the way was white gravel for a quarter-mile up to the River's End Inn.

Their dormer room had printed wallpaper peeling a little on the low-curved walls. "Don't bump your head," Jeanne warned. There was a walk-in closet and a four-poster covered with a quilt. Paul surprised Jeanne by recognizing its wedding-ring pattern. "This must be the honeymoon suite," he said. Best of all, in an alcove flanked by two wooden benches built into the walls, was a fireplace with a neat pile of yellow birch next to the hearth.

A picture of horses in the brochure had caught Paul's eye, and he had included a request with his reservation. The stable was adjacent, the two horses waiting to be groomed by their own hands. The dust from her white mare's hide sprinkled Jeanne's arm. The work was part of the rental and so, apparently, was the guide, a laconic man who looked little at Paul and less at Jeanne as they rode around the ring to prove they were able. He said he'd take them on the trail if they would sign a waiver that said in the event of accident the stable wasn't liable.

The gold and purple glow outside the wide stable door was beguiling. The three went out together and, their horses walking, headed towards the river which, despite the name of their hotel, was just passing through. "No one steps twice in the same river," Paul quoted, riding up beside Jeanne.

"And the one who steps in is also a river," Jeanne added gravely, but nobody tried it, not in October.

From the riverbank they went out to a road and then turned off. Vines threaded the clumps of brush and shrubs on both sides of the trail up the hillside. Jeanne enjoyed the sensation of a horse mediating between herself and the uneven earth. Through steps she wasn't taking, she felt loose stones giving way. They arrived at a high, lush field open to the sky. The shining grass looked wet but wasn't; berries burned in the brush like seeds of fire, and already a violet chill hung half-visible in the golden air, like a gauzy net in advance of the pitch-black curtain of eventual night.

Jeanne stopped to let her horse munch morsels of the meadow. The man from the stable was still behind her, while Paul cantered ahead, his horse's hooves flattening the grasses. Briefly she closed her eyes. Otherwise she might have noticed the laggard horse and rider too near. The other horse must have nipped hers, for her horse bucked. It happened so quickly that, before she understood what the other horse had done, Jeanne had lost her balance. She felt her fingers slipping down the reins, her hip slide against the horse's front flank. Even she was surprised at how lightly she landed. From the ground she looked up. Still mounted on his horse, the guide was looking down at her. She detected his shame when he asked her if she were okay, and she was more jovial than she felt. She climbed right back into the saddle, catching the stirrups without his help, for she was embarrassed, although the guide was the one who had erred, in coming up from behind.

And Paul, who'd gone ahead? He'd gotten wind of the situation--how, she didn't see, for to herself her drop onto the grass had been virtually silent--and he came wheeling back on his steed like a knight (so he'd like to think, she thought). But he was too late, for she was astride her horse before he was beside her.

Jeanne didn't count it against him that he wasn't there to rescue her. Still, she conceded to herself, she wouldn't have liked it had he found her mishap amusing. But he was concerned, and, in the stable ring when he gently helped her to dismount, he held onto her waist longer than he needed to.

On the way back from the stable, they wandered down to the river. The water level was low at this time of year. As the sky darkened, the river surface looked lighter. Like an uneven mirror, Jeanne thought. Would she and Paul make a habit of days like this? They were hardly into autumn, and then there was the winter. What would they do then, cross-country ski? They weren't intentionally touching as they turned along the river, but his arm brushed hers, and, very naturally, he took her hand. They'd left the subway far behind them, but did Block Island also seem so long ago?

Jeanne left for the inn ahead of Paul but before she reached the portico, she turned to watch him, a figure in a landscape, shying stones. They were still just rendezvousing strangers. She didn't want him to find out all about her. No, she wouldn't perish for Paul. It wasn't a dying love she'd driven up here for; the dancer had a tempting touch for pastoral interludes and urban intrigues. Inspired by his plan of private conspiracy, she had let him spirit her away to this arcadian realm.

Over a dinner of lamb with mint sauce and buttered peas, they barely spoke. Later, in their room, Jeanne kept her eyes on Paul as he piled a private pyre on the grate so deliberately it seemed he meant to provoke her. He lit the match first to a wad of paper stacked round by shavings. Tinder, kindling, fuel: by the set progression, the licking tongues of the fire gained ascendancy. One end of a sapling log caught before the other. Flames arrowed noiselessly from it.

"It'll go soon," said Paul, standing back.

She was curled on the bench, with a shawl over her shoulders. Her fingers were looped around her bent knee. Belatedly, she acknowledged an ache in her side from her fall, and Paul touched those fingertips a shade less hesitantly than he had in the empty row of the theater.

Her hand was in his, and then he stroked her whole arm, but Paul's ardor wasn't over-avid. He tested the tensenesses in Jeanne, and the influences of a tender trust on the surface of her tautness foretold more immense yieldings. They made love on the floor with the fire's flicker in their faces. The firelight had a rosier hue than the early morning sunlight that had lain over their first union without Althea. But Jeanne's skin, while never too tan, was whiter in October and nearly translucent where the bluish ropes of her veins shone through. She had the knack of looking fragile. Was this what Paul, whose slenderness was all strength, finally found himself feeling for--to make that pulse beat wild until it broke?

The wedding ring quilt over the rug on the floor hardly diminished its hardness. Fire snapped in the knots in the wood. All along their lengths the logs were alight. In the brilliance between herself and the man, Jeanne felt a shiver that centered its shaking inside her. Wider and wider it went, but it still wouldn't show its shining edge to the surface. She held Paul so hard it hurt, but what had seemed about to emerge now retreated and they both had to burrow deep to try and find it, yet she couldn't get the edge again, not that one. She was wholly conscious of what she hadn't had when she grasped his collapsing gasp to her, and yet she was elusive, even to herself.

She clutched him until he gently disengaged her--"There, there," his hand loosely on her hip, his lips brushing the crest of her ear. The paradox was that here where it should have been easy and obvious, it was most arduous, although still ardent. Irreducible factors had intervened: the absence of a mattress, Paul's considerably heavier weight, a pain already knitting her side. Now another distance had developed, an internal one, and it was in her, for she'd had the desire but she hadn't been able to deliver herself of the energy.

The fire was down to embers, and they half-closed the damper. They lay down in the soft bed together, and Jeanne thought she drifted off first. When she awoke later in the night, the fire was dead and the man was stirring. With his side he nudged her, but she was on her back and scarcely budged. He flung his arm across her. His hand cupped her farther breast, caressed her up to her collarbone, came back to close over her tightening nipple. Almost roughly, a warm, heavy leg introduced itself between hers, the knee pushed up as if to part her.

But she slid up first until she was half-sitting to see him, as he tried to move more of himself onto her. She whispered his name. She wasn't mistaken; "He's asleep," she said, and it was like one of his own breaths.

When she called his name next, it was to wake him. As he came to, he seemed shocked to be half-sprawled across her. "You were dreaming," she said, and it was partly a question. He raised himself up. Their heads were as close as two angels in a painting. Then he smiled enigmatically and, leaning on one elbow, fluttered the fingers of his free hand down her front to her navel and in semi-circular motions flattened her stomach under his palm. She hadn't guided him from the beginning, and she didn't now, but she had already quickened and sleep didn't slough it away. It was as if she'd lain in a dark tunnel all the while, waiting for him. He took her towards him. He opened other outlets for her energy, and this time she willfully held it back until it had concentrated so that she could take it wherever she wanted it to go. It was a sense of self so strong it was like another woman flowing into her.

It was herself, after all, but a further self she wasn't always lucky enough to reach. She didn't think she could survive it every time--"A light touch," she said, and he answered, "Still waters run deep."

"Not still," she said, and showed him.

She thought she heard the tiny plunk of a piece of light, burnt-out wood fall from the grate; and, as if its subsidence had been inside herself, she felt, after the sound settled, a spreading growth, and she held onto all of it this time until it bloomed clear out of her.

Elation brought them closer, and then comfort divided them. She thought of how Paul had begun to make love to her in his sleep. What had he been dreaming of, then? He hadn't answered the question at once when she'd waked him, nor did he the next morning when they walked in a woods.

"You won't ever tell me, will you?" She said it in a girl's small voice. "So it wasn't me, then?"

He was feigning a tightrope walk on a fallen log. His arms spread inordinately wide and careened in a crazy arc. "I'm doomed!" he called, and dipped as if he'd take a dive dozens of feet down and not just the two to the forest floor. Then he steadied himself and smoothed his jacket. "What are you laughing about?"

He more than amused her, and maybe his dreams didn't matter if she had his body. She certainly found him a pleasure to look at now, fresh from his bath in the morning, and his hunger sated with bacon and eggs. "You want something else?" he had said at breakfast, teasing her, while under the table his toes grazed hers. With one hand wrapped around her coffee cup and her head leaning lazily on the other, she had drawled out, "I've had enough for right now, thank you." The exchange came back to her among the maples and hemlocks and paper bark birches. The last, she thought, were her favorite, slim and upright, even if they did let their yellow topknots of leaves loose at the very beginning.

Rounded, heart-shaped leaves, drifts and piles of them slid over the pine needles that were always there, and there were other leaves, too--stars and ovals and small, tight isosceles triangles. She called to Paul so as not to lose his erect figure already ahead of her and behind the narrow, white columns of the birch trees. She liked it that the trees couldn't camouflage even so pliant a man as Paul. She'd have to see him, walking away from her, past the light, shimmering trunks. Branchless, they seemed less like trees than the spirits always present, if unacknowledged, among the living--the speechless dead, or other beings whose mortality was not like hers.

He was bound to kiss her in the clearing. She saw he'd been waiting past the trees, standing as still as they. Before they touched, she held back a little, to look at him. It seemed that if she so much as breathed, he would take flight, so that this time, too, he approached her first.

She felt as if she were rich enough in beauty to give some of it back to the world, as if she shed it like light. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead in a gesture that, had it been made absently, would have seemed maternal, but because of the concentration of attention and delicacy in his fingertips made her feel instead that this man noticed her in ways that no one else as yet had tried to. She believed he'd always known, even when she didn't, that she couldn't resist him.

They resumed walking. As if sensing her thought, he asked her casually, "When are you leaving?" She guessed he had never planned to return to New York with her.

She told herself that maybe she'd rather travel alone. Maybe she'd even drop in on her parents after she dropped off the car. "About three," she said, and then, "do you think I can manage the driving?"

"Mmm-hmm," he assented, and stepping back, arms folded across his chest, he made a parody of looking her up and down, as if taking stock of her. She wasn't sure she didn't detect a real appraisal in his face. He held out his arm to her: that was it, then.

"Aren't you leaving?"

"I thought I'd stay on. I don't have to get back tonight."

"And relive memories?"

Jeanne heard the caustic sound of her voice. Paul didn't answer, and this bitterness, if bitterness it was, didn't last. At the time she thought she accepted his terms if it led to nights like their last night. Paul waited with her while she packed, changing to a denim skirt. They chatted, and she found herself lingering longer than she'd said she would. The hands on the inn's china-faced clock marked the dot of four when at last Jeanne told Paul goodbye.

Carrying her bag, he quickly descended the steps to the lobby. They didn't stop at the registration desk, but walked across the floor fashioned of former grindstones, oblongs and wheels of differing shapes and sizes set in mortar.

Jeanne dragged her feet over the uneven pavement. Paul walked lightly ahead, bearing her luggage. He seemed as eager for her to leave as he'd been to see her at first.

She wondered about his plans. She wasn't about to inquire. She thought, Let him play the gentleman then and pick up the tab. The inn's dutch door, already swung open, admitted the mild, waning, rural Sunday afternoon. Paul walked out to the great outdoors. The other milling people melted away, and Jeanne put all her attention into watching Paul's torso from the back as the distance between them lengthened. She imagined going to sleep and waking up again to this, years hence.

She paused just long enough to remember it, Paul growing smaller and smaller as he left her. He'd gone to put her bag in the car, but she had the keys. He was waiting placidly when she arrived. After she popped up the trunk and he stowed her bag, he bent to touch his face to hers.

They were deliberately casual out in the open where no one knew them. "I'll be seeing you," he said, and winked, then stepped back so she could get in the car. No admonitions or promises--what he spoke was scarcely more than an intention. He assumed she'd be okay alone. In her rear-view mirror, Jeanne took another look at Paul as he turned away while she pulled out. If she were leaving him, it seemed he'd really gone first.

She drove cautiously, as the roads became wider and carried more cars. She was going south, beside the sunset, and she turned down the windshield visor. Her heart skipped when her engine did. She didn't really like to drive alone if anything was wrong, but she hadn't told this to Paul. He saw her as independent, and she wanted to keep it that way.

Safely in Greenwich, Jeanne hailed the mechanic at the garage and told him her problem. They settled it between them that she would telephone on Tuesday afternoon for an estimate. She collected her bag, handed over the keys, and the mechanic drove her car inside the garage while she watched, her legs stiff, her skirt ridden up on her hips from sitting.

Just as the car moved away, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rear window, her hair ruffled and dishevelled, and a suffusion of color in her face, as if it were alight. A consciousness of the beauty which she had attained, if ever how briefly to possess, was given back to her. Her own image in the mirroring glass appeared as a fleeting form to tease her out of thought. Less than ten years ago, she had travelled these same streets with boys. She remembered the advances she had submitted to then and the ones she had fended off. The woman delighted in what the girl dimly desired under a great shyness.

Her weekend with Paul was over, and she felt its recession like the fading twilight as she stood at the intersection waiting for the red light to change and herself to cross. Clouds billowed over her head, pale against a brooding sky, and mist blown through her hair left a fluffy promise of rain and a cool freshness. It was an evening to be expectant in and not for dwelling on partings. She excused herself from a filial visit, admitting to herself that she was still in a state and didn't want her parents to guess what it was. She made herself hurry over the damp sidewalks. Inside the train station, the ticket window was closed. Outside, on the platform to New York, a few people stood waiting for the 6:07 under the glow of the lamps.

Under the open sky, the rails were dull as pewter. Jeanne watched for a gleam in the distance, but nothing was coming to keep her focus. She looked up above to the veils of mist blowing over roofs and the tops of trees, a river flowing over air, like the shape of a sonorous music that makes up in tone for what it lacks in melody. The evening felt mystical to her then, just before she boarded the train. One star had waited behind the swirling cloud cover for her to notice it. Eons of distance away that star had exploded, bursting from all the borders of itself, and yet its bequest to her was a steady, quiet glow. Then she heard the muffled blast that announced the commuter train's emphatic approach.

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As on the death-bed whereon it must expire,

Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.

Jeanne was considering all the fervor of the train's headlight that glowed like a single widening eye as it drew nearer, when the quatrain said itself inside her head. Earlier she had warmed herself at an elusive fire, and now, with that light diminished down in her to its skeletal ember, she anticipated the train's arrival.

Electronic doors parted for her to come inside to the fluorescent glare of a car surprisingly full of people of a generally more elegant cast than she was used to on this commuter route. When she stepped into the crowded train, the misty night instantly retreated. The doors closed. Standing inside in the center of the car, she looked down to her right. Every seat was taken. To her left she found four places empty, all in seats that turned to each other. To the left of the aisle a couple was sitting together, while across the aisle a couple sat opposite from each other.

Jeanne chose the empty seat facing the couple who sat side by side, riding backward. As she approached them, she saw that the woman, who sat next to the window, was taller than her male companion, who had the aisle.The woman's hair was a heavy rich auburn, carelessly pulled back in an elastic. As Jeanne took the seat by the window, she scrutinized her unobtrusively. She was tall, slender, elegant, and casual. She's beautiful, Jeanne thought to herself. She was wearing tailored black wool slacks of a fine flat weave and a long-sleeved, ivory blouse in a heavy damask material, like a tablecloth's, with a row of buttons on the left side camouflaged by a flap of cloth, and a large brooch of a scarab in gold, enamel and amber fastening its high, round collar.

The woman was adorned with jewelry: diamonds in her small but rounded earlobes, the brooch, a precious-looking ring of seed pearls and rubies in a band of very yellow gold on her long finger. It was not a wedding ring, and she wore no other.

How old is she? wondered Jeanne. Her skin seemed soft to the point of loosening, but the faint fan of wrinkles around her dark eyes enhanced her beauty, even spiritualized it. Save for the first light, a late one is often loveliest, and perhaps Jeanne found the fine lines already etched in the woman's face desirable because she didn't have them yet herself, but expected that she would.

Jeanne glanced across the aisle. This couple was old, and the man and woman were both asleep. Their feet, clad in slippers, were propped softly at each other's side. Her iron-grey hair was carefully coiffed and his was combed. Their figures were firm, their complexions tan and supple. There were worse alternatives, they seemed to be saying, to aging like them.

So far Jeanne would agree. The train's motion and its slight vibration lulled her, too, though not to sleep. Her hands loosened in her lap. And then, in front of her, she saw--she couldn't help but see--the man's right hand insinuate itself across the woman's lap, between her trousered legs. The man did not look up. He appeared engrossed in reading a magazine that lay open on his knees.

His companion laid her hand over his in a gesture that was milder than encouragement, but not quite restraint. Her loose clothes did not disguise the lovely span of her back and the grace in the flare of her shoulders as she turned to say something low in the man's ear.

He opened his thighs wider, pressing against her. His trousers fitted snugly to his compact body. His magazine slipped between his legs. As he retrieved it with his left hand, Jeanne saw from upside down that its pages were not print but printed pictures: so he carried along a comic book.

It was a game he played, to pretend not to know what he was doing. When he spoke aloud, it was to laugh and point at a picture and caption. His light eyes had not once lit on Jeanne's. In his total disregard for her presence, she found a behavior that was actually hostile because it was also her own privacy he was violating with his immodest touch of this other woman. It was because he pretended Jeanne wasn't there that his hand disturbed her as if it were her flesh he felt for under those clothes.

Well, to a point. Perhaps if he looked at Jeanne as he did his comic, she'd blush. She felt a fine strain of nervousness run over her like an electric current. They had passed Port Chester. From fifteen feet down the aisle, the approaching conductor announced their arrival at Rye, and Jeanne opened her handbag to buy a ticket.

As if in conscious antithesis, the woman stared fixedly out the window, at the small lights that flashed through the charcoal darkness. "So many houses." She spoke aloud and then sighed, without lifting her eyes. The conductor sold Jeanne a ticket; then he punched it and split it, handing her half back to her. The man's hand was still. The conductor moved on, and, with his absence, Jeanne sensed a new sort of suspension between the three of them, one in which this time she felt complicit.

The man squeezed his companion's thigh and held his grip. She was stirring. The train halted. The lights flickered, and she turned away from the window. The melting look on her face made Jeanne smile. She was open, if not unguarded. Jeanne could see in her lit face that she was proud and in her prime, not past it. Her eyes were like candles. She'd go far, very far, to give herself. But not right now. Even as she showed him a wanting and willing face, her head tilted away.

Jeanne thought, How much longer can this man keep this woman? His eyes darted, and his free hand reached in his jacket's inner pocket and found a silver flask. He drank his whisky neat. Jeanne watched the tips of his ears flush red and fade. Three gulps and the fire was in his face. He passed his flask to his companion, and she drank as deeply as he, but didn't blush. The liquid slid down her throat, and she accepted Jeanne's smile and returned it.

There was warmth in her expression and more--an assent. The face she showed Jeanne was beatific, as if the rise of her own passion had blessed her. She had taken Jeanne in with just a look though she hadn't meant to.

Jeanne found herself wishing for Paul beside her, in the empty seat. Why? she wondered, even as she felt the effect of the woman's smile, as if to look on beauty were beautifying.

That was, in itself, already an answer: Paul had brought her closer to a woman before. Over the years, Althea's beauty had always glimmered at her fitfully. Early in adolescence, Althea had seemed another aspect of Jeanne's changing self. The two girls had separated off into the waiting arms of ardent boys. She remembered that those dates were the only times in her life when she had let herself be driven around without an apparent destination, allowing for any kind of detour. When she was a teenager, she hadn't had too many places to go to. She let herself be tempted, but circumstances at first didn't lead her too far. Her virginity did not burden her until somewhat later. She was not yet ashamed to admit what she was, even to the boy she happened to be with who, whoever he was, wasn't yet the right one.

She didn't understand the distinction they made--why, just because a girl had slept with one, that she was more likely to succumb to another, as if they were all alike!--or what the French boy at the seashore had meant when he claimed that her embrace of him was not "comme une vierge." What had he expected of her? Jeanne used to wonder what that knowledge was that she appeared to him to possess. She watched other couples kissing and wondered if this or that girl felt the way she had.

And how was that? For the adult Jeanne on a journey to her present home and away from her past one, it was almost impossible to bridge the abyss to her feelings of those far-away years. Such a fact she had to be glad of, because of the shame that had followed those feelings at first. Even now the pleasure could not wholly deny fears of danger and of damage, although it often overruled them; and she was still learning that the secrets of that knowledge bore unpredictable fruits. Then she had not understood how virginity, which seemed emptiness, could be lost.

Thus, in reverie, Jeanne was briefly tangent to her past as she rushed pell-mell into the presence of something new. For one's life changes despite everything and sometimes, as now, on the train, it seemed to her to flash by in a confusion of the close and far, rendering even to the intangible the appearance of the attainable.

Manifest in the woman's fair face was a sense of being beloved. This was at once so vivid to Jeanne that she thought she might comprehend it as a far possibility in herself that she had not yet reached but might someday. Might she, too, with further wear, improve in lustre?

A streak of columns and a flash of aluminum siding in the window appeared in the night like the vestigial frame of a once grander structure. The lights overhead dimmed, and then brightened. The curly hairs on the man's ginger-freckled forearm shone like wires as he took off his jacket, revealing a short-sleeved knitted shirt. He shook his flask experimentally but found it empty. When his lady had looked at him with love, he had turned away and taken a drink. Now he tweaked at a tuft of her tucked-back hair until it loosened. He wanted her attention, but what did he make of her ardor? An off-color occasion was contained in his subsequent, impromptu recital of a rhyme. It was a limerick to be exact, and not one intended for a delicate ear either, although it fell on two pairs of them.

A Mamaroneck maiden was laid-on

By a Harrison lad with a hard-on

Mamaroneck mammilla

Was sweet as vanilla

So he stuck in his dick and he stayed on.

He threw back his head and laughed, and lightly slapped the woman's thigh, then caught and clasped her knee.

His amusement was Jeanne's mortification. She hated him for having to hear his low humor. From the first, his forward manner distressed her, while at the same time she had to admit it also aroused her. Disillusion cancelled out the second sensation. She didn't question if the outrage she registered were general; she assumed it. His crude taste degraded the woman with him. But had Jeanne overlooked what that woman felt?

It was as though two tiers of lights, the earthly and the celestial, described her at once. She accommodated his remark, but she was casual. Neither a puritan nor easily shocked, she condescended and dismissed discreetly; and whatever her real opinion of his limerick was, she did not offer it, but her urgency was dissipated.

Even the man soon tired of his tease, and he let go of her to turn the pages of his picture book. Abruptly freed of his handling, she leaned her head back against the seat. Her neck elongated from her stand-up collar, and momentarily, Jeanne glimpsed the lambent gleam of her throat. With weariness in her fingers, the woman twisted her ring round and round; if one of the stones gleamed, she wouldn't notice it.

Suburb after suburb was slipping by. In the dark it was hard to tell where the train was. Jeanne watched the empty aisle; the older couple were still in slumber. In half an hour or forty minutes, she would leave these people behind to go her own way.

"Oh dear."

The woman's gentle exclamation broke into Jeanne's thoughts, but she was not the one being spoken to. To her companion the woman confessed her forgetfulness; she was afraid she had neglected to take along a list made out by a close friend's son. The entries were titles of scientific articles she was to search for at the New York Academy of Medicine. Of what topic they addressed, she didn't seem sure; she didn't remember the list, and now it appeared she'd left it behind.

"In the study, on the desk, lying in the letter tray," she mused aloud. Jeanne watched her turn out her beige leather handbag on her lap--sunglasses in a cloth case, a checkbook and wallet, keys, cosmetics, and various documents, but not, apparently, the one she sought.

"Oh well." If she wasn't asking for an answer, she wanted his commiseration, but he wasn't giving any. He was engrossed in his comic, and her obligations left him unconcerned. One by one, she put the articles back in her bag. As she bent her forehead to her task, Jeanne saw a line that had been faint deepen its crease between her eyes.

The man looked up as he turned a page, recalled to her however briefly. "You can always phone for it," he said.

"I suppose."

He was restless. He patted his shirt pocket and found a cigarette pack. He was going down the aisle to have a smoke, for they weren't in a car that allowed it. His waist twisted slightly as he stepped free of the seat. He took two steps, and Jeanne no longer could see him.

What happened next was purely between the women. Jeanne stood up to straighten her tight skirt. The train lurched, and she lost her balance. She felt herself slipping as the floor moved under her feet and, in a heedless moment that lasted only an instant, she didn't resist, and by then it was too late. She might have banged her head against the window, but she was caught around the waist by the woman's arms that had gone out to her as automatically as a mother's.

Their embrace was brief. Just as Jeanne thrilled at their closeness, she was set on her feet. But before the beautiful woman released her, she cupped Jeanne's chin in her palm for a moment. Their eyes met steadily. She was so close, and yet she seemed to look back at Jeanne from the distance of years. If the knowledge in her face was partly pity, the expression which molded it was tender. Jeanne felt that she was witness to a splendor in this other woman's life, and maybe it didn't matter too much about the kind of man her companion was.

Perhaps Jeanne looked ill, for the woman, still standing, spontaneously laid her hand like a narrow, cool bandage against Jeanne's forehead. Jeanne felt as if there were an aura around her, as if she were a figure in a dream, but who dreamt it? Reassured, the woman let her go and sat back down. Jeanne kept her balance and sat down, too. Although she was secure in her seat, she felt as if she were still falling and being held. Even the rackety noise of the rails was like a cushion, an insulation against what it was at the same time bringing them into. The wonder was all around her, and she was in it.

Even before the woman rescued her, Jeanne knew that she was the subordinate one. Yet it was a blessing to be what she was, to be aroused but not always overcome, to be able to let go believing that something would always happen in enough time to save her. Her weekend romance, shortened by an early parting, had an unexpected postscript, and the gold of her trip to Connecticut wasn't all to be found in the shapes of a fire and in dying leaves.

They were being hurled through the graying, early autumn night, approaching from the outskirts ring on ring of a city of a light so great it bled a vast pink yellowing cloud all night long into the sky. When they entered the glare, they didn't pause for it. For a quarter of an hour the train made not a single stop, but rushed them headlong from the suburbs towards Harlem.

Across the aisle, the elderly gentleman shifted and sighed, and Jeanne saw how, in his sleep, he patted his wife's ankle propped up by his side. She didn't stir. Sleep dignified her, gave her a natural calm that enhanced her regular breathing.

Then Jeanne watched the woman in front of her shake off her shoes and draw her bare feet up under her. She yawned and gazed outside, her forehead pressed intently as a child's against the glass. The suburban houses she had earlier lamented had given way to six-story tenements and higher buildings. Under the penumbra of the city's nocturnal light, the dark glow had left the window. Now, looking outside, Jeanne could tell how scratched and smudged the glass really was. What she saw through it, she thought, could be pictured at a distance as a single building multiplied a hundred thousand times.

Do all great cities have ugly outskirts? Jeanne wondered. They were riding on elevated track. Strings of lights stretched down parallel streets. On a roof in the distance, she saw a white flag flapping. The train's own rushing so filled her ears that it seemed as if the whole world were going through them, and the rhythm was the measure of time itself.

Jeanne had come to New York to seek her fortune, as the saying goes, and she was returning to New York to pursue it. And yet she knew how often it was that people, in persisting after what they wanted, jettisoned what they needed. While the woman had held her, Jeanne had felt as if something inside herself were quelled and refreshed and she was in a calm like a deceptive calm before a birth, a stillness waiting to be broken by the first momentous quiver.

But nothing had happened, no wrench, no ache. For all the benefits that beauty bestowed, it was better to behold beauty than to be it. Jeanne still had the shining and she was unconsumed. Her lovely vision was a living woman. What would enable her to meet the lights and the crowds and the cold, sharp knives of air that would strike her coming around corners if not sensations like this one, as if she'd slipped through an interstice of existence and then was buoyed up?

After the long acceleration came the braking in preparation for the Harlem station. As the woman pulled her face away from the window and swung down her legs from the seat, Jeanne saw that her eyes were alertly widened. In an instant she was prepared to go.

But this wasn't her place to disembark, or scarcely anyone else's. They stopped, the doors opened, but only a couple of people got up. A draft from the doors blew down the aisle, and, against it, in the opposite direction, came the missing man. He slapped his chest several times as he advanced. Then the doors closed, and the wind stopped.

He reoccupied his seat just as they started again, and it was like a new beginning for all of them. The lady was smiling, and Jeanne didn't squirm because all the man took was her hand this time. It lay steadily across his. Neither cautioning nor suggesting, she held his wrist with a light but constant pressure as quickly darkness surrounded them, and the train's rattle down the rails reverberated back as a roaring echo. They were inside the tunnel.

They weren't going under the whole world, just part of it. Jeanne's strongest sensation was of the train's speed and of her own stillness laid over that motion. In reality, she was moving, too, even when she wasn't her own propellant; and now, with the train rolling down the burrowing tracks that would end with the whole city spread out and about her, she felt safe in the security of having just a few more minutes to go.

She looked at the reunited couple, unperturbed. She sensed a slight disengagement of their shoulders, as if something between them were being unconsciously averted. She thought she'd not see the two of them again. Not together. Not ever.

Feeling weary, she closed her eyes. Their passage through the tunnel seemed endless. She imagined the tons of bedrock that had had to be blasted through to make it. Some of it had been used as facings of buildings. In those you saw the glitter of the mica that was hidden in the depths down here.

Suddenly her thoughts shifted to the idea of marriage. The couple close to her weren't married, she had concluded. The married couple were across the aisle, fast asleep. Throughout her train trip, their rhythmic breathing and physical stillness had seemed to enclose her in the living lattice of dream.

With just over a minute of travel to go, Jeanne finally opened her eyes to find that atmosphere vanished, for the elderly couple were awake and anticipating arrival with their shoes and coats on and their feet on the floor. Jeanne watched as the wife reached into her handbag, withdrew a roll of mints, unpeeled two, handed one to her husband, and popped the other in her mouth.

More than a mint was transferred between them; they had pledged their lives to each other. Jeanne thought, If the horror of marriage is usurped advantage, then the blessing of marriage is the harmony of two wills. She wondered if she would one day sit across from her husband on a train and hand him a piece of candy like a sacrament.

In front of her, the woman put on a beige cashmere jacket while her man held the shoulders open to her arms. He was good for something, after all--Jeanne allowed a pure pettiness to sustain her thought. The return of even so slight a contempt reoriented her to an interior where she noted the grime worn into the floor and the staleness of the air through the ventilation system. Outside, the platform would be even dirtier. Where was the exaltation that she had earlier felt as strongly as if it were an actual glimmer in the air all around her, as well as within her--a splendor without danger, a brilliance that promised comfort, suggested safety?

Even before she got up to go, she was no longer certain quite what it was she had come so close to. It was unreachable now, sealed over.

She groped for her bag beside her, as if she were the one coming out of the dream. The train stopped easily, but a slight delay before the doors opened detained the passengers.

A moment was extended past its expected close, and she felt the result as a palpable tension in the air, as if a fine net were being stretched finer, attenuated. Everyone was roused to go, but no one had gone. She was aware of the restless people standing, but she was apart from them. She thought of how she had come so close to the woman sitting opposite from her and as yet had not exchanged a single word. Jeanne's silence had been part of her entrancement; perhaps she could not have spoken even had she wanted to, but as she waited, with the train stopped and the doors apparently stuck, the stillness became too unbearable for her to keep inside her, and she had to break it with a pleasantry.

"Have a nice time in New York."

"You, too."

It was then that the doors opened at last to free them all. And Jeanne knew, finally, smiling as she advanced to the exit, swifter than the other four, that she did not need to look back, and she did not.

Her momentum carried her up the ramp, through swinging doors, and immediately she was inside Grand Central Terminal, under the vault. It seemed to her that, just as in slow-exposure photography, the passing people became blurs, leaving the drama to the architecture: triple arched windows, three levels visible at once and brought together by two staircases. No one watched Jeanne or cared about her as she checked her watch with the four-faced clock on the information booth and the Newsweek clock mounted above the passageway behind it. Within a close range, each face told a different time than the others, all just after seven. Such subtle difference between so many clocks was eerie.

She gazed up to the giant Kodak photo across the eastern wall, which was an extremely wide-angled view of the huge head and outstretched arm of the Statue of Liberty. The distortion which emphasized the rays emanating from the brow was dazzling. In the photograph, the face seemed abstracted, or self-absorbed, unmindful of all that came and went under it.

The statue was meant to stand as a generalized mother for all mankind. Jeanne thought she looked like an expectant mother as yet undelivered of child, brooding on herself. Once, a girl on an outing with her family, she had climbed up all the winding stairs inside that colossal statue. At the top she had looked out over the concession stand and the litter and the gray, rocking waters. Gulls were circling over a dark streak in the bay. A low ceiling of clouds had blanched the afternoon sky of its sun. She could still recall the somber quality of the light and the strangeness of standing on a little ledge extending halfway round the crown at the top of the Statue of Liberty's head.

Now, musing in the great space of the terminal, Jeanne heard her name clearly spoken by a masculine voice quite close to her, yet, turning, she took in a scene that excluded her. She had mistaken the sound of another's name for her own.

"Hey Gene!"

"Hey Eddie!"

"How are you?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm just..." (The explanation mumbled.)

"Well, you're looking good, you rascal!"

"Take care." (Fingers raised in casual salute, turning away.)

"And you."

Across the glassy row of ticket windows, two men had exchanged a greeting, flashed a wave, and rushed away. Eddie was silver, Gene not yet grey; in subdued suits, both looked like commuting professionals although it was a holiday weekend, too. Jeanne watched Eddie dash off to the right and Gene to the left, birds of passage met in flight. They had mobility, but had they freedom? she wondered.

People rushed by, and Jeanne stayed in the midst of them. She felt again the strange sensation, a feeling of fineness over her entire face, as if a silk scarf were being slowly drawn over its whole heart-shape: chin, lips, nose, cheek, brow. It was a weightless softness and all a mirage.

So devious was desire and yet so simple that even submission might become mastery, if only for an instant. In that instant was the eternal. Jeanne was dedicated to these realizations that endowed her with fleeing light. She thought that were she never to have one true love, she would still hope to feel again as radiant and tender as this, as thrilled as this to be alive.

Above her head were the painted stars, and above them, the real ones. Admitted, she was insignificant, and she didn't need to stand inside Grand Central Terminal to know that. So she wasn't meant for immortality; no matter: she was happy enough to leave little trace of herself. Yet, as she walked past the ticket windows with black-and-white timetables above them like chalkboards between ads for alcohol and airlines, Jeanne felt certain enough that whatever triumphs were due her would not be denied her, and that these she would survive, too.

It wasn't only that she could take a fall, but that something uplifting could come out of it. And whatever else might happen, she was convinced, as she stood at the top of the stairs with a darkened newsstand to one side and a lit café to the other, that her affair with Paul would not harm her, and that, when the time came to let go, she would not suffer too much from regret. In the course of her life she would undoubtedly endure denial, injury, loss, and death, but she blessed the receptivity that had already shown her so much and hoped she was prepared for what it might yet ask from her.

And if she had less assurance than she had hope, nothing troubled her spirit as she passed through the exit door. She didn't even have to go beyond the overhang outside at Vanderbilt Avenue and Forty-third Street, because a cab was already waiting. She hailed it and got inside, and it delivered her home.

Chapter Thirteen

On the day before Halloween Althea awoke feeling vulnerable and achy. A pale, plain reflection stared back at her from the bathroom mirror. Her hair lay lank against her brow and separated into oily clumps on her shoulders. She recognized this state as a sign that her period was imminent. It will come today, she predicted. Filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove, she thought of how pleasant it would be to stay at home and lounge on her couch, drinking tea and soup, and read a book, or hold one and not read it while she listened to music.

But she had to teach in the Bronx. Her artist residency was at an elementary school in the distant end of the borough, in an Italian neighborhood near the next-to-last stop of the subway line.

She took a bus crosstown to 116th Street and Lexington Avenue, in Harlem, to catch the number six train. It was early in the morning, and many of the stores were still closed, their glass fronts shielded by sheets of corrugated steel. As she walked toward the stairs leading down to the subway, she heard men calling to her from the street corner. Their voices were jeering and ugly. They stood in a group, drinking out of bottles concealed by brown paper bags. She looked away, fixing her eyes on the pavement, wrapping her scarf more tightly around her head. As she descended into the subway, their taunts trailed after her, nearly incomprehensible.

Forty-five minutes later she entered the school. This was only her third session, but she knew where everything was, because the building was an exact replica of another school where she had taught in Brooklyn. In the office, a student's mother dressed in advance of the holiday in a witch's costume--a scarifying mask, a black pointed hat and a long black dress--was gossiping with the secretaries. A plastic orange pumpkin basket filled with candies was looped over her arm. The secretaries and the witch greeted Althea perfunctorily and then ignored her as she wrote her name and time of arrival in the consultants' book.

There were stairs to go up and stairs to go down side by side, forming a column enclosed in a vertical steel cage. The room assigned to Althea for a studio was all the way up at the top of the school, on the fifth floor. It was otherwise unused, damp and melancholy, furnished with worn desks and chairs too derelict for the regular classrooms. She unlocked the door and turned on the lights, and her first class and their teacher filed in.

Mrs. Feinberg was a scattered, kindly woman, who genuinely liked her students, all generally labeled "slow." But their inattentiveness obviously affected her, leaving her at a loss. She seemed glad of Althea's presence and never attempted to rush her. Today the students were experimenting with primary colors, laying down blotches of red, yellow, and blue tempera paint on wet paper and then letting them run together to create new colors and abstract shapes. It was an easy lesson, which never failed to interest the children and engrossed Althea as well, so that she neglected to keep track of the time. Before she realized it, her next class was waiting at the door.

Mrs. Feinberg lined her children up and led them out, while Althea laid out their paintings to dry on top of the low cupboards that ran the length of the room. Her second class came rushing in pell-mell. Althea stopped what she was doing to settle them down. Most of them were already at their desks when Mr. Berger, their teacher, barged in, red and shouting. He yelled at them, "Sit down and shut your ugly faces up, or every last one of you will stay after school!"

By the time he finished and motioned for Althea to take over, she felt laid low by him, as if she were one of the children.

He made it a point to sit among his students, in the last row, incongruous with his grey, heavy beard and barrel chest. Twice he interrupted Althea in her demonstration, imposing himself, ridiculing her. He bullied her as he bullied his students, and though she answered him calmly and went on, she felt herself chafe under his will.

But he was a fixture in the school, and she was only the visiting artist in the third day of a ten-day residency. She had learned that he had been teaching for twenty-five years; she had overheard the vice-principal of the school affectionately call him "Bill." Although she'd come to dread his class, she tried to let his retorts slide right over her.

She finished her demonstration and gave her instructions, and the children began to paint. This interval of silence was the time she liked best, observing the children absorbed in what they were making. A habit of careful attention was what she wished above all to inculcate. The best children already possessed the faculty. Others would achieve it, but would not keep it. Still others would never acquire it. Some children would forget their paintings sooner than she did. That was not so important, she thought, walking slowly up and down the rows, watching them at their work.

But Mr. Berger had to get up, too, to give his judgments. When he criticized a student's effort that Althea had admired, claiming that the boy had not done what she wanted, she contradicted him in a low but clear tone. He glared at her, but did not argue. He continued to proclaim his opinions in a loud voice. Althea felt annoyed; before she'd quite realized it, she'd laid a finger over her lips. "Sshh!"

"They're used to me," he said. He did not care. She turned away from him to look at her first class's drying paintings. But her distaste didn't matter in the least to him; he pursued her. She looked up. He had followed her into a corner. Over his shoulder, she saw the children bent to their brushes; then he blocked them out. Raising a stubby finger, he deliberately touched her face, between her eyes.

She couldn't at once marshall herself against him, but stood paralyzed, as if spellbound. Then he seemed about to speak and did not. For once, the sneer was gone from his face. He looked surprised.

For Althea, the horror consisted in her momentary weakness at his touch. It was a commentary on her dislike of him. The realization made her want to raise her hand and try to rub his touch away, but her pride wouldn't allow it. Then she glanced at him and he stepped aside. She passed by him and went on to the students who, a few at a time, were finishing their work and needing her attention. For the remainder of the class, she didn't once look at Mr. Berger.

Yet she was aware of him all the same and angry--at him and at herself--because she hadn't confronted him at once, but had been passive. She felt unable to speak to him still, but would make sure that he never touched her again. After the class was over, she went to the bathroom and washed her face, thoroughly scrubbing the skin between her eyes.

She left the school in the mid-afternoon. The houses she passed were decorated with paper pumpkins, witches, goblins, and ghosts. They looked small and mean, built close together, with only scraps of yards. She had the sensation that suspicious eyes were watching her from the windows. She felt she might have been in a small town, a poor, ugly town that had fallen on hard times. This was the New York that most of her friends, like Jeanne for instance, knew nothing about. Today she didn't blame them for not caring. Why should they? If she didn't have to teach here, she thought, she'd never come back. She felt like an outsider in a provincial backwater.

Even the subway here was an elevated train. The raised platform over Westchester Avenue dwarfed everything around it. In its shadow, at a doughnut shop, she bought tea with milk to go. She was carrying a heavy bag, as usual. She put her wallet in her jacket pocket, because she had some shopping to do on the way home and wanted it convenient.

On the platform, waiting for the train, she drank her tea, grateful for its warmth. The steam rose in her face. A gust of wind blew up grit in her eyes, and she blinked. Ugh! When she thought about it, she could still feel Mr. Berger's finger on her brow. Why had he touched her there, of all places? For her, an artist, it seemed a particularly vulnerable spot. Now she felt weakened, depleted, as if his touch had sapped her strength. Given her obvious dislike of him, she thought, she ought to have instantly resisted him.

She realized that she had been afraid he might kiss her right there, in the middle of the class. She'd wanted to scream, but she hadn't. She'd seen it in his face; his threat was a sexual threat. Perhaps if he had tried to kiss her, she wouldn't have been able to stop him. Thinking about it made her sick. What had she come to? She was pitiful; she despised herself.

Her fingers clenched around the empty styrofoam cup, destroying it. Her sharp nails bit into her bare palms. She hated him; she wanted to hurt him. She imagined scratching his self-satisfied, smirking face until she drew blood.

Her anger appalled her. What is wrong with me? she wondered. I need a protector or, better yet, a protectress. I need a goddess on my side.

"Athena, I need you to warn and guide me, as you warned and guided Odysseus through all his trials."

Speaking under her breath, Althea raised her eyes, as if she might glimpse in the sullen, overcast sky the apparition of a woman, fierce and terrible to behold, in shining armor: a goddess to do battle for her, with stern gray eyes. The same color as my own, she thought.

A saying occurred to her: the eyes are the windows of the soul. For an artist, she reflected, this was an article of faith. She wondered if Athena's eyes changed shades as hers did--dark, or pale and opaque, or flecked with gold--according to the light, or the color of her clothes. She wondered if Athena's eyes gleamed when she wore armor.

She knew it was ridiculous of her to speculate about such things. But to imagine the presence of the goddess close to her, invincible, even untouchable, made her feel stronger against threats like Mr. Berger's. She thought that if she didn't allow herself such fantasies, she'd then feel truly defeated.

Across the subway tracks men were welding. A spray of fire shot up, followed by a shower of sparks. In the sodden air the sparks glowed like fireworks, making an intense impression on her: the only beautiful sight in all the ugliness that surrounded her. She saw the subway train arriving, its exterior disfigured by hideous graffiti. I refuse to believe that these scrawlings are art, she thought. The train stopped, and she got on.

She had finished her shopping and was just a block from home when, jostled by people at a curb, she felt something she knew should not be happening. Reaching for the pocket where she'd put her wallet, she found her hand clapped over a stranger's wrist and her pocket empty.

Despite her packages and her fatigue, her fingers were like iron on the alien arm, which was thin and smooth and very dark.

"Where is it? Where is it?" she said.

The girl said nothing. She resisted, but she didn't fight. Her hand was empty.

By now, people had cleared a space around them, but remained, witness and barrier. A woman nearby said, "It's in her other hand." She was right. The girl scowled.

"Give it to me," Althea said. She might have been a teacher issuing a command; it seemed that clear-cut. The girl surrendered the wallet. Althea even wanted to say "Shame on you" afterwards, but she refrained. She'd lost nothing. A tall, rangy, light-skinned black man stepped up from the group and took the girl away, his arm over her shoulder. The girl had a young, sullen face. "To hell with you anyway, you bitch," she cried as the man turned her around. The man said nothing. They went away. The rest of the people dispersed, muttering to themselves. Althea gathered up the packages she'd dropped, and left. The very day felt foul. She went straight home.

Inside her apartment, she set the police lock in place in the door and put down her packages on the table. She filled a glass of water from the kitchen tap and stood at the sink drinking it. Between swallows she pressed the cool, smooth cylinder of glass against her cheek. She grew calmer. After all, she thought, I got home intact. She toasted two slices of bread, made a tuna fish sandwich, and ate it mechanically, scarcely tasting it.

She ran a bath and removed her clothes, dropping them in a soft heap on the tile floor. She closed the door. The sound of rushing water echoed in the small room. Just before she stepped in the water, she felt a wet trickle on the inside of her thigh. She had been right. Her period had begun.

She shut off the taps and submerged in the warm water of the bath. She closed her eyes. She considered how this monthly process of her womb shedding its lining, which had long been a part of her nature, still shielded its mystery. She was unknown to herself, a daughter of the moon, as fluctuating as the tides. She thought, Now the moon is hiding her face.

Her cycles effaced her individuality; they made her feel ancient, eternal. She remembered other cultures she had read about, more primitive ones, where women were sent away from their homes at the times of their menstruations. They lived in communal huts where older women past their menopause cooked and cared for them. The bleeding women were believed to possess dangerous, destructive powers, and hence were taboo. If a warrior so much as gazed at a woman during her period, he would lose his strength.

She reflected that her bleeding signified not a loss of strength, for her or for anyone, but at worst a humiliation and almost always a humbling. She consoled herself, thinking, The moon will be reborn. This heaviness will pass from me. After its minor misery, she knew, she would be left with a clear, light feeling like a sheerness through her body, as if her very being had been passed through a fine sieve and then had reformed.

In her contemplation, the sensation of humiliation had left her. She considered that it had been almost two months since she had painted. When she had returned from Block Island, she had put her four unfinished paintings away in the walk-in closet that she used for storage, and she hadn't looked at them since.

All this time they had remained in the dark, unseen. Still, she reflected, her connection to them was not completely severed. But she had lost her capacity, her energy. Why? she wondered. She felt isolated; still, she had been isolated in the past. What was new was the extent of her withdrawal. Her famous confidence had been undermined, her spirit debilitated. She had dreaded facing her paintings, afraid that she wouldn't know how to proceed and that she would stand before them, paralyzed and despairing.

I really do need a goddess, she decided, recalling her thoughts earlier on the subway platform. As she lay soaking in her bath, she pictured the martial splendor of Athena's birth. For Athena had sprung from her father's head fully-grown, bristling with armor. Zeus's pain before the birth had been so great that, in agony, he had ordered his son Hephaestus, the blacksmith, to split open his head with an axe. Althea reiterated Athena's qualities to herself: self-sufficient, born from her father's mind, she was like the incarnation of a pure thought. She had never been a helpless child. She was female without being feminine and seemed to have none of women's usual weaknesses. While preferring peace, she was skilled in war. She cherished privacy and loved strategy; she was a virgin who repelled the advances of all men. She was, Althea thought, the proof of mental acuity prevailing over brute force.

Althea had lain in the bathtub so long that the skin of her fingertips was wrinkled. She removed the rubber stopper, and the water whirled down the drain. She stood up heavily, clumsily, the water dripping from her. She wrapped a towel around her wet hair turban-style and dried herself with another. She hurriedly pressed a pad into her underwear and put it on.

Suddenly she remembered a corrective to this version of Athena. It was in the story of how, when Troy was sacked and burning, Cassandra had sought refuge in Athena's temple. As she had clung desperately to Athena's sacred image, a Greek warrior had dragged her away, knocking down the statue of the goddess. He had raped Cassandra on the spot, while Athena's image turned its eyes away in horror.

The marble statue was a sculptor's inspiration, but it was divine inspiration which caused her eyes to move, thought Althea. She pictured the woman's anguish in the dust of Troy. Why had Athena been helpless to protect Cassandra? she wondered. Why had she reacted like a vulnerable woman, like Cassandra herself? In this story the goddess was no longer a warrior, brandishing the shield of Medusa, more frightening than any soldier. Cassandra's rape was also Athena's defeat.

In comparison to this, Mr. Berger's threat was nothing, Althea thought. She'd gotten off easy. She vowed that he would never triumph over her. She would scorn him forever. She finished drying herself and rubbed lotion into her skin. She put on a tee-shirt, sweatpants, and an old terrycloth robe. It was pleasant to wear worn, comfortable clothes and not care what she looked like. No one would see her. She'd stay in all evening.

She curled up on her couch with her journal, in which she had copied down inscriptions that appealed to her. She came upon these lines from The Art Spirit by the painter Robert Henri: "Art is, after all, only a trace--like a footprint which shows that one has walked bravely and in great happiness. There is nothing so important as art in the world, nothing as constructive, so life-sustaining. I would like you to go to your work with a consciousness that it is more important than any other thing you might do."

What a fool I've been, she thought. What a coward, hiding my paintings away, as if a glimpse of them would turn me to stone, like those who gazed at the Medusa's shield. My paintings will not turn me to stone, she repeated. They are mine, after all.

And, determined, purposeful, Althea got up, went into her closet and took out the two divided portfolios packed with the four canvases, which she had hidden away. She opened the portfolios, removed the paintings, and leaned them against the wall, side by side. It seemed to her, as she studied them, that they were remote from her pain, the pain that had begun when she returned to New York and had since grown in her isolation. She hadn't anticipated the isolation or the pain. Her suffering, she realized, was connected to ignorance. It was a suppression in herself, a willed blindness, like the goddess averting her eyes, in damage and in shame.

But now her misery, her poverty, and her need were suspended in her as she gazed at the unfinished paintings that were still the closest to her of all her works. They were a cycle of abstractions taken from nature. One was based on a forest canopy seen from above, another on a meadow of long, twisted, yellowish grasses and blooming flowers. And there were two water scenes: one, a frothing sea against a rocky shore, and the other, a layered, still pond. Her paintings were neither transcribed landscapes nor imaginary, but something of both. In them she wanted to convey depth as well as breadth.

As she stood before her paintings, with colors glowing and brilliant and pale and somber, Althea had the momentary sensation that it was they that were examining her. She was rediscovering their effect on her. Her initial inspiration seemed so long ago, a happy time and place, a promising solitude: quiet afternoons, rose-filled evenings, and sunlit mornings when she'd walk into the sea and emerge dripping, reborn.

She thought to herself, These paintings are like footprints I have left behind in the sand. They began by being my future, and now they have become my past. She thought of how these paintings had been her gift to herself, before Paul had become her lover and then disappeared from her life. All these weeks when she had been afraid to face them, she had missed them. In addition to the pain that Paul had caused her, she thought, there was the pain that she had caused herself. Through September and October she had been waiting for him to call her, and he never had. Was she willing to give up hope? she wondered. Could she forget about Paul?

Picturing him, she still wanted him, despite herself. I might be unhappy, she thought, but I don't have to be paralyzed. I don't have to give up my art.

As she looked at her paintings, she remembered the quiet rapture in which she had begun them, their gradual blossoming. She thought of how she couldn't go back to that time; it was gone, like innocence. But if she couldn't revive that past, she could try to give it a new life, in her paintings. She vowed that she would do her best to realize them, completed.

* * *

She didn't remember her dreams that night, but she knew she had dreamed. When she awoke, she felt an excitement and a turbulence still vaguely in her, like impressions of passing clouds whose shapes she could no longer recall.

The thirty-first of October was as beautiful as spring. All the mists of the day before were blown away, and the wind was ruffling the edges of the awnings over the stores. Sunlight dappled the street, and the shadows of the trees changed with the changing breeze. The world had already waked up, and Althea was rushing. It was Friday, her day to teach in Harlem.

It was warm in the sun and brisk in the shade. As the bus descended the hill of Broadway, nearing 125th Street, Althea watched for the laundry with the photograph of Martin Luther King in the window, his mouth bent over his hand, as if he had been thinking, "How long, O Lord?" and literally had had to bite the words back. She saw him as they passed and saw her own reflected image--the bus in the window and herself in the window of the bus.

It was strange to watch herself so obliquely mirrored, as if she were catching a glimpse of what other people saw, seeing her from a distance.

The school was at 127th Street and Lexington Avenue. When she arrived, the children were playing in the yard next to the building. The area was paved with lumpy asphalt and surrounded on the street sides by a chain-link fence. As usual, the boys had taken most of the space. Softballs and basketballs careened through the air, while the boys ran for them. The girls were crowded at the edge, playing double-dutch jumprope. "Hi, Miss Montgom'ry," a group of them called as she passed, and she smiled and waved. From the back of the school, teachers entered the yard, blowing their whistles: the children's signal to go in. Althea saw Mrs. Fontaine, the principal, as beautiful as a fashion model, tall and narrow. The bones of her face were well-defined and her skin so taut and smooth that she seemed carved of ebony. She wore high heels, a tailored dark blue coat. She looked as if she belonged in a more elegant setting, an office high in a midtown skyscraper, with thick carpets and muted colors, and not in a Harlem schoolyard. She waved her delicate hand high, calling to get the children's reluctant attention. Althea would have liked to greet her, but she looked too busy.

This was Althea's third year at P.S. 30-1, and Mrs. Fontaine was still an enigma to her. She let Althea keep supplies in a locked cabinet in her office, and gave her permission to enter at almost any time. But Mrs. Fontaine was so often out that the whole day could pass and Althea not see her. Since the school was pinched for funds, she had had to take on other duties, supervising the playground and the lunchroom.

As Althea turned the corner to the school's main entrance, she remembered an exchange she had had with Mrs. Fontaine the previous year. She had finished teaching her classes and was taking her jacket from the coatrack in the principal's office. It was just after one-thirty. For once, Mrs. Fontaine was there. Sitting at her desk behind a stack of papers, she had looked at Althea wistfully. "And what will you do with the whole afternoon?" she had asked her.

"Probably paint," Althea had said. She had felt that she was escaping, though free to leave, and her exuberance showed. But the image of the principal's pensive face had stayed with her on the way home. She's not really happy in her job, Althea had thought. Without knowing Mrs. Fontaine, Althea liked her, was in awe of her beauty, and felt shy in her presence. She had identified with the wistful comment and had felt a little guilty, as if she were abandoning her.

Today, Althea's thoughts kept wandering to her four paintings waiting for her in her studio. She could hardly wait to get back to them. She was nervous and excited at the prospect of returning to them after a two-month interlude. In the early afternoon, after her last class, she was hurriedly putting her things away in the cabinet when Mrs. Fontaine entered her office.

"I'm almost out of here," Althea said apologetically.

"That's all right," said Mrs. Fontaine. "I'm glad I found you. I have a request. The school district is sponsoring a publication of the children's work. Will you take charge of getting illustrations for it?"

"Yes," said Althea, "but you must tell me what you want."

"It's going to be a photo-copied pamphlet, stapled together, so the drawings will have to be black-and-white. I'll let you work the rest out with the teachers. I'm sure they have ideas."

"Okay," said Althea.

She wished that Mrs. Fontaine would give more direction. Although she didn't object, she must have looked uneasy, because Mrs. Fontaine said, "You have a few weeks. It's not due until Thanksgiving." Althea nodded, and Mrs. Fontaine continued, as if she were following a train of thought out loud, "You don't have to get drawings from all the students. Just ask the best ones. The district won't select but a few anyway. It won't be so much work for you," she promised.

"I'm not worried," replied Althea. "I'll be glad to help you."

"Well, that's settled," said Mrs. Fontaine. "We can discuss it further next week. I'm in a hurry. I really came in to change my shoes." As she spoke, she retrieved a pair of sneakers from under her desk. "The weather's so fine we've promised the third-graders a softball game. I'm umpire. Look, why don't you come along, too? I think you'll enjoy it. The boys field two good teams, and you can help keep an eye on the girls."

The last thing Althea wanted to do was to watch a softball game, but she couldn't refuse Mrs. Fontaine. "All right," she agreed, not especially enthusiastically, but Mrs. Fontaine didn't seem to notice. Althea had never seen her look so pleased. She was sitting in her chair, her legs crossed, exchanging her high heels for the sneakers. "There," she said, tying her laces securely in double knots. She glanced up at Althea. "Well, are you ready?"

"I guess so. I'll have to wear what I've got on," she said, looking down at her flat-heeled black leather boots. "You wouldn't catch me dead in high heels."

"No?" Mrs. Fontaine smiled--a pleased, almost superior smile, Althea thought. "Well, the ballfield's not far, only across the street."

Children were already crowding the outer office, and a secretary was ordering them to wait in the hall. Two aides had charge of them, but half a dozen little black girls clustered around Althea. They were all her students, children who were joyous when she entered their classroom and diligent while she taught them. They played together and looked out for each other. Now they took possession of their art teacher, clinging to her wrists and her arms and the pleats in her skirt, and Althea didn't try to shake them off. With Mrs. Fontaine leading, everyone walked out into the sunlight.

The ballfield was on an empty piece of land situated between two streets that fed into the traffic over the Triborough Bridge. Since it was a site unsuitable to build on, it was used for recreation. The crossing was dangerous, and the adults kept the children close together. But once they reached the field, the children ran ahead, except for Althea's little girls, who stayed with her.

The field looked well-used and not especially well-maintained. There wasn't much grass in the outfield and none in the infield, but there was a fence, and behind it were bleachers for spectators. While the two teams warmed up, the aides sat with the other children on the bottom rows. "Renesha, Kisha, Olivia, Clarisse, Melissa, and Yvette, follow me." Althea called them, listening to the music of their elaborate names--like mine, she thought, although the children don't know what it is. They only know me as Miss Montgomery. She led them all the way to the top of the bleachers. They sat down two by each side of her, and two behind.

The playing commenced. The ground was stony and uneven, the ball's bounce unpredictable, and the two teams argumentative, but Mrs. Fontaine was firm in her calls and ruled the game. The sun on the bleachers was warm enough to fall asleep in. It seemed to Althea that she did drowse for a moment and then woke up, but it was to another kind of dreaminess. She felt her hair being permeated by a softness at first barely discernible, almost as light as the air.

The little girls were touching her hair ever so gently and tentatively. They didn't utter a sound, but Althea could feel their small hands alight hesitantly, as if they feared disapproval and yet couldn't stop themselves. They touched her hair as one might touch a sacred, forbidden statue, while Althea sat as still as one, facing ahead, unwilling to interrupt them. At first she was surprised, then she thought she understood their fascination. They have probably never felt hair like mine, she reflected. Never in their lives have they touched blond, straight, silky hair.

She was moved, imagining herself as one of them, envisioning her hair as a rare, foreign substance, the stuff of their fantasies. Their childish caresses were tender. The roar of the traffic to the bridge, the shouts of the boys on the field, the umpire's whistle, and the conversations on the bleachers below her all receded from her mind.

She was in a reverie. The light fingers in her hair stirred and soothed her. These caresses were innocent, not bent after knowledge, like a lover's, but undirected, and hence remote. It seemed to Althea that the little girls were healing her of the damage done to her yesterday by Mr. Berger's rude touch and by her wrenching grip on the mugger's arm. Their watchfulness made her feel protected and safe. While she let them stroke her hair, she felt intimate with them, an intimacy all the stronger because she couldn't see them. They had become like abstractions, she realized, a collective of little girls, and she was an emblem, too, a woman with shining hair. All too soon they will be women, too, she thought. They will bleed as I do, submit to cycles. But for the time being all that life in store for them is hidden from them.

Althea sensed the hidden rivers of her life flowing within her. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her as gently as these little girls. She thought of Paul, and she thought of Jeanne. But then she couldn't bear to think of them.

As the little girls discovered that their teacher didn't mind their touch, they grew less tentative. They took more liberties; they played with Althea's hair, making small braids and twisting sections of it into coils. They talked among themselves. The wonder of their touch, its innocent eroticism, and her pleasure disappeared. Althea felt that she was indulging them now.

Below them the teams rotated on the field. Another inning was over. Mrs. Fontaine had mentioned that they were only playing five, but Althea hadn't noticed how many innings had already passed, nor did she know the score. She hadn't been paying attention, and neither had the girls. "All right, that's enough," she said finally, reaching for her comb. They did as she asked; they were good girls. She combed out their braids, and for the rest of the game she kept the children out of her hair.

The winning team threw up their caps in the air, and the losers beat the ground with their bats and kicked up dust, but they were all too tired to be quarrelsome. Althea thought of going home, of facing her real work. For between the work she did for wages and the work she did for herself, she made an absolute distinction, like the difference between the profane and the sacred.

* * *

During the next two weeks, she spent time with her paintings almost every day. She was lonely, but she wasn't unhappy; she was too busy. The existence of these paintings was evidence that her past was real, she thought. As she painted over sections that displeased her, she said to herself, Now I am recreating my past. She allowed herself the freedom to change her mind. That's why I'm not a realist painter, she reminded herself. I'm more interested in painting out of my imagination. I don't want to copy anything slavishly. A line she had transcribed in her journal described her intentions: "to give the past not a survival, which is the hypocritical form of forgetfulness, but a new life, which is the noble form of memory." A French philosopher, Merleau-Ponty, had written that. When she repeated it to herself, she felt elevated by a profound purpose.

She painted and read and thought and took long walks. She ate and slept and did her jobs. The next time she taught in the Bronx she was intentionally cold to Mr. Berger. Not only did she barely glance at him, she managed to keep the width of the room between them at all times. During the lunch period, as she was walking down the fifth-floor corridor, she happened to pass by him and the vice-principal standing together talking in the doorway of an empty classroom, and she kept going. Behind her back, she overheard Mr. Berger's rude laugh. Certain that he was talking about her, she felt her face flame. Why do I mind so much? she wondered. Why am I so serious? Why can't I tell him off, treat him as a harmless joke? I'd be better off if I could. But I don't know how to, and I really don't want to.

She was afraid of him, and at the same time she sensed that her fear was somehow unworthy of her. In her Harlem school, on the other hand, she felt freer. She knew that she sometimes let Mrs. Fontaine take advantage of her, but Mrs. Fontaine was so gracious and the school so needy that Althea didn't mind. In Harlem, her efforts were appreciated. She set to work on Mrs. Fontaine's project, and so it was that two weeks after the softball game, she found herself alone with a seven-year-old boy in the second grade named Jamal Gilbert.

She had noticed Jamal's talent from her first day with his class. Now she needed him for the anthology. She wanted him to illustrate a story written by another child about a rabbit. "If the world was small, I would jump over the world," the rabbit was saying. "Do you think you can draw me a picture of that?" Althea asked Jamal.

Jamal considered for a moment and nodded his head. He was a small, slight boy with café au lait skin and round, startled eyes, ringed by long lashes. Miss Alexander, Jamal's teacher, gave him permission to go with Althea to work on the drawing. Obediently, he followed her to her next class, a third grade, and sat down in an empty chair at a long table with the older children.

But he couldn't get launched on his drawing. Dissatisfied, he discarded what he had done. He seemed self-conscious, anxious, ill at ease. Once, another child jostled him inadvertently, and a jagged line ruined his drawing. Another time he pressed the point of his pencil too hard and tore the paper. Doggedly he started over. As her attention kept returning to him, Althea sensed his frustration.

Other children would have given up in protest, but Jamal didn't. "I'm sorry I messed it up," he apologized at the end of the class, his head bent, his long lashes sweeping over his cheeks. Perhaps I ought to release him, Althea thought. But she wanted him to finish his drawing, not so much for him, she realized, as for herself. She knelt beside him, her face close to his so that she could speak to him without being overheard, while he stared down at a new, blank sheet of paper. "It's hard with the other children here, isn't it, Jamal?" she asked, and he nodded.

"My classes are over now. Do you want to come with me to a quiet room where no one will disturb us?"

"Yes," he said after a pause, and suddenly she worried that she was pushing him too hard. "Are you sure you're not too tired?"

"No, I'm not."

He spoke in monosyllables, and Althea wondered if he was afraid of her. But then he faced her solemnly, trustingly, and she felt herself growing excited. "All right, then."

"I know where we can go," she said, confiding to him once they were in the hall together. She knew she sounded childish, but she couldn't help herself. Mrs. Fontaine wasn't in her office. Althea could tell that the secretary didn't want to give her the key to the lost-and-found room, but she was determined. "There's nowhere else for us to go except inside the principal's office."

"Well, you can't take him in there," objected the secretary.

"I know. That's why I want the key to that other room."

"You'll have to promise that he won't touch anything in there," said the secretary.

"He won't," said Althea, glancing down at Jamal, who hadn't said a word during this exchange. He was, she thought, positively an advertisement for good behavior. Reluctantly, the secretary surrendered the key. "Make sure you get a note for me from Mrs. Fontaine. I don't want to be responsible."

A few minutes later Althea unlocked the door to the lost-and-found room and switched on the light. It was smaller than a classroom, dusty and chilly. Its single window, looking out on the playground, had bars across it. Discarded textbooks were piled messily on a row of shelves against the wall, and the room was crowded with bric-a-brac. Jamal, unlike most other children, scarcely glanced at the boxes of old clothes and battered toys before he sat down at the child-sized desk and neatly arranged his supplies--pencil and felt-tip pen and a stack of white paper. Without another word, he set immediately to work.

Althea sat down at the larger desk and prepared to wait. She faced away from Jamal, so as not to pressure him. Outside she could hear the shouts of the children on the playground. She wondered if Jamal felt left out, and stole a glance at him, but he didn't appear unhappy. I should be going over the other children's work, she thought. Instead she stared off into space, and then she closed her eyes.

He worked so quietly. It was uncanny in a child. She almost forgot where she was. Her thoughts drifted.... Minutes passed, half an hour. Suddenly, she opened her eyes. "How're you doing?" she asked him, and then she could have bitten her tongue.

She had interrupted his concentration. Startled, he jerked his head up. "I'm going over the pencil lines with magic marker. I don't want to smudge the paper."

Althea nodded. How serious he was! She felt respect for him. She thought of how adults were so often clumsy with children, barging in on their thoughts, wrecking their dreams. They imposed themselves, ignoring the children's own wishes. She, too, had been guilty.

Jamal sighed and, carefully capping the felt-tip pen, put it down.

"Would you like to take a break?" Althea asked. "I wish I had something to offer you to eat, but I only have coffee."

"I drink coffee at home," said Jamal shyly.

Althea took out her thermos from her bag and unscrewed the top, and then the cap. Steam rose from the opening. She poured out hot, milky coffee in a styrofoam cup for him. She filled the thermos cup for herself. A smile lit up Jamal's face as his small hand curved part way around the white styrofoam. They sat across from each other, at Althea's desk. She cleared a space, moving her papers to the edge.

As they sipped their coffee, Althea had the strange feeling that she was sitting across from an adult. Yet Jamal was so small that his head just cleared the top of the larger desk. What an odd, polite, solemn child he was! He drank from his cup gravely. Miss Alexander had told her that Jamal's brother was an artist, and so she inquired.

"My brother keeps a drawing on his dresser that he did in jail," said Jamal matter-of-factly.

Althea registered a shock. "What was your brother doing in jail?" she asked, taking care to keep her voice even.

"He went to the cleaners to pick up some clothes for my mother, and a man came in with a gun, and when the cops came, they picked up my brother, too, because they thought he was with him. My brother was put in the cell with the man with the gun, but my brother said the man with the gun was afraid of him, because my brother lifts weights."

Was Jamal telling the truth? she wondered, disturbed, her thoughts in a jumble. Either he was, or he wasn't and knew it, or he was repeating what had been told to him. She felt upset. His disclosure, followed by her automatic skepticism, reinstated the divide between them that earlier had seemed to dissolve in the magical atmosphere of art. She wanted to reinvoke that atmosphere. She wished she hadn't asked Jamal about his brother. It's none of my business, she thought.

During her years of teaching, she had heard other children nonchalantly reveal shocking details of their private lives, but she had never gotten used to it. She repressed her curiosity with a horror of prying.

She finished her coffee and asked Jamal if she could see his drawing. Together they examined it--a scene of outer space. There was the round, looming earth, and, circling it, a smaller moon, a flying saucer, a rocket, stars, and an amoeba-like object that Jamal explained was a comet. Among these satellites was the rabbit, his hind legs outstretched, lines of motion indicating his flight. He had perky ears and a cottontail.

Looking over the sheets of paper Jamal had rejected, she saw how many times he had worked out the placements of the objects. His drawing clearly was influenced by cartoons, but his feeling for space was just as clearly a talent. Since the drawing was to be photocopied, it couldn't be shaded, but the whiteness suggested the black void of space where the astronaut piloted his rocket confidently, the flying saucer whirled mysteriously, and the rabbit leaped triumphantly over the round world.

"I like it," said Althea. "It will do very well."

Jamal nodded. He gave her the empty styrofoam cup and sat back down to work. Now she observed him, and he made no objection. He hardly seemed to notice that she was there, so intent was he in carefully guiding the black felt-tip over the pencilled lines.

Althea felt privileged to watch. She sensed the rareness of the moment--she had become the student and he the teacher. She had much to learn from him, she reflected, from his diligence, his quiet confidence. At the same time, thoughts of Jamal's brother troubled her. It made her sick to think that this beautiful child, with all his talent, might one day be caught in the same trap as his brother. How could she help to prevent it?

I'm being presumptuous, she thought. But Jamal has not only the talent but--what is rarer--the temperament for an artist. If he's interested, I'll try to get him art lessons. It's as much for the encouragement he'll get as for what he'll learn.

While Jamal finished his drawing, Althea was consumed by plans and strategies. She remembered an umbrella arts organization whose offices were on the Upper East Side--they'd have information about after-school and weekend programs for children. She decided that first she'd investigate the possibilities, and then she'd approach Mrs. Fontaine and Miss Alexander. As a white person coming into the school from the outside, I'm in a delicate position, she reflected. It's absolutely necessary to go through established channels. I can't approach Jamal's mother directly. I have absolutely no idea what kind of person I'd be dealing with. My interference is likely to be resented. What is important is that Jamal shouldn't resent it.

She waited until he was done. It was with a slight reluctance that he surrendered the drawing to her. "I might think of something else later," he said.

"I'll keep it safe for you," she promised. "You can look it over next week before I give it to Mrs. Fontaine."

"Don't let anybody mess with it."

"I'll take it home with me. I'll guard it with my life, Jamal."

He barely smiled as he said, "Okay." He watched her as she carefully placed the drawing between blank sheets of paper in a folder. As she escorted him back to his class, she asked him if he'd ever taken art lessons outside of school.

"No."

"Would you like to?"

His nose wrinkled as if he were about to sneeze, but he didn't. "Would I get to use paints and all different kinds of supplies?"

Althea nodded.

"Then I'd like to," he said.

He's given me permission, Althea thought. "I'll see what I can do," she said.

When she left the school, she felt buoyed by purpose, as if she were walking on air. She had stayed so late that classes had been dismissed, and she passed her third-grade girls just inside the playground fence. They waved to her, and she waved back. She didn't see Jamal.

She paused at home only to drop off the children's drawings, Jamal's among them. Restless, excited, not even stopping to open her mailbox, she decided to go directly to the CAPS offices--City Artists Public Services. She'd never been there before, but knew by hearsay that they had a good library and files of listings about artists' programs, opportunities, and events.

The offices were squirreled away in the back rooms of a mansion south of the Guggenheim Museum. Like the equivalent of a maid's room in a fancy apartment, Althea thought. File cabinets crowded the narrow hallway that connected three irregularly shaped rooms. The furniture was institutional: metal desks and molded plastic chairs. Althea mentioned her errand to a woman younger than she, with blonde hair and a shiny complexion, wearing blue jeans and a flannel shirt. Althea was lucky, for soon she was seated at a table, transcribing a list of art programs for children. She discovered that there were two in Harlem, and one was less than a mile from the school, at the Studio Museum on 125th Street.

She copied down the information quickly, for the CAPS offices were about to close. Half an hour after she had arrived, she was gone. Outside it was dusk. Instead of heading toward the crosstown bus stop, she began to walk down Fifth Avenue. She passed doormen in uniforms, standing next to the entrances of apartment buildings. The evening air was cool and fresh, and the doors of several buildings stood ajar. She caught glimpses within of lit marble lobbies. The citadels of the rich are deceptively open, she thought. Men in suits and topcoats, carrying briefcases, passed her in the opposite direction, returning home from work. She saw elegant women in high heels, overdressed for the weather in fur coats, waiting for taxis. Blocking her path, two children of privilege bounced a fuzzy yellow tennis ball between them on the sidewalk. It was as if the city were unfolding before her as she moved through it. It occurred to her that, though she had lived in New York for four years, she still felt like a visitor, an observer, no matter what neighborhood she found herself in, even her own. That's what she had wanted, why she had moved to New York--to have the possibility of new worlds constantly opening up to her. But now she missed a feeling of belonging.

Lost in her musings, Althea was distracted by the sight of a row of cabs pulling up at the intersection in front of her. She saw that she was walking next to the Frick Museum. As she approached the corner, she noticed a crowd of people gathering at the 70th Street entrance to the museum. On a whim, she joined them.

Two guards in uniforms stood beside the doorway as the people filed in. Inside the entrance, another guard seated on a stool collected a printed invitation from each person. Yet Althea was inexplicably let past, as if she were invisible. No one seemed to notice that she didn't belong. She felt thrilled, curious, a guest at a party she hadn't been invited to. The Frick Museum itself was as familiar as an old friend. She loved its collection and knew it well, but she had never seen the museum at night, never known it as the setting of an event.

She had no idea what event it was. She checked her coat along with everyone else. People were wandering into the interior courtyard of the museum, and she followed them. A table had been set up, and a bartender was filling glasses with white wine. She decided against a drink, and drifted into the north hall as a few others were doing. Then she entered a room off to the left.

She was in the library, and three other people were in there, too. A tall, older woman, dressed in a tweed suit, with a severe, impressive face and red-orange hair piled high on her head, was holding forth to her companions, a shorter, meeker couple, who were watching her with pale, rapt expressions. Her loud, clipped, British voice carried clearly to Althea across the room. She was pointing out a portrait to her friends.

"I come here often, especially to see Lady Hamilton," she was saying. "Do you know the story about the artist? Romney had been painting portraits of the aristocracy when Lady Hamilton came to London, whereupon he stopped to paint seventeen portraits of her. Ten of the seventeen are in poor condition, but we're lucky, for this one is in excellent condition." She paused to admire the painting she was praising. "Lady Hamilton's my most favorite. I rarely see a woman with an expression like that. Have you ever seen eyes like that that melt men's hearts? If you looked at her five minutes, you'd give her your last dime."

Soundlessly, Althea approached behind them, wanting to see the painting that she had always passed by in the past. She saw a smiling young woman with a soft, tilted face, dark, soulful eyes, a loosened bodice, and flowing hair. In her arms she held a spaniel. The rendering was facile and entrancing.

The woman that the red-headed woman was speaking to murmured in approbation, while the man peered closely at the painting. "The dog's eyes are wonderful, too," he proclaimed. The British lady opened her mouth and then shut it without speaking. It was clear to Althea that she was displeased. Then, proceeding, she stopped before a portrait of Washington. The couple followed. "It looks as if his teeth are in in this one," the British lady said acidly. "And there's Lady Peel," said the other woman. "Wasn't she the wife of the Prime Minister?" "Sir Robert," supplied the man.

"And that's Mr. Frick," said the British lady, glaring at the large portrait, over the fireplace, that dominated the room. "I don't want to see him. He was one of those awful millionaires."

She glanced at her watch. "Come, we'll be late for the lecture." Magisterially, she swept out of the room, her two in tow, leaving Althea alone and still, apparently, invisible.

As if on cue, the lights were extinguished in the library, except for a squat table lamp with an embroidered shade under which a bulb gleamed dimly. Through the doorway Althea saw people milling in the court, setting down their emptied glasses on the table, and heading toward the lecture hall. No one came into the library. She couldn't hear a sound.

The curtains were drawn back. A meager light from Fifth Avenue entered the room. Althea went to the windows. Cars and pedestrians were going by, as usual. She saw a runner speed soundlessly by in sleek fluorescent-green tights. Very quietly, Althea went through another door that led directly into the next, still-lit, gallery. These paintings, well-known to her after years of visits, had never appeared more wonderful, more mysterious. She felt the surprise that only the very familiar is capable of engendering.

She paused before one of her favorites, a figure in a landscape: St. Francis in the Desert, by Giovanni Bellini. This is a desert humanely conceived, thought Althea, with water flowing nearby, acacia and olive trees, a town across a river, and in the distance terraced fields climbing a hillside with a castle at its crown. Nature is either tamed--a donkey, a shepherd with a flock of sheep--or else unthreatening--a heron, a hare. The saint has turned away from the entrance to his sheltering cave, where he has been meditating at a reading table with skull and book, and he is gazing ecstatically skyward. But there are no angels, no messengers of God to be seen. Instead, Althea reflected, here is God as nature, and nature tempered by man.

Perhaps Bellini means us to believe that St. Francis is witness to a vision of God which is invisible to us, the viewers, she speculated. She reflected how, in her art, too, an imagined nature was paramount, but her paintings had no narrative, no religious context. To paint a Renaissance painting in the twentieth century would be impossible, she decided. That universal world view has been lost. Such a painting today would be considered a joke, or worse. Yet she thought that in her paintings she also wanted to convey a radiance, like a spiritual quality embodied in nature, indefinable, yet permeating it.

Glimmers of ideas hovered in her thoughts, too faint as yet for her to give shape to. She turned away from Bellini's painting and went ahead into the next room. This was the Fragonard Room. Around her hung a series of panels, representing The Progress of Love. She had seen this room before in bright sunlight, the gilt of the ornate furniture gleaming, the pastel colors of the paintings glowing to full advantage. Even so, she had never truly cared for the paintings. They were too theatrical, too artificial. Their scenes were set in gardens that were like stages ringed with ambiguous low walls over which the pursuing lover clambered by means of a ladder or by more mysterious aids. Abundant flora framed the lovers, huge sweeps of dense foliage and festoons of roses claimed much of the scene and, Althea thought, seemed its true extravagance. Under the arching boughs were statues which overlooked the stereotyped poses of the lovers. It occurred to her that the statues, painted in monochrome, were more lifelike than the human figures, their gestures more natural and moving.

The cycle culminated in a game where a woman, draped with roses, prepared to place a ring of blossoms on her lover's head, as he sat beside her, clasping her tightly corseted waist. Another young dandy sketched the scene. Above them, the statue of a winged putto appeared to be making a drawing, too.

Althea walked before Fragonard's paintings, studying them, her hands clasped loosely behind her back. She caught a glimpse of herself in the antique mirror between two windows, and stopped.

Her face looked back at her, pale and grave, with the paintings of light, mocking lovers behind her and around her, and she felt sad. In contrast, the painted lovers were facile, elegant, and artificial. They dwelled in an eternal summer and never knew pain like the grief she felt now for her summer's end.

Standing before her reflection, she closed her eyes, and the recollections that she had tried to repress for the past two months came flooding back. Looking back from the dusks of November to moments in the summer's last weekend, she realized that, at the time, she had forced herself not to think; she had been swept up in the flow of sensation, without considering what it might lead to. She could understand, painful as it felt now, the self that had allowed herself to be seduced the evening of Jeanne's arrival. She comprehended the condescension of that self, how, in embracing Jeanne as she had, she had not truly considered her. She hadn't wanted to know what she couldn't help but observe, that in the steadiness of Jeanne's gaze on her was a depth of desire, and the desire was for her. Although in retrospect, she did not admire this self and felt shame for her, she recognized her. It was the woman who had walked out of the sea the next morning that Althea in mid-November found more troublesome to fathom.

It seemed to her, looking back, that between the self who had slipped away in the morning and the self the morning had given back, a mysterious transformation had occurred. She had felt as if she were an emissary of the world outside in all its magnificence, clothed in its radiance, its force, its lustre, as she came to greet Paul and Jeanne.

Where she had believed in her own superiority, now she had come to recognize that she had been sadly mistaken. She thought of Jeanne's eyes on her, and of the chasm between them now. She recalled Paul's fleeting enthusiasms, how his attentions were constantly distracted, while hers were constant. Standing in the Fragonard Room, with the paintings of the contrived, conventional lovers around her on the walls, she remembered their embraces, their ecstasy, and their entangled bodies, and she regretted that it all had ever happened. With a pang she relived the release of desire, of desire become anathema. This secret, so beautiful and terrible at the time, led her in November to remorse.

She wondered if Paul had devised to put her completely out of his life, because he was now living contentedly with Bryce, or if there were other reasons for his silence. She wondered about Jeanne, who in the past could always be counted on to telephone her. What would Jeanne call her now, she wondered: lover, rival, friend?

She didn't want to telephone Jeanne first, without hearing from Paul. If Jeanne called her, it would be a different matter, but the continuing fact of Jeanne's neglect combined with Paul's had its effect, and Althea couldn't stop her unpleasant, suspicious, nagging, unwelcome thoughts, the thoughts that women have about other women when a man is involved. These thoughts were corrupting to her. They made her memories cruel, they condemned her. They called into doubt the impressions which, combined with her feelings, had allowed her to make love with Jeanne and Paul.

She had taken Jeanne's devotion for granted, if not Paul's. She wondered if she had misread Jeanne's shyness, her nervous awkwardness. Was Jeanne actually avid and putting on an act? These doubts were a painful wrench around her heart. They came back to accuse her: who, after all, had twisted intentions, if not she?

It wasn't as if she could accuse her girlfriend of stealing her boyfriend. Paul had never been hers to begin with. Even as he had embraced her on that first, now distant evening, she had suspected that her love would bring her loss. Nonetheless, she had desired it. Although her loss appeared more precipitate than she had thought, the silence more sudden and more final, it didn't alter her conviction of her love. By November her hope seemed increasingly hopeless, yet she still longed to see him.

It was Jeanne's involvement that Althea regretted. Back in New York, feeling like a penurious drudge, frustrated and depressed, she had considered that Jeanne's silence meant that her friend had become like one of those who pitied her or despised her. At these times, she had felt something close to hatred for Jeanne. Now she realized that her feelings were a sign of her own self-condemnation and an indication of how much between the two women had changed.

It hurt her to remember that self who had felt immortal in her sex, who had walked out of the sea like a goddess, the morning brilliant around her. She was now utterly lost, Althea thought, just as if she were submerged like those statues of goddesses covered for centuries by ancient seas. She considered that the shame she felt now in retrospect might in fact mask something more awful, which was no less than her terror of her own destruction.

Silence and separation had brought her pain, anguish, and doubt, but they had spared her from that destruction. Instead, she had been existing in a kind of limbo, and that was awful enough. She felt sober, chastened, and sad as she turned away from her image in the antique mirror and left the Fragonard Room's saccharine splendors behind. Quiet as a ghost, she slipped into the entrance hall just as the audience was being let out of the lecture. She recognized the ramrod-straight back of the British lady ahead of her, as she stood in line to retrieve her coat. Althea melded into the crowd as before, so pleased not to be noticed that she hadn't realized she was smiling, until the guard at the door caught her eye as she was leaving, and smiled back.

"Did you enjoy the lecture?" he inquired.

"Very much," she replied politely, and kept walking.

She caught the crosstown bus on Fifth Avenue, near the Central Park Zoo, and got off across from Lincoln Center. She transferred to a bus that crossed Seventy-second Street and went up Riverside Drive. She sat in a seat by herself, looking out the window. The bus swayed and turned, and the river came into view, as she wondered again about Jeanne.

At first, she had assumed that Jeanne was the weaker woman. Later, feeling weakened herself, she had mistrusted Jeanne. She was both angry at Jeanne and afraid of her, but she wondered now, where was the real Jeanne behind these feelings? She realized that she had neglected to consider Jeanne's motivations. If she granted Jeanne her independence, she wondered, would she then have to acknowledge her supremacy? Though she wasn't willing to telephone Jeanne yet, it occurred to her that, if she could accept Jeanne's self-sovereignty and all it implied, it might become a way, also, of freeing herself.

Before she went home, Althea stopped at a deli to buy a turkey sandwich. After she entered her building, she picked up her mail. There was a phone bill, two solicitations from worthy causes, a brochure advertising a sale at an art supply store, and a plain white envelope addressed in a handwriting she didn't recognize. Inside her apartment, she unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite. She opened the envelope. As she pulled out a folded sheet of paper, something small and blue fell from it, which she retrieved. It was a single ticket to a performance at the Joyce Theater on Sunday, November 16. Two days hence. The performers were the Kurt Matthews Dancers. She unfolded the sheet of paper. Written on it were exactly six words, "Hope you can come! Love, Paul" in a hurried script.

The paper fell out of her hand, covering the blue ticket on the table. Her sandwich remained untouched except for one sculptured bite. She shook the envelope. There was nothing else.

Was this childish message a parody, a joke? she wondered. And the scrawl, the "Love, Paul"? With Paul, it was always hard to tell if the effect was studied or natural.

This was what she had been waiting for, for weeks, for months, and had just about resigned herself that she wasn't going to get from Paul--a communication. She moved aside the paper and looked at the ticket again. It was for a seat in the twelfth row. Did Paul want to see her, or was he only inviting her to see him? She put her hand over her eyes and started to laugh, but instead she cried. No matter what Paul was asking, even if it was just to be a member of his audience while he danced, there was no doubt in Althea's mind. She would go.

Chapter Fourteen

At the River's End Inn with Jeanne, in the depths of the October night, Paul had been roused from a dream to a dream-like reality. He had been making love to Jeanne while he was asleep, and he had not known it.

His eyes opened, and he knew, this was no dream. In the feeble glow of a night light affixed to a baseboard socket, he realized that she was awake, alert. He could feel her glance on him, level and calm. Her body under his was finely drawn, her stomach slight but rounded. Her fingers felt thin in his, her neck was small in his palm, yet he sensed that she was stronger than she appeared. He lifted her hips to his. Her dark hair lay on the pillow. Never before had she seemed so quietly certain, her very being so lucid. Now there was no turbulence at all, but a deep rhythm, like water flowing in depressions of earth.

How was he to understand how love might divide like this, or multiply? he wondered. As Jeanne's softness enveloped him, the image of his dream returned to him, like an image from a film in porous black-and-white, the familiar shape of Bryce's face forming from static or from falling snow. In the dream, as he had approached it, the face had threatened to dissolve.

Just as it had seemed that he would lose it, he had waked and so had kept the impression of Bryce, though the dream was gone. He recognized the image as taken from life, Bryce as he had appeared long ago in the past, at the occasion of their first, delicate, portentous kiss.

Ignoring Jeanne's entreaties, Paul had kept his dream a secret from her. Nor did he divulge his plans to her when she left to return to New York alone on Sunday afternoon.

In fact, Paul was going on tour with one of the two companies he regularly danced with. Even back in New York he had not told Jeanne that, since the beginning of October, the Kurt Matthews Dancers had been rehearsing for performances scheduled in cities and towns in southern New England. First they were to appear in Northampton and then in the Boston area. After that, they would have a week's break before dancing in Hartford and New Haven. From there, they would return to New York for a week's engagement at the Joyce Theater.

However, Paul didn't have to be in Northampton until the technical rehearsal, which was set for Wednesday, October 15. In the meantime, he planned to spend a few days by himself in the Connecticut countryside.

Although he was a child of the Midwest, he felt a spiritual affinity with New England in the fall. He enjoyed the fact that New England was wilder now than it had been a century ago. He liked the woods that were young enough to feel familiar. He liked the old homes, so beautifully maintained, the village greens, the overgrown hills, and the fields where horses grazed. The crisp tang in the air, despite its sunny warmth, of the coming cold, and the scent of fires, burning leaves or burning wood, were like a tonic to his senses.

At night the moon was a slender crescent. During the day, the sky was bright blue.

How lovely it is, he thought, and how quiet, to walk on the old Indian trails. In one of his walks, he came upon a cave. Exploring its mouth, he realized that it was the shaft of an abandoned mine, now hidden in a woods as if it were natural. Nearby, he discovered a steep mound of earth and rock that had been left from the excavation so long ago. On a whim, he decided to climb up it, though the vines that had taken root made the going slippery.

But he was agile and ascended easily. One side was sheerer than the other. He stood at the top and leaned out over the edge until a thrill passed through his body. He dared himself to lean farther and farther, tempted until he almost lost his balance and had to catch himself. Fantasies of falling entered his thought, irresistibly evoking images of release and terror that fascinated him, even while he dreaded them.

As he scampered nimbly to the ground, he remembered a scene from a dance class years ago in Minnesota. A girl had fallen, and the teacher, a Russian ballet mistress, had told her, "Do again right away," and the girl had done so, and danced beautifully. "Something about falling," the teacher had said, "when you do next time, you do well."

Alone in Connecticut in the days that followed, Paul kept company with his shadow, as he listened to crackling leaves underfoot and glimpsed the shiny eyes of wild creatures camouflaged in the brush. On the third and final evening of his stay alone, he witnessed a strange and mesmerizing sunset, as bright a gold at the horizon as those heavens of gold leaf ubiquitous in medieval paintings and illuminated manuscripts. He had never seen such a sky before in reality: above the looming clouds, an unearthly brilliance. Just to witness it was like an ascent.

He felt ennobled and, at the same time, isolated, singled out--not only as a figure in a landscape, but as a spirit borne up and at one with this gold metallic splendor. He would look back on this moment as the symbolic genesis of his dance, for he perceived with a sudden illumination the role that he wished to create. It was of the wild child, the feral child.

For years he had been fascinated by the myth, common to cultures all over the world, that tells of the child who, abandoned and exposed to the elements, miraculously survives and grows up in isolation from society. In all its variations the myth poses the same question: is such a child--without language, culture, history, or family--a human being? There are paradoxes: the founders of Rome were two such children as these. Mulling over the stories of wild children that had accumulated in his memory, Paul believed that he could make the myth his material.

He arranged for a ride to Hartford on Wednesday morning with a couple who were returning there. He didn't think twice about charging his four nights at the River's End Inn on a credit card to be paid out of his joint account with Bryce, even though one of the nights was spent with Jeanne. He wasn't careless about money--he'd managed to survive as a dancer for many years--but he wasn't afraid of spending it either, even when it wasn't all his. He simply signed his name and walked out.

In Hartford he caught a bus which deposited him in Northampton just after midday. From a payphone he dialed the number of the Smith College office which had been given to him, and was told that the company had gone out for lunch. Kurt had left instructions for him to join them at a health-food restaurant in the center of town. Following the directions, Paul located it easily.

The door squeaked as he opened it. The interior was spacious and shabby, with walls of dark wood and rough-hewn rafters. The service was set up cafeteria-style near the entrance, the simple menu written in chalk on a blackboard--soups, a salad bar, and sandwiches. Scanning the room, Paul saw the company seated together at a long table in the back, with Kurt presiding at the head, his profile instantly recognizable by the neatly trimmed gray beard and helmet of silver-gray hair. He was wearing his trademark black turtleneck.

"The prodigal at last!" exclaimed Kurt, waving Paul over, a silver bracelet flashing on his wrist.

Paul blushed to hear him. "Have I ever let you down?" he asked.

The other dancers looked up from their lunches, welcoming him. "We were just beginning the countdown." Kurt teased Paul, and then took pity on him. "Get yourself a tray and have a seat."

Paul dumped his bag on a free chair at the opposite end of the table from Kurt and went back for his food. Carrying a tray loaded with salad, bread, and black bean soup, he joined the company. The other men were Eric Fuller, who was black, from South Carolina, as tall as Paul, with long, slender legs and a whittled waist swelling to a weightlifter's chest, and Hector Prado, short, stocky, and fast on his feet, from New Mexico. Jane Vaughan, willowy, with dark eyes and a severe air, was usually paired with Eric, and Pamela Katz, red-haired, vigorous, and small, was Hector's partner. Jane had grown up in New Jersey, just over the George Washington Bridge; Pam was from Seattle. Paul's partner was Michiko Kinoshita, a scientist's daughter from Boston, in appearance as delicate as an ink-and-wash drawing on a Japanese scroll.

Paul unloaded his tray on the table, its bare, varnished surface carved with the initials of former diners. He felt his sense of solitude evaporating.

Kurt liked to call his company, "My slice of America." Unlike other artistic directors, he aimed for diversity. He didn't want his dancers to look alike. He took a fatherly attitude towards them, cultivating them, encouraging them, insisting on excellence, and paying them for it as well as he could. "I want to give you room to grow within the company," he often told them. "I want you to feel at home here." In turn, his dancers were devoted to him.

Michiko moved to make room for Paul. She was shy, and she and Paul rarely spoke. A wordless sympathy had developed between them. Sometimes, when Paul lifted Michiko, he felt as if she were really lifting herself, so light did she seem, and he was only holding her steady.

Now, as he ate his lunch and listened to the general conversation, he thought of the feeling between him and Michiko when he held her in Lovely Night, a romantic dance with music by Ravel, and of the exuberance when he caught her in a leap in Nostalgic Cloak, scored to a Bach concerto. Of the five pieces they were bringing to the public in this tour, he was in three. It was the third, Alchemy, that he wasn't quite sure of. This new dance, just now being premiered, was stark and rigorous, a dance without partnering, choreographed for four performers to a contemporary jazz score that managed to sound both sophisticated and primal, a blending of alto saxophone, tuba, guitar, cello, bass, and percussion. Paul thought of Alchemy as Kurt's nod to both cubism and Africa. It seemed to him an intellectual dance, and he wondered if this was why it gave him difficulty.

The grueling technical rehearsal of Alchemy lasted all Wednesday afternoon and into the evening. The dancers marked the piece, walking through it several times under Kurt's painstaking direction. Benny Pensky, the company's lighting designer and technical director, sat behind the dimmer board in the little cubicle up in the balcony, setting the cues. Within his area of expertise, Benny was fastidious, though he always maintained his distance from the dancers, communicating with them through Kurt. While the company had been eating lunch, he had been learning the theater set-up with the resident technicians. Kurt explained the effects he wanted, and Benny made them happen. During this rehearsal, the dancers deliberately held themselves back. They were willing slaves going through the motions again and again until Kurt and Benny had gotten each dance to look the way they wanted.

The college was putting the dance company up in guest rooms in a dorm. That night Paul was so worn out that he fell asleep with his clothes on, stretched out on top of the still-made bed in the room he was sharing with Hector and Eric. The dress rehearsal was the next day, and the opening that evening. Their Northampton run was four consecutive nights and a Saturday matinée.

At the dress rehearsal, Kurt still wasn't satisfied with the performance of Alchemy. Tensely, he barked out directions. As he spoke, he struck the floor with his wooden rod so fiercely that Paul couldn't help but wonder if he really wanted to hit one of them with it. A pall of frustration weighted the air. One particular sequence of steps kept defeating them. Anticipating this part with a self-fulfilling dread, they couldn't seem to get beyond it. It seemed to Paul as if they were trapped in a scratched groove of a record that kept repeating itself.

"Let's take a break before I have a breakdown," Kurt said irritably. Raising his voice, he ordered, "Time out!"

Watching from the wings, out of Kurt's sight, Hector turned a backflip, which made the other dancers smile, except for Pam, who was slumping in the front row, her eyes closed. She and Hector weren't in this one. "Show off!" Paul hissed to Hector.

"You're not taking me seriously. Come on, all of you, on the stage. You're not getting it. It's time for a little lecture," Kurt said.

Paul heard his sigh echoed by Eric and Jane. Michiko was more polite. Like children before their teacher, they assembled at Kurt's feet. They knew what was coming; they'd heard it before.

"I know what you're all thinking," Kurt said. "It won't hurt you to hear it again. Remember, there are two kinds of dances. In a dance like Nostalgic Cloak, with a fast tempo and a regular beat, the point is not to get behind the music but stay with it, and at the same time not to blur the movements. Each must be clear and distinct, and yet unfold seemingly effortlessly in progression. In a dance like that, to music that's a constant, driving pulse, there's room for refinements, a kind of playing against the limits. But in a dance like Alchemy, there's only one right way to do it and many wrong ways. The music is dissonant, and so you've got to keep counting the beats because they're always changing. There's a rigidity to this dance, and the range of movement is narrow. The movements themselves are isolated, abrupt, the feeling dissociative, but the fact is that you've got to be right on the mark. Remember, in the beginning the movement is generated along your spine. You're rooted to the spot. All right, back to your places. Let's try again."

It always seemed like this, at almost the last moment, that it would never come together. But somehow it did. Often the smoothest opening nights were when they were already so exhausted that they couldn't work themselves up to being nervous. Besides, their toughest audiences would be their last ones, in New York. The Northampton community was so grateful that the Kurt Matthews Dancers had come that they seemed disposed to look upon their offerings favorably.

* * *

Paul's cloak billowed out behind him like a parachute as he gathered momentum and leapt through the air just as Eric crossed his path in a close, calculated miss. The dancers were inside the dance, inside the music's unfathomable heart, its muscular flourishes, its soaring joy. Paul didn't think about the audience though he knew they were there and could hear their laughter when they realized the near collision was intentional.

He didn't think at all; there was no need to, no time to. He was dancing as he was meant to, in a dance that he had performed so often that it seemed part of himself, like a second nature. He felt the energy blossoming out of his body; he found himself taking small liberties: stretching out an extension, prolonging a turn. Still he was with the others, in patterns forming and breaking that he couldn't see. He was like a fragment in a kaleidoscope, part of a constantly shifting design.

The dancers' costumes were identical black cloaks, cut on the bias so that they swirled, and lined with satin, each one a different, brilliant color: Eric was violet, Pam emerald, Michiko crimson, Hector yellow, Jane rose-pink, and Paul aquamarine. From the front, their cloaks spread wide, revealing black leotards and tights, the dancers were like butterflies; from the back they were like bats.

They formed sweeping diagonals across the stage, running off into the wings, and appearing, almost instantly, on the other side, having crossed backstage. "Make the cloak move with you like a palpable shadow, a bodiless partner," Kurt had said. "Exaggerate, underline, don't be afraid to make flourishes." All this he had told them, but he had refused to explain what Nostalgic Cloak was supposed to mean, what the cloak symbolized. "It's just a device," he had said. "It means whatever you want it to mean."

Michiko sailed through the air on cue, Paul flexed to receive her and caught her in his arms. Like the intake of his own breath, he felt the audience's gasp of pleasure.

When the performance was over and the curtain came down, the dancers hurried to take their positions for the call, the women in front and the men just behind them. Paul quickly adjusted his cloak so that it hung from his shoulders in even folds. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, and smoothed back his hair.

For an instant he felt himself in limbo, disoriented, sealed off from the audience, whose response was muffled behind the curtain. Then the house lights came up, the curtain opened, and he heard the applause.

He took his bows with the others, the sound of applause drumming in his ears. Drenched in sweat, the six dancers bent their heads and spread wide their cloaks. The applause swelled and faded, punctuated by a few "Bravos!"

When, gradually, the roar subsided to silence, it didn't seem to him that he lost it. He imagined this applause merging with all the other applause he had ever received. It was engraved on his memory. He could recall the sound of clapping hands at will.

* * *

Dance absorbed Paul's life, onstage and off. The next afternoon he asked for the loan of an empty studio and shut himself up alone in it. Happy as he was to perform in Kurt's dances, he wanted something more: to create his own dance. He pondered his idea, born under a fleeting sunset, of the wild child, growing up without parents, language, or country. When he was younger, he had sometimes made up dances for amusement, but never before had he deliberately seized on a theme. If he were to try his hand at choreography, he considered, it would be simplest to begin with a solo. Out of the slender beginnings of his idea, he wondered, could he distill a dance?

In the silence of the bare, dusty studio, with its unswept floor and walls of cracking plaster, he experimented, creating shapes and gestures with his body. In the middle of the afternoon, sunlight streamed in two large windows, illuminating dust motes in the air. Outside was a view of a green lawn planted with sugar maples, their leaves now turned brilliant orange.

He remembered how he had climbed the steep mine excavation in the Connecticut woods and leaned out, as if daring himself to fall. Now, in the studio, he explored the limits of his balance, testing how to stop himself and how to fall easily. He considered how he wanted to use his whole body expressively. He thought of the gap to be bridged between intention and action. But exactly what, he wondered, did he intend to express?

Exhausted, he paused and rested, sprawled on the studio floor. In this bare room he was suffused by a rare peace to be treasured. The dance taking shape in his mind made his life feel full and rich. He recalled himself a month earlier, as he had watched the migration of the geese from his Manhattan roof and had felt hollowed out by emptiness. That moment now seemed to him this moment's counterpart: in both was yearning. Yet the malaise, the vague fear that had paralyzed him in September seemed to have passed through his heart.

He reflected how, when he appeared onstage, he felt reborn. He existed purely in the present. All the rest of his life was submerged below the level of consciousness. As he created the dance, he became the dance's creation.

That evening he danced with the troupe in Lovely Night. In this standard of the Matthews repertoire, Kurt had proved himself an interpreter of the classical idiom. This dance was more balletic than the others, with graceful lines and intricate partnering. The women wore soft shoes, like the men's, and simple skirts of white satin, slit at the thighs. The men's leotards were black, with a crescent of silver sequins sewn at the neckline. Lovely Night seemed ethereal to Paul and earthbound at the same time, a romance that gently mocked its own ardor. He had performed it so often with Michiko as his partner that he felt they were like one being. There was a chemistry between them, an intense, harmonious connection. He was sure of her, and she never disappointed him.

Under the hot glare of the lights, he felt the music permeating him like another species of light, colder and thinner--the moon's filtered beams. He did not need to count, nor did he falter. He was so perfectly attuned to the swelling and subsiding rhythms that his concentration seemed instinctive, all effort transformed to receptivity. The dance's shifting moods were a spectrum of desire. As he experienced them, he expressed them.

Without haste or doubt, he arrived by Michiko's side, perfectly in time with the music, as Jane and Eric and Pam and Hector were paired downstage from them. The women turned towards the men, then revolved away from them. Paul was behind Michiko as they faced the audience together, and when he embraced her, he felt her secure in his arms. The men lifted the women by supporting their thighs and the smalls of their backs. Paul perceived Michiko's force as she arched away from him, a resistance that counterbalanced his hold on her, so that she was extended into the air.

Gently he lowered her without releasing her. As they enacted their pas de deux, Paul sensed, under its joyous recognitions, an ineffable sadness, like a taste of mortality, and in these instants it felt deeper than any love.

At last the couples broke apart, and the dancers wove around each other. Paul and Hector and Rick stepped back, as Michiko, Pamela, and Jane came forward. The stage was the women's. They bent in deep curves towards the ground, their arms like gravely fluttering wings.

This was their leavetaking. One by one, they slipped off the stage, and the men held it at the last--a final surge, and then a flickering, like brightness in eclipse. The dance ended with their still figures on the stage.

Again, performances had become part of Paul's everyday life. The Northampton engagement ended on Sunday, and the troupe travelled together to Boston the next day. On Tuesday they opened at a Cambridge theater. The first night went smoothly, and Kurt gave the troupe the next afternoon off. After lunch they scattered quickly. Feeling a need of solitude, Paul set off by himself.

The October sky was blue, dotted with puffy white clouds. The temperature was in the sixties. Paul strolled at his ease, enjoying the warmth, the breeze, the colors of the drifting leaves as they fell on the uneven brick sidewalks of Cambridge. On Brattle Street, near Harvard Square, he was attracted by a notice for an exhibit of contemporary photography.

Curious, he went in. The gallery was attached to a tearoom in an old house, with low white walls and wooden floors. One photograph among all the rest caught his attention. At first he didn't recognize it as a photograph at all, although he knew that because it was in the exhibit, it had to be. A small mirrored rectangle in a frame, it shone back his own reflection. From a distance he saw the blurred image of his own face. He approached, expecting it to resolve. Instead, it disappeared, and he found himself looking at another man's face--a photograph etched in the glass, the artist's self-portrait.

"Demirrored Mirror," the label read. Paul stepped slowly backward, hoping to catch the image in the instant of change. Through trial and error, he discovered the exact point in space from where he saw the two faces simultaneously, the etched photo and his reflection, superimposed. If he altered his position ever so slightly--ahead, to the side, or behind--one or the other image disappeared. But he wasn't able to see it as it vanished.

He retreated, blinking. As he left the exhibit, he glimpsed, next to the tearoom, the simplified, sleek sculpture of a bird carved in wood, on a pedestal.

He reflected, When one fashions a bird, one is not so much copying nature as studying nature's inherent construction. Touch is even more sensitive to shape than sight. If the object fulfills its purpose and was originally designed with love, he concluded, then it justifies its existence. He thought of his dance, still in embryo. He had been so involved with performing Kurt's dances that he had not had time to develop his idea further. Now he felt a rush of desire to create that most elusive of objects, a solo performance. He promised himself that he would be his own embodiment; he would evolve the dance on himself, at once sculptor and living sculpture.

The week's interim between the troupe's Boston and Hartford engagements had come about from an accident in the scheduling. Now it seemed a lucky break to Paul. Harry, an old friend living in Boston, with whom Paul was staying, knew someone with a loft in the warehouse district downtown near the channel. Graciously he made arrangements for Paul's free use of the space in the afternoons.

Paul liked the large room, the industrial setting. Here, where nature was so remote, he thought, he would crystallize his dance from his ideas and early experiments. Yet he found himself up against a dead end when he tried to dramatize the dilemma of the Savage Child (his early, working title). Ruefully, he decided that the conflict between the individual and society was an impossible subject for a solo. How could he have been so dense? He felt ridiculous.

For about an hour he berated himself, pacing the floor. Maybe ideally it's not an impossible subject, he reconsidered, but it's certainly not working for me. He thought that he was willing to alter the subject to suit the dance, but to what? He wondered if there was anything to his idea that he could salvage.

It occurred to him that if he wasn't to be the child, he could be the nature that the child had grown up in. Through dance, he could try to suggest the qualities of rocks, of trees, of flowing water. If the result proved too leaden, he could leaven the effect with portrayals of small wild creatures, birds, and insects. He reconceived his Savage Child as Savage Landscape.

That night he went through Harry's large, eclectic collection of tapes, looking for a score. He found it in the eerie songs of humpback whales, recorded underwater at depths of 1500 feet. He listened to exchanges and choruses unintelligible to him. The whales' songs sounded mysterious, even hypnotic. A natural, unmusical music, he thought, that he could manipulate towards his own ends. He made a copy of Harry's tape, and Harry loaned him his boom box with a tape player. During his afternoons in the loft, to the accompaniment of the undersea songs and in a fever of energy, he invented the shapes and gestures for his dance.

"I'm making a dance," he told Kurt on the day of their last performance at Boston College. "I'd like to stay in Boston to work on it during the break."

"I've wondered where you've been spending your afternoons. You're trying to upstage your director, is that it?"

Paul felt his face growing red. "No one could ever upstage you, Kurt," he said.

"You know, I can't resist giving you a hard time. Don't take it too personally. So what's this magnum opus of yours?"

"It's...it's," Paul hesitated. "It's trying to give resemblances of nature. Kind of hard to explain. I'd rather you see it than try to describe it."

"I'm willing. How have you been rehearsing it?"

"I've borrowed a loft. The dance is a solo, and I'm it."

"No other dancers to direct. I don't blame you." But as he spoke, Kurt smiled broadly.

"If I make a mistake, then it's all my own."

"Well, we need imaginative infusions. Otherwise we ossify. I'm talking about the company as a whole, you understand?" Paul wasn't quite sure he did, but he nodded anyway. "I've always said that choreographers are scarcely ever trained in their art," Kurt continued. "They learn by doing. It's been true of me, and it could be true of you as well. I'll tell you what. Show me your dance, and I'll give you an honest appraisal."

"I'm not ready quite yet."

"Well, when you're ready." Kurt shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate that it didn't matter when, and that their conversation had come to a close.

Paul wasn't finished. "I'll show it to you in Connecticut," he offered impulsively.

Kurt appeared unimpressed. "Sometime next week? Fine. And if not then, some other time." Paul nodded. "Tell me, for the sake of curiosity," Kurt said then, "what's your score?"

"Whales' songs."

"What?" Kurt raised one eyebrow. "Sounds weird."

Paul laughed, excited by Kurt's skepticism. "Wait and see," he said.

* * *

The troupe scattered, to reunite in Hartford. Paul stayed behind. On the spur of the moment, he'd set a deadline in order to put pressure on himself to finish the dance. Even if it was an artificial deadline, he thought, he'd like to try to meet it. And if he didn't--well, it was no great loss.

He was fortunate in that he was able to extend his hours at the loft. Even when he wasn't rehearsing, his dance filled his thoughts. He decided to alternate the whales' songs with moments of pure silence.

After the full moon which had announced the beginning of the week, the weather grew colder, and the sky was overcast. The last day of October came without Paul having made any plans for Halloween. He worked all day in the loft, fitting together movements in his dance, until he was mentally and physically depleted. When he hallucinated black spots shuddering in the air, he stopped and switched off the tape. I can't take any more, he thought; I've got to get some fresh air.

It was late afternoon when he left the loft. He felt both soothed and alerted by the chilly, humid breeze against his skin. The city of Boston lay before him in gloom and mist. He heard the bellow of a foghorn coming from the channel or from the harbor. He felt his weariness sloughing off from him like the shedding skin of a snake, and he began to walk away from the sound, into the city.

The Common opened before him in the mist, the gold dome of the Statehouse hovering over it like a setting sun. He entered the open ground. Pigeons flocked on the paths that crisscrossed each other, scattering at his approach.

He thought of how he had wandered alone in cities before. He walked towards Beacon Hill and began to climb it. He passed neat brick houses with wrought-iron gates on steep, narrow streets. The lamps at the doors cast smoky lights into the fog. Cars edged by carefully. The outlines and corners of buildings softened and disappeared.

Paul found himself on a street where the houses seemed more dilapidated. Above his head, a breeze blew steadily, thinning the upper atmosphere and contrasting with the denseness and obscurity that he sensed around him.

As the street dropped away from him at the top of the hill, he noticed a woman descending before him. Her figure was outlined against the dark tones of the street. Her light hair fell back from her tall, full shoulders. She was wearing an ordinary trenchcoat. Her step looked familiar, and Paul almost called out, "Althea!" but stopped himself.

At a distance, he followed her. Her hair blew out behind her. He tried and failed to catch a glimpse of her face as she paused at a stop sign at the bottom of the hill. Then she began to climb up the other side.

He waited in the valley, watching her. He thought he must be mistaken: she wasn't Althea. Halfway to the top, she hardly seemed to pause under a lamppost, when a man came to join her. Paul was too far away to make out their features in the gloom. He saw only that the man had wavy, dark hair and was wearing an overcoat. He observed as they met and embraced.

Witness to strangers' intimacy, he was aware of his own isolation. Absorbed in dance--in performances and, now, in his creation--he had hardly been thinking of anything or anyone else since the performance tour began. Nor had he missed such thoughts. Now, for the first time, he felt lonely.

The couple's kiss ended, and he saw them go on ahead together. Then a delivery truck pulled up in front of him, obscuring his view, and when he had gotten around it, he discovered that the man and the woman had vanished.

The mist was blowing away, and night was coming on. He began to walk, quickening his pace. As he reached the crest of the hill, he glimpsed a figure turn into a narrow alley. A flutter of movement, an impression of a tan coat were all that he could recall a moment later, yet he was convinced that it was the woman he'd first taken for Althea.

He followed her. Just as he turned the corner, he thought he saw her disappear into a house at the end of the short cul-de-sac. There was no one else in the alley. Under the sounds of traffic on neighboring streets, distant and remote, he heard a sound of music carried on the air, lovely and elusive, and he stopped to listen. It was like a vibration of the atmosphere, not made by a human voice or on any instrument that he could recognize. Perhaps I've been listening to whales' songs too long, he thought.

As if in accompaniment to his curiosity, a rush of musical tones compounded and then resolved into a single, soft, sighing sound. It seemed to him that a mysterious, unknown agency was alerting him, and that he was about to be given a gift--or a prophecy. He walked in the direction of the music, toward the house the woman had entered. Yet, as he continued, the music began to ebb. Then it grew faint until he no longer could hear it.

The house was brick, painted gray, and rather plainer than the others on the street. At the level of the walk was a door, and next to it was attached a small sign. "Musical Instruments-Antique and Rare," it read, and underneath, in smaller letters, "By appointment only." Paul rang the bell.

He waited, no one answered. He rang again. "Just a minute, just a minute," he heard an annoyed voice saying. After a pause, the door was opened.

In the entrance was an elderly man in a mechanized wheelchair, a plaid shawl draped over his knees. "Do you have an appointment?" he demanded.

"I'm afraid I don't," replied Paul, looking over the man's head for a glimpse of the woman.

"Are you interested in the collection?"

Paul's gaze returned to his interlocutor, who stared back. The man seemed to be in earnest.

"Can you interest me in it?" Paul asked.

"You haven't come to see it then?"

"Not expressly. I thought I saw a lady..."

"There is no lady. I have an assistant, of course." Interrupting Paul, the man spoke sternly, with authority. "Close the door and turn the bolt," he continued, clicking on the motor of his wheelchair. "Then go ahead of me and get the light. It's on the left, at the end of the passage."

Paul found himself obeying. In the chiaroscuro, he saw their spectral shadows looming on the walls. Behind him he heard the slight purr of the wheelchair motor. He found the switch on the wall and pressed it. "Go on in," he was told.

His impression was of clutter, but not of chaos. He was in a room filled with musical instruments of many descriptions--arranged in cases mounted on the walls, placed on long tables, and filling glass-doored cabinets. He had never seen so many instruments at once, and all silent. Fifes and flutes, pipes and drums and horns, lutes, dulcimers, mandolins, and guitars, all neatly labelled, lay closely together on the tables. Scanning them, Paul felt slightly anxious, as if he ought to be searching for something, but he wasn't sure what that was.

Because the woman on the street had reminded him of Althea, he had followed her. He had continued trailing her even when he felt she probably wasn't Althea. As he perused the mute instruments, he wondered if one of them had made the music he'd heard--soft, swelling harmoniously, then subsiding into silence. While the proprietor's eyes were on him, Paul didn't feel like handling his objects. Stationary in his wheelchair, the man kept up a running commentary. "Some of these are contemporary replicas, and others have their histories. Most, but not all, can be played. I buy and sell instruments and make small repairs. This is my sideline. I retired from my main line years ago. My name is Keith MacDonald, but everyone calls me 'Don.'"

Don was garrulous, and Paul was his audience, captive for these moments at least, but incompletely attentive. He looked up to see a young man entering the room, behind the wheelchair. He was holding what looked like a long wooden box. Paul saw him before Don did. He reminded Paul of himself as a teenager, his hair long and loose, but brown, not blond. He was wearing faded jeans and a flannel shirt.

Approaching, he addressed Don, "I found a small crack on the bottom. I'd like to show it to you."

"Put it here," said Don. He rolled up to the edge of the nearest table and lifted a guitar to make room for the box, which was narrow and long, made of pine, with strings over two soundholes. Paul studied the youth as he obeyed Don, observing his smooth, almost veinless hands, his curling lip, olive complexion, and almond-shaped eyes. His skin wore a sheen, like a light coating of oil. He hadn't glanced at Paul.

"What is it?" Paul asked.

At last the youth looked up, taking Paul in in a brief, dark regard. "Ask him," he said, jerking his chin to indicate Don.

"This is my assistant," said Don. "Christopher, meet Mr....I didn't catch your name."

"Carmichael."

"Yes, indeed. Mr. Carmichael, this is an Aeolian harp. Named for the god of the winds. A wooden top rests over the harp, leaving the sides open. The harp is made with dimensions that fit inside a regular sash window, like the ones here. When the wind blows, it plays the harp, making a music that doesn't repeat itself."

"I know," said Paul, "I heard it."

"Oh, you have one yourself, or know someone who does?" inquired Don with sudden interest.

"No, I heard it just now, wafting up and down the street."

"That's impossible," said Don. "The harp wasn't in the window. Besides, you'd only hear it thirty paces away at the most, and then under ideal conditions. Not like this evening. I was in my office, and I didn't hear it." Don's tone dismissed Paul. He turned to his assistant. "Where is the crack you wanted to show me?"

"Underneath." Christopher raised the harp on one side. "It's about three inches long." He paused, then advised Don, "But you know, he might have heard it. I had it in the window for a little while just now."

"I thought you had gone out."

"No, I was here."

"Hmmm. Never around when I want you. I called you twice. Still, you're not a bad sort."

"Thanks," Christopher drawled.

A slight flush spread over the old man's face. He bent to his task brusquely. Christopher was all respectful attention. To Paul, they made a tableau, the old man and the youth. Don examined the crack with a blunt but careful finger. The light fell unevenly over the two of them, casting them in partial shadow.

"How much is it?" Paul asked.

When Don didn't answer, Paul considered that he might be hard of hearing, at least when it suited him to be. In the ensuing pause, the idea of the harp appealed to Paul all the more.

Yet Don had just hesitated with his answer. "I don't think it would pay to repair this, unless it affected the sound, and then you'd have to replace the whole board."

"I'll take it anyway, depending on the price." Paul was picturing the harp in a window in the penthouse on a gusty day with the sound pouring in. He thought, The music can't be possessed, but the instrument can. However, Don was unwilling to sell.

"I'll tell you what," he said, with an attitude of doing Paul a favor. "There's a company I do business with, in California. They make many instruments, including Aeolian harps. You can order from them, if you like, through me. I'll show you the catalogue. Christopher," he continued, without waiting for Paul's answer, "will you get it? It's on top of the file cabinet, next to the desk."

"I don't want to make a big deal of this," Paul said.

"Nonsense," said Don. "I do it all the time. This way you'll have an Aeolian harp in prime condition. And the prices are reasonable. What's the difference to you if it's an antique or not?"

"No difference, I guess."

Christopher returned with the catalogue. Don spread it out and turned the pages. "Here we are. 'Aeolian harp, window model. Rectangular sound box of Colombian mahogany, with an inclined soundboard of Sitka spruce. Two hundred twenty-five dollars.'"

Paul was intrigued enough by the Aeolian harp to order a modern copy to be sent directly to New York. He wrote a check for the sale and shipping, and the name he put above the address was Bryce's, not his own.

This, too, was an impulse, like the purchase itself. It was as if, for Paul, the instrument was an instrument of fate, which could announce a return or welcome one. Absent from home again, Paul wondered anew if Bryce might not have come back to New York before him. Imagining Bryce's presence in their house, Paul could believe he had done so. In which case, the harp might seem a message to compensate for the message he had never sent, a symbolic precursor of his impending arrival.

He believed that he was ready to resume their old life together, and he was determined to claim his stake in it without explanations or excuses. Yet he dreaded the initial confrontation with Bryce; he imagined that Bryce would act aggrieved at first and standoffish. Paul's apprehension made him obstinate--he would not phone first, he decided, uncertain of Bryce's welcome as he was. Rather than risk Bryce's complaints in a phone call, he would simply appear, trusting in the influence of his charm to bring Bryce around.

Exactly how that would happen he didn't try to predict. In his heart of hearts he nourished a hope that Bryce would be so glad to see him that his anger would simply be a sign of his love, easily exploded, and followed by an immense relief. As for himself, he had forgiven Bryce months ago, when he betrayed him.

He was impatient to go on to the next phase in his life, whatever it was. In fact, he believed that he had already gone on, in a sense, for now that he was dancing and creating a dance, these current absorptions had crowded out the old ones. He felt like a new man, regenerated.

* * *

True to his word, Paul arranged to show Savage Landscape to the company the following week after his conversation with Kurt. Clad only in a pair of black tights that ended below the knee, he was waiting, all keyed-up, on the afternoon of November 6th, when the other dancers and Kurt filed into their rehearsal studio in Hartford. Hector let out a wolf whistle when he saw Paul. "Get a load of this!" They were all laughing; they were at ease. Paul smiled feebly. He was so nervous that his palms were sweating. He wondered if it showed and hoped it didn't.

The dancers sat together on the floor. A hush came over the room. Still Paul waited. "Hey man, strut your stuff!" Eric said.

"I ought to tell you something about it first," said Paul. "It's about transformation, and so it begins with a birth. I try to become, or at least represent, creatures and elements of a landscape. I wonder if you'll be able to tell what they are. The score is underwater recordings of whales' songs. Okay, hit the tape player when I say so. No, not yet. The curtain opens. I'm on stage, curled up in a fetal position, crouching on the soles of my feet. My face and chest are hidden."

He suited his actions to his words and then ceased to speak. Behind the darkness of his folded arms, he breathed slowly, deeply, concentrating his energy. "Now," he said.

He listened for the first, haunting cries of the songs. Vibrating waves of sound washed over him. He was poised, utterly still. Then he began to rock back and forth on his heels, gradually gathering force, flexing his feet, rising on his toes.

He was a creature breaking out of a shell. He intended those who watched to visualize the smooth, curved walls of the shell cracking from within, as he struggled to be born. And as he emerged, open-eyed, to enact his self-discovery, he did not allow himself to look at his audience ranged before him, but instead cast his gaze beyond them, afraid of interrupting the flow of his motions by trying to second-guess their reactions.

As he danced, it occurred to him that the whales' songs sounded mournful and yet somehow ecstatic, as if weeping and laughing had been merged ambiguously together. He danced the bird part of the dance, followed by the cricket, which made them laugh, and the rock and the waterfall, where they grew silent. Then he was the tree, with its motionless trunk and its trembling leaves. As he moved to the rhythmic pulses of the whales' songs and then to silence, he understood for the first time the personal sources of his dance. He realized that distilled in it were his long weeks of loneliness and malaise. The illumination came to him in a flash, and he knew it was the truth. This was the private meaning, not explicit, intended only for himself. It wasn't his inspiration--no, that he could accurately pinpoint in an autumn sunset--but it was what had prepared him to receive that inspiration.

This he knew as he danced: that the sources of creation are often hidden from the creator in the act of making and only recognized afterwards. All the stored energy must go into the creation, like the nourishment within the bulb whose achievement is the flower.

He became still and gnarled as wood, and then his dance ended. He stood before them, his head bowed, unable to speak. He didn't know what they thought, but he was moved by his efforts--almost to tears.

He struggled to get hold of himself before he faced them. They were clapping for him. Was the applause dutiful or meant? He couldn't tell. He raised his head and stood before them, awaiting their judgment.

"Well?" he said.

With frozen smiles they met his gaze. "It's unusual," said Pam, who was hardly ever at a loss for words.

Hector said, "It's really different;" Eric used the word "interesting." Paul's bubble burst to hear them. A moment ago he had been full of himself; now he was limp and deflated

"Was it that bad?" he asked, his voice low, chastened, but with a tinge of resentment.

"There are some amazing sequences, but I'm not sure how it all comes together. It's not dramatic," said Jane, her brow wrinkled with the effort of explaining herself.

"I don't know, I like it," dissented Michiko. "It seems Japanese."

Paul glanced at her gratefully. They all looked to Kurt, their mentor and leader, and Paul realized that he had been waiting for this moment, when they turned to him for the definitive answer that would embody their reactions or overrule them. A performer still, if no longer on the stage, Kurt couldn't resist teasing their anticipation. To Paul he looked handsome, durable, as he stroked his beard, and then folded his arms across his chest and cleared his throat.

He addressed them all. "At the risk of angering Paul with what he'll assume are euphemisms, I'll agree that the dance is 'interesting,' 'unusual,' 'different.' I'll go so far and say it's original. Where it came from, I can't say, certainly not from me"--here he glanced at Paul curiously--"but there are parts of it--the first part, for instance--that are very effective. Only the effects tend to get a little lost. I agree with Jane that it could use some shaping. I'll tell you what," he proclaimed, turning to Paul directly, "cut it in half, and I'll consider adding it to the repertoire."

"What?"

Coming after all the criticism, Kurt's offer astonished Paul. Until now all the dances the company performed were of Kurt's devising. He worked with his dancers and learned from them, but he called the shots. "You must really like it then," Paul said, speaking directly to Kurt, as if the two of them were alone in the room.

"I wouldn't say I really like it yet," Kurt replied, continuing the dialogue, "but I like what it could be. In fact, parts of it plain annoy me, but I recognize that my resistance may in fact be a sign of the dance's worth. In my experience a strong mixed reaction is often the best. What I admire most is your willingness to risk gracelessness, and that you succeed is a kind of grace."

To Paul, Kurt spoke in riddles. It hadn't occurred to him that he was "risking gracelessness," as Kurt put it, but maybe he was, and if it met with Kurt's approval, then he was willing to own it. "Thank you," he said, choosing his words carefully, "you know, I haven't been working on this dance for very long. I'm sure I can improve it. I'd like to do as you say, but I don't really know what you want."

"I don't want to dictate to you. Think about it. You have plenty of time."

* * *

"We don't have much time, Paul. About ten days to get your dance into shape. Pam has just told me that she must go to Seattle. Her mother has cancer, and they're operating a week from Monday. There's no one else to go, she says. Her father's dead, and her brother's in Australia. She'll continue with the tour in New Haven, but she won't be with us when we open in New York. She's leaving me in the lurch, but what could I say? I said, 'Do what you feel you must, and come back when you can.'"

Kurt shrugged, as if he wished he could take back his permission. "If only it weren't New York. She's going to try to return to wind up the engagement, but she can't make any promises. In the meantime, I've got to fill in the gaps in the Joyce program. Cloak is out, of course. I may go ahead with Flying Colors. Of course, Michiko can take Pam's part in Wild West. Weighing my choices, I thought, Why not go with Paul's new solo, if he's willing? Ever since I saw it yesterday, I haven't been able to put it out of my mind, and that's got to mean something. You understand," he continued, before Paul could reply, "that I'm putting myself on the line for you. I'm full of misgivings. My ego's at stake--my company, my dancers, my program. Maybe it's crazy, but still I'd like to see you do it."

"You don't think I'll make a fool of myself?" asked Paul.

"I intend to work with you every step of the way to get this dance ready. We go to New Haven tomorrow, where we have four performances scheduled. We'll have time to rehearse the dance there, and more time after we return to New York next Wednesday. I'm hoping we can present your dance when we open on Sunday the 16th. As I indicated yesterday, the length will have to be abridged by half. You can't presume on the indulgence of your audience. Maybe you've got it in you to hold an audience's attention for a quarter of an hour, but not in this dance. Seven minutes is plenty long enough, believe me."

"I don't object," said Paul, "but what if we disagree on what stays and what goes?"

"We'll fight it out man-to-man."

Paul liked Kurt's answer. "I'm offering you the opportunity of a lifetime, Paul. To open at the Joyce Theater in your first dance, and in my program."

"I know," said Paul. "How could I say no? I can't. If I succeed, it will be the best thing that ever happened to me, but if I fail, I'm on my ass, and every dancer in New York will know it."

"I'm not sure it's as black-and-white as that," said Kurt, "and you won't be alone either."

"You mean because I'm part of the company?"

"That's right. I'm both proud and jealous of what I'm offering you. I want you to be aware of that, and all it implies. I've known you a long time, and I know that you are perfectly capable of drawing inspiration from my envy as well as from my pride in you. In spite of the first and because of the second, I intend to help you as far as I can. I want you to live up to my estimation of you."

"I intend to try," said Paul, touched to the quick.

* * *

There followed one of the more excruciating weeks of Paul's life. Kurt showed him no mercy, working him to exhaustion and trying his patience. To Kurt's credit, Paul had to admit that his perceptions were valid and his changes were improvements. Kurt was as exacting a taskmaster with Savage Landscape as he was with his own dances. Although he didn't spare Paul's feelings, neither did he try to override Paul's vision and impose his own. He was result-oriented, which Paul appreciated. Despite a couple of temperamental outbursts when both men were on edge from the strain, Paul felt blessed in the collaboration. He didn't mind yielding to Kurt's greater experience and to Benny Pensky's expertise in making dances look their best on the stage.

At any rate, there was no time to agonize over decisions which had to be made rapidly. The week, so crammed with effort, seemed to Paul, after it had passed, to have gone by in a blaze.

When, on Halloween, he had given in to a whim and bought an Aeolian harp, he had anticipated finding Bryce back in New York on his arrival. However, events proved him wrong. Again, on November 12th, as on Labor Day, he returned to an empty house. Despite his neglect, the rooms seemed to envelop him in their peaceful quiet. He felt comfortable, as if he had inherited them, but he also felt sad.

The day that he arrived in New York so did the harp. It must have been sent immediately from California, surprising his return as no human being had, less than two weeks after he had ordered it. The delivery man from United Parcel Service carried it all the way up to the penthouse himself. "Quite a place you have here," he said, gazing about the roof as Paul signed for the package.

After having ordered the harp for Bryce, Paul was unwilling to unwrap the package himself. He believed that Bryce would eventually return to receive it, and that he would come of his own accord, as he had gone.

That night--the first night Paul had had off since the troupe had opened in Hartford--he stayed home for a needed rest. In his solitude, he recalled his first trip to New York, a dozen years ago. A man whom he had met in Minnesota, a musician, had sent him a round-trip plane ticket and another ticket to attend his Manhattan recital. Paul was seventeen. In accepting David's invitation to visit him, he had embraced what was bound to occur. Paul remembered his excitement at New York and the affair, the glamour for him in it. The relationship with David hadn't lasted, but he had come back to New York after that, and one day he'd stayed.

Now he realized that the glamour had been as much in himself as in David's New York. His willingness to be impressed and his enthusiasm, like his appetite for late nights out and his languor in the mornings, had seemed greater somehow and freer against the perspective of the New York that he had first glimpsed as David's guest and David's lover. Later, he had found his own way in the city. Now, he was older than David had been at that encounter and in a position to dispense tickets to his performance of his own dance.

It had happened so quickly--in the space of a month. This past week he had been working so hard with Kurt that he hadn't entirely taken in that his sole creation--his solo performance--was to have its world premiere on Sunday. In four days. There was still much to do: the technical rehearsal and the dress rehearsal, where the company would see his dance for the first time. It seemed like a fantasy.

He tried to prepare himself mentally for that moment when he would arrive before the audience, and what he had created would then create him. In the thought he found a wish: he wanted someone who loved him to be there. Like David before him, he yearned for the pleasure of distributing largesse. A free ticket, he thought, was in fact a summons in the guise of a gift.

He wondered, If he sent Bryce a ticket, would he then come? An hour ago he'd planned to wait for Bryce to take the initiative, but now he considered how this attitude was hurtful to himself--not to mention Bryce. He was loathe to call Bryce after all this time, but why not mail him a ticket? Then Bryce could decide for himself what he wanted to do, Paul thought, and he wouldn't have to bear the blame for not having told him.

The ticket that Paul enclosed in an envelope to Bryce was for his last performance of the week, on November 22. He would give Bryce the maximum amount of time to respond, he decided.

Basking in the glow of this gesture, he considered his opening night. If it was too soon for Bryce to come, it wasn't too soon for Jeanne or for Althea. Picturing both women there for him in the audience gave him a tremor of pleasure. He thought of how each was connected in his imagination to his dance, without either being aware of it. Jeanne first, because his inspiration had come on the heels of their weekend together, in the same Connecticut setting, after she'd gone back and he'd stayed behind. And Althea second, because he'd seen her image in another woman, when his dance was first blossoming and still entirely his secret.

He wondered if his conjuring of Althea's mirage on Beacon Hill was a sign that he must wish to see her. He hadn't seen her, he realized, since their return from Block Island, when he'd bid her goodbye at her door, declining her invitation to come inside. In her expression he had read her need mixed with her hopelessness, her certain intuition that he was going to refuse her, and it had made him apprehensive that she might try to cling to him. He had thought to himself then that he already knew all about artists' lives when they were little known or appreciated. He knew without having to be told that there was an austerity in the way Althea lived in New York that didn't interest him in the least. He'd been there, too, and he didn't want to go back. He was determined to avoid those aspects of her life. On Block Island, enjoying her beneficence, it had been easy to do so. However, he didn't think it would be so easy in New York. He had dreaded what she might try to claim from him, and even when it turned out that Bryce had not been waiting for him, he hadn't regretted having distanced himself from her. However, over two months had passed since then, and she hadn't tried to claim anything.

He found himself hoping she would come to his opening night performance and hoping Jeanne would come, too. The tickets which he sent them were for single seats in different parts of the theater. They happened to be the tickets that Kurt had given him to give away. He was glad, he thought, that they weren't together. As he had done with Bryce's ticket, he put each one in a folded sheet of paper with a brief note and then sealed it in an envelope.

He copied Bryce's Mississippi address from the address book in Bryce's desk. In the phone book he looked up Jeanne's address and confirmed Althea's, just down the block. He stamped the three envelopes and posted them that night, depositing them in the mail chute in the lobby of his building before he could change his mind. By this action, too, no less than in his rehearsals, it seemed to him that he was readying himself to bring his dance to the public.

Chapter Fifteen

On the Saturday following her weekend with Paul, Jeanne returned to Greenwich for her car. She had called her parents to tell them she would be arriving. After retrieving her car from the garage, she dropped by to see them.

Her parents kept the doors locked all day long. Even though she had a key, Jeanne didn't use it. She rang the bell and waited for her father to answer the door. He had been watching a football game in the den; she could hear the television. "Come on in," he said. "How's the car?" And without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Your mother's in the kitchen."

"It seems to be okay, but I've only driven from the garage. Maybe you'll look at it before I go back to New York."

"If you wait till after the game."

"How long is the game?"

"Another hour or so."

"All right."

There was a pause, in which he didn't seem to know what to say to her, and she realized that he considered their conversation had come to a close. "Well," he said, "I guess your mother's waiting to see you."

As she went back to the kitchen, Jeanne wondered why her father always seemed to want to hand her over to her mother as soon as he saw her. She felt resentful, and still she acquiesced. In fact, she, too, hardly knew what to say when they met. Their conversations were confined to concrete matters, like her car.

Her mother, however, wasn't in the kitchen. Instead of going to look for her, Jeanne filled a glass with water from the tap and plunked in a few ice cubes. She sat down at the table, thinking about her father, and remembering, in contrast, a scene that she had witnessed after leaving Block Island on Labor Day.

The ferry had docked in New London, and the passengers were lined up in the stairwell leading to the lower deck. She had forgotten her hat on a bench and had gone back to retrieve it, leaving Paul and Althea to see that her car was safely taken off the ferry. She had lingered to use the bathroom, and by the time she descended the stairs, most of the passengers had already disembarked. The dock bustled with the activity of people leaving.

It was just after seven p.m., the light already dimming. She thought of how it would be dark long before they got to New York. As she was looking around for Paul and Althea, she saw not far from her a young girl standing with an older woman at the edge of the blacktop.

The woman was dressed formally in a suit. The girl, who was perhaps fourteen and tall for her age, was wearing shorts. Jeanne noticed that they seemed quite separate from each other, a distance reflected in the difference between their clothes. Not mother and daughter, she decided; perhaps the girl is her godchild or her niece or the daughter of a friend. Just as she realized that the two were waiting for someone, she heard the woman call out, "There he is," and the girl cry, "Where? Where?" her eyes darting, her body instantly readied for flight, like a bird's. As Jeanne watched, the girl took off, running, while the woman stood still, and before Jeanne's eyes there materialized the reunion of a father and daughter.

For to what other man perhaps thrice her age would this girl rush with such abandon, throwing her arms around his neck, crying unashamedly, thought Jeanne; and who else would hug her back so warmly and yet chastely, and then release her, as happy as she, with as misted an eye?

The sight of their emotion, so generous, so spontaneous, had brought tears to Jeanne's eyes. Once I, too, greeted my father like that, she reflected, but I was much younger, and it is unlikely that it will ever happen again. Struck by the finality of her thought, she bowed her head, and a tear slid down the side of her nose.

She had wiped it away with the back of her hand, and looked up. She saw her car being driven off the boat, and Althea and Paul approaching, holding cans of soda. They met her, and Paul handed her a Coke. "We fed coins into a machine at the end of the dock," he explained.

She had kept the scene she had witnessed to herself and then had forgotten about it until now, in her parents' home. The recollection made her feel sad. Now, as then, she understood that the tear she had shed was truly for herself.

Her mother came through the back door into the kitchen, surprised to find Jeanne sitting alone. "When did you get here?"

"Just a few minutes ago."

"Does your father know?"

"Oh yes, he let me in."

"Well, I'll put up some coffee," said Myra Mann briskly. "You'll stay for a while, won't you?"

Jeanne nodded. Out of habit, she helped her mother prepare the snack. The two of them working together in the kitchen felt familiar to her, even secure. Jeanne carried out the silver tray, loaded with delicate china plates, cups, and saucers, and a fat wedge of cake, which she laid on the table in the dining room. Her mother followed behind her, with coffeepot, sugar, and creamer. Myra's high-pitched voice, calling her husband, carried from the room.

Summoned, he stopped under the open arch. "Do you want to have it in here?" he asked, clearly reluctant.

"Go on, Don, take yours back with you and watch the game. We don't need you."

Myra shooed her husband away. Jeanne silently handed her father a plate with cake, as her mother gave him a cup of coffee. Jeanne was thinking how, in spite of what her mother said, she did care that her father preferred to see the game than visit with her. Yet in a way she was also relieved. How hard it was, she reflected, for her to find in this father the young man for whom she had once waited at a window and greeted ecstatically with cheers and happy tears as he came home from work. And it was almost impossible to picture herself as the little girl, perhaps two or three years of age but a baby no longer, who had watched for her dad.

It wasn't that she fought with her parents now, or that they were unkind to her. They just weren't close. Jeanne had never learned how to confide in her parents. It seemed an unspoken pact, that there were distances that none would broach. Her parents themselves put it this way: they were always glad to see their three children when it was mutually convenient, or to help out when their children were in need, but their years of raising a family were over, and they all had their own lives. The whole family got together once or twice a year, when Jay visited from San José, California, where he now lived. Then Jeanne would come up from New York, and Peter down from Boston, where he was still in school.

"I've heard from your brothers," Myra told her daughter, as she stirred milk into her coffee. "Jay's not coming for Thanksgiving. He'll visit on Christmas instead. Peter says he won't be here either. He's planning to see a friend. I've decided to take a vacation from cooking this year. I accepted an invitation from the Smithsons. I don't know what your plans are. If you like, I'll ask Janet. I'm sure you'll be welcome with us."

"I don't have any plans yet. I'll let you know."

"All right. Just don't give me too short notice." Myra took a bite of cake. "Greenberg's is the best bakery. I don't care what anyone says. What was the trouble with your car? Did your father look at it?"

"Apparently the timing had to be readjusted. The guy at the garage said they fixed it. Dad says he'll check it later."

"I know. After the game," her mother chimed in. "Well, he's no auto expert, take it from me. How'd you happen to bring it to Angelo's? Did you drive out from the city?"

"I was in Litchfield for the weekend." The tone of Jeanne's voice warned her mother not to inquire further, and Myra didn't, so the issue was circumvented without incident. What Jeanne instead found so oddly and unusually unpleasant was the instant feeling of alarm that ruffled her when her mother asked after Althea. The question should have been innocuous; Myra had known Althea for years as her daughter's friend. Yet Jeanne could barely bring herself to answer.

"I guess Althea's fine. I haven't seen her for awhile."

"Didn't you visit her on her vacation?"

"Yes, I did, but that was at the end of August."

"That long ago? Well, did you have a good time?"

"Mom, give me a break. Yes, I had a good time."

"Well, excuse me," said her mother, offended. She began to arrange the dishes on the tray, rattling them unnecessarily.

"I'm sorry. Please don't be upset," Jeanne pleaded. She was uneasy. She thought, What a pitiful history is behind my words. The sense of it is still holding me back.

* * *

Back in New York City, Jeanne grew morose as the weeks passed and Paul didn't contact her. Twice she telephoned him but no one answered. She considered writing a letter, but couldn't decide what to say.

Even more painful to her was the thought of Althea. Since September, their estrangement, never acknowledged, had become a solid wall of silence, and Jeanne didn't feel capable yet of broaching it. She couldn't think of what she'd say to Althea if she did see her. Commiserating with Althea on Paul's unworthiness would be false, she reflected. She wasn't sure, however, that she was prepared to face the truth with Althea. Nor could she assume what Althea was prepared for. They'd become strangers, she reflected sadly, thinking of how she missed her friend and longed to meet with her as she had in the past.

She was afraid to discover that she had forfeited that friendship now, and she didn't want to risk finding out. She concentrated on her job and tried not to think about these problems. In November her boss, William Roberts, the Green Heron's artistic director, presented her with a new opportunity. Rob--as he was known--explained that he had been approached by a foundation in western Massachusetts which was overseeing the renovation of an estate. The house had recently been opened up to public tours, and now the foundation was exploring the possibility of establishing a summer stock theater with a repertory company in residence. The Green Heron Theater had been recommended, and a member of the board had contacted Rob and asked him to come up for a preliminary meeting and a look around.

"I said, 'Why not?'" said Rob to Jeanne, shrugging his shoulders. He was a tall, thin Englishman. Before moving to New York, he had lived in California for twenty years. He favored pullover sweaters and flannel trousers, was around fifty years old, not particularly handsome, and unusually soft-spoken for a man of the theater. As the Green Heron's artistic director, he made it his mission to stage the works of non-American playwrights, particularly those whose plays might not otherwise be produced in New York. Jeanne had come to him a couple of years ago as an intern in a city arts program, and when the six-month internship was over, he had hired her as his assistant. Her job, which consisted mostly of day-to-day management and grant proposal writing, suited her. She had a task to do, she did it, and if it was well done, she knew it. She enjoyed the sense that she was one of the ones behind the scenes who helped keep the company going. She preferred it that way, in fact. The idea of acting herself held no appeal for her. She'd never been stage-struck in that sense.

Of late, however, she'd been feeling too settled in her job. She needed a challenge, a new project to engage her, and she readily agreed when Rob asked her to accompany him to Massachusetts to see the estate and meet the board. "Right now the idea is simply for us to get to know each other and establish a dialogue," Rob continued. "I want you to be involved, and so you ought to be included from the beginning. I haven't met these people yet, and I don't know quite what they have in mind. It's entirely possible that nothing will come of it. To tell the truth, I'm not sure it's right for us. However, I'd be remiss in my duties as artistic director if I didn't at least look into this."

"Sounds interesting," said Jeanne noncommittally. "What's the estate?"

"It's called 'The Mount.' It belonged to a writer, who built it around the turn of the century. Apparently it was very run down when the renovation began."

"Who was the writer?"

A crease deepened between Rob's eyes. "I must be getting old. I can't remember. However, I'm sure that when we go up, you'll find out all you want to know, and more."

"It's Edith Wharton," said Jeanne, suddenly guessing.

"That sounds right. Good girl."

He looked at her as if she were a student to be patted on the head for getting the correct answer, and she blushed. She believed that he knew very well who the writer was and had been humoring her. He had an irritating habit of patronizing her.

"I'll tell you what," he continued, "you can brief me about her on our drive up." As he spoke, he crossed his arms over his chest, as if he felt the need to ward her off even as he attempted to provoke her. She thought of how his manner was so smooth that he never gave the appearance of exertion, even while he juggled half a dozen commitments. In comparison, he made her feel as if there were something unseemly about the way she tried so hard, cared so much. He disapproved, not of making an effort, but of letting it show, and, as a corollary, of revealing too much emotion. Consequently, she tried to encourage his impressions of her as sensible, organized, and efficient, because that was how he wanted her to be. The result was that she often felt she was playing a role with him, and that her real self was a lot more impulsive and irrational than he realized.

He's not at all what I'd thought the founder and artistic director of a theater company would be, she reflected. For one thing, he isn't histrionic. If he's displeased with you, he'll wither you with satire.

She'd only once seen him lose his composure. That was a year ago, when the lead in a new play had come down with the measles on opening night. "Measles, that's a child's disease"--she could still recall the sound of his contempt, with its implication that the actor, if he was going to be sick, ought to have selected a more respectable illness.

He didn't mingle his private and public lives. Jeanne had only met his family on opening nights and other crucial occasions: the American wife, who Jeanne believed was a lawyer, and the two teenaged sons. To Jeanne her boss seemed a mixture of English reserve and Californian unconventionality. He had a fondness for sudden revelations and informal arrangements, which could work, she realized, to her advantage.

He was busy, and apparently so was the foundation, for the meeting was scheduled, cancelled, and then rescheduled for Monday, November 17.

On the Saturday before that, when Jeanne received the ticket to Paul's dance performance in the morning mail, she was completely taken by surprise. It was almost with regret that she felt herself being drawn to Paul, as if he were a magnet whose force she couldn't resist. For several days, she realized, she had managed not to think of him or of Althea either.

There was a letter enclosed with the ticket, or at least a note, in tone affectionate and formal, but with a timbre, at least to Jeanne, of justification: "Dear Jeanne, I've been on tour since I last saw you. Here's a ticket for our New York run. One of the pieces is my own. Hope you can make it with love Paul."

The message was written in a hurried print, with the last line running into the closure. She looked at the date on the ticket: it was for tomorrow. How like Paul, she thought, to give so little advance notice. She felt a mixture of exasperation and curiosity. She wondered if Althea would be there. Of course she would go, she decided, even though she had to get up early on Monday to drive to Massachusetts.

* * *

Althea dressed with far more care than usual for Paul's performance. Hours before it was time to go, she had already decided what to wear: a wool jersey in royal blue, with a band of black around the hem and up one side, so that one of the sleeves was black and the other blue. To it she fastened a brooch of pale green jade set in gold. She pinned her hair up.

Wearing her trenchcoat, with a red scarf around her neck, she took the subway downtown and arrived twenty minutes early. Alighting, she climbed the stairs to Seventh Avenue. Eighteenth Street was dimly lit, almost deserted on Sunday evening. Swiftly she walked west past the hulking offices of the telephone company, now empty. As she turned the corner at the end of the block, she saw, like a beacon, the name of the theater lit in pink neon.

She approached, her heart beating, but among the people gathering at the entrance, she recognized no one that she knew. She entered instantly, enjoying the ritual of handing over her ticket to an usher and being guided to her seat, three places in from the aisle on the left-hand side, in the twelfth row.

As the theater gradually began to fill, she sat studying the program. At the sight of Paul's printed name a tremor went through her. She glanced up quickly, as if somehow she might have already betrayed herself. She was embarrassed by the acuteness of her feeling and then by her reaction to it.

At ten minutes after eight, the lights went down, the murmuring hushed, and the curtain opened on Alchemy. At first the stage was dark. Then the lights rained down their illumination on four dancers, standing apart. She spotted Paul instantly, in white. The music began, jazz with many depths in it. Caught first in stillness, the dancers began to move separately, as if each were following a different instrument. Their movements were rigid and angular. To Althea, the very air onstage seemed electric with resistance. For every force, there was a counter-force.

The heat of Alchemy is its chill, she decided. Sequins glittered down the dancers' sides; there was a dusting of glitter on their cheekbones. Over the rows, she stared up at Paul. He looked so alien, so distant from her, that it seemed hard to believe that he had ever loved her. Probably he never had.

Movement succeeded movement, and escaped her. The dance was exacting, difficult. She couldn't hold it in her mind as it happened. And then it was over.

The second dance was a farce called Wild West, and Paul wasn't in it. As it unfolded in front of her, she hardly saw it. Her mind kept wandering. She was thinking about her isolation of the past months, that it was a way for her not to fail to receive, since she didn't demand. The thought was painful; it did her no honor. She was ashamed, and still she imagined how she might go on waiting. She had become so accustomed to waiting that it had come to seem the normal state of her life.

During the intermission, she remained in her seat, rereading the program she had already read. The next dance was Paul's solo, Savage Landscape. Under his name in the program was printed a single line, its source unknown to her, and she wondered if he had written it: "The glistening wing disappeared in the winds passing through the memories of youth."

The curtain opened to reveal Paul crouched in a ball. He faced the audience, but his face and torso were hidden. She saw only his bent head and his bare legs grasped by his arms. He appeared naked.

The dance began in silence. The first movement was a twitching in his shoulders, which was then echoed in his feet, rising to half-toe and higher. Up and down, he repeated the motions. His head still bent, he swayed from side to side and rocked on his heels, at first rhythmically and then more violently. It was as if a force within him were trying to escape, Althea thought. The music began, if music it was, identified in the program as the songs of humpback whales. Echo lay on echo, both deflecting and penetrating.

Paul's head came up. His expression was new, stunned. She noticed that he was actually wearing a sleeveless, flesh-colored leotard. Seeing him onstage where he couldn't see her, she believed she was still in love with him even if it wasn't reciprocated. But is it really love? she wondered. Watching him, she thought: It is certainly obsession. She knew that she hadn't yet given him up. Thoughts of him peopled her solitude; he was the missing presence in her life.

But who was Paul really, after all? She felt she knew him deeply, but not well. Was this dancer she now observed the same man whom she had longed for through lonely days and empty nights? She wondered if by picturing him so often in his absence she had perhaps ended by making him up.

She watched as he became a bird with a long neck, a stealthy hunter. In another minute he transformed himself again. He hopped from a crouch and sailed through the air as lightly as an insect--a cricket or a grasshopper--and then landed like an insect, kneeling, low to the ground, his arms folded back like wings. Scarcely pausing, he hopped again, even further this time, as the audience erupted into laughter. Althea was laughing, too. She hadn't known what to expect, but she hadn't expected this.

He's a little crazy, she thought, but I don't mind. She felt indulgent and amused at the same time. What will he become next? she wondered.

He lay on his back on the bare stage, his legs stretched into the air. His body rippled, a sinuous movement from his upraised feet down to his head. Who would have thought that one could dance flat on one's back, or would want to? she reflected. Yet she found this part of the dance beautiful, more beautiful than what had come before it.

The music ceased, but the dance continued in silence, even in stillness. Paul ceased to move; he became absolutely motionless, lying on his back. His body changed before her eyes. His muscles became rigid, defined. His flesh looked dense and hard. His skin seemed worn and polished by time. To Althea, he was like rock or driftwood. She had not imagined it possible to convey inertia with such eloquence. The moments crawled by. She could feel the audience around her caught in his spell, yet desiring release from the stillness, the heavy silence.

Just when the strain seemed unbearable, it ended. Slowly, by infinitesimal degrees, Paul relaxed and grew slack, his body sinking. When he revived, he was himself again, standing and bowing to the applause. Althea, clapping until her hands burned, thought he looked somehow diminished. He must be drained and relieved, but what else? she wondered. She tried to imagine what he was thinking.

Hurled from the darkness of the audience, a bouquet suddenly hit the stage with a slapping sound. Paul, flushing with surprise, bent to retrieve it, and Althea saw that the flowers were crimson roses, their long stems swathed in clear plastic. He cradled the roses in his arms, and then knelt and gently laid the bouquet on the stage. He left it behind as he exited, a tribute accepted and then rebestowed. The curtain closed, and when it opened for the next dance, the bouquet had vanished.

He was not in this last dance, called Flying Colors. Although this dance was Kurt's premiere, for Althea it was an anti-climax, coming after Paul's. Four dancers in different colored unitards did whimsical acrobatics to a symphonic music she couldn't identify. She was distracted, thinking of Paul. She conducted a dialogue with herself. She was determined, she had to see him. She wouldn't be satisfied until she spoke to him. Still, she realized, she was terribly afraid to face him after all this time. That was one of the reasons why she knew she had to.

At the end of Flying Colors, as the dancers lined up to take their bows, a man in street clothes appeared onstage, with four bouquets of roses, which he presented to each dancer in turn with an embrace. This must be Kurt Matthews, Althea realized. Hand in hand, holding their flowers proudly between them, the dancers and Kurt bent their heads to the final applause.

She wondered, From whom had Paul's roses come? His were dark red; the roses Kurt had given the other dancers were pink and white. Probably Bryce was in the audience and had hurled the flowers on the stage, she decided. Perhaps she would see him after the performance.

She felt nervous as she filed out of the theater, following the people who were descending to the lobby from the stairs past the foyer. They were retrieving their coats from the lockers that lined one wall, but she hadn't checked hers. With regret she noticed that the bar was closed. She could have used a drink, she thought. She didn't see Paul anywhere, or any of the other dancers. She didn't see Bryce either, or anyone else that she knew. Restlessly, nervously, she began pacing the floor. She avoided every glance, as none was Paul's. Again and again she retraced her steps. Minutes passed. The theatergoers had dwindled, but a few remained in the lobby, clustered in groups of two or three, waiting.

A glass wall with a door set in it separated the offices from the lobby. She noticed when a man shut off the lights inside and watched as he came through the door, locking it behind him. She approached him. "Do you know if Paul Carmichael will be coming through here?" she asked.

"He'll have to. That door over there in the corner is the only way out. Is he expecting you?"

She hesitated. "I'm not sure. May I wait?"

"Why not? It's a free country. For you and everybody else." The man shrugged.

Surely, they all weren't waiting for Paul, Althea thought. However, before she could wonder who was, she saw Paul come through the corner door, just as predicted. He was accompanied by two of the other dancers, the black man and the small Asian woman. Immediately they were surrounded. Althea hung back. Maybe I should just go now, she thought. Yet it struck her as strange and wrong how willing she was to give up.

However, as she stood vacillating and uneasy, Paul stepped out of the circle clustered around him. Calling her name, he approached her, radiant, filling up all her vision, so evidently happy to find her that he took both her hands in his. She neither struggled nor clasped his hands back, entirely unprepared for the warmth of his welcome. As he held her hands, he kissed her mouth quickly. She was shocked by the press of his lips, so easily and readily given, and then gone.

"Althea, I'm so glad you came!" he exclaimed with delight.

She was speechless at first. Then she said, "But did you think I wouldn't?"

"I hoped you would," he said, without a trace of guile. "Let me see you. Come, stand in the light." He led her, still holding her hands, to the rear of the lobby. Carefully, he placed her directly under one of the lights recessed in the ceiling. Like a small, fragile spotlight, it beamed down its illumination.

Yet Althea was hardly aware of her surroundings. In the intensity of his gaze, they melted away. She felt his smiling eyes scrutinizing her and the soft pressure of his fingers on her palms. Such acute attentions would have unnerved her, had he not acted so pleased.

"Your face has changed since the summer. It's grown more angular," he observed in a low voice.

"Older," she said, feeling it.

"Angular," he repeated, as if she'd misheard him. "But you're more beautiful now," he assured her.

She looked up at him, surprised. What did he mean? What did he want?

"Paul, you're wanted." The voice broke into her thoughts, calling him. It belonged to the man to whom she'd spoken about Paul.

"Just a second," Paul replied, without taking his eyes from Althea or letting go of her. "I'm talking to my old friend."

Althea heard a laugh, not Paul's. "Follow me," Paul told her, dropping one hand. He led her to the door by which he'd entered the lobby. He opened it, guiding her through, and closed it behind them.

Though they were all alone, he didn't take her in his arms as she hoped he would. He stood facing her, making a space between them that had not been there in the lobby.

"Where are we?" she asked, looking around. They were in a room furnished with chairs and a table. There was a pay telephone in an alcove. Several doors led into the room. They were all closed.

"It's called the greenroom."

"But it's not green."

"That's a theater term. It's a anteroom offstage where performers wait, fretting or rehearsing or just horsing around until they go on. I've heard a story that the greenroom got its name because set designers used it to hold small trees and shrubbery."

"Oh," she said. "I never knew you knew so much." She felt tongue-tied. Her awkwardness contrasted with his fluency. She sensed his growing impatience, as if he had brought her here for her to tell him something.

"Thanks for inviting me. I wanted to see you dance," she said.

"You did?"

She was amazed at how the question lit up his whole face, making him seem more boyish than she'd known him. "I was very curious," she admitted.

"You have a beautiful smile."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

His words fell on a silence. Quietly he said, "You are very quiet."

"Yes."

Looking at him as if to ask what he wanted her to say, she saw the motion of a thought cross his face. It surprised her how certain she was she'd guessed its meaning, that he was in fact afraid of what she might say.

Well, she felt a need to guard against him, too, but would have liked to prolong the moment, now past, when she'd felt his gaze absorbing her. As she thought of this, she noticed a slight shade of disappointment darken his face. She intuited the response he was waiting for. Yet she held back.

"Paul, will I see you again?" Considering the past few months, this was a brave question for Althea.

Their eyes met steadily. There was a brief pause like the exhale of a breath.

"Why not?" he said. "Though my nights this week are taken up. What about tea on Tuesday afternoon? I better call to confirm, say, Tuesday morning."

She heard the door open. It was the man she'd approached in the lobby. He looked at her curiously. She looked away.

"I promise," Paul promised, but said it so automatically it sounded perfunctory. She was being dismissed, and the phrase was his concession. It pained her how Paul looked past her, who had called her beautiful just moments before. She felt her wish to detain him, how that was egotistical, impossible; how she would do harm to herself, forgetting the occasion was his.

Or not acknowledging it. Because she knew how much approval mattered, she saw that it would be perverse of her to deny to Paul and to herself its satisfactions. If they had been alone in the room, she would have reached out to touch him.

The man from the lobby said to Paul, "I'm calling our hosts to say we'll be at the party in about twenty minutes." Reaching the phone, he lifted the receiver, dropped a quarter in the slot, and proceeded to dial the number.

Althea noted these preparations, the man's officiousness, her exclusion. She saw very clearly that there would always be occasions in Paul's life to which she would not be admitted. She would be ruled, or ruled out. She understood how it was required of her to leave with good grace. It was as if a principal lesson of her own life were being stretched out before her for her to read, whose truth was hard and solitary. She was convinced all over again, with such certainty that she could never have doubted it, that Paul's importance to her was out of all proportion to his actual presence in her life.

"I loved your dance. Even when I didn't know what it meant, I thought it was spellbinding. Funny and literal, and mysterious and enigmatic. I think I'll continue to find surprises in it. It's like you."

She was uncertain, at first, if he had heard her. She had spoken low so as not to reach the ears of the man engaged on the phone. But then she saw Paul's face redden, saw him blush beautifully.

It touched her again, how affected he was. She thought, Perhaps it is simpler than I have suspected. She drew her coat around her, fastened the belt at the waist: specific, casual motions. She was leaving with his word, as far as he was inclined to give it.

"Till tea, then," she said, "if you like."

"Oh, I always do as I like." Paul's sentence was spoken lightly, but it rang oddly in Althea's ears afterwards, like a protest, or Paul's swan song.

* * *

At five minutes after eight Jeanne had arrived by cab at the Joyce Theater. She hurried inside, and was quickly dispatched to her seat in the third row of the right section. Directly in front of her was a space, so that her view of the stage was unobstructed and close. As she watched Alchemy, she pictured herself interrupting Paul, speaking to him from the audience, bringing the dance to a halt. The fantasy was vivid enough to upset her. She remembered how she had made love to Paul at his urging on the stage of the Green Heron Theater. She thought, With Paul you must enter into his fantasies.

The alto saxophone repeated a three-note theme. Paul's body was like a bow strained to its bent, supple and taut. Then, as if the invisible arrow were released, he began to vibrate in gradually diminishing arcs.

In the pause after the dance, Jeanne jotted in her program, "A force restrained--Paul in white, with streaks of silver." She spent the intermission writing him a note. Folding the slip of paper in the envelope he had mailed her ticket in, she crossed out her own name on the front and wrote in his. She asked an usher to deliver the note, and he promised he'd try his best.

As she watched Paul in his solo, she reflected, The distance from the sublime to the ridiculous is really very slight. She was impressed by the way the dance moved between vision and parody. I have to grant him this, she thought, he's amazing to watch.

Judging his dance critically, she felt remote from him. Yet her appreciation grew as the dance progressed, and her pleasure was all the keener, because it was tinged with an egotistic, possessive pride. When the dance was over, she listened for the applause as anxiously as if the production were hers, in order to gauge the audience's enthusiasm.

The sound of clapping rose and fell. She saw the roses sailing through the air just before they landed on the stage. They seemed to come from the center of the orchestra. She turned, craning her neck, but couldn't make out the source in the darkness. When she faced forward again, Paul was placing the flowers on the stage. A dramatic gesture that costs him nothing, she thought, because he'll get the roses back.

After the performance and the other offerings of roses, Jeanne waited while the people around her departed. In the note to Paul, she had written that she hoped to catch him after the show. He's probably still backstage, she thought, as she slipped on her coat.

She joined the last stragglers up the aisle, following them through the doors from the theater and around to the passage overlooking the lobby. Casually she peered over the ledge, wondering if she'd spot any of the dancers.

They weren't out yet. They're probably showering and changing, she realized. She decided to wait. She saw people retrieving their wraps from the lockers, going to and from the lounges. Other people stood in clusters, apparently waiting as she was. Her eyes passed over them all hurriedly. Then she stopped. Below her in the lobby was Althea.

Jeanne saw her first from the back, a tall woman in a beige coat, her shoulders squared and resolute, her blond hair drawn tight and shining into a twist. It wasn't until Althea turned and retraced her steps that Jeanne realized she was pacing the floor. From the balcony, Jeanne stared down at Althea. She looked like a changed woman. Jeanne couldn't mistake the expression of pure crisis in her face. The skin seemed stretched taut over her bones, her mouth was set grimly. The pale gray eyes looked wide and unseeing, focused inward. Jeanne had never seen Althea appear so unearthly. She seemed entirely oblivious to any impression she made.

Jeanne had a strange sense that she was observing a private drama, unplanned, accessible only to her. Althea, pale and light in her beige trenchcoat, which hung open to reveal the bright blue stripe of her dress, projected an aura. Even in distress, she seemed undeniably beautiful.

Jeanne thought, He's breaking her heart. Although she hadn't laid eyes on her for months, Althea seemed transparent to Jeanne. She recognized Althea's love, she saw the pain it had caused her, and she pitied her for suffering for Paul.

Had she imagined that Althea would reach such depths? She considered how she, too, had played a part in this. It was as if she and Althea had come to a crossroads and then had parted. Now she looked back. She did not see herself pacing in Althea's place.

A mixture of perceptions mingled in Jeanne's mind. She thought of how Althea would hate to be approached now, but she didn't think she could remain without doing so. Then as she gazed longer at Althea in her mute agony, she couldn't bring herself to interfere. This evening, she knew, she would leave the field to Althea, if Althea could claim it.

Jeanne believed she was being beneficent, and that she could afford it, as Paul had come to her before without Althea's knowledge. However Althea had happened to be here tonight, Jeanne thought, she seemed divided and tormented now. Yet this was strangest of all to Jeanne: why, as she observed Althea so clearly weakened, did Althea seem to gain by it, and she herself to lose? For even as she pitied this once close, now distant friend for a passion that made her tread so blindly back and forth, even as Jeanne considered herself fortunate and counted on her strength to bolster her further, as she chose to forego an encounter that might have been to her advantage, she felt her new sense of herself--effective, dynamic, forceful--slipping from her grasp.

She was left with her realization from ever so long ago, on the cusp of childhood, of a capacity in Althea that she lacked, not for industry or for cleverness--in these she was Althea's match, or more--but for obsession. Althea was miserable, but in her desolation she could still inspire Jeanne's awe. In her obliviousness to her surroundings, it seemed to Jeanne that Althea acquired a greatness beyond them, and she appeared almost as an allegorical figure, or a goddess imprisoned by inner turmoil.

She remembered how even as a girl Althea had been fierce, shy, and passionately stubborn. She hadn't endeared herself to their teachers. In consequence, Jeanne had felt protective and proud of her, and privileged to be her friend. But while she had adored Althea, she had also been afraid of her.

Jeanne glimpsed the shade of that girl in the passage of the woman below her. Even in suffering, she thought, Althea was obdurate. Whether from pity or fear or love, Jeanne fled unnoticed from the Joyce Theater, suppressing her desire to greet Paul and leaving him no other message than the note whose intentions she didn't follow.

Jeanne didn't know herself if her behavior was a further example of her girlhood deference to Althea or proof that finally her girlhood was over. Just before she hurried ahead into the November night, she glanced back at the theater's entrance, at the thin stripes of pink neon running through the glass bricks. Once outside, she didn't feel freed, but plunged deeper into emotional confusion.

After having capitulated to Althea and fled, she began to regret it. She felt herself hardening towards her friend, growing defiant, her sympathy constrained. As she arrived home and brewed a cup of tea, no resolution of the difficulty immediately occurred to her except for a devout desire to be safe from the contaminations of broken hearts. She wished she could forget what had happened between her and Paul and Althea. I'm going to have to grow up all over again, she realized, grow up--that euphemistic term.

Her telephone's startling ring broke into her heavy thoughts. It was late, close to midnight. Who would be calling her now? she wondered. As she picked up the receiver, she imagined--she hoped--it might be Paul, who had been wondering why, after her note, she hadn't tried to see him.

"Hullo, Jeanne?" The clipped voice belonged to Rob. "Sorry to be calling so late. I didn't wake you? No? Are you ready for tomorrow? Good. That's why I phoned. I'm afraid I won't be able to make it. O'Malley's in town--you know--the playwright, and I must see him in the morning. You'll have to wing it on your own. Don't worry, I trust you. Make no promises and take good notes. I know you'll ask all the right questions. Why don't you bring Martin, the new intern, with you for company? It'll be a learning experience for him."

"For me, too," said Jeanne, caught off-guard, her mind whirling. Then she assured him, "It's fine, Rob. I'm sure I can handle it."

"After you arrive, they'll show you around the estate. There's one meeting scheduled for Monday evening and another for Tuesday morning. The foundation's Board of Directors, the architect, and the historic preservation people will be there, and I don't know who else. Afterwards, you'll drive back. Mrs. Fayerweather, one of the board members, has offered to put you up."

"That name conjures a picture of sherry served in tiny glasses."

"Just be your charming self," said Rob.

"Probably it will be like college teas with alumnae," Jeanne mused aloud. "Genteel New England ladies making polite conversation."

"You know, I believe that the estate was at one time a girls' school."

"Is that so?" commented Jeanne, pleased. "Imagine that. I was just woolgathering."

"It's all set then? You'll take your car? I'll reimburse you for the gas, of course. And you'll call Martin?"

"Yes," she said.

* * *

Martin Walsh, the intern, was a theater student at Juilliard, who was taking a year off from school. Jeanne found his company agreeable on the drive up, as they gossiped about the small Green Heron staff and Rob in particular. Martin imitated Rob so accurately he made Jeanne laugh. He wanted to be an actor. She chose not to tell him that she had started at the Green Heron as an intern herself.

It was a beautiful autumn day, clear, sunny, and brisk. They rolled down the windows when they left the Taconic Parkway for country roads, and the cool, fragrant breeze blew through the car. After they reached Lenox, they found the estate off a narrow road and pulled into the gravel driveway.

The docent, Mrs. James, took them on an exclusive tour through the house, which had been built by Edith Wharton, as Jeanne had guessed. Mrs. James was well-versed in her subject and eager to display her information. "Edith"--she referred to her familiarly, by her first name, as if they were acquaintances--"took the greatest interest in decoration, furnishings, and landscape design. The original property was a hundred acres. 'Cottages,' they used to call them back then, rather coyly, I think. However, Edith's plan for The Mount, emphasizing privacy and symmetry, was never completed. Her marriage was unhappy, and it was here that some of its most pathetic scenes were played out. When she divorced her husband, she sold the estate and moved to Europe. She never returned."

Mrs. James spoke matter-of-factly. She had said all this before. "That's why we have none of the original furnishings," she continued. "They were sold." She described how the property, divided, had diminished in its passage through various hands. In the late forties the house became a girls' private school. "I'm an alumna," Mrs. James said proudly. "Many of us involved in the restoration are. The school was old-fashioned; it taught young ladies to be accomplished. I wouldn't say the academics were too rigorous, but we had fun. The girls who had horses were allowed to board them in stables on the grounds. It was nice." She sighed nostalgically. "But we were hard on the place. You know, young girls. We knew the house had once belonged to a famous writer named Edith Wharton, but that was all we knew."

Listening to her, Jeanne thought of how odd it was that Edith Wharton's house became the kind of school she would have hated, preparing girls from good families for lives in society, which, in its elite form, was what she rebelled against all her life--its circumscription of men and women, its neglect of the intellect, the hypocrisy of its values. But Jeanne didn't say this to Mrs. James. Isn't it even odder, she wondered, that women educated in such a school are now guiding and financing the restoration?

"Times change," Mrs. James said. "Our daughters weren't interested in attending the school. They wanted to be with the boys, and I can't say that I blame them. If they're going to be competing with the men, they need to have the same education.

"The school closed its doors about ten years ago. Already shabby, the house deteriorated. Finally, a group of us alumnae got together and decided to do something about it. But it takes years and lots of money. The restoration's still far from complete. We're doing it bit by bit."

Jeanne had been making encouraging murmurs to Mrs. James as she listened. Upstairs, reminders of the school were still in evidence, in a row of institutional sinks and in the scuffed linoleum floors.

After the tour and before the meeting, Jeanne went outside for a breath of air and quiet. She stood on the terrace behind the house and looked down a vista of sloping green fields: a valley and then a rise in the distance. It was late in the afternoon. The sun had descended, the landscape was darkening, but the sky was still clear.

She strolled on the grounds, through what had once been a walled Italian garden, now in ruins. Next to it, tall trees had grown up, reclaiming the lawn. She wandered in the other direction, following the depression of the land until she came to a pond. On its surface swam two swans. By a trick of the fading light, the pond was a mirror, clear, still, and dark, with scarcely a ripple to mar its surface. She watched the disappearing trail left by the paddling swans. They swam toward each other, but paused before they met. Jeanne observed them, beautiful and imperial, their proud whiteness and its reflections held perilously in the liquid blackness. Behind her she heard the slip of a footstep on the grass and assumed it was Martin.

"Excuse me."

The voice was unfamiliar. Startled, she turned to face a slender man, of medium height, with wavy chestnut hair, dark eyes, white teeth, and a dimple that showed when he smiled. He was smiling. "You look lost in a dream."

"I was. They're beautiful," she said, meaning the swans.

"Yes." Gently he intoned the single syllable.

"I'm the preservation consultant," he continued. "René Duval. I've been asked to collect you. The meeting's about to begin."

She nodded. "Where's Martin, my assistant?"

"He's waiting inside."

Turning her back on the swans, she followed René up to the house. Upstairs, around an old table which looked as if it had come from the school, they sat--Jeanne, Martin, Mrs. Fayerweather, René, Mrs. James, the architect, and several other board members. Jeanne learned about plans to pay for the restoration. Private sources were being asked for pledges in expectation of a matching grant from the Massachusetts Historical Commission. Eligibility was assured, for The Mount was listed on the National Register. The board had originally hired René to prepare the nomination, Jeanne learned. Now he was arranging a detailed schedule of the restoration to submit to the state in request for funding.

Even as Jeanne listened carefully to Mrs. Fayerweather and took down the information that Rob was expecting, she found herself paying close attention to René, watching for mention of his name, hoping he would speak. But he did not.

"We're dedicated to making an historic and cultural center," Mrs. Fayerweather said to Jeanne. "We think a summer stock theater will attract people to The Mount. We think that the community can support such a theater. We'd like to construct an outdoor stage and housing on the grounds for a company in residence. If you decide that you're interested in us, and vice versa, then you can be involved in the planning and the design."

"What kind of arrangement are you looking for?" Jeanne asked.

"Whatever is most beneficial to the two of us. We're new at this, but that means you have more of an opportunity. And René and Chris here"--Mrs. Fayerweather nodded to the architect--"have pointed out to us that the natural slope of the land makes it an ideal site for an amphitheater. In fact, that's what first interested us in the idea."

"What kind of productions do you have in mind?" Jeanne asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Something that will attract people. Shakespeare, or maybe musicals."

"But you know," Jeanne spoke softly, "that's not what we do."

Mrs. Fayerweather's cheeks turned red. She looked flustered. "Well, I-I don't know," she stammered. "Naturally that will have to be discussed."

"Naturally," Jeanne said calmly. Yet she felt annoyed. How well recommended could the Green Heron have been, she wondered, if they know so little about our productions? "Make no promises," Rob had said. That also means "Make no conditions," she thought.

"You'll have to take that up directly with the artistic director," Jeanne continued. "Unfortunately, he couldn't be here today and sent me in his stead. For your information, I brought up brochures describing our last two seasons. You'll see that we're devoted to modern European theater, twentieth-century classics or plays by contemporary playwrights. If you have any questions, I'll be happy to try to answer them."

* * *

"I wonder if I came on too strong," Jeanne confessed to Martin after the meeting. They were driving in her car to Mrs. Fayerweather's, where they had all been invited to dinner and where she and Martin were to stay the night.

"I don't think so. They seemed interested even after you showed them the brochures. But we're dealing with some real characters. Like that lady who seems to have a fixation on Shakespeare, and kept going on about 'historically incorrect productions.'"

"I guess she just wanted a chance to mouth off, since it's not even an issue with us," said Jeanne.

"She acted as if she believed that Shakespeare isn't Shakespeare unless it's performed by men in tights."

Jeanne smiled. "Now, Martin," she remonstrated, but he continued shamelessly, "The other one that drove me crazy was the one that wants us to do My Fair Lady." In a high, affected voice, Martin mimicked, "'It gives me chills when Freddy sings On the Street Where You Live. He's so sweet; Eliza should leave the professor for him.' Rob will be glad that we went instead of him," he commented. "You don't think anything will come of it, do you?"

"I have no idea. I don't think Mrs. Fayerweather is really so bad underneath her bluster. She seemed open to us when she found out more about us. She's trying hard to please, and she's insecure. She certainly seemed to like you, Martin. At least, she was exclaiming over you when I came into the meeting."

"I know. I guess I'll turn on the charm tonight."

"Do you want this proposal to go, then?" asked Jeanne.

"Well, there might be an opportunity for me. For you, too, Jeanne. Maybe you could be artistic director for summer stock."

"It's way too soon to speculate about that," Jeanne said.

Mrs. Fayerweather's party was so much as Jeanne had imagined that she pinched herself to make sure that it was real--a room furnished in chintz, a fire burning in the fireplace, sherry for the ladies and more serious drinks for the men. Martin, however, asked for sherry. He was instantly claimed by Mrs. Fayerweather, who had called him "adorable." He's not a bad actor, Jeanne thought, watching him, cornered by their hostess, fill the role of a bright young thing. "You must meet my daughter," Jeanne heard Mrs. Fayerweather say.

Suddenly pensive without knowing why, Jeanne stood before the fire. The constantly altering flames were hypnotic. She felt a light tap on her shoulder. It was René, the preservation consultant.

"I wanted to speak to you alone," he said in a voice so low he almost whispered. "I think they'll give you what you want eventually. They'll just make it difficult for you along the way."

"Do you think so? How do you know?"

"I've been working with them for about six months. I'll do what I can to help you."

"Why?" asked Jeanne. "Are you interested in the project?"

"It was my idea."

"Were you the one who recommended us?"

"No, I don't know about theater companies. I don't know who gave them your name."

"I wonder who did. Certainly no one who was there today."

"Why don't we sit down," he suggested. Just then, however, they were interrupted by one of the board members who said that she wanted to thank them both for coming. Then she went on to speak to someone else, and they resumed their conversation. Jeanne learned that René was American on his mother's side, but had grown up in Paris. His father still worked for UNESCO there. René had gone to lycée and studied architecture at the École des Beaux Arts. Then he had taken a master's degree in historic preservation at Columbia. He had left New York, it turned out, just when she had moved there, although he still travelled to the city frequently on business. Some of his projects were joint endeavors with New York firms. He contracted his services to municipalities and not-for-profit organizations like The Mount Restoration. He was visiting another property tomorrow.

"So you won't be at the morning meeting?" Jeanne asked.

"No," he replied, shrugging his shoulders and frowning. "I wasn't told about it. I guess it doesn't involve me."

They talked through a dinner of cold meats, breads, and salads served buffet-style. Jeanne sensed that his interest in her was genuine, but he was polite, not intrusive. His manners made an impression on her. He ate with appetite and scrupulous precision, cutting his meat carefully before conveying it to his mouth with the fork turned down, European-style. At one point, discussing the restoration, he set down his plate on the coffee table. With a ball-point pen on a paper napkin, he sketched the footprint of the house for Jeanne and drew in the wavy contour lines of the site. "Here is where we might put the theater," he said, marking it in. "Chris and I are thinking of a relatively simple structure, a shell with an elevated stage."

They discussed the possibilities as they finished eating. Before coffee was served, however, René rose abruptly. Jeanne remained seated with her plate in her lap, and when he looked down at her, she felt awkward.

"Don't let me disturb you," he said. "I must be going." In a voice pitched in a lower tone, he continued, "Will you allow me to see you on a personal basis when I come to New York? I'd like to take you out to dinner. I'm thirty-two years old and single."

Jeanne laughed. "What a proposal! Like from the Old World."

"Well, I did grow up there."

"I know."

"Is anyone in love with you?"

A wave of sadness washed over her. She didn't reply. She felt him watching her expression. "Perhaps I'll see you," she said. "You can try."

"Will you give me your number?"

While he took away their plates, she wrote it for him on a corner of the napkin he had drawn on. Then she tore the piece off and gave it to him. The rest of the napkin she saved. After he left, she thought, He didn't even shake my hand.

The meeting the following morning was with the assembled board. Jeanne found herself going over much the same ground she'd covered the previous afternoon. "I guess at least we opened a dialogue," Jeanne remarked to Martin as they began the trip back. She was driving, and he sat next to her in the passenger seat, his eyes shaded by aviator sunglasses with mirrored lenses.

"I guess so." He sighed. "I'm expected to meet the heiress when she comes home from boarding school for Christmas vacation. I'm supposed to take her out. The official story is that I'm advising her about colleges. That's a joke. I don't even know if I plan to graduate."

"You won't go back to Juilliard?"

"It depends on what happens with my acting career. Some of our most famous alumni were dropouts."

"You know, I never thought of not graduating from college," Jeanne mused. "I wanted my degree."

"Maybe you should tell that to the Mademoiselle," Martin said. "Madame will find your advice much more congenial, I'm sure. I noticed, however, that your attention was already engaged last night."

Jeanne's hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel. "What did you think of him?" she asked casually. She couldn't bring herself to mention René by name.

They came to a stop sign. She glanced at Martin. He was looking in the mirror mounted to the visor, adjusting his sunglasses. "Cute catch, I guess, if you like the prissy French type."

"Come on, Martin, that's not fair."

"Oh man, she's serious. Ooh la la!"

"Listen, Martin, I want you to promise me. Don't say anything to Rob about him yet. I haven't decided if I'll see him, but I want to keep my private life private."

"So he's asked you out," said Martin sagely. "Jeanne, you're too transparent. Of course you'll see him."

"Do you promise?" She heard herself sounding upset.

"Oh--kay," he drew the word out for emphasis.

"Then let's drop it. Since you already know so much about me." Yet, as Jeanne said this, she was thinking of how much Martin didn't know about her.

Martin pressed her no further. He turned on the radio, and they were absorbed by their own thoughts. Why, Jeanne wondered, had René asked her not if she was in love, but if she was loved? Did he think it more indelicate to inquire after her own feelings? Did he feel so certain of himself that he only asked to be made aware of rivals?

He had drawn her out, not only with questions, but with an interest that she had sensed in his eyes when he looked at her. Martin was right, of course. If René phoned her, she'd see him.

She stopped at a farmstand, and they both bought maple syrup. In fact, she was glad to be returning to New York. She considered how trips out of the city helped to sustain her enthusiasm for urban life. They prevented her from going stale, from feeling trapped. She had only been gone one day, but she was returning in possession of fresh choices. There was not only the project and the possibilities it might offer to her; she'd given her telephone number to a new man.

She thought of how Paul's performance and its aftermath already seemed distant. She looked back on Althea and their non-encounter with impatience. Althea's attitude now struck her as rigid and stifling, bent as she had seemed on tragedy. Jeanne had foreseen a miserable outcome in Althea's pacing, and when she had applied it to herself, she had fled. She had desired peace, she thought, yet she was at war.

She pictured Paul on the stage, with her and Althea separate in the audience. He performed his remarkable parts and vanished. The interlude became the past.

She wondered if this was the way it would end, with them on one side of the curtain but unknown to each other, and Paul on the other. She tried to imagine a future where she and Althea would be able to speak easily, to embrace lightly. It wasn't in the name of freedom that she had made love to Althea with Paul's encouragement, although she had felt free.

Yet she was not free. Not as long as she would find herself running from Althea rather than face her, or as long as the barrier of silence remained between them. With no clear plan in her mind, Jeanne vowed that when she arrived in New York, she would call her estranged friend to invite her to lunch.

Chapter Sixteen

On the Tuesday after Paul's performance, Althea forced herself to be busy, but she was really waiting all the while for him to phone. He didn't call in the morning, nor at noon. At one o'clock, her phone's ringing startled her, and she jumped up to answer it.

It was someone wanting to sell cable to her. "I don't even have a television," she explained. After she hung up, she reproached herself for her nerves. But just after two, when the phone rang again, she wasn't any steadier. Finally, it was Paul on the line.

The connection was faint, impeded by static and other, rumbling noises that sounded like traffic.

"Paul?"

"Yes, Althea?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm calling from the other side of the world."

"What?"

"I won't be able to make it this afternoon."

"Oh." Her spirits sank.

"What?" The line between them buzzed. "Althea, I can hardly hear you, and anyway I've got to run. I'm sorry about this afternoon."

Where are you really? Althea wanted to ask, but restrained herself, sensing that if she did, he wouldn't answer. Instead she pressed him in a different way. "What about tomorrow? Can you meet me then?"

"Ummm, yeah. Say about three."

"Great. Do you have a preference?"

"No, you name it."

Althea had to tell him twice before he heard it. It was too much of an effort to speak any longer, and Paul didn't offer to call her back. Her goodbye was strangled by the click of his hanging up. Slowly she placed the receiver in its cradle. She suddenly felt light-headed. "I'm calling from the other side of the world." His presumption is incredible, she thought. After all, he's dancing tonight in New York. An amused smile, mocking at her own expense, curved her lips. She wondered, Having broken one date, will he keep the next one?

It seemed like such a small thing--the prospect of tea in the afternoon--but to Althea it was not. After she had managed to reschedule their date, she realized how pitiful it was that it should mean so much. It showed up, by contrast, the emptiness of the rest of her life, as much an indication of its poverty as the balance of her bank account.

She wanted to cry. I've been by myself too long, she thought. She looked into her heart and recognized her wish, deep, secret, and primitive, that a man would appear in her life and deliver her. She realized that her wish was like those childhood dreams where simply to pronounce one's desire is to have it be fulfilled. But understanding her wish did not wean her from it. Her wish was like a dream of being freed all at once, as if by the flick of a wand or the gaze of a lover. Though it was a dream of freedom, it imprisoned her. She realized that she could not grow away from it.

She considered her life. It was in order to free herself for the rigors of art that she was avoiding the traditional anchors of middle-class adulthood. She had neither husband, nor house, nor family, nor well-paid, worldly career. She had truly believed that she had to give up in order to receive, as if the artist's gift of creativity were a love that one must renounce the world for. But the fact was, she reflected, that she had to live in the world in order to make her art, and the truth of her circumstances was that the world humbled her. Since arrogance was now an attitude she was no longer able to afford, she thought that she would have liked to be approved of, but she didn't know how to change her situation.

She had vowed that in art if in nothing else she would please herself. But now that she felt the anguish of "nothing," she wondered why the choice had to be so unrelenting. It was not her art that was wrong, but her attitude, yet the attitude had always seemed so much a part of the process. She reflected on how she had become so singular. Sometimes it seemed to her when she looked around that she had lost touch with her own generation, achievers of security and success. Her sense as a child of not feeling at home in the world had been preserved in her as an adult. She experienced her difference as a disability, and it made her unhappy.

Now that Paul had cancelled their date, she had the afternoon to fill. She vowed that she would make her time mean something; she would paint. Since the night of Halloween, when she had faced her paintings again, she had been working on them slowly and steadily when she was not teaching. She was bringing them to completion, she could tell. Perhaps by the end of the month, she allowed herself to hope, they will be finished. For the greatest joy in my life now, she reflected, is that my art has returned to me.

All afternoon she applied herself, too absorbed to track the passage of hours, until she felt a headache and was too tired to see her paintings clearly. Outside it was already dark, she realized. Abruptly she stopped. She began the ritual of cleaning up, scraping her palette, washing her brushes. Just as she had dried her hands, the phone rang again. As she picked it up, a woman's voice answered her, that at first she didn't identify.

"Hello, Althea."

"Yes?"

"Don't you know who this is? It's Jeanne." The words came out in a rush.

"I do now."

"How are you?"

"Fine, I guess."

"Are you? Althea--"

"Jeanne," Althea broke into Jeanne's sentence, surprising even herself, "what is it? Why are you calling me now?"

"You mean, why now and not before?"

"That's what I do mean."

"If I could answer that, maybe I would have called you earlier. Will you talk to me now?"

"Talk?" said Althea, "I'm talking," and heard how hard she sounded, felt how angry she was.

At the other end of the line, Jeanne took a sip of coffee to rally her nerves. What will help me through this conversation? she wondered. I'm vulnerable, too, after all. "I've thought of you. It's not that I haven't." Jeanne paused. "How is your painting?"

"It's coming along. I'd rather not be teaching. But you've heard that before, that's an old story."

"It's all right. You can tell me about it."

"No," said Althea, "you didn't call me up for that. Besides, I don't feel like talking about it."

"I called you to see how you are."

"Well, I'm fine. Are you satisfied?"

"Althea, you're making it hard for me. I'd like to see you. Can you think of a time when we can get together?"

"I don't know. I'm busy tomorrow and teaching on Thursday and Friday. But I guess I could meet you some other time."

"I have my job. I didn't mean during the week. What about Saturday? Will you meet me for lunch?"

"That reminds me of your mother," said Althea, the memory recalling her to intimacy despite herself. "Didn't your mother used to meet her friends for lunch on Saturdays?"

"Actually she met them on weekdays when we were in school. None of them worked."

"You know, I don't think my mother ever did that."

"No?"

"No," said Althea. "Well, what do you want to do, meet for a burger or something?"

"Let's go somewhere nice. I'll take you."

"You know, Paul's dancing this week," Althea suddenly volunteered.

"Yes, I know," said Jeanne. "I saw him."

Althea's answer was to give no answer. "Will you meet me," continued Jeanne, "if I make reservations at two at Johanna's on Sixteenth Street off Fifth Avenue?

"A ladies' lunch with ladies' talk?"

"If you like," said Jeanne. "It's up to you."

"And up to you," said Althea, and her voice was as even as Jeanne's.

* * *

On a golden afternoon, Paul came strolling across Central Park from the East Side to meet Althea. This Wednesday was so warm that happiness seemed to float in the air. "Seventy-seven degrees, a record high for November 19," Paul had heard announced over the radio when he'd stopped to buy mints at a drugstore on Madison Avenue. In the park he heard seagulls and thought of the sea. At the edge of the Great Lawn, he saw them wheeling and settling. Behind him, Belvedere Castle, where the temperature was recorded, stood on its high, dark cliff. It's the kind of day, he thought, that makes you feel as if you'll live forever.

Just as he crossed the park's western boundary, he noticed a youth approaching the entrance whose beauty matched the day's. He reminded Paul of Christopher in the gallery of musical instruments in Boston. He had dark, curly hair, a Grecian profile. He was wearing jeans and a tee-shirt that revealed his smooth, rippling arms. Observing him, Paul's mood changed. He felt a pang thinking that he would never again be so young. The boy's smile was a flash of impersonal goodwill. Then, entering the park, he broke into a run, calling out to companions unseen by Paul, who had turned his back and was waiting for the light to cross the avenue.

Paul walked south and then headed west on a side street. A bell tolled the hour, thrice, thrilling and chilling his heart. When he reached the café, Althea was waiting for him outside at one of the small round tables placed right on the sidewalk. She was sitting peacefully, watching the street. Her menu was open, and he assumed that she hadn't yet ordered.

She rose to greet him, stately, her hair flowing over her shoulders. She was dressed plainly in a dark sweater and jeans. She stood a little stiffly, as if unsure what to do.

His forefinger grazed her cheekbone; then he stepped back. "Althea, I've kept you waiting."

"Yes, you have." Her voice was low, her complexion pale next to her clothing. Her eyes were gray flecked with yellow, like a distant horizon, her face so smooth it seemed nearly expressionless, emphasizing the strong, full curves of her jaw and cheek. Yet she was not really so composed.

"I thought we'd sit outside," she said, interrupting the silence she had opened between them. "It's so warm."

"Fine."

Their chairs were set beside each other at angles facing the street, not opposite, not touching. The young waitress brought Paul a menu. He scanned it rapidly. "I'll have something rich and gooey. Chocolate mousse cake and an espresso. And you?" he nodded to Althea.

"A lemon ice because it feels like summer." As the waitress departed, she continued, "I cut the review of your performance from Monday's Times. I thought you'd want an extra copy."

She opened her purse, unfolded the clipping, and laid it on the table. He didn't glance at it. "Are you trying to torture me?" he asked.

"I thought it was good. Well, most of it anyway."

Paul stared at her as though in disbelief. Althea felt defensive. She wanted him to know she was his champion. "Critics have to express reservations," she pleaded. "That's their job. They can't love everything. Remember, they're only critics. You're the artist."

"Where do they get off?" Paul complained. "They're so self-important. I hate it when they write about the 'vocabulary' of dance."

"They're writers. They're trying to find a connection to words."

"Well, they could be more original." He took the clipping, dated November 17, 1980, and read from it: "'The audience got a special treat in the Kurt Matthews Dancers' opening performance at the Joyce Theater on Sunday night. Mr. Matthews' lead dancer, Paul Carmichael'--Eric and Hector have already given me grief about that," Paul interjected--"'premiered his first creation, a solo dance called Savage Landscape. Notwithstanding the terrible title, this is an interesting piece, which seems influenced by the Japanese form of dance called Butoh.' Well, I'll skip the dissertation," Paul said, "and head straight to the point, such as it is. 'There were some tantalizing sequences, which Mr. Carmichael performed well, but his intent wasn't always clear. His vocabulary is esoteric.'" Paul snorted with disgust, then skipped to the last line. "'Still, he's someone to watch for in the future.' Blah, blah, blah."

Althea laughed. "Well, I'm one to talk. I've never been reviewed. I'm terrified. Sometimes I think I'd rather not be reviewed, but if I'm ever to get anywhere, I realize I'm going to have to change my attitude. Still, I thought this part was good, about Alchemy." She rotated the clipping on the table, and read, "'Paul Carmichael stood out among the group. He exhibits a good performance quality, with striking lines, and is at ease onstage.' That's true," she commented, hoping to please him.

"What bothers me is the implication that I'm a dancer, not a choreographer, and I ought to stick to what I know."

"But this review didn't say that at all."

"The one in Newsday did."

"I didn't see it. Have there been others?"

"I'm waiting for the weeklies. Not exactly with baited breath. I'd like to say that the effect of the reviews is like water off a duck's back, but it's not true. However, I'm trying not to care too much. The audiences matter to me more than the critics, and you know, I think I really want my audiences to be speechless."

"But they could just as well be speechless with horror, shock, or dismay, as speechless with delight."

"That's true. But to me that's preferable to the ready-made responses that are about as automatic as reflexes. I mean when the audience thinks, That looks pretty, or else, That's a difficult execution, and then claps and immediately forgets about it. I want my audiences to have to digest what they've seen. I want to create a kind of magic so they're not quite sure of what they've experienced."

As he spoke, Althea found herself recalling his performance, feeling again the sharp pang when she'd recognized him onstage, existing in another realm, beautiful and unreachable and utterly remote. Before she could respond to his comment, their order arrived--an imposing hill of pale blond ice in a glass tumbler, a plump, dark wedge of cake, and black coffee in a small, thick china cup. The waitress placed the check face-down, one corner under the edge of Paul's saucer, and left them to attend to the next table.

"Looks great," commented Paul, spreading his napkin over his lap.

"Do you always eat like this before a performance?"

"It's not for hours. I don't eat just before. I really eat a lot afterwards, whatever I want." He grinned and took a huge first bite.

Althea scooped up her ice with a long-handled spoon, eating it slowly, dreamily letting it melt on her tongue. The coldness, the sour taste and grainy texture soothed her. It felt unreal to be consuming an ice in the warm sun of November with Paul beside her. He ate quickly but fastidiously, with evident relish. She wondered if he would offer her a taste, but he didn't. She repressed a counter-offer of her own, though inwardly savoring the fantasy of holding the spoon up to his mouth and his sucking up the contents of it.

He finished his cake, pressing his fork to the plate to get the last crumbs. Her ice was a diminished, still-gleaming heap, melting into a little pond.

She gazed at him, a smile curving her cold lips, and he watched her, smiling back. Without speaking another word, they acknowledged the intimacy between them in that look, and she luxuriated in what seemed to her was being admitted without actually being said. It felt like a freedom not to need to say it, while she sat beside Paul in the warm sun.

But he was not content; he had to speak. "What are you hiding, Althea?" he asked gently.

She had been uplifted; now she was being carefully set down. She sighed, regretting his question, regretting having to make her reply explicit in words. "I was thinking of how easy it is to be with you."

"But I'm a difficult person. Most people think it's hard to be with me."

"I know that." She watched as he stirred sugar into his coffee and took a small sip. "Right now, I find you restful to be with."

He laughed. "That's a new one."

She smiled and then felt her smile grow melancholy. "It's horrible to be the one who waits, Paul."

"I've been away, you know," he said. "I was on tour."

"How would I know?" Her voice was quiet and bitter.

"That's true, I didn't tell you. I've been up in New England for over a month, working very hard, dancing all the time. That's where I made up my dance." He looked her straight in the face. "To tell the truth, I hardly thought of anything else."

She didn't flinch or take offense. "Believe me, I understand artistic obsession. You know, I'd like to see your dance again."

"You'll have a chance, but not tonight. Tonight's the other program."

"Will you change the dance because of the reviews?"

"I'll probably change it in spite of the reviews. To spite the reviewers. Maybe I'll change the title. Do you really think it's terrible? Do you have any ideas?"

"I don't know. No." Their conversation had come close to her heart, and then veered off. Though afraid, she was determined to bring it back again. "You explained about the last month, but what about before that, Paul? Why didn't you get in touch with me?"

"I thought it better not to."

"Better for you."

"Oh, Althea." She heard the exasperation in his voice, and the pity.

"Has it really been so hard?" he asked, this time gently.

Her assent was a monotone so low it could scarcely be heard. Still she was dry-eyed. A truck came rumbling down the narrow side street, drowning out his comment. She looked at the doll fastened to the grill on the front, like the figurehead of a ship, a custom she had never heard described, but had often noticed. The doll was battered and dirty by now from its voyages through city streets.

A dissolve, and then distance. The distance between them. She thought that she still felt desire for him, but it was a different desire, having existed so long in his absence.

She had no choice; that was clear. Or, rather, her only choice was to say no.

As Paul watched Althea, he was aware of her beauty, sparer than in the summer, her tan long faded to the pallor of November. It was as if she were worn to a translucency, like old alabaster. He thought of taking her hand, and thought twice. He couldn't help, when she hung her head, the sudden thrill through his heart, the exquisite pleasure that came of seeing her suffer.

The sensation was so delicately wrought in him that at first he hardly understood it, and he didn't do it justice. His annoyance and pity didn't pass, but, as he divined her, he felt a kind of exultation compounded of both happiness and pain. Yet he was hardly able at first to show it.

Unable to understand him, she looked at him questioningly and shook her head. "You've puzzled me, and I've puzzled myself. I think perhaps in part you always meant to, yet I can't entirely believe it."

He didn't laugh. A look of strain came over his face, making him haggard. It was a complete change. For the first time, he appeared used to Althea, even tarnished. It was a flash of revelation, a new thought of him, as diminished as herself. The transcendence, the empowering energy that she had felt from him--they were gone. This Paul was not superhuman, but mortal and flawed.

Yet the sight of him was still affecting to her. The flicker of desire was in them both--she'd sensed it the instant he'd greeted her by touching her cheek. What she had really been trying to tell him, she reflected, was that it was easier to be with him than to long for him and to be without him. It made her sad to remember all the times when she was alone and had thought of him with such desire. She couldn't bear for him to know that. Yet in some sense she wanted him to have to know it.

However, what good could that possibly do her? she thought, as they sat beside each other, not touching, their desserts consumed. "That was an amazing moment," she recalled, changing the subject, "when those flowers came flying on the stage. They were from Bryce, weren't they? I looked for him afterwards, and I didn't see him."

"No, they weren't from Bryce."

"The roses were Jeanne's offering then?" Althea sounded incredulous.

"No."

"I didn't think so. It's not like her to make a gesture like that. Besides, she can barely throw."

Paul laughed.

"It's true. I should know," Althea went on. "We were in junior high school gym class together. Who did send the roses?"

"A secret admirer."

"Come on, Paul."

"Okay, don't believe me. You don't think I have secret admirers?"

He was enjoying this, she could tell, and she felt exasperated. She refused to indulge him. "But Jeanne was there, wasn't she, at your opening night?"

"Yes."

"Did you see her?"

"No," he said, meeting her eyes directly. "She sent me a note with the usher, saying that she would look for me, but I found you instead."

"Did she." Althea heard a resistance in Paul's tone and decided not to pursue the topic, although this information by itself was a frail intelligence to meet Jeanne with on Saturday against all that she did not know.

Her next question, however, was even less welcome. "How is Bryce?" was followed by a pause in which Paul said nothing. He simply sat still and waited as if he had not heard. A delivery boy whizzed by on a bike, ringing his bell for no reason at all. The sound, rather gentle for a warning, welled up in the silence. Without understanding why, she inferred that she was on dangerous ground, that Paul was keeping her at length, as if she were his adversary.

"We've spent all this time talking about me and my dance, and none about you and your painting. How's it going? Any shows coming up?"

He's trying to disarm me, she thought. She felt as if she were being called on to play a part, to maintain a structure of courtesy, and she submitted.

"Shows? I don't even have a dealer yet. I suppose I ought to do the round of galleries with slides, but I've been putting it off. I have a number of excuses: I haven't yet made the slides, and I don't know where to begin. I don't want to go about it blindly, approaching dealers who won't be interested in my work. I'm not part of any trendy scene, and I don't have any connections. I need to research the different galleries, but I haven't had the time or the inclination. It puts me off to think about marketing my work while I'm in the midst of doing it. I want to finish these paintings first. They're my most recent and I hope my best."

"What paintings are they?"

"The ones I was working on on Block Island."

"Still?"

"Yes."

"I haven't seen them yet."

"No."

"I thought you would have offered if you'd wanted me to see them." Paul sounded defensive.

"I was waiting for you to ask."

"I didn't know that. Well, I'd like to see them now if you'd care to show them."

Between us are taboos, she thought, set by him, that I can't bring myself to break, but my paintings are no longer one of them. "You can if you like."

"Maybe I'll drop by one of these days."

"Come to think of it, perhaps you ought to wait until they're finished. I hope it won't be too long now. I'm trying to imagine them completed and then complete them."

"Maybe you won't know they're done until they are."

"Maybe." In her mind's eye she pictured her canvases waiting for her in the quiet dark of her studio. They were relics of her past, she thought, or recreations of it. Will he look at them, she wondered, and remember Block Island?

Out of the blue she recalled some cloud-and-wind-swept collages she once had seen in a Kurt Schwitters exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art. She wondered if they might have influenced her paintings. She recalled watching the somber light on the sea from the deck of the New London ferry with Paul and Jeanne beside her. It seemed no effort at all to bring her left hand over Paul's right one resting by his empty cup on the table.

All the time they had been talking, she had ached to touch him, and now, at last, she thrilled to the feel of his long, slender fingers under hers. But she was timid, her caress was light, and almost instantly she took her hand away.

At her touch Paul started, stifling a cry. Withdrawing, she paused in mid-air, and then laid her hand back over his. He covered her hand with his free hand so that it was sandwiched between both of his. She couldn't speak, flooded by the sensation of the two of them together, against the rest of the world. Her being surged; in a second she could be persuaded to give up everything if she could have him--flinging palette knives and brushes behind her, goodbye painting! She stared at his mouth; she couldn't help herself. As she raised her eyes to his, she saw him slowly shake his head. Releasing her hand, he declined to kiss her. She would not be asked to give up anything.

She thought of how her impulse to abandon everything for him was part of a wish for a different life. It was an impulse far from reality--hers or his. The fact was, she sacrificed for art; she didn't sacrifice art. She could see herself living in poverty for the rest of her life before she'd give up painting. The reckless desire which had overcome her so suddenly would never be realized. The question instead was how to use this energy which she derived from Paul, which would otherwise be useless. It was this reality that he would leave her with.

And it would be soon. Paul snapped his fingers. "I better be going. It's getting late, and I have things to do before tonight's performance."

"Of course."

Their movements, rising, jostled the table. The dishes slid, and the check, dislodged, was caught in a breeze that took it away, turning it over and over. They watched in surprise as the check was blown further and dropped, skidding over the fallen leaves, skimming the pavement.

She looked at Paul, who reluctantly stepped out from behind the table. That was the only move he made to chase after the check, for just then it blew under a car parked at the curb.

Paul shrugged, amused. "I guess that takes care of that."

"You mean, just go?"

He raised an eyebrow, gestured with his chin, and began to walk away from the café. Shrugging in reply, Althea followed him. He kept a straight face; his mouth just twitched once. She half expected their waitress to pursue them, but no one seemed to notice. Still, she felt embarrassed and disillusioned with Paul for having left the bill unpaid. However, she neither lectured him nor went back to settle the bill herself.

Together they walked to the corner. Facing them, across the street, two storeys up on a building under repair, a large tarp billowed over the scaffolding like a sail, rattling loudly in the wind. There was a sheen on it. It seemed almost alive.

Althea watched, transfixed. "Look at that. It's like a performance piece, happening before our eyes."

"No kidding," said Paul, as if he thought she was. The wind blew harder. Fallen leaves danced at their feet, particles of dust irritated their eyes as they craned their necks. The tarp flapped wildly. It had been fastened loosely, and no workers were around. It lunged, slithering, and suddenly caught by the wind, it blew down and landed on the spot where they were standing.

But they weren't caught in the deluge. They'd escaped automatically, in opposite directions. The curtain had fallen on the sidewalk between them, and this was their farewell. She recognized it, he seized it. "So long, Althea." He waved to her.

She would have waited, still as a statue, until he disappeared, but he didn't want her to. "Go, Althea," he urged. She hesitated, hoping to see him as long as she could, but he repeated, "Go, go," and this time it was a command she couldn't disobey. "Bye, bye, I hope to see you," she called, as they parted, she heading uptown and he hurrying downtown.

Chapter Seventeen

Bryce was surprised by his family's behavior following his uncle's death. First, there was the animosity shown him by his aunt Margaret. Afterwards, when he thought about her and her midnight accusation, he still felt furious, and he also felt fear and dread. Clearly, they'd both been overwrought, but in retrospect it seemed like something worse to him, as if they were secret adversaries, and neither could bear to bring their fight into the open. Thinking of this, his feeling was so strong that he wondered if it might not be hatred.

Had his aunt resented him all along? he wondered. He had always assumed that she approved of Bill's and his special relationship. In fact, when he was a boy, he had felt freer in his uncle's house than in his father's. Although many years had passed, he had been welcomed eagerly on his return. Now, suddenly, his uncle's house had become off-limits to him. He was haunted by the memory of his aunt's voice accusing him of intending to take from it what was hers.

His aunt's attitude was the first indication of the changed scenario that faced Bryce after Bill's death. He wanted to remember his uncle, to gather anecdotes, to reminisce. Estranged from Margaret, he sought out his parents. It seemed possible to him that they might find a closeness in a common regard for Bill. The day following the funeral, at his parents' habitual cocktail hour, he recalled aloud wandering but memorable conversations he'd enjoyed with his uncle, about all manner of things in the world.

"It seemed to me when I was growing up," he said, "that Uncle Bill transmitted the wisdom of the ages, vast and ancient, but only in passing, in glittering bits that tantalized me. So many things I had never seen I knew from his descriptions: the tundra meadows of the Rockies--'like a skin on top of those mountains,' he used to say--and the maidenhair ferns on the floor of the Grand Canyon. Perhaps I'll never see all he saw, but the images he gave me have stayed with me."

"He certainly had a way with words," said Mary, nodding. "Sometimes, frankly, he was beyond me. He was brilliant, I guess."

Bryce felt a familiar annoyance at his mother's way of seeming to praise while actually dismissing. It seemed important to him to be accurate. "Perhaps you found him hard to follow because he was never didactic. To me he was a joy to listen to, because you could never tell where he might lead."

"That's true. He never could keep to the subject," said Russell somewhat ponderously.

Mary giggled. Bryce felt stung, as if he were the one being criticized. Still he continued, "When I was young, he symbolized adventure to me, and more. He knew so much about so many things. For example, about the Indians--I mean Native Americans," Bryce corrected himself. "I believed that no matter what I asked him, he'd have an answer, and I was never proved wrong."

"After the divorce, before he married Margaret," said Russell, "he used to travel out West a lot. He'd drive around by himself. Not my idea of a vacation, but he enjoyed it. That's how he came to know so much about the Indians. He visited pueblos, ruins. You name it, he went to it."

"He used to sleep in his car." Mary sounded aggrieved. "In campgrounds. Can you imagine? Margaret put a stop to that, and I don't blame her. She insisted on staying in motels when they travelled together. He certainly could afford to."

That which made his mother indignant had always charmed Bryce. But then, he reflected, he was attracted to eccentricity, whereas his mother feared it. Now he defended his uncle. "But Uncle Bill really preferred his car camping. I remember his story of being somewhere in the Great Plains on a clear summer night. He let down the tailgate of the station wagon and lay down on it so that he was looking right up at the night sky. This is what he said to me, 'An incredible thrill, that bowl of stars all around you. Maybe there will be a chip in that bowl, where there's a big tree, but there are places out there where you can see the horizon all around you. It's a spectacular sight.'"

Bryce paused, moved by the recollection. How he missed Bill! No one would ever talk like that to him again about such things. He wanted to remember all of it. "The dead live on in those who cherish their memory." These words from the funeral service intoned themselves in his mind. For a moment he was at the cemetery again, staring at the mist and the green grass and the hole in the earth lined with green felt where the coffin was being lowered. The image passed before his parents responded to him, and he noticed the look of boredom on their faces. Then Russell began to speak of Bill's estate. He and Margaret were to meet with the lawyer the next day to read the will. His father was looking forward to it, Bryce could tell. Russell's interest was concentrated on his late brother's affairs. It's the way of the world, Bryce reflected, that the dead must always be dispossessed.

He sensed that not only were his parents bored with his praise of Bill, they were resentful, as if the elevation of his uncle implied their own lack, simply by omission. Their attitude made him feel defeated. He wished to avoid drawing any kind of comparison, but they would insist on finding one anyway. He realized that he would never get the response he wanted from his parents in regard to Bill. They would never join him. From now on, I'll keep my effusions to myself, he decided. And perhaps it's true, he admitted, that deep down I'm more interested in listening to myself than in knowing what they think.

It wasn't easy for Bryce to open up. This attempt, he concluded, has been a failure. He resented his parents for what he thought of as their small-mindedness. He realized that they had never loved Bill as he had. Apparently they mostly remembered the ways in which Bill had irritated them.

It wasn't as if he and Bill had never clashed either. While, by Mississippi's standards, Bill considered himself a moderate, Bryce had found his views reactionary in the late sixties and the seventies when his own political attitudes were developing. By an unspoken agreement, however, they had mutually avoided inflammatory subjects. They had never spoken of Bryce's homosexuality, not before Bryce left the South, he thought, for good. Certainly this had driven a wedge between them, as with the rest of his family. But it didn't seem to matter anymore. If I ever resented Bill, Bryce thought, I readily forgave him in the weeks before he died.

As the days passed, he dwelled on his loss, on thoughts of death. It seemed to him that death was ignominious, arbitrary, that how one died revealed nothing about how one had lived. Death is the great deceit, thought Bryce, and we who go on living are deceived the most, in our illusion that we have escaped. He considered how all those who had stood at Bill's graveside on that misted, muted day could not but think of themselves as having survived. It is the fact of death that creates survivors, Bryce reflected, and that makes eternal survival impossible.

* * *

On the day that Russell and Margaret were to meet with Bill's lawyer, Bryce came down to breakfast to discover that his father had shaved off the moustache he had worn for so long that Bryce couldn't remember what he looked like without it. He was shocked to discover that his father not only seemed younger, he actually looked like Bill, whereas before Bryce had seen only the difference.

Russell was drinking his coffee with an air of nonchalance. He's waiting for me to comment, Bryce thought. He didn't want to disappoint his father. "My goodness, I almost didn't recognize you, Dad. What inspired this change?"

Russell looked up to meet his son's dark eyes, a contact that both had often avoided. "Oh, I don't know. Just got tired of the moustache, I guess. What do you think?"

"I'm getting used to you without it. It's amazing--for a moment I thought you were the ghost of Uncle Bill."

"There was always a family resemblance," interjected Mary, as she approached the table with a plate of piping hot biscuits. "Here, y'all eat them up while they're fresh from the oven."

"I never noticed it before," remarked Bryce, as he helped himself.

"Nonsense," replied his mother. "It was obvious." She turned to her husband. "Don't you think so, Russell?"

"It makes sense, doesn't it," said Russell, splitting open his biscuit and spreading butter on it in his slow, deliberate manner. "We were brothers, after all."

Perhaps I've been unfair to my parents in assuming that they aren't grieving for Uncle Bill as I am, Bryce said to himself as his mother sat down, and the three of them began to eat. We all have our grief and our means of expressing it. To affect this sudden resemblance is my father's way, and it's my way to be struck by it, and my mother's way to insist that it existed all along. All the same, I wouldn't trade my grief for theirs. Grief, he reflected, is love which can no longer be reciprocated, and perhaps it is just as jealous as love is.

Indeed, he couldn't help feeling slighted because his father hadn't invited him to hear the reading of the will at the lawyer's office. Mindful of the risk of being accused of too greedy a self-interest, he couldn't bring himself to ask his father to include him. After all, Mary wasn't going, nor was his sister Peggy; and, when he considered it, he wasn't sure he was ready to face his aunt again at so significant a meeting.

He accepted the situation without comment, yet he would have preferred it had his father consulted him and sought him out as an equal whose opinions were valued. He's forgotten that I'm an attorney, too, Bryce realized, and is only thinking of me as his son, who need not be involved except to be informed. I guess he doesn't need my expertise, nor want it.

"The bulk of the estate goes to Margaret since they had no children," Russell announced to his wife and son when he returned that afternoon, "and it ought to be enough to let her live free from worry. But Bill didn't forget us either. He left me the entirety of his interest in the Sawyer property that we held jointly. That's the strip shopping center that was developed about fifteen years ago. It's worth quite a bit now. Son, he left you his utilities stocks. And Mary, he left you and Peggy and the girls some maturing government bonds. He also made a number of charitable bequests, some to groups I never heard of, Indian organizations, I guess, out West. He was a well-to-do man, my brother was."

"Your share amounts to over a hundred thousand dollars," Russell told Bryce later that evening, when they found themselves alone together. "The stocks have doubled in value in the past three or four years. I didn't want to make a big deal of it in front of your mother. Her bonds are worth much, much less, and you know how she's apt to get her feelings hurt. No reason why she should, really. After all, she'll share in the property with me, and Bill knew it. All the same, I don't want to look for trouble. I guess Bill thought a lot of you."

"I'm grateful," Bryce said simply. "I thought a lot of him, too." At last my father's confiding in me, he thought. "What did Margaret say about all this?"

Russell shrugged. "Nothing really. The lawyer did all the talking."

"What about the Indian pottery and all the curios and souvenirs from his travels?" Bryce, normally so circumspect, dared to ask.

"The house and all its contents are Margaret's. But I'm sure she'd give you a keepsake if you asked."

Bryce wasn't at all sure, but he didn't want to say this to his father. One hundred thousand dollars! He hadn't expected so much. The impulse to calculate love in terms of money was hard to resist. "How much was the property worth that he left you?"

"Two or three hundred grand. That was a good investment. We bought the property for fifty thousand dollars twenty years ago, and its value has increased tenfold. I'm thinking of selling off a parcel to help me buy a little vacation home down in Florida, like I've always wanted. Do a little fishing, relax." He smiled, pausing, as if waiting for Bryce's approval--a new sensation for Bryce, for his father had never seemed to want it before.

"Why not?" said Bryce. "You deserve it."

He was feeling more lenient and forgiving towards his parents. He sensed a truce between himself and them, while he lived with them as their long-lost son. He had succeeded in curbing his formerly scathing comments. In their eyes he led a blameless life. Even the symptoms of his disease seemed to have blessedly disappeared. As he entered the house one afternoon, he overheard his mother confiding to her weekly bridge club that her son was becoming reasonable at last.

The comment annoyed him, but he was able to shrug it off. He could now see that his parents had been afraid of him when he was growing up because they hadn't understood him. He hadn't suspected that then; in fact, he'd felt beleaguered, which had caused him to be even more critical and unsparing. When he had developed multiple sclerosis, he'd had to endure his parents' pity, and then, when they realized that he was homosexual, their shame. His parents were happiest, he decided, when they could overlook these truths about him. In the past he had felt betrayed by their attitude.

At twenty his defiance had been his defense. "You disagree just to disagree": how often he had heard this complaint levelled at him, and felt he was being belittled, his opinion dismissed and reduced to a reflex of antipathy. His unregenerate airs hadn't made him popular in Meridian. He had escaped to New York, where he hadn't foundered as his critics had predicted. He hadn't set the world on fire either, but then it had never been predicted that he would win glory.

When he was growing up, he had seen his father frequently shake his head over so unstraightforward a son. In return, he had seemed to become more convoluted, mysterious and mazelike even to himself. This was a normal course of adolescence, and most of his peers had experienced it, too, but they, unlike Bryce, had turned into adults who had made a clean breast of things and only looked back in deprecation. Yet for Bryce it had seemed that the abnormal came from within him to claim him forever.

Years had passed since then, and whatever he was he had become without his parents' approval. He still felt frustrated by their lack of interest in his life, but he now realized that their apparent incuriosity masked a profound fear, an intense desire not to know. The lesson of his past was the uselessness of confronting them. The relationship with his uncle had been happy not only because they had succeeded in avoiding most areas of conflict, but because they had taken delight together in so many things. With his parents, on the other hand, there had been failed expectations on both sides, criticism, and mutual disappointment. It seemed to him that his uncle's greatest immaterial bequest was his example of tolerance. Bryce believed, although his mother certainly would have denied it, that his parents in some dim way understood this, and, however fragilely, were trying to internalize it. His aunt was a different case altogether, but for the moment he couldn't bear to think of her. For whatever reason, his parents weren't being as critical of him as formerly, so that he in turn didn't feel so defensive or aggressive. When he had first arrived in Mississippi, he had been better able to endure their attitude of indifference precisely because he had a life away from them. But that life had seemed to slip from him so quickly, in the phone calls and letter that went unanswered. He had been afraid then, and so he had procrastinated. The sense of being needed by his uncle had made it easy for him, during this season of death, to put his life on hold.

Now plans were being made around him; it was time for him, too, to pick up the pieces of his life which he had neglected. Before he left New York, he had made professional and financial arrangements for his absence. He'd completed his most pressing jobs, taken some work with him, and referred other clients to a former classmate who had agreed to help him out. As for his expenses, his mortgage and maintenance were paid automatically each month by electronic transfer from an interest-bearing account. He hadn't known, when he left, how long he'd be away, but he had deposited three thousand dollars in the joint checking account with Paul and asked him to take care of the remaining household bills and expenses. He assumed that the apartment was fine, for Alonzo, the porter in the building, had keys and instructions to contact him if anything was amiss, and he hadn't called.

Paul's New England tour had been scheduled before Bryce left for Mississippi. When Bill died, Bryce believed that Paul was dancing in Massachusetts. The day after the will was read, Bryce telephoned the Kurt Matthews Dancers and reached an answering service whose operator confirmed that the company was out of town until mid-November. When he asked her for the schedule, she said she didn't know it.

He hung up the phone slowly, feeling an odd mixture of exasperation and relief. He was exasperated to be still out of touch with Paul, but relieved at least to know what Paul was doing. Now that Bill had died, Bryce wanted to tell Paul about it and try to explain why he hadn't confided in him before he'd left. But after ten weeks of silence he didn't know what to expect from Paul. Even though he wanted to speak to him, he was somewhat relieved not to have reached him yet. Trying to picture their reunion, he found himself instead recalling the winter day long ago when Paul had moved in. In his mind's eye he saw Paul standing in the entrance to the roof in his multi-colored coat, the cold wind ruffling his hair. He remembered Paul's mixture of nervousness and bravado as he had waited to be welcomed, and his pleasure when he was. Bryce knew that he didn't want to lose Paul, not even if he had already lost him.

He thought of the money that he had left for Paul to live on, and he didn't begrudge it. He imagined himself dead, and Paul staying on in the penthouse afterwards, and he almost didn't mind. Perhaps this is love, he thought, and if it's not, then I can't express it.

What he really wanted was to return to New York to find Paul waiting for him with a greeting and an embrace, as he once had waited for Paul. His hopes were connected to this image of Paul reaching out in welcome and taking him in his arms as if nothing had ever led him to think it might be otherwise. He yearned for this scenario while he realized it was a fantasy. All his questions about their future remained unasked and unanswered.

* * *

His father's invitation to accompany him to Florida allowed Bryce to postpone a return to New York that he was reluctant to undertake while Paul was still away on tour. Originally Bryce wasn't included in his parents' plans for the trip, whose purpose was to find a vacation home to buy. The destination was Sanibel Island, a mangrove and barrier island in southwest Florida, where Russell and Mary had spent some time before in the company of friends. For Russell the encounter with the island had been love at first sight. In spite of the distance from Meridian, his heart was set on buying on Sanibel. The travel plans were upset, however, when two of the granddaughters came down with chicken pox and the third was expected to. Bryce's sister Peggy was desperate, since her husband was scheduled to attend a regional meeting of the insurance company's mid-level managers in Memphis. He didn't see how he could get out of it, so Mary offered to remain in Meridian to help her daughter out.

"But you go on, Russell," she insisted. "Don't let this spoil your trip. You deserve a change of scene after all you've been through recently."

"You're sure I'm not needed here?" asked Russell, clearly reluctant.

"What good will you be around sick children? You didn't nurse your own children through chicken pox, I recall. There's no sense in your changing your plans because of this."

Bryce, overhearing the conversation, discerned his mother's tendency to absolve and accuse simultaneously. Now it's her turn to be needed in a sickroom, and she's enjoying it, he reflected. Her granddaughters, unlike Bill, are likely to get well, and she can look forward to sharing in the credit for their recovery.

"I trust you to find a nice house," she told her husband.

"What about your plane ticket?"

"Maybe Bryce will go with you," Mary suggested.

"Do you think so? It hadn't occurred to me. I assumed he had his own plans."

They speak, Bryce thought, as if I weren't present in the room with them.

However, his mother then said, "Why don't you ask him?"

"What do you say?" said Russell to Bryce, as if he'd just discovered him there. "Are you willing to keep an old man company for a few days?"

"When will you be going, and for how long?"

"We'll leave on November 12, stay a week or so."

"Do you really want me to come?"

"Sure," said his father. "I'll be glad to have you."

Behind Russell's hearty words, Bryce detected his nervousness. Still, he was amazed at the change in both his parents. This invitation, suggested and seconded, seemed a genuine attempt at a rapprochement, and as such, he could hardly resist it, particularly since it coincided with his present unwillingness to go back to New York. According to Kurt Matthews' answering service, by the time he returned from Sanibel, he calculated, Paul should have arrived in New York. "All right," he nodded to his father. "I'll come, and I'll try to help you all I can."

Bryce thought his father seemed surprised at how readily the invitation was accepted. Bryce didn't attempt to renege, but placed a phone call to the porter entrusted with the keys to his apartment in Manhattan. In response to Bryce's careful inquiry, Alonzo related that in Paul's absence he had been collecting the mail and caring for the plants. He had taken some of the potted perennials indoors, he informed Bryce, and described their relative healths in detail. Listening to him, Bryce felt suddenly homesick. Maybe I ought to go back to New York now, he thought. But having given his word to his father, he didn't feel he could change his plans. "Is everything else all right?" he asked the porter.

"Not to worry," assured Alonzo. "Is under control."

"Because of family reasons, I probably won't be back for a couple of weeks. Most likely after Paul," Bryce explained, as if he were sure of him, and then he thanked Alonzo for looking after the place in their absence.

"No problem," said the porter. "Have a nice visit with your family."

* * *

Bryce hadn't spoken to his aunt alone since the night of his uncle's funeral. Once, when he was picking up some groceries for his mother, he spotted her in the parking lot of the local supermarket. He avoided her by ducking behind a truck and waiting until she got in her car and drove away. He believed that she hadn't seen him. When he returned home, however, he discovered her in the living room with his parents. He hadn't known she was invited to dinner, or else he would have found some excuse not to be there. They greeted each other with stiff politeness, and it was unpleasantly apparent to Bryce that by now their antagonism was firmly established, though they both endeavored to conceal it from the others.

During the tedious evening, he kept contrasting his aunt's rigid self-control with the terrifying image of her rage when she had cornered him in the attic. The memory of that attack continued to disturb him, causing him to doubt his own motives. Had he, unknown to himself, really intended to steal from her?

To Bryce, these speculations seemed not untrue, but unreal, because nothing was said, and like the awful encounter itself, they had the quality of an hallucination or a dream. What was all too real was the rupture between him and his aunt, and for this Bryce knew that he, as well as his aunt, was to blame. They were waging a silent war, camouflaged by a steely etiquette, in which neither had the least intention of calling a truce or admitting defeat. As they concealed their antipathies at the dinner table, they were a match for each other.

Afterwards his parents ascribed Margaret's strained attitude to her recent grief. Although his father often annoyed, embarrassed, or bored him, Bryce now found himself grateful for his obtuseness. His father was incapable, Bryce reflected, of his aunt's subterfuges--or of his own, for that matter. His mother, on the other hand, like so many Southerners, was fond of delivering cruel comments in a gushing voice, smiling all the while. The minor crisis of her granddaughters' illness, however, brought out the best in her. She spent nearly all day at Peggy's house, returning exhausted and fulfilled. Her nagging and complaints were for the sake of appearances; they had no sting. "I can't wait to get you men out of the house," she exulted. "I have enough to do without taking care of you, too. I may sleep over at Peggy's while you're gone."

"Don't worry about us," said Russell, winking broadly at Bryce. "I'll show Bryce around, we'll look at houses, relax, and loaf. I'm planning to wear old clothes you won't be seen dead with me in, eat whenever I like, and generally descend into anarchy."

Bryce heard his father with a sense of wonder. It was the exactly the kind of remark that he remembered his uncle used to make to Margaret.

"Men are slobs," Mary replied to her husband with a satisfied sniff, and Bryce, who dressed carefully, was regular in his habits and rarely untidy, was content to let her have the last word.

* * *

Bryce left Meridian with his father by plane on Wednesday morning, November 12, and by mid-afternoon he was being driven in a rented car across the wide, flat Florida landscape towards the causeway leading to Sanibel Island. The air blowing through the car's open windows was warm and mild, the sky a pure blue with puffs of cloud. In the front passenger seat, Bryce felt lethargic, almost sleepy. As they stopped for a red light, he looked up and noticed a girl sitting on a wooden chair in front of a filling station at the intersection. With the sun glinting in her long, wavy hair, she leaned back, tipping the chair until it seemed it might topple over. As the traffic light turned green, and they drove on, the image stayed with him.

He was content simply to receive impressions as they sped through the landscape. Seeing silhouettes of coconut palms against the horizon, with their cylindrical trunks like sculptures and their rakish branches dripping with leaves like heavy fringes, he thought of how images like these were reproduced in picture postcards mailed from tropics all over the world. As the dense green waters of the Gulf came into view, and they crossed the causeway, he saw a Brown Pelican plunge straight down into the water from a great height, at full speed. The large, heavy bird broke through the surface bill first, with a dramatic splash. As the car proceeded, Bryce kept his eyes trained on the area where the pelican had disappeared, until he saw it emerge with a telltale flutter in its pouch. It had caught its fish, but there was a gull waiting, who was trying to steal the fish away. The gull hovered, beating its wings in the pelican's face, trying to force the pelican to open its bill so that it could snatch up the prize. For as long as Bryce could see, the gull was unsuccessful.

Russell, who, keeping his eyes on the road, had not seen the drama, switched on the radio. "Only fingertips can reach and touch the dream," intoned a melodramatic voice. "Come see 'Tropical Dreams,' a multi-media show presented at the unique Waltzing Waters on Highway 41 south of Ft. Myers."

"What does it mean, fingertips touching the dream?" Bryce grumbled, instantly annoyed by what seemed stupidity to him.

Russell attempted to excuse himself for turning on the radio. "I'm trying to get the weather."

"Let me change the station." Bryce cruised the band until he found an announcer with the forecast, which was fair. The air temperature was eighty degrees.

"Better than New York, eh?" said Russell.

"Yes," said Bryce, willing to please, to adapt to his father's arrangements, despite a twinge, already, of boredom.

After they were settled in at the condominium which Russell had rented, he went out to buy the local papers. Father and son occupied themselves with the real estate listings. "It's more expensive than I thought," said Russell. "I may have to scale down my plans. Still, I'd like to try to get a house. A condominium is all right for a short trip like this, but I'm too old-fashioned to want to live in one. For me, apartment living is a contradiction in terms."

Bryce wondered whether his father was making a veiled criticism of his own life in New York, or whether he was simply oblivious. Bryce decided to let the comment drop. "No harm in looking anyway," he said. "Asking prices are always negotiable."

"You're right. We'll make phone calls and go out tomorrow. What about a walk on the beach before dinner?"

As the sky gradually turned rose-colored and then darkened, Bryce and his father strolled down the white beach. Sanderlings, terns, and gulls scattered before their steps. Soaring pelicans swooped low without nicking the water's surface in search of fish, and Bryce, remembering, told his father about the pelican and gull he had seen that afternoon when they crossed the causeway.

"What a rascal!" Russell commented. "When we fish from the pier, you'll see how the gulls come by and beg for handouts." He gazed up at the sky. "There's the first star. I guess we had better head back now. I want to take you to the Coconut Grove for dinner."

"What's that?"

"It's a restaurant where your mother and I ate. They offer a Hawaiian luau."

"Is it good?" Bryce asked skeptically.

"We like it."

At the condominium Bryce went into his room to change. He put on a fresh shirt and trousers with a neat crease. Deciding against a tie, he carefully arranged a silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of his shirt.

When he entered the living room where his father was waiting, Russell's face fell. "You don't need to get dressed up like that. We're on vacation."

Bryce felt embarrassed. "I thought because we were going out for dinner," he began, and then stopped, remembering what his father had said to his mother.

"Now I'll have to change, too," Russell complained, glancing at his checked sport shirt and the khakis he'd worn all day, which were now wrinkled.

"No, you don't. I'll tell you what, if you're uncomfortable with me now, I'll change back."

"That's silly. I'm hungry. I'll tell you what, let's just go as we are."

On the way to the restaurant Bryce felt glum. My instincts with my father are inevitably wrong, he reflected. As he had anticipated, the restaurant didn't suit his taste. The interior was dark--so that it really wouldn't matter what one wore, Bryce thought. Each table was lit only by a small candle in a glass globe. The chairs were uncomfortably low. The food consisted of various shish kebabs garnished with pineapple and maraschino cherries and served with sweet, thick sauces. Little paper parasols decorated the fruity cocktails. Not wishing to create another conflict, Bryce was determined not to complain. But he ate little, afraid that he might choke on the food. He knew he'd disappointed his father.

Russell was making an effort as well. On the way back to the condominium he said, "Why don't you pick the restaurant tomorrow? I thought that you would enjoy this, that it would be different for you. But I guess you can get anything you want in New York. I don't know what you prefer, so you tell me."

"A fresh grilled fish would be just fine," said Bryce. "It doesn't have to be fancy."

Their parking place was next to their rented unit. As Bryce got out of the car, he smelled night-blooming jasmine and pointed it out to his father.

"It's fragrant, isn't it," said Russell. "I hope you like it here. I want you to enjoy yourself."

"I came down to help you out," said Bryce.

"I haven't forgotten. Speaking of which, I guess I'll turn in for the night. I'm pretty beat. But you stay up if you like, watch TV."

"I'll stay up for a little while," said Bryce. "I'll turn out the lights when I go to bed."

"Good night, son."

"Good night."

Bryce went out to the screened terrace after his father had gone into his room. The air was humid, warm, and balmy. He preferred it to the air conditioning within. The radio advertisement he'd heard that afternoon repeated itself in his mind, an annoying jingle. Tropical dreams, he said to himself, at first sardonically, then wistfully, Tropical dreams, lush and tender. A wish that he had suppressed all evening came flowing out into the soft night air, where he could examine it. He wished that he were here with Paul instead of with his father. He imagined standing on this terrace with Paul, breathing the night-blooming jasmine. I'm lonely, he thought, and tired of having, on the one hand, to conceal my feelings, and, on the other, of having to try hard to make myself understood. I even miss the jokes that Paul and I would have had at the expense of that Hawaiian luau. It would have been fun to destroy it verbally together. What is Paul doing now? he wondered. Is he dancing tonight? Where is he? When is he returning to New York? The answering service didn't say exactly.

Bryce listened to the wind in the casuarinas, the hum of the air conditioner, and the murmuring conversations of a group of people passing nearby. Distantly he could hear the slap of waves on the beach. A feeling of possibility, even of romance, seemed to beckon to him on the warm night air, but it was flimsy and easily lost. He went inside, and when he slept, he was unaware of his dreams.

He and his father began their mornings by squeezing oranges and brewing coffee. Officially they were nearing the end of the hurricane season, and the weather of the succeeding days was as tranquil as the first, sunny and warm. Bryce accompanied his father on visits to properties for sale. Always attentive, he collected the real estate agent's handouts, followed the tours obediently, and only offered his opinion afterward if Russell asked. On the second morning Russell persuaded his son to go fishing. However, Bryce didn't enjoy it. He wasn't adept at casting, and he grew bored and hot, standing on the pier, waiting for the fish to bite. He caught nothing, but Russell pulled in a yellow-tailed mackerel. Bryce wouldn't have admitted it to his father, but, while he had no qualms about eating fish, he didn't like to see them struggle in vain, and to watch their shimmering iridescent colors grow pale and dull in death.

"I've had enough," he said, resting his pole against the railing of the pier, "but don't let me stop you."

"Are you all right?" asked Russell, looking at him. "You seem a little peaked."

"I feel dizzy, but it's probably just the heat."

"But it's not that hot. It's not yet eighty."

"I guess it's the sun. Don't worry about me."

"If you say so." Russell sounded relieved. "I'll tell you what. This evening at sunset I'll take you to the wildlife refuge. You'll like that. One drives through it at one's leisure. It's very interesting. Your mother loves it."

It didn't strike Bryce as much of a recommendation, but he refrained from saying so.

* * *

The car inched along the wide road of white sand, with water and low, dense clumps of mangroves on either side. "We're on a dike separating the salt water from the brackish water," explained Russell. "Keep your eyes peeled." A bird guide and a pair of binoculars lay on the seat between them. "What have we here!" Russell exclaimed, as he pulled over and came to a stop. "That's an Anhinga. You can see why it's also called a snake bird."

It took Bryce a while before he noticed the thin black neck of a bird moving like a periscope through the greenish, opaque water. The body was submerged, so that the outstretched neck did look like a snake. He stared at the bird's beady eye and wondered what it would be like to see on either side of one's head. He couldn't tell if the bird was really staring back at him or not.

With a loud beating of its wings, the Anhinga suddenly flew up in the air. It was black and much larger than Bryce had thought. It landed heavily on top of some mangroves nearby, which swayed under its weight, and the sun through the shifting leaves cast wobbly fragments of light on the sluggish water.

"Watch," said Russell in a voice so low it was almost a whisper. "It will spread out its wings to dry."

It happened as he said. The Anhinga's wings, spanning four feet across, were like a lustrous black and white fan. Gradually, the mangroves ceased to sway. As the bird perched motionless, it seemed no longer an ungainly creature, but a vision of elegance. Russell continued, "It spears fish with its bill. Though it swims under the surface, it secretes no natural oils in its feathers to repel water, as a duck does, and so it must dry off in the sun periodically."

Though his father's tone was more didactic than his uncle's had been, Bryce was willing to be enlightened. "I never knew you were so interested in waterfowl," he said.

Sounding defensive, Russell replied, "When you're down here and they're all around you, you can't help but take an interest."

Bryce thought to himself, He's as sensitive as I am. I guess that's where I get it from. "I didn't mean it as a criticism," Bryce hastened to explain. "Quite the contrary. It's nice to discover that you have all this knowledge I had no idea about."

"It's hardly very extensive," said Russell, but he seemed pleased. They continued slowly down the refuge road, stopping every several hundred yards to view the birds, whose names and habits Russell continued to describe until Bryce began to know them. They got out of the car to venture onto a boardwalk built through the mangroves which led to a lookout over a wide shallow marsh. To Bryce, the mangroves' roots looked like thick, tangled gray wires arching out of water stained dark brown by the mangroves' fallen leaves. The tide was low, and some of the exposed roots were encrusted with oysters. In the silence he could clearly hear the scuttling crabs, and when he looked closely he could see dozens of them crawling insect-like in the gloom of the mangroves. The scene was so primeval that he couldn't help shuddering. Far away, on the distant mangrove islands across the marsh, were white specks of birds, which Russell, his vision aided by the binoculars, identified. At the edge of the marsh, not ten yards away, a Great Blue Heron stood on one leg, so vigilant, grave, and still that they nearly overlooked it.

Soon they came to the observation tower in the watery heart of the refuge. The sky was turning pink, and its pastel reflection tinged the water below. Pale blue and pale pink, sea and sky seemed almost to meld. Here was so much activity, so many varied birds congregating, that Bryce was captivated and forgot to worry about himself or his father. Flocks of Ibis came flying from the west in V-formations and settled to join other Ibis feeding in the exposed tidal flats, delicately poking their long, curved orange bills in the mud. Farther in the distance, against the horizon, stood a white American Egret, its neck pulled in and its wings drawn up. Most beautiful of all to Bryce was a flock of Roseate Spoonbills leisurely feeding. They swished their bills from side to side, just breaking the surface, their reflection staining the water around them a darker pink than the sky. Disrupting this tranquility, a lone Louisiana Heron screamed and danced, flapping its wings in short hops and settling down briefly to make a commotion before taking off again.

Bryce was pleased to observe this evening ritual of the birds flying in on the wind, settling, and feeding, and he told his father so. "I'd like to come here again," he said. "I can see how one might make a habit of this."

"It's a loafer's life," said Russell. "Nothing more urgent to do than watch the birds."

Bryce laughed. "I feel I've gotten away finally. Not only from the pressures of New York, of course, but also from the lingering sadness at home." As he spoke, he felt a stab of guilt, as if, in admitting this, he were somehow being disloyal to the memory of his uncle. "I've been thinking of Uncle Bill," he hastened to add. "Did he ever come here?"

"No."

"Oh, I thought he had. I can picture him here."

"I think he would have liked it. But he was always itching to travel west." Suddenly restless, Russell began to wrap the leather cord around the binoculars. "Let's go on. I'd like to show you a Florida gator."

* * *

The days passed placidly. Bryce took time to let the sand collect between his toes, the salt spray blow through his hair. He didn't forget his flawed hopes, but it was as if he cast them into the tides and waited, not yet cleared of them, to discover in what shape they'd wash back to him.

Accompanying his father house hunting, he saw a construction worker cut down a coconut from a cluster on a tree. The man struck it open with a single blow of his machete and, tipping the halves to his open mouth, drank the milk. He was with a crew constructing a swimming pool. A large hole had been gouged out of the ground, but the foundation hadn't yet been poured. Bryce picked up a horse conch, bleached with age, from a pile of upturned earth, shook it free of sand, and held it to his ear. It was silent, having been buried for so long in the earth that it had lost the echo of the sea.

"The wind is blowing, the birds are flying, the anoles are rustling in the agave"--like a refrain, these words sang themselves in Bryce's mind as he wandered over the half-acre lot of the low green house his father was looking at. He guessed already that this was the house his father wanted to buy, and he approved. It was situated on a canal lined with other houses similar to it, and there was a small dock where Russell could moor a boat.

Bryce joined his father inside the house with the real estate agent, a middle-aged woman with a fixed smile and lacquered hair. She showed them a kitchen with modern appliances and a large living room opening on a screened-in patio which looked out to the canal. There were also three bedrooms, two baths.

"Enough room to put up Peggy, Joe, and the girls," commented Russell to Bryce. "That's your mother's main requirement."

"The house is twenty years old," said the agent. "It has only had two owners. Everything's in good condition."

"Nice view, isn't it," Russell remarked, as they gazed at the canal. There was a large casuarina growing near the sea wall. Bryce watched a bright red Cardinal fly up in its branches. The tide was low in the canal. A Little Blue Heron picked its way carefully over the shelves of exposed oysters.

"Yes, it is," agreed Bryce, "and in the front yard you have a coconut palm, a lime tree, and a mango."

"You can do a great deal with these lots," said the agent brightly.

"I see they're building a swimming pool next door," Bryce continued, making conversation.

"You could probably build one here, too," said the agent. "There's a ratio regulating building to lot size, and I believe you have some leeway. Would you like me to check that out for you?"

"You might as well," said Russell, "although I'm not really thinking about a pool. Still, it doesn't hurt to know. I like the house, and I like the canal access. I'll think about it and call you."

"Don't wait too long," said the agent. "These mid-priced houses go quickly."

"They call two hundred twenty-five thousand dollars a mid-priced house?" Russell complained to Bryce once they were alone. "You can practically buy a plantation in Mississippi for that."

"Then why don't you?" said Bryce.

"But I don't want one. I want a vacation house on Sanibel."

"You're on an island where a lot of the land is protected from development. That's why homes are expensive. There's only so much more that can be built. The house is probably a good investment."

"Unless Sanibel gets hit by a hurricane."

"That's true. If you can afford it, you should get insurance."

"How much do you think I should offer?" asked Russell.

Bryce shrugged. "I don't know. What do you think?"

At dinner in a fish restaurant, a happier choice for Bryce, the house was their major topic of conversation. On the one hand, Russell was nervous about the expense, but he seemed to have his heart set on the green house. "I'll call your mother when we get back and discuss it with her. I've seen a lot of properties but none I like so well, and we've already been here a week."

"I know. The time seemed to go slowly at first, and then it went quickly."

"I find it often does on vacation," said Russell. "The weather's been just fine, hasn't it?"

"Perfect."

However, when they came out of the restaurant, Bryce realized that he had spoken too soon. The placid, seemingly changeless calm was gone. During dinner a new weather had blown in. The wind gusted hard at their backs, the trees tossed wildly. They could feel a storm brewing, but they had no idea how fierce it would be.

The sky darkened, the clouds gathered. Night was falling, but Bryce noticed, as they got into the car, a momentary illusion of light. This time he was driving, and his father was beside him.

The rain began at first so faintly--a ripple in the atmosphere, a sprinkle on the windshield. Yet almost instantly, the clouds burst open, and the rain descended in sheets and torrents. The wipers struggled to keep the windshield clear. It was hard to drive. In the downpour, on the glistening road, the headlights and the lights of the oncoming traffic reflected back at Bryce, dazzling his eyes. He drove slowly. He was not afraid. He thought that the casuarinas and the tall pines growing at either side of the road, at first wind-whipped and then drenched, were beautiful.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the rain slackened off. The wind died down. It seemed the storm was passing, but this was only a breather, for soon it was entering its greatest fury.

The flash of lightning severed the lull. The boom of thunder absorbed it. In the far distance, long jagged cracks seemed to rend the sky. Like sinking arrows of light, they disappeared. The heavens were not truly shattered.

Now the lightning appeared as a diffuse brightness hard to place, glowing in the darkness. The thunder followed, close and deafening. In the moving car, Bryce and Russell were speechless, mesmerized. They weren't far from the condominium when Bryce saw a sudden brilliance swallow up everything in front of them.

He kept going. He couldn't tell where he was when the lightning struck, but they both heard the crackling and saw sparks scatter from the top of the utility pole. "That was the transformer," his father clarified, looking back as they drove past. "There went our power."

His conclusion proved correct. Inside the condominium they stumbled in darkness. Feeling his way from wall to wall, Bryce found the kitchen and located a drawer where he remembered having seen a flashlight, candles, candlesticks, and matches. He laid the flashlight on the counter. He lit the candles in the candlesticks, which he placed one by one in the few rooms.

Outside the storm continued, flashing and grumbling. Russell tried the phone, but it was dead. He couldn't call Mary. "We might as well relax and wait it out," said Bryce. He fixed them both drinks of white rum and freshly squeezed orange juice. He used half of a tray of melting ice. They sat across the room from each other in the candle-lit darkness, sipping their drinks, silent, lost in their own thoughts. It was pleasant, Bryce reflected, to be comfortable, sheltered, and dry, growing mellow with rum while the storm raged. For once neither he nor his father felt a need to make conversation, and it was a relief. He let his mind drift.

He heard his father snoring. He wondered if he himself had dozed off as well. "Dad, it's time to go to bed." As Bryce got up to rouse his father, he felt a tingling, then a numbness, in his left leg. But he could walk, after all, and he didn't mention it. Yet he was depressed at the thought of what it might mean. He had gone a long time without an exacerbation. He had almost forgotten that he wasn't really well.

"Dad." He nudged his father's shoulder.

"Wha-at?"

"You don't want to sleep here all night. Why don't you go to bed?"

"Is it still raining?"

"Yes, but not as hard. The storm's not over, but it's moved. Its center is farther away. We don't have power back yet."

Bryce took his father's empty glass and his own and rinsed them in the sink. He accidentally dropped the orange juicer, but luckily nothing broke. He left the glasses and the juicer in the sink. When he returned from the kitchen, his father was standing up.

"Guess I'll turn in now," Russell said. "Sorry I fell asleep on you."

"It's all right. I think I slept a little, too. I'll see you in the morning."

Bryce undressed in his room, blew out the candle on the dresser, and went to bed. Far off, the heavens split and mended and shed rain on the earth, while he slept. He was dreaming.

He woke in pitch dark with a feeling of terror. He sat bolt upright in bed. He heard the distinct sound of a car door slamming. Disoriented, he wasn't sure if the noise was in his dream, or if it was what had taken him from it. After that sound he was aware of the quiet: the rain must have stopped. He listened carefully, but didn't hear the sound again. He tried to turn on the light, but the power was still out. He lifted the shade. The window was dark. He got up out of bed and made his way to the living room. It, too, was dark, but he knew by feel where the door was, and he opened it. Wearing only the nightshirt he had slept in, he went outside.

The rain had ceased. The sky was still too obscured to reveal many stars. All around him was darkness except for one shocking illumination. It came from inside their rented car.

Approaching, Bryce saw that the interior light was on, flooding the windows. The car looked empty. As he went towards it, he realized he was acting incautiously. Someone might be inside, crouching on the floor.

But no one was. The car was unlocked, as either he or his father might have left it. He opened the door and inspected the interior. The radio was still in the dashboard, the rental agreement in the glove compartment. A map of Florida lay on the floor below the front passenger seat. It seemed that nothing had been disturbed. He peered into the darkness surrounding the car--at the parking lot, the grounds of the condominium complex, the adjacent street. The only movements he discerned were palm trees waving in the breeze: no car, no human, no animal, nothing else at all. In the eerie night, waiting for he knew not what, he suddenly remembered his dream. It was a nightmare.

In his dream a death had occurred. It wasn't his own death, nor his uncle's death, nor the death of any other relative. No, he had dreamed that Paul was dead, and that he had come back to New York and discovered it after the fact. No one had told him.

The dream exposed a solitude so piercing that his waking loneliness was a shadow of it. His feeling of abandonment, of having been excluded, was as terrible as the realization of loss. Under the thin nightshirt he could feel his heart beating. Surely Paul wasn't dead, though he had dreamed it.

In the dream was despair, yet he didn't despair now. Paul, he thought, may be back in New York. I'm ready to call him at last, he decided. And, having waited so long, he knew that he could wait until the morning.

He reached into the car and switched off the light. This time he was careful to lock the doors. He listened: a whimper of wind in the trees, and then nothing.

It didn't seem yet that everything had returned to normal. He found himself imagining that the storm had obliterated the world so that it could be born anew. He could almost believe that he had entered into a world that was just coming into existence.

He was wide awake, though it felt like dreaming. He heard the door to the house open, saw the arc of a flashlight falling across the entrance, and his father's face lit weirdly above it. "Bryce, what are you doing out there? Come inside, for Pete's sake."

Bryce felt like a child, full of the inexpressible he couldn't communicate, and happy to be chided and welcomed into safety. As his father led him inside, he recounted the story of how he had waked up and found the light on in the car. And the child in him was comforted, while the adult looked back to the abyss of his dream from the rim of consciousness and was grateful that he was awake. He would never know what had opened the car door and then slammed it closed. That one light in all the darkness had looked strangely, sinisterly beautiful.

His father's reaction to Bryce's story was a mix of mystification and skepticism. "I wonder what it was. Maybe someone was trying to get out of the rain. You locked the doors now, didn't you? Storms like this make me feel old. I hope it's all over now. I expect the power will be restored by morning. I decided to make an offer on the house," he continued. "I'll start with two hundred. I'm willing to go as high as two ten. I'll see what the owner says. Then, to tell you the truth, I'm ready to head home."

"I, too."

"To Mississippi?"

They were standing just inside the doorway, with the door closed and locked behind them. Russell was still holding the flashlight which, pointing down, cast a circle of light on the floor. In the obscurity between them, Bryce felt rather than saw his father's eyes on him. "To Mississippi first," he said, "and then I'll be going back to New York."

"I thought you would." Russell's words came out slowly, as if he were actually pondering them at the moment he spoke. He didn't really sound sorry.

"I'm not sure I always thought I would," Bryce avowed, and then hesitated. He didn't speak, and the moment passed. "Well," he said to his father, "I hope you get your house."

"After I make the offer, it's up to the owner."

"I think your offer's realistic."

"It's what I'm willing to do."

Both men, sensing discomfort, sought to skirt it. But there was less discomfort now than there had been in the past, which made them careful. For a moment Bryce felt as if he might have confided in his father about Paul, but he held back. Yet the desire was in him to open his heart of what, throughout the autumn, he'd kept sealed in it.

"I'm going back to bed," said Russell. "Please don't get up for any more ghosts."

"I'm tired, too."

"We'll fly to Meridian tomorrow afternoon or Friday."

"It's okay with me."

"Good night, then, what's left of it."

"Same to you."

Bryce shut the door to his bedroom and lay in bed in the dark. He thought of how he had been alone in the night, and then alone with it. He remembered how, in this void, his father had ventured to find him. He considered what he and his father hadn't discussed and perhaps never would. Still, he didn't feel the need to have to justify himself to his father's quiet but ponderous "I thought you would," so like a long, drawn-out sigh. There was more love in it, he reflected, than there was approval.

* * *

In the morning he waked at eight-thirty and got up slowly, feeling enervated. The electricity had been restored, as his father had predicted, and the phone was working, too. Russell made coffee, and he and Bryce drank it together on the terrace.

"I called your mother already this morning," said Russell. "She gave me her blessing and told me to go ahead with the offer. She also said to tell you that the girls are better and that she received some mail for you."

Under a whitish sky, the trees were taking the wind up in their branches with dismal sighs. A hawk flew over, then a heron, then a gull.

"I know this is what I want. Still, I feel kind of low," Russell continued. "I'm trying to muster up excitement."

"I'm tired, too. It's all the negative ions in the atmosphere, not to mention lack of sleep."

"If you say so," concluded Russell. "I'm going to take a shower."

Bryce could hear his father's voice muffled behind the bathroom door, singing, "You are my sunshine." He picked up the telephone receiver, and keeping at bay doubt and dread, he dialed his New York number.

There was ringing, an answer: "Hello." Paul's voice, flat in timbre, sounded familiar after only two syllables. Bryce felt eager and shy. "Hello, Paul, it's Bryce."

"Bryce! Where are you? Are you in New York?"

"I'm calling from the other side of the world," Bryce began, while, with an intake of breath, Paul waited for him to continue. It was a shock for Paul just to hear Bryce's voice, its regionalisms deepened after three months in the South. It was still more bizarre to find his tease to Althea two days earlier returning to him via Bryce. He marvelled at it, his ear pressed to the telephone receiver, as if in intimacy. The receiver of the pay phone from which he had called Althea on Tuesday was greasy from the grips of all the strangers who had used it before him, and in distaste he had held it slightly away from his mouth and ear, further impeding a conversation already competing with interference. In contrast, this Thursday morning Bryce's voice came across clear as a bell.

"You mean, you're still in Mississippi?"

"No, I'm with my father in Florida."

"Are you all right?"

"To be honest, I feel a bit strange. Perhaps I'm just tired. We had quite a storm last night."

"Is there a hurricane down there?"

"No, but it was exciting enough." Bryce paused. "When did you get back to New York?"

"About a week ago." Paul's answer came without hesitation, as if Bryce and he had been privy to each other's plans, and his reply were simply a confirmation. "Did you get the ticket?"

"What ticket?"

"The Kurt Matthews Dancers are scheduled for a week at the Joyce Theater. I mailed you a ticket last week. You should have received it by now."

"I've been in Florida all week." Bryce spoke abruptly. From the window he watched a Snowy Egret land noiselessly in the yard, folding in its wings. Paul's matter-of-fact tone infuriated him. "Did you try to call me in Meridian?" he demanded.

"Not yet." Paul's answer was barely audible.

Anger flashed in Bryce. "Why not?" His voice was steely.

"Bryce, please, let's not go into it now. I'm not prepared to give you excuses."

Inwardly seething, Bryce remained silent. I should never have called Paul, he thought to himself. This was a mistake. He's so insensitive.

"Bryce, are you still there?"

"Yes," he said grudgingly.

"Look, you have a right to be angry," Paul said. "I'm not telling you not to be. But I want you to know I've missed you, and I'd be extremely grateful if you came back in time to see the show."

"Do you mean it?"

"Yes, I do."

"How long is the engagement?"

"The last performance is Saturday night."

"Two days from now?"

"Yes. I don't know why it got booked that way, but it did. I'm performing in my own dance. I'd love for you to see it. Do you think you can?"

"I think so." Bryce sounded tentative.

"I hope you make it."

"Is that what you want, Paul? For me to be a member of your audience? Is that why you want me to come back?"

Paul laughed nervously. "Suit yourself, Bryce. Come whenever you like."

"I'm serious. I've been away three months. I sent you a letter way back in August, asking you to get in touch with me. Whenever I tried to call you, you were never there, and I gave up after a while. I needed you, but you never tried to contact me. Now you tell me you sent me a ticket to your performance. Right now I don't care about your performance."

"Look, Bryce, I'm sorry. I didn't even find that letter for weeks. We obviously have a lot to talk about. I don't think we should necessarily have this conversation over the phone. If we start blaming each other now, it will only make our estrangement worse. I guess I've been emphasizing my dance because I'm nervous. Besides, I assumed that was why you were calling."

"I was calling to tell you I'm coming home."

"Is this really true?"

"Yes," Bryce admitted.

"When?"

"Well, now I'll try to make it on Saturday. That's the soonest. We'll probably go back to Meridian tomorrow or later today."

"How have you been?"

"I'm all right, I guess."

"Are you getting along with your family? Why are you in Florida? And where in Florida are you?"

"On Sanibel Island. My father wants to buy a house. I came down to help him look."

"No kidding. Has he found one?"

"I think so. To be honest," Bryce suddenly interjected, "it's been a rough few months. My uncle died."

No sooner had Bryce said this than he wished he hadn't. He sounded, he thought, as if he were fishing for sympathy, and besides, what could the news possibly mean to Paul, who'd never met his uncle?

"You mean Bill?"

"Yes. I've told you about him?"

"As you undoubtedly know, you've never talked too much about your family. He was the only one I ever heard you mention without disgust."

Paul was right, Bryce thought. He felt a little ashamed, as if his father might somehow overhear this. He heard the door to the bathroom open.

"I'm sorry," Paul was saying. "Please accept my condolences."

"Thanks. Look, I better go. My father's out of the shower, and he'll need to use the phone. As soon as I get back to Meridian, I'll make reservations for New York and call you then."

"I'll be expecting you," said Paul.

After Paul hung up, Bryce set down the receiver slowly. In the wake of his initial relief that he hadn't lost Paul, he was still disturbed and unsatisfied. He hadn't said all he'd wanted to say, but he'd been so nervous that he'd cut the conversation short. It was true Paul had apologized, but the apology hadn't sounded heartfelt. It seemed like a white flag thrown up to propitiate him.

Paul is calling for a truce, but what are the conditions? Bryce wondered. Will Paul set them, or will I?

Bryce heard his father summoning him, and as he rose to answer, thoughts of his return to New York filled him with mingled resentment, hope, and fear.

Chapter Eighteen

There was an old man gingerly negotiating the steps in the lobby of Jeanne's building, his shoulders bent, his back hunched as he clung to the banister. He glared at Jeanne when she briskly walked past. She held the front door open, politely and patiently waiting for him. He thanked her, but added resentfully, "Stay young, or it will happen to you."

She felt her face flush with anger. How dare he, she thought, when I was trying to be kind. I refuse to believe him.

Outside, on the street, she overtook him without a word, her chin held high, her back straight and proud. She would not deign to notice him again. Yet the early afternoon air was so mild and sunny for the twenty-second of November that she soon felt her resentment evaporating.

She was on her way to her lunch date with Althea, and she was very early. Why did we schedule it for two o'clock? she wondered. At the time I must have had a reason for suggesting the late hour, but I can't remember it now.

She was nervous, she admitted it. She was planning to take a long, leisurely walk to the restaurant and sort out her feelings on the way. She always seemed to think things through better when she was walking.

She headed east, intending to turn north on Sixth Avenue. As she went, she rehearsed what she would say to Althea. She improvised a conversation between them. The problem was, it was full of hesitations and awkward pauses. It wasn't the conversation she wanted to have. She hadn't thought that she would feel so anxious, especially since it appeared that she was holding most of the aces in her hand. She enumerated them: she was the one whom Paul had sought out and gone away with in October, before he went on tour. She knew that Paul hadn't seen Althea then, and she didn't think Althea knew that she had seen Paul. In her mind's eye she saw Althea again, pacing the lobby of the Joyce Theater. She reminded herself that Althea was in love with Paul, and she was not. Now, with the possibility of this new man René Duval in her life, she had moved on, while Althea was still trapped by her feelings for Paul.

Jeanne wondered, Is this how I perceive Althea now--as the rival over whom I have triumphed? When she remembered the expression on Althea's face after Paul's performance last Sunday, and what it had to mean, her heart went out to her again, just as it had then. She wanted to sympathize with her friend and to comfort her, but how could she best approach her, and how could Althea accept her sympathy? How would she react, if she were in Althea's place? Without a doubt she would be hurt and angry.

But I wouldn't be in that place, she assured herself, once again feeling superior to Althea and impatient with her for indulging a love for a man who was so obviously a wrong choice. This was why she had asked Althea out to lunch: she wanted--if she dared--to urge Althea to break out of this trap.

That wasn't all. There remained whatever was just between the two of them--their changed, charged relationship. As the weeks passed, Jeanne was less and less sure she understood it. Part of her wanted to forget all about it, but another part of her wanted to discuss it with Althea, to bring everything out in the open and somehow deal with it.

* * *

Johanna's was a trendy new restaurant, a pioneer amidst the warehouses, vestigial factories, and dilapidated offices off of Union Square. It was in the ground floor of an early skyscraper, perhaps almost a century old. Although Jeanne hadn't yet eaten at Johanna's, she had noticed it from the street and been attracted by the spacious, serene interior. Cylindrical wooden columns with Doric capitals clad the original steel supports. There was a curved mahogany bar near the front and a few small tables for drinks or coffee. Behind a screen painted in Art Nouveau style began the restaurant proper, a roomy sea of tables spread with white cloths. When, on the phone with Althea, Jeanne had been thinking of a restaurant to suggest, the name "Johanna" had popped into her head.

Jeanne was accustomed to arriving just on time or a few minutes late, but today she was ten minutes early. The lunch hour was winding down, and the restaurant was about half full. The maître d' greeted her graciously. Not wanting to miss Althea, Jeanne chose to wait at one of the tables in the nearly empty bar at the entrance. She asked the bartender for a glass of plain water.

Typically, she did not like to wait, resenting the waste of her time. Usually she could not endure sitting still and doing nothing, without at least a book to read, but today she had come empty-handed.

Yet she found she did not mind. In fact, once relieved of her coat at the coat-check and comfortably installed, her anxiety dissipated as she began to absorb the restaurant's atmosphere. She actually felt serene in repose, watching the sunlight through the window illuminating the dust on the plate glass. She admired a bouquet of mauve lilies in a big glass vase at one end of the bar. Smiling at her reflection in the mirror of her compact, she reapplied her lipstick. She had dressed carefully for this luncheon. She was wearing a long black skirt of finely woven wool, a red silk blouse, and an embroidered vest.

The minutes passed. Unlike Jeanne, Althea was usually early, so Jeanne began to wonder if perhaps she had had second thoughts. Yet Jeanne didn't really think that Althea would stand her up. At last, she spotted her on the sidewalk just outside. Through the plate glass, she appeared wavery, as if underwater. Jeanne checked her watch; Althea was twenty minutes late. Then she entered the restaurant, and Jeanne gestured to her.

Althea was wearing tan corduroy jeans and a moss-green tweed jacket over an oatmeal-colored sweater. With tousled hair and flushed cheeks, she appeared windblown to Jeanne, as if she had been hurrying.

"Did you have trouble finding the restaurant?" Jeanne asked.

"No. Why?"

"It isn't like you to be late. I thought, since this isn't your area of town, that maybe you'd gotten lost."

"What do you mean? I manage to go all over the city teaching, to places you'd never imagine going, in Harlem and the outer boroughs, and I never get lost."

Althea sounded annoyed, aggrieved. She's only just arrived, Jeanne thought, and we're already off to a bad start. She let Althea's remark pass. "Why are you wearing that flower?" she asked.

A pink sweetheart rose was woven through the top buttonhole of Althea's jacket.

"Someone gave this to me on the street outside the subway exit a few minutes ago. It was for a promotion," Althea explained.

"What was the product?"

"I don't know. I just accepted the flower."

"Immune to advertising--that's just like you, Althea," commented Jeanne. "Let's get our table. I'm hungry."

She motioned to the maître d', who had been hovering nearby, and he led them to their seats. A waiter brought menus, but Althea laid hers to the side for the moment. "I was in Brooklyn," she said. "That's why I'm late. I went to see an exhibit in the Botanical Garden."

"At the end of November? What could you possibly see in a garden?"

Althea smiled a secretive, Cheshire-cat kind of smile, as if she were privately relishing the memory of a delicious treat. Her smile flung Jeanne back into the past, when Althea had been a self-appointed mentor whom Jeanne valued for her infallible good taste. Whatever Althea admired, no matter how obscure, Jeanne invariably found interesting.

"What was the exhibit?" Jeanne asked again, indulging Althea, just as she believed Althea wanted her to do.

"It's called 'The Art of Penjing,'" Althea replied. "The Chinese made an art out of particular kinds of rock formations. They looked for specific properties: the stone should lean rather than stand vertically, and have a corrugate texture, marked with cavities, and a hole so deep you could see straight through it. They investigated the most remote places for rocks to meet the ideal; they searched in underwater caves, on the tops of mountains, and the bottoms of rivers. In the exhibit was a stone that took fifty artisans four months to extract from an almost inaccessible precipice."

Jeanne heard the wonder in Althea's voice, and she let herself be led into a discussion of this art she had never heard of, but now, because of Althea's enthusiasm, felt that she, too, would appreciate. They were fitted into their old roles, she reflected, and she might have pursued the thought further had not the waiter's approach caused them to turn their attention to the menus.

"Get whatever you like," urged Jeanne.

They spent a few minutes discussing the appetizers and entrées before making their choices of salad and pasta. Althea ordered first: radicchio and endive salad with walnut vinaigrette and raditore in a smoked salmon and cream sauce. Jeanne selected arugula salad topped with shavings of Parmesan cheese and sepia linguine with wild mushrooms. Jeanne ordered a bottle of Chablis.

As Althea sat studying the menu, Jeanne stole glances at her. To Jeanne, Althea looked beautiful, her expression lit by an otherworldly radiance. Was it really because she was inspired by 'The Art of Penjing'? Of no one but Althea would Jeanne have believed it. Althea was just strange enough, she thought. Yet, although she might make fun of Althea to herself, deep down she appreciated Althea's aesthetic sensibility, so well-developed and original.

Today Althea's appearance seemed determinedly subdued to Jeanne. She had on no jewelry or make-up; her clothes were unobtrusive. Compared to Jeanne's red and black contrasts, Althea was in camouflage. Althea's influence on Jeanne was still so great that Jeanne found herself preferring Althea's subdued dress and questioning her own choice, though it had been made so carefully.

Jeanne was unprepared for Althea's apparent self-command, which had been missing at the Joyce Theater last Sunday. Althea seemed to have arrived at the luncheon with a conversation already prepared, intended--Jeanne surmised--to avoid the personal.

Althea spoke again about the Chinese exhibit, arranged outdoors on a brick patio against the backdrop of the Botanical Garden in its late fall aspect. She said, "On one of the explanatory cards in the exhibit was a poem that I liked. Since you're a reader of poetry, I copied it down for you. It sounds like haiku, but it's longer."

Rummaging in her purse, Althea extracted a small notebook from which she read in a clear, nearly expressionless voice, "Loneliness. The essential color/Of a beauty not to be defined./Over the dark evergreens, the dusk/That gathers on far autumn hills."

Though Jeanne didn't mention it, the poem seemed like a confession from Althea in spite of herself. "It's lovely, a perfect match of mood and atmosphere," Jeanne remarked instead and was about to add more but stopped herself, lest, in holding forth, she sound pompous.

The wine was poured, the bread broken. "Let's drink," said Jeanne, raising her glass. "To our reunion."

Between Althea's fingers, the stem of her wineglass trembled as she drank.

It seemed to Jeanne that she could glimpse the movement of Althea's thought--not its content, but its direction--like the shining slip of a stream over its bed.

A sip at a time, Althea tasted the wine. Its influence stole over her nerves. Perhaps I will get through this lunch all right, she thought, as she chewed sourdough bread spread with sweet butter. Making the connection to their shared past, she asked after Jeanne's family.

Jeanne shrugged her shoulders vaguely. "All of us are absorbed in our own lives. I feel that we nod to each other and then move on, like ships in passing. I don't know why, but it's almost as if, when I left Greenwich, I ceased to exist on some level for my parents. Not that I'm dead, but that they don't consider me. For instance, they made Thanksgiving plans without me this year."

"Is the situation the same with your brothers?" Althea wondered.

"I'm not sure. We're not in the habit of consulting each other. I think this time my brothers decided first that they weren't coming. What are your plans?" she asked Althea.

"The usual. Dinner at my aunt Joan's. I'll just go up for the day. At least your family is open to innovation. It seems to me that my family is horrified at the thought of making almost any change whatsoever. Habit becomes obligation, and it weighs heavily."

Nevertheless, Althea's tone mocked her harsh words. Briefly Jeanne entertained the possibility that Althea might invite her to her family's Thanksgiving, but the idea did not seem to occur to Althea.

Their salads arrived, the fresh greens dressed with vinaigrette. Gratefully, they began to eat. "I'm famished. Concentrating on art always makes me hungry," confessed Althea. Her salad was the more aesthetically composed, she thought, contrasting the deep magenta and white of the radicchio with the pale endive. Yet eyeing Jeanne's simpler salad of arugula topped with thin shingles of Parmesan cheese, Althea wondered if she might not have preferred to eat it instead. She suppressed the urge to ask Jeanne for a bite.

Jeanne tasted the tangy flavors of her salad. Once they would have been too strong for her, she reflected, but now she savored them with pleasure.

As she ate, her thoughts wandered to the past. "When we were growing up, I often wondered how you could come from such a conventional family," she remarked to Althea. "I always thought your parents never had a clue about you."

"Even now I don't think they do," admitted Althea, shaking her head.

"I remember how upset they were when you transferred from Brown to the Rhode Island School of Design after sophomore year. As I recall, they gave you a hard time about it."

"I was lucky that my education was being paid for by a trust created by my grandmother's will," replied Althea. "Otherwise I couldn't have done it. My parents wouldn't have paid the tuition, and I couldn't have afforded it. But why are you bringing up all this now?"

"I don't know. I suddenly remembered it." Jeanne went back to her train of thought, "You really liked The Rhode Island School of Design, didn't you?"

"It wasn't everything I'd hoped it would be, but on balance the positives outweighed the negatives. At Brown I felt so frustrated. I wanted to concentrate on art, and I wasn't allowed to. At 'Risdy,' I began to conceive of myself as an artist. That's what it did for me, and it's not insignificant. I thought like an artist before I became one."

"I was so studious when I was in college," Jeanne recalled. "I wanted to learn as much as I could. I took five courses every semester when the typical load was four, because it cost the same, and I was determined to get my money's worth."

"That sounds like you," commented Althea. "You had a sterling reputation in my family, but you lost it when you didn't go to law school," she added, to provoke Jeanne.

"I'm devastated," replied Jeanne, mocking her. Remembering when their friendship was less complicated and compromised, Jeanne felt closer to Althea. "I haven't seen your mother in ages. Is she still so bubbly and wholesome, with that blonde hair?" she asked Althea.

"You mean like mine?" asked Althea.

"No, not like yours. Hers was dyed."

Jeanne saw Althea suppress a smile. "I remember one Christmas vacation when I came over to your house," Jeanne went on, inspired. "We were planning to take the train into the city, go to a museum, hang out. We were wearing jeans, workshirts, and baggy sweaters. Our coats were down parkas. Your mother took one look at us and exclaimed, 'How are you two girls ever going to catch husbands if you go around looking like that?'" Jeanne laughed at the recollection.

But Althea neither laughed nor looked amused. "I didn't think that was funny then, and I don't now," she said sharply. "What's your point, Jeanne? That my mother was right?"

"I wasn't thinking of that, but I guess she was."

"Is that your goal? To catch a husband?" Althea glared at Jeanne. She pushed her plate aside; she was done with her salad.

"Obviously not. You've missed the point. I wasn't adopting your mother's tone; I was critiquing it."

"I just don't find it pleasant to be reminded of it."

Althea's cheeks were flushed. Jeanne felt the unpleasantness between the two of them growing; she had known it was there, under their silence. She had feared and dreaded it; now the realization of it paralyzed her.

"I'm finding it hard enough already," Althea went on, her voice breaking a little.

Jeanne stared Althea straight in the face. "I know," she said. Her voice was like a breath.

But Althea did not want Jeanne's intimacy or her understanding. She looked away from Jeanne's gaze, her eyes cast down at her place. "I doubt it."

I should back off, Jeanne thought, but I don't want to. This was why, after all, she had scheduled the lunch--to bring things between them to a head, and to examine them together, in the open. She believed that they were still kindred spirits, deep down. She guessed why Althea was upset.

The waiter came and took their empty salad plates away. He brought their plates of pasta, warm and fragrant. He replenished their glasses with wine.

The tension between them eased as each tasted her dish.

"How's yours?" Jeanne inquired.

"Excellent. And yours?"

"It's delicious. Would you like to try it?"

As they carefully passed each other their laden forks, Althea thought of how she'd wanted to sample Jeanne's salad, too. Just a few days ago, she had desired a taste of Paul's pastry, but hadn't dared to ask. A sense of sadness swept over her.

"What did you think of Paul's performance?"

Jeanne's sudden question struck a nerve. Althea was numbed. She watched herself put down the fork. As she raised her eyes to face Jeanne, she seemed to be moving in slow motion. "I had thought you might be there, but I didn't see you," she said.

"I left as soon as it was over. I had to go to Massachusetts the next day."

As she spoke, Jeanne was aware of the deliberate falseness of the position she was creating for herself. She made it sound as if the event was a diversion to be fitted into a busy schedule, instead of the revelation it had turned out to be. She would not mention to Althea that she had observed her and fled. "What did you think of Paul's dance?" she inquired again, as casually as if she were discussing a movie.

"You sound as if you didn't like it," accused Althea.

"No, I did." Jeanne spoke slowly, as if she were just figuring it out. "I guess I thought that parts of the dance were a little ponderous."

"I didn't. I loved it," Althea proclaimed. She sounded defiant, embarrassed by her emotion and at the same time proud of it. "I liked where the dance went, the risks it took, the shape of it. I'd like to see it again."

"Well, you can. Tonight's the last performance."

"Oh, I don't know."

Shrugging her shoulders, Althea seemed to dismiss the idea. Not for the first time, Jeanne wondered what had happened after she'd left the Joyce Theater. She was torn between wanting to ask Althea and thinking the better of it, between wanting to confess to Althea about her autumn involvement with Paul and wanting to keep it a secret. She sat tongue-tied, eating her pasta.

Faced with Jeanne's suggestion, Althea realized that, although she would have liked to watch Paul perform again, tonight she was not prepared to repeat the experience of being in the audience and debating whether she ought to try to see him afterwards or not, particularly when he hadn't invited her. She realized that she didn't want to slip in and out unnoticed; she wanted to mean something to Paul. And, as she often had during the autumn, she wondered about Bryce: why hadn't she spotted him in the theater or in the lower lobby afterwards? Had he been there?

"Did you see Bryce at Paul's performance?" she asked Jeanne impulsively.

"What? Who's Bryce?" asked Jeanne.

Is Jeanne for real? Althea wondered. "I can't believe you don't know."

"I never claimed to know a lot about Paul's life."

Was Jeanne as disengaged from Paul as she made it sound? Althea couldn't decide what to believe. Is it because I care so much that I find it hard to believe that Jeanne cares so little? she wondered. Perhaps I ought to take Jeanne at her word. Yet I sense that Jeanne is hiding something from me, and I've known her a long time.

What difference does it make to me now? Althea asked herself. She had no hope of Paul; she never had, and now she had to face it. In her mind she saw the tarp falling between them in the street and Paul urging her to go away. Looking deep within herself, Althea discovered that perhaps she didn't really want Paul. She considered that she might never be able to adjust to life with him: he was profligate, and she was so careful. What attached her to him, she realized, was that he had revealed to her a part of herself that she hadn't known existed. It was a sexual self, and it frightened her, but she couldn't deny its power. She remembered how she had felt Paul's eyes on her when she lay with Jeanne. She had wondered then, and now she wondered again what he was thinking. He knew something about her that no one else knew.

Except for Jeanne, which made it harder for Althea. She didn't mind what Paul knew about her because she suspected him of worse, but she minded very much what Jeanne knew and--more than that--was part of. Paul's scrutiny was something quite different from Jeanne's. She wanted to open herself up to Paul's attention, but with Jeanne her impulse was to hide. She had acted against that impulse on Block Island; she had let the other impulse take over.

Althea guessed that Jeanne wanted to discuss this secret, too; it waited behind the scenes, like the subject of Paul, to be brought up. She thought to herself, I can't take it back, but I don't have to discuss it.

But now they were broaching another topic, which she had brought up. How her thoughts had wandered from Bryce! Althea noticed that Jeanne was looking at her curiously.

"Paul and Bryce live together," Althea explained to Jeanne. "They're a couple. I thought you knew."

"No," replied Jeanne, shaking her head. She felt a shock of surprise, as much at Althea as at Paul. If Paul was half of a couple, then why had he come to Block Island alone? she wondered. Why had Althea asked him? Why had he been so intent on making love to them? And why had Althea let herself pine so much for him?

"He certainly didn't act like half of a couple," Jeanne commented.

"No, he didn't," Althea agreed.

"If Bryce exists, then where was he when Paul was on Block Island?"

"Don't you remember, Jeanne? You're the one who told me. In that letter you sent to Block Island, you wrote that Paul had left me a message on your machine that he and Bryce were postponing a dinner party because Bryce was out of town."

"I remember he left you a message, but I don't recall the substance of it. Remember, I didn't know who Paul was then." Jeanne paused. "But if that's true, it makes even less sense than I thought it did."

Feeling judged, Althea said nothing. She felt that Jeanne wanted her to justify herself, and she couldn't.

"Paul never told you about Bryce, and you never saw Paul's apartment?" Althea asked Jeanne.

"The answer is no to both questions."

"Then you haven't seen Paul all autumn?"

"I didn't say that." Jeanne surprised herself by intimating what she'd intended to keep secret. Next, she realized, she was going to make a confession.

Hearing Jeanne's reply, Althea grew tense. Did I expect this? she wondered. She was so upset that it was all she could do to keep her face frozen in a neutral expression and her voice noncommittal. "What have you come to tell me?" she asked Jeanne.

Jeanne smiled, full of the secret she was about to reveal. "For a while, after we got back, I didn't hear from him, just as I didn't hear from you. Then one evening he showed up at the Green Heron Theater, and a few weeks later he asked me to go away with him." Though she tried to, Jeanne couldn't stop smiling. She'd triumphed over Althea, and she couldn't prevent herself from enjoying it.

"Where did you go? When was it?" Althea's voice, through the lump in her throat, came out as a whisper.

"To an inn in Connecticut. Over the Columbus Day weekend."

"You're gloating, are you?" observed Althea. To Jeanne, Althea's voice sounded deadly quiet, like the stasis--Jeanne thought--in the eye of a storm.

Jeanne took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It really wasn't so much, Althea. Just overnight. Then Paul went to join his dance troupe on tour, and I came back to New York by myself. Actually he didn't tell me where he was going then, only that he wasn't returning with me. Nor did he ever hint of someone named Bryce in his life."

For the moment Althea's curiosity got the better of her anguish. "How strange," she commented. "But they must still be together."

"How do you know that for sure?"

Althea realized that it was only because Paul hadn't seen her that she'd assumed he was with Bryce. She had no evidence. "You're right, I don't," she said. "You say he went on tour after Columbus Day?"

"That's what he wrote when he sent me the ticket to the dance. I assume you could verify the information if you wanted to," Jeanne added.

Althea chose not to acknowledge Jeanne's sarcasm. "So he's been away for the past month?" she inquired.

"Almost six weeks."

"You're right, I don't know if he's with Bryce or not. I don't even know if he's still living on my block. I haven't ever run into him. Maybe he moved out of the penthouse."

"The penthouse?"

Suddenly they were no longer rivals trying to get the better of each other, but allies sharing information. How had it happened? Althea couldn't say. She began to tell Jeanne what she knew of Bryce, how he came from Mississippi, was a lawyer by training. How he suffered from a physical handicap whose cause she was ignorant of. She described Bryce's fabulous penthouse and the garden, thinking of the contrast with her studio apartment. She told Jeanne the impressions of Bryce gleaned from her one visit on that gold-and-green-lit May evening long ago. The occasion had come to seem almost mythical.

"Even without knowing Bryce or knowing whatever happened between him and Paul, I feel sorry for him," Jeanne commented.

Althea nodded. How arrogant of you, she thought to herself. With her fingernail she idly sketched a figure into the tablecloth--an abstract pattern of curving, intersecting lines. She shocked herself by what she said to Jeanne next. It came out before she had a chance to reconsider. "You went away with Paul, and you don't even love him. It's not fair," she protested. "I should have been the one to go." Biting her lip, Althea fought back tears of frustration and self-pity.

"Maybe that's why he didn't ask you."

"What do you mean?" Once again, Althea's curiosity was aroused.

"He knew how you felt. He wanted a diversion, and he didn't want the attachment to get messy. He knew I would let go."

Jeanne's reasoning appealed to Althea. It sounded plausible. By implying that she was too intense for Paul, and not that he disparaged or disliked her, it allowed her to preserve some dignity. She knew that she ought to try to accept Jeanne's explanation and get past it; still, part of her wanted to ask Jeanne for details of that weekend away. But Althea deliberately made the decision not to be that self-destructive. "Why did you go then?" she couldn't refrain from asking Jeanne.

"Why not?" Jeanne's earnest expression faded. "You just admitted you would have gone with him if you'd had the opportunity, and you know more about his private life than I do. So how can you blame me?"

Jeanne paused to drink the last drops of wine in her glass as the waiter appeared and removed their emptied plates--first hers, and then Althea's--which had remained too long at their places. She didn't expect Althea to reply. "Well, we've gotten this far!" she exclaimed then, wondering if she dared go further. She wanted to. If Althea's feelings about Paul revealed Althea at her most vulnerable, Jeanne thought, then the equivalent for herself might be her feelings about Althea. Even more than Paul, Jeanne believed, this issue was responsible for creating the gulf that had separated them all through the autumn. What are my true feelings about Althea? Jeanne wondered, as the waiter returned. Distracted by these thoughts, she refused dessert, asking only for an espresso. Althea ordered one, too.

The breadcrumbs littering the tablecloth were brushed to the edge and gathered up. Soon the fragrant coffees arrived. Althea and Jeanne each took a heaping spoonful of sugar.

"How decadent we are!" Jeanne's tone was mocking, ironic. "Althea, I have something more to ask you," she continued and paused, glancing at her friend. Althea's head was bowed as she stirred her coffee with a demitasse spoon, and Jeanne could not see her face. "What do you think about what happened between us on Block Island?"

When Althea looked at Jeanne, her face was somber, elongated, and plain, her lips compressed in a thin line. "I have no opinion to convey," she said, her prim tone reminding Jeanne that she was a teacher. Jeanne thought, Her attitude is an act.

"I don't believe you for a minute," Jeanne said.

"You obviously want to discuss this, and I don't," Althea countered. "I refuse to talk about it."

Jeanne wanted to plead with Althea, but she did not know what to say. Althea's voice sounded so fierce, her refusal so final. "Don't you want to understand..." Jeanne began.

"No," replied Althea, "I have no wish at all to understand."

"But I have a confession to make," said Jeanne. She was thinking that she wanted to explain to Althea how her desire for her was connected to feelings from their lost adolescence. She wanted to convey to Althea its quality of innocence and yearning.

"Whatever you want to tell me, I don't want to hear it," Althea insisted. "How many times and in how many ways do I have to say it?"

Jeanne stared back, speechless. She could not entreat Althea to hear her out. This time she was not going to prevail. Stung, she considered, Perhaps this lunch is a mistake after all. Althea must really hate me. Well, I don't need her.

Jeanne stifled an urge to walk out of the restaurant and leave Althea forever. Why is my reaction so extreme? Why do I immediately consider the irremediable step? she asked herself. She might not need Althea, but she would miss her if they were to part in rancor.

She was tired. The effort of self-control had its cost. An adult is supposed to be able to renounce, she reminded herself and felt better, as if she had somehow relieved herself of a burden. "Well," she said brightly, her voice faintly edged with sarcasm, "what else have you been doing besides admiring 'The Art of Penjing'?" She smiled a bright, false smile. In spite of my uplifting intentions, she realized, I am still angry with Althea.

But Althea did not take offense. Clearly relieved to change the subject, she considered Jeanne's question. "To tell the truth, I had a disappointment yesterday," she admitted.

"What happened?"

"It's about a little boy in my Harlem school. He's artistically talented, and what's more, he's disciplined. He deserves the opportunity to develop his abilities. My residency at the school will be over by Christmas. I know he'd benefit from private art lessons. I broached the idea with him casually, and he seemed interested. This is the first time I've gotten involved in one of my students' lives outside of the classroom. I always prided myself on treating them equally and not bringing the job home with me. But Jamal is special. I would hate for his talents to be destroyed by neglect. His gifts deserve to be nurtured.

"I was careful to be diplomatic. I considered that Jamal's family would probably be suspicious of me as a white woman. I discussed the idea of private art lessons with the principal and with Jamal's classroom teacher. They both supported me. I was so excited when I persuaded the Harlem Studio Museum to offer Jamal lessons free of charge. Their classes have a good reputation, and the museum is only about a half-mile from the project where Jamal lives. I asked the principal to contact Jamal's mother and tell her the good news because it would be better received coming from her than from me. I felt sure everything was going to work out until yesterday when Mrs. Fontaine--she's the principal--told me that Jamal's mother isn't interested. She says she can't take him to the lessons."

"Maybe she's working," Jeanne suggested.

"On Saturday morning? Even if she is working, why can't someone else in his family take him? I know he has an older brother. And the museum's only a ten-minute walk away. No, Jamal's mother just doesn't want to be bothered. Her attitude makes me so angry."

"It does seem short-sighted and selfish," Jeanne commented.

"Jamal told me that his brother had once been in jail. I want to try to save him from a fate like that. It's presumptuous of me."

"That's true," Jeanne agreed, "but it doesn't mean it's wrong."

"Sometimes I wonder what good I'm doing in these schools." Althea sighed. "It's exhausting to travel all over the city, it's difficult constantly to be a newcomer and have to deal with so many school administrations. From year to year, even from residency to residency, there's never a guarantee of more work, and the pay isn't enough to offset the uncertainty. If I can't make a difference to a student like Jamal, then maybe I should look for another job."

"How do you know that you haven't already made a difference to him?"

"I hope I have," Althea admitted, "but I'll soon be gone."

"You did your best," Jeanne tried to console Althea. She was somewhat surprised to discover that Althea was so passionately involved in her teaching, since she also recalled hearing Althea refer to the work deprecatingly as "just a job."

"If that's the best I can do, then I do blame myself, because it wasn't good enough," Althea said. "And if it's not the best I can do, then I also blame myself for not doing better."

"You're too hard on yourself. You hold yourself to impossible standards. You're not responsible for Jamal. Most teachers wouldn't do what you did."

"I know," Althea admitted, "but I don't think most teachers are truly interested in nurturing creativity. They care more about the result than the process. Not that I don't think the product isn't valuable, but for my students I'm more interested in the kind of attention that goes into making something." Althea stopped. "I'm sorry," she apologized, "I don't mean to bore you with a lesson on pedagogy."

"Perhaps it is time for you to move on to something else," Jeanne considered. "I bet these arts-in-the-schools organizations have a high burnout rate."

Althea shrugged. "Where would I go? What am I qualified to do? I don't want to be a classroom teacher and give up all my freedom."

"I bet you could figure out something," Jeanne replied. "You've been good in the past at advising me."

As they were speaking, the waiter brought the check on a silver tray. Althea watched silently as Jeanne claimed it. Then Jeanne took a credit card from her wallet and laid it and the bill on the tray. She handed the tray back to the waiter. Her motions were assured. Althea thought that she herself might not have pulled off this ritual so well; she would have fumbled with the check or dropped the card.

"Thank you," she said somewhat grudgingly. It made her uncomfortable to have to feel grateful to Jeanne. This meeting has been hard on both of us, she reflected; I did not really intend to snap so sharply at her, but there seemed no other way that I could get my point across. Well, soon the lunch will be over, and I can go.

Yet Althea did not feel as anxious to leave as she had assumed she would.

"Of course, the best solution would be for you to make a living from your art," Jeanne continued, unaware of Althea's train of thought. Her comment brought Althea back to their topic.

Althea sighed. "I don't see that happening soon. No one's exactly beating a path to my door."

"You haven't showed anyone the way," countered Jeanne. "You don't have a dealer yet, do you?"

"No."

"Have you approached dealers?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I guess I'm afraid. I don't want to be rejected. I don't know if I'm ready for all that."

"Do you believe in your work?"

"Most of the time I do," Althea admitted.

"What have you got to lose by getting the opinion of someone who could help you sell it?" asked Jeanne.

Before Althea could reply, the waiter returned with the credit card slip and Jeanne's card. Althea waited while Jeanne computed the tip and signed her name. Althea stifled the desire to try to read the total.

"Let's stay a few minutes and finish this conversation," said Jeanne, putting the credit card back in her wallet and glancing at her watch. "It's almost three-thirty, too late for lunch and too early for dinner. No one's waiting for our table."

Althea nodded in assent. "I do think I have a lot to lose," she said in response to Jeanne's question. "What if the dealer says no? Then I've wasted that opportunity."

"I doubt it works that way. Why couldn't you go back with different work later? I don't believe you just get one shot."

"It's not only that." With surprise Althea realized that she was about to reveal a secret fear. "I don't know if I can market my paintings and continue to make them at the same time. I'm worried that pursuing the business angle will interfere with my creative concentration."

"I don't think you've got that right," disagreed Jeanne. "A dealer will handle business for you and free you to paint. Supposedly having a dealer will help your creativity rather than hinder it."

"But what if I painted only what the dealer wanted me to, because he or she thought it would sell, and who knows if it really would? What if I got into a rut and kept repeating myself, instead of continuing to develop and pursue my own ideas? What if I no longer recognized what my own vision was, because I was so influenced by what other people expected of me?"

"Your worries are hypothetical and far-fetched," Jeanne commented.

"Do you think so? They seem realistic to me." Althea sounded genuinely surprised.

"Yes. I don't think it's going to be a problem. You've never done what other people expected you to, all your life. You're not a wimp, Althea. Your individuality isn't going to get bulldozed by the market."

"I'm not implying anything that dramatic. I'm talking about a kind of mental confusion," objected Althea.

"I think it could be just the opposite, that if you had a dealer who was selling your work, then you would feel confirmed in your individuality or vision or whatever you want to call it. You would feel freer to produce what you wanted, rather than more constrained."

Althea was silent, taking in Jeanne's words. "I hadn't thought of it that way," she said. "Perhaps you're right."

Jeanne felt a heady surge of confidence as she realized that Althea found her argument convincing. Boldly she continued, "And to turn the issue around, I don't think it need necessarily be so bad to take what other people want into consideration. The relationship need not be adversarial."

Althea shook her head. "I'm not talking about competition. I'm talking about influence."

"You're bound to object to whatever I say," Jeanne complained. "This discussion has gotten too theoretical. What are you working on now, anyway?"

"I'm trying to finish a cycle of four paintings."

"What are they?"

"They're the ones I began on Block Island."

"Oh. I never saw them."

"I know."

Jeanne felt accused. "As I recall, you didn't want me to look at them," she said. "You laid them out carefully in my closed car so they would dry, and you wouldn't let me or Paul get near them. Then before we left you put them in two portfolios with dividers."

"You remember those portfolios?"

"Yes, you've had them for years. You made it clear that you didn't want me to see the paintings until they were finished."

"I'm not asking you to defend yourself," Althea said.

"What are these mysterious paintings anyway? Are they scandalous erotica?"

"Not at all," replied Althea, without cracking a smile. " There's not a human figure in them. How can I explain them to you? They're pieces of landscapes, abstracted, and at the same time essences of landscapes."

"Will I be able to recognize what they are?"

"What they represent," corrected Althea. "You'll have to see for yourself."

"I'd like to. Shall I make an appointment?"

"You might as well wait till they're done. I hope it won't be long now."

"So far, what's the general consensus?"

"What do you mean?"

"What have people said about them?"

"Nothing. No one has seen them."

"So this secretiveness is your attitude in general, not just toward dealers. I wonder how you can tell if the paintings are good or not if you don't let anyone see them. I don't remember your having been so private about your work in the past. Why now?"

Althea thought back on her difficult autumn. There had been times when she'd wondered if she'd go back to these paintings at all. She didn't want to have to explain this to Jeanne now. "I haven't felt ready to receive opinions, and so I haven't asked for them," she told her.

"You're really amazing." Jeanne shook her head. "You can shut yourself up in a room painting without anyone knowing what you're doing and feel as much an artist as if people were asking all the time to see your work."

"If you're an artist, it comes from yourself. Not from other people."

"It must be hard to work on your own day after day without getting any support. I know I couldn't do it."

"It is hard," Althea admitted. She wasn't sure how to take Jeanne's comment. Jeanne seemed to be praising her, while subtly denigrating her at the same time for being a fool. Althea was insecure enough to feel upset by it, but self-controlled enough not to try to defend herself.

"Look, what are you doing for the rest of the afternoon? Why don't we visit some downtown galleries?" Jeanne suggested. "We're not far away. We'll ask about their exhibition schedules and find out if they're taking on more artists."

"You mean, go right now?"

"Why not? Are you busy?"

"No, but we don't have much time. It's after three-thirty."

"I believe some galleries keep late hours on Saturday."

"I'm not sure the downtown galleries are right for me. I don't want you to talk about me. Please don't embarrass me." Anticipating the visits, Althea began to feel anxious.

"I won't mention you if you prefer. Shall we walk? It looks beautiful outside. Remember, there's no commitment. You're just looking."

"I see you won't take no for an answer." Althea realized that she was going to capitulate. She only hoped she wasn't making a mistake.

"It seems to me that you're in a crisis with your career. You need to move ahead, to give up your obscurity." Jeanne leaned forward as she spoke; she was in earnest, inspired by her conviction. "From your interest in things Chinese, you may know that the Chinese symbol for crisis is composed of two ideograms, one signifying danger and the other opportunity. Face the danger and grasp the opportunity," she urged.

Althea thought to herself, I'm painting again. My crisis has passed. But how could Jeanne know about that? "You're full of suggestions today, aren't you?" she observed.

Jeanne flushed. "When I was looking for work in the theater, I took your advice. Won't you take mine now?"

Althea found Jeanne's eagerness both infectious and irritating. "I'll come with you if you agree not to lecture me anymore," she bargained, consoling herself with the thought, It's only for the afternoon.

Chapter Nineteen

Bryce telephoned Paul again on Friday, November 21. His manner was brisk, even terse, as if he were still unsure of his welcome. "I'm back in Meridian," he announced, "and yes, I found your ticket to the Joyce Theater waiting for me. I've managed to book a flight to New York tomorrow. I'm scheduled to land at La Guardia by the mid-afternoon, so I'll be able to make the performance."

"That's terrific," replied Paul. "I'd like to take a cab out to the airport to meet you. I'll let you know early tomorrow morning if I can be there."

"Don't worry about it," said Bryce. "I don't have much luggage. I'll get a porter to help me."

"Are you sure?"

Paul didn't protest, and Bryce couldn't help feeling slightly disappointed. He realized, now that he had refused the offer, that he did want Paul to come meet him. Yet it was important to him to appear independent; he would never have told Paul that he'd changed his mind. But he did ask Paul wistfully if he would be at home to greet him when he arrived.

"Of course," said Paul. "We'll have something to eat before I leave for the theater. Everything will be ready for you. Just tell me what time your plane gets in."

"Around three-thirty."

"Perfect," said Paul. "I'll be expecting you an hour later. Then tomorrow night I'll give you the performance of my life."

"I'm looking forward to it and to seeing you at home."

* * *

Paul's words echoed in his own ears afterwards. How easily Bryce's return had been arranged! Nevertheless, he found himself looking forward to the reunion with less a whole heart than with conflicted feelings.

Though pleased, he was also anxious. On Saturday morning he found it a relief to clean the apartment from weeks of accumulated clutter. He arranged Bryce's mail in an orderly stack and discarded the rest--catalogues, pleas for donations from worthy causes, announcements of events already past. He vacuumed and dusted, changed the sheets on the bed, and even scrubbed out the bathtub. He phoned in an order to the grocery store and had it delivered. But there were special delicacies that he wanted to buy at favorite shops in SoHo and Greenwich Village which he used to patronize in his downtown days.

The housework took longer than he had anticipated. It was early in the afternoon by the time he set out on the shopping expedition. He took the subway to Houston Street.

As he climbed the steps from the station to the street, he was greeted by sparkling, brisk air. The heavens were a contrast of bright sky and clouds, ever shifting and on the move. It seemed to him, as he walked past the neat brick rowhouses on King Street, that the light was rich and complicated, ripe with an unrevealed promise.

The day seemed so serene that Paul was unprepared for the cold, wet splash that suddenly struck him in the shoulder. Stopping instantly, he peered up at buildings around him, trying to find the culprit, but he didn't even see an open window. It was as if the splash had fallen out of nowhere, aimed only at him.

Twisting his neck, he stared at the stain that had spread on his jacket. He touched the spot. It had no smell; it wasn't sticky, slimy or greasy. Probably it was only water. Shrugging his shoulders, both the wet and the dry, he continued on his way.

He went to buy goose-liver paté flavored with truffles, French goat cheese wrapped in vine leaves, expensive raspberries out of season. He bought a chocolate mousse cake decorated with candied violets and a good bottle of Champagne. Then he was done. Everything else--the bread and salad, the grilled vegetables and smoked salmon--he had assembled at home. There was enough for a light snack before the performance and an after-theater supper.

A display in a gallery window caught his attention, and he stopped in to see it. The show, called "The Subject Moving" was of photo-montages, collages of color Polaroids cut in strips and pasted together. There were perhaps two dozen of them, quite large, both landscapes and interiors. Paul liked the effect of exaggerated vistas and flattened panoramas. "Buy for pleasure only, not recommended for investment," read the legend on one of the photo-montages, and on impulse he almost did, but on second impulse changed his mind.

Heading north on Seventh Avenue, he paused at a florist's. Inside the shop, refrigerated behind panels of sliding glass, were long-stemmed rosebuds so chiselled they seemed carved from stone. In fact, they were delicate enough to bruise. He purchased a half dozen of these roses, velvety red. Their fragrance was slight. It would concentrate, the florist told him, as the flowers opened, a claim Paul didn't quite believe.

As he left the shop, laden with light packages and the Champagne, he suddenly remembered an estate garden on Long Island which he and Bryce had visited over a year ago. It had been late summer, and the roses were in full bloom. The most beautiful, Paul remembered, was without scent. It was a hybrid bloom, huge and thickly-petalled, peach-pink and blood-red. He didn't know why he recalled its name, but he did. It was "Sweet Surrender."

After inspecting the roses, Bryce, suddenly fatigued, had sat down to rest on a stone bench, as warm as flesh in the afternoon sun, and closed his eyes. Paul had sat down beside him. The garden was deserted, except for buzzing insects. The air shimmered with heat. All seemed tremulous with suspense. Then Paul kissed Bryce. As he inhaled the scent of Bryce's skin, his slightly harsh breath, Paul almost swooned.

Bryce, appearing asleep in the brilliant garden, received the kiss blindly yet knowingly, with closed eyes and half-parted lips. His tongue intruded on Paul's, and, not expecting it, Paul nearly gagged. It was as if he were the one asleep and Bryce was kissing him awake, and the taste of Bryce's mouth was milder than his breath.

Afterwards they had visited the family graveyard on the property. A rose was carved on one of the tombstones. On closer inspection they discovered that "Rose" was the name of the woman buried in the grave. She had died in the 1920s at age twenty-six. Under the carving was inscribed, "And Rose she lived, as roses live, for only a morning." The sentimental epitaph merged in Paul's mind with the kiss, which had repelled him at first and then turned to pleasure.

He had almost forgotten about that afternoon when, buying roses for Bryce's return, the memory returned to him. Yet it seemed to him to cast no great radiance. Just yesterday Bryce had said that he'd see Paul at home, as if he still assumed that his home was Paul's home, too. And Paul had been happy to hear the words, though the joy was in pieces in him.

The stain on his jacket had almost dried. He had walked from SoHo into the Village. Off Seventh Avenue he encountered a walking tour. They were close to the corner of Grove Street, looking at Marie's Crisis Cafe. "This is where Tom Paine died, ardent pamphleteer and activist in the cause of political equality and freedom," their guide was explaining pedantically. "On the second floor. And it was also from this block that Aaron Burr set forth to meet Alexander Hamilton in their infamous duel across the Hudson on the Palisades. You all know the outcome--Hamilton was dead, and Burr's political career was virtually finished."

The group listened respectfully, absorbing history on the spot with a slight air of boredom. The brisk punctuations of a jackhammer breaking through the asphalt on the avenue emphasized the constant, ongoing destructions and reconstructions of the present. On Grove Street, past Tom Paine's last abode, a man was scrubbing down the awning of a club whose featured comedy acts were advertised by framed photos forming an uneven border around the entrance.

Farther down, dwarfing the street, were two very large parked trucks. Workmen were assembled on the sidewalk below a brick apartment building. On the fourth story, a double window wrapping a corner had been entirely dismantled, leaving a gaping hole in which a man was standing. Suspended in the air in front of him was a system of two ropes which hung from the roof. Paul had stumbled upon the preparations for a hoist.

Idle curiosity such as Paul had experienced innumerable times in the past infected him once more. He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter after three. If Bryce's plane was on time, he wouldn't arrive from the airport until about four-thirty, Paul calculated. He could afford to linger for a few minutes. Nor was he the only spectator. A woman wheeling a stroller had also paused. Its young passenger, confined, raised an uproar, and one of the workmen, fiftyish, with jowly cheeks, dark eyes, and a hangdog air, knelt beside the stroller to cajole the child. This was his diversion. "Don't cry, wee lad," he urged. He spoke gently, his creased face softened, and the charm worked. The child stared at him and stopped crying, while his mother held the stroller, not quite involved nor quite apart. With a reserved, polite smile, she thanked the man, and, not taking her good luck for granted, she resumed wheeling the stroller down the sidewalk.

Meanwhile Paul was standing by the stoop of the house next to the apartment building, looking at the dangling ropes. One end hung free. The other was fastened to a winch on the outside of one of the trucks. Men were bringing out a king-sized headboard and footboard from the other truck and wrapping them in protective quilts.

For the time being, Paul was as idle as if he had nowhere to go. "Mind if I watch?"

"Why not?"

He was answered by the youngest member of the crew, who was carrying some clamps and lengths of stout cord.

Two teenagers walked past, stepping over the ropes, not bothering to detour. They were boys about fourteen, one thin, with glasses, the other chubby. Still, they were nimble as they ignored what was going on around them. "Now Rochelle's a dreary girl," the smaller one was saying.

"Yeah, dreary, dreary." Their voices, still unsure of their pitch, hung for a moment in the air.

As the fleeting encounter went by Paul, he had the vague impression that this was familiar, that somehow all this had happened to him before. Yet, how could it have? Clearly, it hadn't, and still it wasn't at all clear.... He saw his shadow cast on the sidewalk, climbing the wall. It bulged beneath him, beyond him, and for an instant it appeared as mysterious to him as when he was a child and had imagined that his shadow grew out of him, or he into it.

In this moment he was that child again, and his shadow was like a representation of the unknown. It was as if he were suddenly on the other side of a looking glass; it was his perspective on the world that had changed, not the world. The world was the same. Still, it didn't seem like a great revelation.

If this moment offered him a culmination, he was only aware of it in retrospect, and so he never possessed it. Forever afterwards he would yearn to have had a sense of himself then, in his prime. But there was no such shining recognition for him to claim, and there was no one else to look at him and know it either.

He was free to go; he ought to have gone, but he stayed for what he supposed would be just a little while to watch furniture being lifted through the air into a fourth-story apartment. There was nothing compelling his pause; it turned on a whim.

Smooth and massive, the headboard was now completely wrapped in quilts bound by cords and grips. To these were fastened the hoisting rope and two additional ropes for guidelines. Men on the sidewalk were communicating by walkie-talkie with men on the roof working the hoist. The winch began to turn, and the burden began to lift. The headboard went higher and higher; it was above them, on a level with the little-leaf lindens that were the block's street trees. As the headboard was raised, it swayed ever so slightly, but was controlled by the ropes and the men. Soon it disappeared, engulfed all in one piece through the window.

Together the headboard and footboard would make a bed of heroic proportions, Paul thought, as he watched the footboard being hoisted in the same way. He would have gone on his way then, having seen enough, had he not been truly amazed by what came out of the truck next. It looked like--and was--the back half of a car. Not just any car, but an American classic, a Ford Thunderbird in two-tone aqua and cream from the late 1950s. It was a car that he remembered well from his own childhood, for his grandfather the tenor had owned a similar model in black.

What he saw now was half of a car, and that half was revamped for a second life, an existence off the roads. The front end, the doors, and the roof had been cut away. What was left was the bench seat in cream-colored leather and, behind it, the trunk and distinctive tail fins. Soon it, too, would soar through the air.

For it was to be household furniture. "A sofa that's a conversation piece for someone who has everything." This information was offered to him by a woman who had just appeared on the scene. She looked both businesslike and sophisticated in a black silk suit with a collarless jacket. She was, he thought, exotically beautiful, with tanned skin and Oriental features. The dark blue-rimmed glasses she wore and the notebook she held were like props supporting her serious manner.

"Are you the owner?" asked Paul, though certain she wasn't. Idle curiosity again prompted him. Something to tell Bryce about later, he thought. He was aware he was making a rationalization to justify what he wanted to do. But it seemed harmless.

"Oh no," she said, "not me. I'm working."

"You're the decorator," Paul said, confirming what he had guessed, and then he guessed some more. "You do things like this car sofa? It's not a New York style. It's pure California-esque."

"Well, it was shipped from California," the woman admitted. "We're based in Los Angeles. And it's for a Californian, a television celebrity." Her sing-song lilt conveyed that English was not her first language. Paul was enjoying himself and was about to ask her who the celebrity was, when she seemed to sense she had said too much and changed the subject. "We work all over. I'm going to West Palm Beach next week."

"Seeing the world?" asked Paul. "Where are you from?"

"Indonesia."

Her syllables infused a tropical warmth into the cool November air. While they conversed, the men were hoisting the footboard. Then another man arrived on the scene, large and burly, with dark hair and snapping dark eyes. A camera dangled from a strap over his shoulder. He gestured to the woman, and her slightly flirtatious manner instantly vanished. She excused herself, and, accompanying the man, she disappeared through the entrance of the apartment building, leaving Paul feeling disappointed.

He was amused by the Thunderbird sofa, though. I like it, he thought, because it's surreal, because I just happened on it, and because it made me remember my grandfather. It certainly got a bigger response from the workmen than the bedstead had. He observed their reaction as they prepared to lift it. Some of them were appreciative, others were contemptuous. To console himself, Paul decided to remain for the hoist. He thought, Why not be spontaneous? So what if I'm a few minutes late? Bryce may be delayed, too.

He waited, and after a little while, he saw the car begin to lift. Then, in a curious instant of disregard, he dropped his eyes, shifting the packages in his arms. From above him, a bolt dropped on the sidewalk, a small splat of warning which came too late. In a split second, the bumper from the car fell out of the air and crashed to the pavement, then bounced up and struck Paul's right foot.

First there was an instant of blindness. Then pain spread through Paul's consciousness, blotting out everything else. He hadn't seen what was coming, and he didn't realize what had happened. The pain was realization enough. His mind went blank from it. Thus was he struck down in his unknowing prime.

Apparently no one had checked the Thunderbird to discover that bolts fastening the bumper were missing, and the remaining bolt was so loose that when the bumper scraped against the window sill as the car was being pulled into the apartment, the bolt dropped out and fell. The bumper came hurtling after. First the ground and then Paul's foot broke its crash. In the secondary impact, his foot was horribly broken.

He would never know why he had looked away in the second before the bolt fell: whether the glance was utterly meaningless, or whether it was an unconscious impulse towards self-destruction. For years to come, he would relive that moment in his mind, until it dilated to hold all of time, until time dropped out to nothingness. Through that instant he had passed, and in it he died and was born anew.

He would never get over the absurdity of it: the bumper from a classic car, revamped for a sofa as a conversation piece, fell off as the car was being hoisted into an apartment. If the bumper had landed on him directly, it could have killed him. Instead it glanced off the pavement and crashed into his foot.

Forever afterwards, the event would be called "the accident," its cause traced to what had been overlooked. Yet Paul wouldn't be able to avoid the ironic realization that this was the unalleviated reality to which had come all the dancer's imagined fears of falling. He had always assumed that he would be the one who fell, but this time he hadn't even shared in the flight.

Chapter Twenty

"I don't know if I feel up to visiting galleries after all," Althea admitted to Jeanne after they had only travelled a couple of blocks. "Why don't we just take a walk?"

She expected Jeanne to resist. She considered that she might be willing to let Jeanne convince her again. She might even enjoy being persuaded.

But Jeanne capitulated without a fight. "Whatever you like," she proclaimed flatly.

Althea felt relieved, yet somehow deflated. "Perhaps another time," she hedged.

"If you want me to come with you, I will."

Jeanne's offer was stated so blandly that Althea looked at her sharply. But Jeanne had turned away and was gazing in a shop window. Before her was a dazzling display of handmade kites spread open and pinned against a screen. Seeing them, Althea thought of butterfly wings.

Jeanne was reminded of other kites which she wanted to describe to Althea. "Have you seen the kites at Jones Beach, three and four at a time fastened together with fishing tackle?" she asked her. "Maneuvered by two controls, they swivel and turn, with thirty-foot tails."

Althea shook her head. "No, but I'd like to."

They resumed walking. "Where are you leading me?" Althea wondered.

"We started out going towards the galleries. Now I guess we're just wandering, though we're still headed in that general direction."

"I like this part of town," Althea commented as they strolled. "I like the narrow streets and the ways they intersect at irregular angles. It's almost like a maze."

"Yes, I like it, too. It's an escape from the relentless right-angled grid of the rest of Manhattan. It seems a more human scale, yet it's also inhuman in a way."

"What do you mean?" asked Althea, mystified.

"Mazes repel as well as attract. I never thought this was true, until it was proved to me."

"When was that?"

"Remember the summer I spent in Spain, between sophomore and junior years in college? I was enrolled in a study-abroad program. At the end of the term, a friend urged me to stay on for a couple of weeks and work with her at an exposition. It was a trade fair called the Feria de Campo. My friend said, 'Why not stay and earn a little money?' I said, 'Why not?'

"So there we were, standing in our uniforms, smiling and looking silly, trying to get people to come into our exhibit. The exhibit was a labyrinth, and we soon realized that it was a very bad choice for an exhibit. People would come by, glance at it, and when they couldn't see their way through, they would decide not to come in at all. Despite our efforts, we weren't very successful. I discovered that most people are averse to risks. They reject what they don't know."

"How curious," Althea remarked. "I think I would have entered your exhibit."

"I hope so."

They had turned the corner at Christopher and Hudson Streets. As they walked south, they heard a song wafting on the air, sung by a chorus of mixed voices. "He's got the whole world in His hands"--it was the spiritual. They heard the line repeated three times, with emphasis and energy. Then the wailing siren of an ambulance hurtling up Hudson Street drowned out the singing. The ambulance screeched to a halt right across from them, at the corner of Grove Street.

"Let's see what it is," suggested Althea.

"I never suspected that you were an ambulance chaser," Jeanne replied. "You go ahead. Just don't get too close."

Jeanne's condescension irritated Althea, but she decided to satisfy her curiosity anyway. Just past the intersection, two huge trucks, one in front of another, were blocking the narrow aisle of Grove Street. Althea walked around them. As she approached the sidewalk, she noticed the commotion first. Some men were arguing, and other men were gathered by. She decided that they must be the workmen associated with the trucks. Some of them were moving aside to clear a path for two medics. She assumed that one of the workmen had been hurt, or else had suffered a heart attack.

Althea had just stepped up from the curb when she saw the injured man lying motionless on the sidewalk. It was like the dawning awareness in a bad dream as she looked down on Paul's familiar face, now white and closed. Her heart seemed to freeze, and she swayed weakly. As she looked up, she saw a rope hanging slackly in the air from the roof. There was a rushing in her head; she was nauseated. Feebly she tried to resist and felt sicker. She gave in, and it was a relief, though still sickening, to let go. She felt the pit of her stomach sinking, and then she fainted right where she stood, some twenty feet from Paul, as the medics arrived beside him and commenced to take his vital signs. She felt a tainted voluptuousness, a release that was awful and pleasant at the same time. She didn't register any impact.

Scarcely was she conscious again when Jeanne was kneeling over her, her face drawn with concern. "Althea, are you all right?" Jeanne's voice was both abrupt and tender.

* * *

Jeanne hadn't waited by herself for long. Instead of following Althea around the two trucks, she had squeezed through the narrow space between them. First she heard a man say, "The screws must've been loose." Next she saw him close by on her right, and she saw a red-faced man retort, "Why the hell weren't they checked then?"

The view directly in front of her was obstructed by a huddle of other men. Farther to her right she observed a man and a woman rushing out of the building on the corner. He was black-haired and burly, she stylish with Oriental features. Jeanne heard the red-faced man begin an explanation, "The bumper fell to the ground and somehow bounced and hit his foot. It happened so fast. Like a one-in-a-million chance. He was out like a light."

Jeanne, still listening, followed behind this couple, around the men gathered on the sidewalk. She saw a large, curved piece of chrome on the ground and the two medics preparing to lift a prone man onto a stretcher. Before she recognized this man, she sensed who he was, just as, not two months ago, she had sensed his presence before she glimpsed him in the empty rows of the Green Heron Theater.

She tried to approach him, but the burly man in front of her blocked her. "Let the medical people take care of this," he ordered.

"I know him," Jeanne insisted. "Let me by." She craned her neck, trying to see over his shoulder, but he was too tall. She glanced around him and instead of seeing Paul, she saw Althea, just when she had almost forgotten about her.

Althea had been farther from the scene of the accident than Jeanne, who had advised her, with a mocking undertone, not to get too close. Jeanne observed Althea swaying unsteadily, and just as she realized what was happening, she saw Althea collapse into a faint.

The action was quiet, almost calm in appearance. Althea didn't topple or fall flat. Her legs slipped from under her. To Jeanne, it seemed like a spiralling inward, as if Althea were turning into herself as much as falling. It was like the intake of a breath, as if a voice were being swallowed back, before sound. Its cry was primal and silent.

Watching Althea, Jeanne discovered a refracted glimmer of herself, when she had begun to fall on that October train ride from Greenwich and then been rescued. She recalled the bliss of being succored, her exhilaration. In that instant of realization she rushed to Althea's aid, but she was not as close to Althea as the woman had been to her on the train, and she didn't reach her friend in time to prevent her fall.

Yet Althea hardly seemed to need Jeanne's help. She lay on the sidewalk slightly curved into herself, in a languid sprawl that had nothing awkward or damaged about it.

Although the focus of attention was on Paul, the youngest of the workmen had also noticed Althea fainting, but Jeanne reached her before he did. "She's with me," Jeanne said, not dismissing him but explaining.

"We ought to revive her," he suggested.

"Yes." Jeanne's glance flickered over him, but before either of them acted, Althea's eyes opened of their own accord. Jeanne knelt beside her. She took Althea's wrist to feel her pulse and smoothed the hair back from her brow. Her skin was dead-white and moist.

The workman took off his jacket. "Here, let her rest on this," he offered, his chivalrous gesture shaming Jeanne, who hadn't thought to remove her own.

"That's very kind," she commented.

Together, they arranged the jacket under Althea's head. Althea didn't resist their adjustments. Recovering speech, she spoke only one word: "Paul." To Jeanne it seemed like a command, as surely as if Althea had said, "Go to Paul."

Jeanne nodded. "I'll be right back," she promised. She found the medics preparing to remove Paul to the ambulance. She hesitated, afraid to intrude yet wanting tremendously to do so. "Excuse me," she interrupted, speaking loudly, "I know this man. I'm a friend of his."

One of the medics stopped to look at her, and Jeanne returned his gaze. He had a red beard and crinkles around his eyes. "Well, your friend has broken bones," he informed Jeanne. "We're taking him straight to the hospital. You can follow if you like. Go to the waiting area of the St. Vincent's emergency room. Someone there will keep you informed."

As he spoke, Jeanne's eyes strayed from him. She could see that Paul's right leg, which was closest to her, was turned out at the knee, and the entire foot was encased in a pillow.

"Please let me see him," she begged. "Just for a second."

The medic's crinkles deepened as his tone warned her, "You can help him the most by letting us get him to the hospital." Then he seemed to relent. "Okay, you can speak to him but keep your word. Just for a second, not any longer. He's conscious," and he stepped aside for Jeanne.

Jeanne knelt beside Paul. His eyes were closed, his face turned to one side. She bent, touching her lips to his exposed cheek. Her hair brushed his face in a wispier kiss. She saw his eyes open, at first a clear blue, then clouded over. He grimaced, evidently in pain. Recognizing her, he spoke her name aloud.

She touched his hand. "I'm here, and I'm going to the hospital. Althea's here, too, and she's coming with me."

"Can you call Kurt Matthews for me? Somehow I don't think I'll be dancing tonight." Trying to laugh, Paul cringed. "And Bryce--he's expecting me at home."

"I'll call them both for you, I promise. And I'll wait at the hospital for the news. Look, they're ready for you."

She stepped back to give the medics room. "Take good care of him," she said to them. She felt urgent and empowered by Paul's requests. She gave herself a mission: she would discover what had happened and how it had occurred. If she couldn't be a ministering angel, she thought, she could at least be mistress of the situation. Right after Paul was taken away, she went to question the young workman who had come to Althea's aid.

"He wanted to know if he could watch the hoist, and I said, 'Why not?'" he confessed. "I feel bad about that now. But this seemed like a fairly routine job. I have to admit, that back half of a Thunderbird looked pretty weird to us. But we lift lots of strange-looking furniture. For millionaires. Things you would never want. The car was cool by comparison. It was almost inside the window, when bam! the bumper crashed to the sidewalk and bounced off and hit him. I still haven't figured out exactly how it happened. He's lucky that it didn't fall on his foot directly, because that foot would be gone, gone, gone."

Jeanne was quiet, thinking of that outcome. Althea, too, was listening, propped up on her elbows. Tears welled in her eyes. "I'm really all right," she said before she was asked. "It's Paul. I feel so sorry for him."

"Is that why you fainted?" the young man asked her.

"I guess I fainted out of shock when I recognized him."

He nodded seriously. "I can understand it, because we've never had an accident. I mean, I've been with this company two years, and this is the first one I've seen. It must be bad karma. Mmm-mmm-mmm." He shook his head. "The boss is going to be shitting in his pants. Heads will roll."

"Your boss is really going to be upset, because the man who got hurt is a dancer," Jeanne said sharply. "In fact, he's scheduled to perform tonight at the Joyce Theater."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes." Jeanne remembered that she ought to gather and record the relevant information. "Will you excuse me for a minute?" she asked Althea. "I'll be right back."

The name, address, and telephone of the moving company were painted on the trucks, and she wrote them down in the little notebook she always carried with her. She spoke to the pretty Oriental woman and her tough-looking companion, who had been watching her writing. The woman introduced herself as the decorator and gave Jeanne a business card with a Los Angeles address. She was quick to state that she hadn't seen the accident. She explained the provenance of the car, why it was only a car in part, and why it was being hoisted.

"And now it's missing a bumper," said the man with her, who turned out to be not her companion but the companion of the man whose apartment it was. "I have nothing to do with the movers," he informed Jeanne. "I work for Frank. I'm just a general roustabout," he continued, deliberately neglecting to include Frank's surname. "He pays me to do nothing. Can you think of a better way of earning money?"

Meanwhile, the movers were dismantling the hoisting apparatus. The rope was taken down from the roof. One of the workmen removed the bumper. The sidewalk was littered with debris--roses scattered, some with torn blossoms trampled underfoot, a mess of paté, a squashed cheese, berries crushed to a pulp, bleeding a reddish stain. "Guess he must've had a celebration in mind," Frank's roustabout commented aloud. A bottle of Champagne seemed to have survived miraculously intact.

Althea, who was feeling better, retrieved the Champagne, kneeling carefully so as not to feel dizzy. As she lifted the bottle by its neck, she discovered a single hairline crack running its length. Though fractured, it was still in one piece, and she decided to keep it, placing it in one of the discarded shopping bags.

While Althea was preserving this artifact, Jeanne confronted the man with the red face and angry voice, who seemed to be in charge of the movers. She gave him Paul's name and insisted on getting other names, but all she got was the owner of the moving company. She left it at that for the time being; she was anxious to get to the hospital.

She glanced around for Althea, who was sitting quietly on the stoop of one of the nearby rowhouses. "You're coming to the hospital with me, aren't you?" Jeanne asked.

"Of course. That's why I was waiting for you."

"Can you walk to the end of the block to catch a cab on Hudson Street?"

"I'm not an invalid," protested Althea. "I'm just a little weak and thirsty."

"Maybe you ought to see a doctor."

Althea shook her head. "I'm no emergency case," she said.

"Sorry," Jeanne apologized. She thought of how, in overdoing consideration, she could prove inconsiderate.

At the corner Jeanne hailed a cab immediately. The hospital was only a short ride away.

"I took down some basic information about the moving company and the accident," Jeanne reiterated to Althea in the cab. "Depending on the extent of the injuries, Paul will have a big liability claim. I wonder what was broken, and how bad it is. I guess we'll soon find out."

But Althea's attention was straying. She was remembering Jeanne's story about the labyrinth exhibit and the lesson she had learned from it. Althea thought to herself, If these city streets are like a maze, is Paul then the Minotaur at the heart of it that we unknowingly were stalking? With this difference: when we reached him, he was already wounded.

Althea shook her head. The analogy seemed silly. She ought not to let her mind wander, but focus, as Jeanne was doing, on facts and claims and potential remedies and other grave realities.
Chapter Twenty-one

Bryce finished packing his bags before breakfast on Saturday, November 22. After he ate, he phoned his sister to tell her goodbye and to inquire after her children, who had nearly recovered from the chicken pox. His last moments were spent with his parents as they drove him to the airport. He found himself mentioning a New York visit, and just the suggestion was enough to make both him and his parents shy. The invitation was not withdrawn, however, nor was it rejected. It was only his aunt Margaret whom Bryce was leaving without a word.

He had to change flights in Memphis, where the approach to the airport took the taxiing plane on a bridge right over the access road. He wondered what the people in the cars must feel, plunged into the immense shadow of the plane as it wheeled above them.

Inside the airport, he purchased a package of chewing gun from the same newsstand where he and his father had bought a paper on the previous day.

Taking off again, watching the world fall beneath him, he thought of the family life he was leaving behind. He had grown comfortable with it in ways that he had never anticipated; still, he wasn't sorry to be going. He didn't want to live in Mississippi. He thought of how he had almost despaired of his relationship with Paul, and of how he now dared to hope again.

As the plane reached cruising altitude, it was enveloped in clouds. White and opaque, they obscured the view from the windows for the duration of the flight. It wasn't until the plane descended for landing that it broke through the thick clouds. The difference was swift and dramatic. It was as if, Bryce thought, he were watching a stage set by God (even though he wasn't sure if he believed in God). Suddenly there were no clouds to be seen. Directly below was Brooklyn, and the sun was glittering on the rows and rows of buildings, on the green rise that was Prospect Park and on the clock tower watching over the downtown. The plane glided over the little streets and the little buildings. Bryce looked down at the dark waters of New York Harbor, now dimpled with brightness and speckled with barges and tankers. To himself he named the familiar bridges--the Brooklyn, the Manhattan, the Williamsburg. He saw Manhattan bristling like quartz crystals in a geode. All was illumined, beautified, in dazzling clarity.

He could scarcely contain his excitement. How spectacular it was, his adopted city! He was coming home! He could hardly wait. The plane veered and changed direction, heading east. For half a minute, Manhattan remained in his window, and then they were flying over the cemeteries on the borders of Brooklyn and Queens, rows of thousands and thousands of tombstones. They were still turning, making half of a circle in swift descent, next to Shea Stadium and over the adjoining park, and then across the bay to the runway, where the wheels of the plane took the ground with a single bump followed by a rush of heartracing speed.

Deplaning, traversing the long corridor from gate to baggage claim at La Guardia airport, Bryce felt it was hard, after all, not to be met even when he knew he wouldn't be. Once he was on the ground, his exhilaration faded. He realized that a part of his mind must have anticipated, in spite of himself, the unlikely event of Paul's being at the airport.

His progress through the long corridor of the terminal was slow, deterred by an exhaustion that settled on him all of a sudden. He didn't know whether it was due to his disease, or to too much travel in too short a time, or to his irrational feeling of disappointment. It's probably a mixture of all three, he decided. At the baggage claim he had to wait a long time to collect his luggage. He found a porter to take the bags outside to the taxi stand. Though he thought of telephoning Paul, he didn't, deciding to greet him in person instead.

At the taxi stand, he noticed with relief that there were only a few other travellers waiting for cabs. The dispatcher was efficient, and Bryce was soon installed in a yellow taxi with his bags in the trunk. As the drive began, it seemed to him almost as if his taxi and the other cars on the Grand Central Parkway were floating in a fluid pack towards Manhattan. All that they were passing looked familiar to him, as if he had never been away at all. When he arrived at his address, he paid his driver extra to carry up his bags.

"You can leave me here," he said, at the top landing. After the driver disappeared, he waited a moment, resting, before he unlocked the door and walked out on the roof. He was surprised to find the windows of the penthouse dark, and all the locks secured. His heart sinking, he unlocked them, calling loudly for Paul. There was no answer, nor was there any message waiting for him next to the neat stacks of mail piled on the table in the foyer. He searched all through the house in deepening anguish. He was so careless of himself that he stumbled on the floor of Paul's empty practice room, and fell. There was nothing cluttering the smooth wood which could have tripped him; his limbs simply gave way, and he lay sprawled and trembling, his back aching, without the will to move.

He had instantly assumed that Paul was deliberately missing, that, after all, Paul simply didn't care, and in this devastating conclusion, with no one else to hear him, he moaned aloud.

He thought of how, in returning to New York as he had, he had made a leap of faith. Although it was hard for him to trust, he had trusted Paul. How cruel it was now to feel ashamed of his eagerness! His shame mocked him as he pined on the floor. In spite of Paul's assurances to the contrary, he had arrived all alone to his empty house.

It seemed to him that he lay for a long time. He felt too weak to get up. He wondered if he were having an exacerbation of his disease. His legs felt partly numb. The floor was dusty, and he sneezed, violently, three times. He had read somewhere that all the systems of the body are suspended in a sneeze. He wondered if this were true. Maybe it was like the skipping of a phonograph needle over a groove in a record. His thoughts, distracting him from self-pity, made him feel better. His will returned, which gave him strength. Really, only his legs were weak. He was able to drag himself into the living room, where he noticed what, on first glance, he had overlooked: a large, oblong parcel lying on the coffee table. It was a box of corrugated cardboard, taped shut, and addressed to him. He lifted it, and his hand didn't tremble. It wasn't heavy.

He heard from far below on the street the screech of brakes and the sound of a crash. He thought it must be a terrible one. He examined the box again. What is it? he wondered.

He retrieved his pocket knife and drew out the blade. He neatly slit the tape joining the cardboard and opened the box. Styrofoam chips tumbled out, littering his lap and the floor. Beneath the optical illusions of plastic bubble wrap, a long, narrow wooden box was visible. He unwound the bubble wrap carefully and held the object in his lap.

An enclosed folio identified it as an Aeolian harp. The text was long and detailed. For the moment he put it aside to examine another sheet of paper that had fluttered free from the styrofoam chips. It was an invoice from a company in California, and it was made out to Paul. He looked at the label on the package again. No, he hadn't been mistaken; it bore his name.

There was no card, no other message. He considered the Aeolian harp as a kind of artifact that Paul was tendering to him, and he was mystified, not knowing what to make of it. His thoughts wandered. He blamed Paul, and he was hurt. He felt more bitter than angry. He thought of his past, of how he had sensed his childhood dying again with Bill, and how it had in some way been reborn with his father. The trip to Sanibel Island had been a respite. He remembered tastes and textures: brewed iced tea, Coca-Cola in the old, beautiful green glass bottles that you rarely saw anymore in the North. He recalled how when it rains, seagulls perch on top of pilings in the Gulf, facing the wind, beaks up, and Little Blue Herons seek shelter in mangrove roots. He thought of his terrible dream of Paul dead, and he wondered again about the car door slamming and the spectral vision of its interior lit and empty which he had glimpsed in the storm's aftermath.

A tremor possessed him, an echo of the trepidation of that dream. The house was silent; it was his, empty and silent. He carefully studied the harp, which was now his, for the first time. He didn't know what an Aeolian harp was, or how one played it. He picked up the folio he had dropped, and read from it:

The harp can be attached to a tree, a building, or fitted along the length of a window ledge. The blowing of the wind vibrates the strings in such a way that the harmonics are heard rather than just the fundamental note. This gives a chorded impression. The exact means by which aeolian tones are generated is still not fully understood. Kircher in 1650, noticing that several notes may be heard from one string, suggested that the string was to the wind as a prism to light, separating component sounds from the single energy source. His colleague Bartoli poured scorn on this idea. Present theory suggests that it is the eddies creating a vortex pattern behind the string, like the small whirlpools visible when a stick is held in flowing water, which make the aeolian tone, which may occasionally be of the same pitch as the string's natural frequency, thus causing it to vibrate.

Bryce plucked one of the strings. It made a slight, dissipating ping. He had been eluded, but now a symbol occurred to him, at once suggestive and reductive, of a mute instrument that had to wait on the unpredictable wind to make it sing.

* * *

Althea and Jeanne entered St. Vincent's Hospital through the entrance marked "Emergency." It led to a new wing which was reassuringly clean, with light walls and shiny linoleum. The waiting area was furnished with chairs of molded plastic. They were only sparsely occupied.

"Mr. Carmichael was taken down to X-ray," the nurse informed Althea and Jeanne, glancing, as she spoke, at the nearly empty room. "He's lucky we weren't busy and were able to admit him right away. Sometimes it's like a war zone in here. But don't get me wrong, this isn't Bellevue. We're relatively small. Take a seat, and we'll call you when we have news."

The room was too new to exude the odor of long vigils. "I guess we're going to be here for a while," Althea sighed, as she removed her jacket and sat down, crossing her long legs so that the thick corduroy wales of her jeans made contrasting diagonals.

"I promised Paul I'd make phone calls for him, but I'd like to know the results of the X-rays first," Jeanne said. "He asked me to contact Kurt Matthews--and Bryce, too. It's odd; I didn't even know of Bryce's existence until this afternoon, and now I'm to speak with him."

"Do you want me to call for you?" Althea offered. Though she spoke calmly, she was conflicted. She wanted to be involved, yet she dreaded being the bearer of bad tidings--and to people she hardly knew.

"No, I'll do it. I don't mind."

In fact, Jeanne wanted to make the calls because Paul had asked her to. If only because she had been there when he needed her, he had given her permission to enter into his life, which until now he had denied her. She had hardly allowed herself to realize how much she had missed this access. Outwardly in possession of herself, she had suffered inside. While she had given Paul her love, she had kept her heart, but her heart was constrained in her. Her life had not become happier, nor had she become better, in her loves for Paul and for Althea. It had demanded another influence for her to truly let herself perceive this.

René Duval's gentle, polite attentions to her just five days earlier at the meeting of The Mount Restoration had revealed to her how sad she had become. The fact that she felt he understood this about her, as his interest discovered it in her, had enabled her to see it for herself. She had realized how far from what she truly wanted were the results that love had created in her, and she was able to broach the silence between herself and Althea. For this alone, she was already grateful to René. She thought that her silence must have been visible to him at once, when she had stood watching the swans floating in the dark pool at The Mount and felt so full an emptiness--how else could she describe it? René had spoken, startling her, and she had turned and found him. But in fact he had discovered her first.

She had felt an inspiration from him immediately, though he had not even touched her hand. As had been the case with Paul, preliminaries had been skipped, but they were different preliminaries. She sensed that René was both patient and impetuous. She wondered what it would be like to be cherished by him. Already she had begun to believe in him.

All this she kept from Althea. She didn't feel ready to tell her. Perhaps--the possibility existed--she was mistaken about René. She mulled over these thoughts as she sat with Althea in the emergency waiting room, an empty seat between them.

Leafing through a magazine, Althea appeared pale, quiet, composed. Yet, coming upon Paul's accident, she had fainted. Jeanne thought of how she had kissed Paul's cheek when he lay, his eyes closed, on the stretcher. And then his eyes had opened and he spoke her name. While her love for him was less than it had been, her heart went out to him. Now she thought that Paul was drawing her and Althea closer together as surely as he had kept them apart; he was the missing occupant of the seat between them.

A white-garbed doctor entered the room. The nurse called to Jeanne and Althea, who rose in unison and went over to her station. The doctor introduced himself: "I am Doctor McNab, an orthopedic surgeon." He looked young and serious.

He spoke to them without preamble. "Your friend has broken the long bones in his foot, involving joints connecting to the mid-portion of the foot. It's quite an uncommon fracture, but common or uncommon, it's serious enough for us to operate right away."

"What will you do?" Jeanne asked.

"The skin is broken. There is tissue damage. In cases like this, the immediate danger is from infection. The dead tissue must be cut away and the wound sterilized. As for the broken bones, it's more than likely they won't stay in place by themselves until they heal. The surgeon will have to insert pins to maintain the reduction."

"Insert pins," Althea repeated. "How long will the operation take?"

"It depends. About two hours. He'll be under general anesthesia. Oh yes," he continued, "Orthopedic surgery is like carpentry."

"You should know," Jeanne interjected, "you'll be operating on a dancer."

"I'll do the best I can," Dr. McNab replied.

"May we see him now?" Althea asked.

The doctor smiled the strained, thin smile of refusal. "I'm afraid not. You can see him after the operation. He'll probably be in the recovery room for about an hour, until he comes out from the anesthesia, and then he'll be taken up to his room."

"Where can we wait for him?" asked Althea.

"In the cafeteria. Or, if you live nearby, you can go home, where you'll probably be more comfortable, and we can call you. Is that all?" He was already glancing at his chart. "You can tell the nurse what your plans are."

He was a flash of white, gone. This was his theater, Jeanne reflected, to which they weren't admitted. She thought of how he had too little time, and they had too much. They were all feeling time's weight, only the doctor couldn't stop to give time thought, for, compounding the pressure, he worked long hours. Jeanne pictured Paul lying helpless, alone among strangers to whom he must now commit his total trust.

"I better go make the telephone calls," she said.

Althea nodded. "I'm glad I'm not making them," she said. "What about his family?"

"I don't know. He didn't mention them to me. I only spoke to him for a second. I guess Bryce will know what to do."

"Do you need change?"

"No."

The first call Jeanne made was to the Kurt Matthews Dancers. She got the number from information and, dialing it, reached an answering service, but she didn't want to leave her news in a message. Next she called the office of the Joyce Theater. "Is Kurt Matthews there?" she asked. "I need to speak to him. It's an emergency."

"I believe so. Hold on, I'll have to find him."

Jeanne had to deposit more money in the telephone before Kurt arrived, but after his somewhat high-pitched, pleasant voice identified itself, it didn't take long for her to give her name, explain that she was Paul's friend, and tell him her news. "Paul's going into the operating room right now. He may be there already," she concluded.

"Oh my God, is he going to be all right?"

"I don't know. The doctor was in a hurry, and I didn't get to ask many questions." Jeanne related to Kurt all that Dr. McNab had told her.

"How devastating for him." There was a pause before Kurt continued. "And for us, too. I don't have much time to make a substitution for the performance tonight. We'll have to muddle through, I guess. And Paul will, too, poor guy."

"I can call you and let you know how Paul is after the operation's over," Jeanne offered.

"Will you? If it's during the performance, you can leave a message. I better think about changing the program now. I send Paul my best wishes. We'll be in touch."

"Absolutely," Jeanne promised.

She also had to get Paul's telephone number from information, not knowing it by heart. After she pressed in the digits, the phone rang and rang, seven or eight times, and then her patience was rewarded. "Hello."

"Is this Bryce?"

"Yes."

"My name is Jeanne Mann. We haven't met, but I'm a friend of Paul Carmichael. It's about Paul that I'm calling." Jeanne paused infinitesimally, and then went on. "Paul's had an accident and has broken his foot. It's serious, a multiple fracture. I'm at St. Vincent's Hospital, where he's currently undergoing surgery. They have to clean out the wound--it's open--and put in pins to hold the bones in place."

"Paul?" The tone was soft, incredulous. "What kind of accident?"

"Something fell on his foot. Actually it crashed to the ground and bounced off and then hit his foot. I didn't see it. It was a rear bumper that dropped off part of a car that was being hoisted up into the window of an apartment."

"What?"

"It sounds crazy, I know, but that's what happened."

"I had no idea where Paul was."

Jeanne heard twinned notes of complaint and distress in Bryce's voice and allowed a silence for them to sink into.

"Do you think he'll be all right?" Bryce continued.

"I don't know. I hope so. He asked me specifically to call you. I wasn't with him. I just happened to be walking by right after the accident."

"When and where was it?"

"In the Village, on Grove Street, near Hudson. Maybe an hour ago, maybe less. I'm not sure. I've lost track of the time. I've already spoken to Kurt Matthews. You know, Paul was supposed to dance tonight."

"Yes, I know. How long will he be in surgery?"

"They estimate a couple of hours. Then he'll have to recover from the anesthesia. Bryce, I have a favor to ask. I don't know Paul all that well. I suppose there are others who ought to be informed, his family, for instance. I don't know how to contact them. Can I count on you to do it? I don't even know where Paul's from."

"I understand you," said Bryce. "All right."

His stiff reply caused Jeanne some nervousness so that her next offer came out hesitantly. "Would you like to meet us? I say us--I'm with Althea Montgomery. She said she's met you."

"Althea. Yes, I've met her." Bryce sounded noncommittal.

"Would you like to come to my apartment until the operation is over, and Paul is awake? I live just a block from the hospital."

"It's kind of you to offer. I have to think about it. I only recently got in, and I'm feeling a little weak and dizzy."

"Is something wrong?"

"I'm not sure."

There was a pause, in which Jeanne sensed that Bryce was about to tell her something, and then he said it.

"I have a chronic illness. Recently I've been pretty well, but I don't feel great right now. I'm glad you called. I was expecting to find Paul here and was taken by surprise when I didn't. Was he in shock when you saw him?"

"I don't know. I'm not a doctor, but I think the shock was wearing off, and he was suffering."

"Poor Paul. I'd like to be by his side. I'll do my best. May I call you back later?"

"Of course. I'll give you the number. I'd like to meet you, and now that we've spoken, I expect that I will. One thing is for certain--right now Paul's not going anywhere."

* * *

When the phone rang in Bryce's apartment, he expected to hear Paul at the other end of the line, and his nerves, when he picked up the receiver, were sharp with frustration and hope. After the initial shock of encountering the voice of a woman he didn't know, he forced himself to listen closely to her while his mind still wandered. He had been thinking of betrayals and neglect, but not of accidents. He couldn't help the sudden, superstitious thrill when he considered his Florida dream as a kind of presentiment, if not of death, then at least of injury. It was because of that dream that he had telephoned Paul. He had allowed himself to be persuaded to return to New York almost immediately. His hopes of a happy reunion had foundered in disappointment. Jeanne's news, distressing as it was, allowed him to transform resentment to sympathy. He couldn't help but be grateful for learning, even at Paul's expense, that Paul had not abandoned him.

He'd sensed an edge in Jeanne's voice when she'd said, "One thing is for certain--right now Paul's not going anywhere." Even in her sympathy there was a sharpness that was almost a reproof or a sense of justification that Paul, who'd seemed to have gotten off for so long, had finally met his retribution. Though it was hardly the dominant note, Bryce knew that he hadn't imagined it. He understood all too well how Paul could inspire such a reaction.

It made him feel odd to realize that, even implicitly, he'd shared such a thought about Paul with a stranger, without Paul's knowing it. In part he felt ashamed and disloyal, and in part he felt vindicated and understood. He was tempted by Jeanne's invitation, and still he resisted: he didn't want to share Paul. But what, he thought, if Paul were already shared?

After an hour and a half he called Jeanne at her apartment. She said she was still waiting for news from the doctor.

"I think I'll go down to the hospital," he said.

"Shall we meet there?"

"If you like."

* * *

When Paul arrived at the hospital, he was awake and conscious, above all, of the pain. It was, as he would recall later, "pretty bad." Not until the Emergency Room doctor examined him did Paul see his injured foot. It was horrible: a swollen, ugly red mess, the bones protruding--a mutilation. Yet he did not even think to turn away in disgust. He observed it with detachment down the length of his body. It was the new reality, and he was going to have to get used to it. The possibility flashed through his mind that the damage was permanent, and there was nothing that he could do but grin and bear it.

"Do your worst," he said to the doctor when he advocated surgery, and then hastily added, "By that I mean your best."

Time was of the essence, and he would obey. It's the easiest obedience in the world, he thought, it's entirely passive. He even looked forward to the anesthesia as a release. With a shrug, he dismissed the slight chance that he wouldn't wake up: it seemed a fate too abstract to be credible.

The orderlies wheeled him into the operating room on a gurney, naked under the surgical gown. Then the anesthesiologist gave him a shot of sodium pentothal, and he was out.

But just before he succumbed to the anesthesia, an exchange hovered over him. He thought it came from the doctors or the nurses, yet it was so strange that perhaps he'd dreamed it. "I recognize radical change is the law of life." "But you go too far." It was the words he remembered, not the voices. They were the last words he heard, drifting in his mind, before he went under.

His body was on the operating table, convenient for the surgeon's manipulations of the knife, the drill, and the pins, both threaded and smooth, to be used to fasten the broken foot back together. There was a normal tracing on the electrocardiograph--that was what the medical personnel knew. Paul knew nothing.

He was taken to the recovery room after the operation. He drifted in and out of wakefulness. He was surprised and relieved to hear someone say, "The operation is over. It was successful." He'd lost all sense of time. He felt cranky and lonely. He was thirsty, he was cold. As the effects of the anesthesia wore off, his foot began to throb and ache with pain.

Faces appeared over him and blurred into each other, indistinguishable. The thought occurred to him of the other faces that he had missed, the faces in the audience of the Joyce Theater. They seemed like images from another life.

He didn't think about it for long. His mind could hardly dwell on anything. He was still groggy, and he closed his eyes. When he next opened them, he saw that he was in another room, with a curtain stretched down its center. His foot was in a splint and elevated on pillows. An IV was attached to one hand. "I'm thirsty," he moaned, though he didn't think anyone could hear him. He closed his eyes.

As in a dream he heard the soft voice, the slow drawl: "Are you really awake? I think you can have water only if you're really awake."

Paul opened his eyes. At first he saw no one, but the unmistakable voice seemed to come from quite close to him. "Bryce?"

"So you're up. I'm here, but you've got to look lower down."

Thus Paul discovered his first visitor, sitting in a wheelchair. It was Bryce's own wheelchair, unused for a long time, compact, and motorized.

There were obstacles between them. Still, Bryce came close enough to take Paul's free hand between his. "We ought to ring the nurse about the water," he said. "Do you know where the buzzer is? Can you get it?"

"You'll have to give me back my hand," Paul said, glad that Bryce was there, after all. "Look at us. We're a pair of cripples. You said you were fine when you called from Florida. What happened to you?"

"What happened to you?" countered Bryce, as Paul had known he would.

"Oh well," said Paul. "I was out shopping for a Champagne supper for us, for after the performance. I was planning to get back in time to meet you, but I never made it. I don't know what happened to all the food, and we missed the dance."

"When I arrived from the airport, and you weren't there, I was distraught and--I admit it--I was furious. Part of me thought you had walked out on me after all, and the rest of me didn't know what to think. Later I got a call from Jeanne Mann. She told me."

"Yes," said Paul. "I asked her to."

"I know."

"Where's Jeanne now?"

"She's here with Althea. They went over to Jeanne's apartment while you were being operated on. I met them here at the hospital. We waited together while you were in recovery. I believe they're just outside. I wanted to see you alone first." Bryce's voice softened. "But we mustn't tire you."

"Tire me?" Paul echoed. "What about you? Are you ill again?"

"It's nerves," said Bryce, repeating the old bitter joke between him and his disease. He didn't elaborate, for just then the nurse entered in response to Paul's summons. In lieu of his request for water, she gave him ice strips to suck. "Try these for now," she advised.

Gratefully Paul accepted the ice. "Is someone on the other side of the curtain?" he asked the nurse. He had been wondering.

"You're lucky. A patient was just discharged. But you might get a roommate tomorrow. Does that help at all?" she asked, referring to the ice.

"Mmm-hmm."

"How do you feel? Are you in pain?"

He murmured again in assent.

"You were given a shot of morphine. It should be taking effect."

"I do feel pretty drowsy. I wonder," he added, changing the subject, "are there two women outside?"

"Yes, they're waiting down the hall."

"Will you tell them to come in?"

"I believe the doctor will be arriving to examine you."

As if on cue, there was a knock. "Yes," said Paul.

The door opened to reveal Jeanne, with Althea behind her. "Excuse me, but we couldn't wait any longer," Jeanne began breathlessly, looking intently at Paul.

"Come in, come in," Paul replied gaily. He felt almost like a bedridden prince holding court, surrounded by subjects.

"Visiting hours were over a long time ago, and it's ten-thirty now," said the nurse, frowning, as if she had only just remembered. "None of you are family, are you?" she asked, glancing at Bryce, who had remained silent.

"Please," Paul pleaded, "let them stay a little. I have no family here."

"It's not on my watch," she retorted, turning on her heel and striding out.

"Whew! What does she mean by that?" asked Jeanne, coming over to Paul's bed after the nurse had gone. Not waiting for a reply, she continued, "How are you, Paul?" She bent to brush his forehead with her lips.

"I think she means she doesn't want to be responsible," Bryce answered her.

Althea stood back awkwardly. Paul saw that she was clasping a bouquet of camellias. "These are for you." She held them high, shielding her face. Her voice was muffled behind the creamy blooms.

"Pretty," he said.

"Is there a pitcher I can put these in?" she asked.

"I have no idea. You can look around."

How bizarre, he thought, that we should all meet like this, when I ought to have been triumphing on the stage. He sighed. He felt sleepy, even numb. It must be the morphine, he thought, taking effect.

Althea, rummaging in the cabinet, extricated a vase, a relic of some other floral offering. She went into the bathroom to fill it with water, glad to be busy. Jeanne, meanwhile, was reporting her conversation with Kurt. She had called the theater again after the operation and left a message. Before she'd reached the end of her speech, there was another knock on the door, followed with barely a pause by the entrance of Dr. McNab.

The doctor recognized Jeanne and Althea, who was emerging from the bathroom with the flowers, with a brief nod. "If you'll excuse me, I'll have a look at the patient."

"We'll wait outside," offered Althea.

"Are you all together?" he asked. Jeanne realized that he was thinking of Bryce. "Yes," she replied, before anyone else could contradict her.

"You'll have to leave when I do," he said. "Mr. Carmichael needs his sleep."

"Of course," Althea replied. She and Jeanne stepped out, but before Bryce could stir in the wheelchair, Paul told him that he might stay. The doctor shrugged. "Why not?" He stood at the foot of the bed, squeezing Paul's toes as they peeped out from the bandages, asking him for evidence of sensation. Paul complied, and the doctor pronounced himself satisfied. "The operation went fine. You can rest, and I'll look at you again tomorrow. How's the pain?"

"Painful. But I've had some morphine, and it's helping. I don't feel quite all here." Paul's tone suddenly changed. "Doctor, please don't keep me in suspense. When do you expect my foot to heal, and how good will it be?"

Just moments earlier, when Doctor McNab had entered the room, Paul hadn't thought he'd ask this question so soon. Under the narcotic, he knew he was tense.

"There will be regular check-ups, X-rays, the removal of the pins. You'll have a succession of fiberglass casts from non-weightbearing to partial weightbearing. If all goes well, you'll be in a removable device somewhat like a ski boot in ten to twelve weeks."

"So I'll walk again?"

The doctor smiled. "Again--if all goes well--I don't see why not. With maybe an ache on rainy days. Well, is that all? Will you rest now?"

He approached the door as he spoke. He pressed it, in the act of leaving, but Paul wasn't yet satisfied. "A step further, doctor. If I walk, what else will I do? Will I run, play tennis, dive off boards? I'm a dancer. Will I dance? I really want to know. Please tell me."

The doctor had pushed the door inadvertently. Jeanne and Althea took it as a sign that they could return. They found themselves intruding on Paul's question.

There was a gravity to the moment no one could mistake. They were all waiting for the doctor to interpret fate. He hesitated. To Bryce, this pause--a threshold of silence--was enough for him to guess the answer. Jeanne and Althea stood as if frozen. Paul did not speak. Finally the doctor, choosing his words carefully, addressed Paul as if there were only the two of them in the room.

"You may want to get a second opinion. In my experience, however, though it's impossible to be entirely certain, I would be doing you and your question a disservice if I didn't tell you that for dancers, certain athletes, and the like, a Lisfranc fracture--which is what you have--is commonly a career-ending injury."

"Oh."

It was only a sound, an indication that Paul had heard. A silence settled that no one dared to break. The doctor excused himself, leaving them the void of his news. Paul had no wit to muster against the inevitable sink of depression. If Althea and Jeanne hadn't been meant to hear the exchange, he forgave them. It hardly mattered.

After the doctor's exit, Paul lay still. His question and the doctor's answer repeated in his mind, making sense, making too much sense.

He was so tired. He didn't remember saying goodbye to Bryce, Jeanne, or Althea, or hearing them leave. He was asleep, and he might have slept all through the night had he not been wakened so that the nurse might take his temperature, feel his pulse, record his blood pressure, and monitor the IV. There was only one dream that he recalled, and in that dream only one action: he was running. That was all. He was running and running in a field without trees, without boundaries. Glowing with exhilaration, he hurtled faster and faster over the dense grasses, never tripping, never falling. Then the nurse's voice roused him, and he found himself in the hospital bed in the middle of the night, with the injured foot throbbing.

At the instant when the foot was broken, the pain had been clear and sharp--a breathtaking pain, literally, for it had made him faint. Now he felt a muddied, excruciating ache all through the damaged appendage, reaching up his leg. Once awake, he was grateful for more pain medication. Then he sought to expunge the sounds of the hospital from his mind, and to sleep again.

Chapter Twenty-two

As they were leaving the hospital, Jeanne invited Althea and Bryce out for coffee, but Bryce excused himself. He was too tired, he said. Althea suggested that she return uptown with him, wondering, as she spoke, if he would accept her implicit offer of help. She wasn't sure she wanted him to accept, and, in fact, she anticipated that he would refuse, leaving her with no obligation and a clear conscience.

To her surprise he agreed. "Will you hail a cab? The chair will fold up in the trunk." His voice was low, as if he were distancing himself from the evidence of handicap.

She nodded, but Jeanne, who was faster, had already flagged a taxi, which pulled up at the curb. The driver hadn't seen Bryce waiting in a wheelchair. Jeanne called out to him, "We need your help!" The driver got out reluctantly. Then she stepped back to watch while he helped Bryce into the back seat and, following instructions, safely stowed the wheelchair in the trunk. Althea climbed in beside Bryce and shut the door. Jeanne waved as they sped away.

Althea and Bryce were silent on the way uptown. She didn't know what to say, and nor did she feel the desire to speak. The driver went up Sixth Avenue, following a trail of lights: the lights of the other cars, the traffic lights, and the cobra-head streetlights. It wasn't yet Thanksgiving, but many of the display windows of the ground-floor stores they passed were already decorated for Christmas.

The orange numbers danced on the meter, computing the fare. Althea stole a glance at Bryce. His head leaned back, his eyes were closed. No wonder he was fatigued, she reflected. She was exhausted, too. At least he wasn't scrutinizing her, as when he had entered the hospital waiting room to meet them, and she had felt his suspicious gaze on her and Jeanne.

She, on the other hand, though disconcerted, had deliberately not stared, and, she noticed, Jeanne hadn't stared either.

The taxi passed midtown and went around Columbus Circle. Althea felt she ought to say something. "Paul made it through the operation fine, didn't he?" In the semi-dark of the cab, she could see Bryce raise one eyebrow, a trick she had never been able to master. "I mean," she continued, feeling embarrassed, "it could have been a lot worse."

"It could always be worse. I don't necessarily think that's a reason to count your blessings."

"I guess you're right." Rebuked, Althea fell silent again. She grew depressed. Bryce has no reason to like me, she thought, nor I him, so why do I feel pressure to be agreeable? I want to hide the truth of my relationship with Paul from Bryce, not so much to protect Paul, she realized, as myself.

After a while she spoke again, asking how long he thought Paul would be in the hospital.

"I don't know any more about it than you," Bryce replied.

Clearly, he wasn't going to make it easy for her. Yet, when they reached his building, he asked her to come up with him. She accepted, thinking of how all during the autumn she had waited for such an invitation from Paul but had never received it. How ironic, she thought, to hear it issuing from Bryce's lips instead! Imagining herself in those rooms, she grew excited.

Bryce paid for the cab. He refused the wheelchair, saying that he wasn't sure he really needed it now, and with her there he felt secure. "I just brought it to the hospital because I'd fallen and was nervous," he told her. "Would you mind taking it up?"

"Not at all."

He was polite, delaying the elevator door for her, waiting for her to enter first. They were the only passengers. Carrying the wheelchair, she felt awkward and self-conscious. She anticipated the arrival at the building's top landing and, after that, the door to the roof.

"Just leave the chair here," said Bryce, pointing to a corner of the landing.

Emerging on the roof, Althea felt the cold wind on her face. She saw darkness above her, the risen moon to the east, and the city below her. Bryce turned on the floodlights, revealing the penthouse and the remains of the garden--the bare trees and the desolate beds. Greedily she took in the scene, thinking of how often during the fall she had pictured it. How strange it was to be accompanying Bryce, after she had so fruitlessly imagined being here with Paul!

She followed Bryce across the roof and waited while he unlocked the door to the penthouse and opened it for her. Just inside the entrance, she suffered an attack of nerves. Perhaps it isn't wise for me to be here after all, she considered. Maybe I ought to excuse myself. It must be late, around midnight.

But as she was about to take her leave, Bryce asked her if she would like some tea. She found herself nodding automatically. He added, "But you'll have to make it. I'm wiped out. I'm going to sit down."

"That's fine. Just tell me where everything is."

Althea remained in the kitchen by herself until the water boiled. What a nice kitchen it is, she noted, with new cabinets, a shining range, a dishwasher, and ceramic tiles of fruits and vegetables mounted on the walls around the sink and counters. She opened one of the drawers under the counter. It slid easily on rollers. She thought of the old wooden drawers in her kitchen, encrusted with paint she had never bothered to remove, which were always getting stuck. She found china cups and a teapot, a lacquer tray. She measured out tea, poured the boiling water.

She carried the tray out to the living room. Bryce was lounging on the green velvet sofa. He had removed his jacket and donned a cherry-red sweater. A figured shawl was laid over his knees. It struck her that he looked rather beautiful, although pale and fragile, arranged as if in a theatrical set.

She put the tray down on the low table. "What's that?" she asked, indicating a long, rectangular wooden box, resting among the bubble wrap in a large cardboard package.

"That's an Aeolian harp. A gift from Paul. I haven't yet installed it."

"I've heard about them, but I've never seen one. It fits in a window, doesn't it?"

"Yes. The wind makes the music. There's a brochure that tells you all about it, if you'd like to read it. We get plenty of wind up here."

"I'm sure you do. I've heard this is the windiest part of Manhattan." Althea surprised herself by how matter-of-fact she sounded. She did not want to betray herself to Bryce. She was trying so hard to pretend that she and Paul were simply friends that she could almost believe it.

She wanted to pinch herself to make certain this meeting was real. She thought again of how she had tried to imagine herself in this apartment, as inaccessible to her as a fortress. While she had been waiting for the phone call that never came, she had obsessively dwelled on Bryce's shared life here with Paul.

As she poured out the tea, serving Bryce and then herself, she pondered Jeanne's confession that she had spent the Columbus Day weekend with Paul in Connecticut, and that afterwards Paul had gone on tour with his dance company. In August Bryce had been in Mississippi, she recalled, but when had he come back? She felt the presence of secrets, not only her own, hiding and withheld.

If Bryce confronted her, what would she say? She began to imagine telling him the truth about herself and Paul. Part of her wanted to tell him at least part of it, she realized. Was this perverse? She remembered Bryce's unfriendliness towards her last spring when Paul had invited her up to see the garden. She could still recall the sound of his voice, sharp and critical. But now he seemed different. He did not question her, after all. He merely leaned back and sipped his tea.

"I've been thinking," he began, "that I'd like to give a party for Paul when he's better. I'm grateful for what you and Jeanne have done for him, and I'd like to invite you both."

"We really didn't do much. We just happened to arrive on the spot. It was a coincidence."

Bryce looked skeptical. Hurriedly Althea assured him, "Of course, it's thoughtful of you to include us."

"Naturally the plans are tentative. But my intention is to do it," Bryce clarified. He laid his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes. It seemed to Althea that his thoughts were wandering. When he opened his eyes again, he spoke without apology, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to go now. I suddenly feel exhausted. Thanks, though, for accompanying me."

"It was on my way and no trouble at all. Thanks for the taxi ride. If I had been by myself, I would probably have taken the subway." She stood up. "Shall I clean up the tea things?"

"No, leave them."

She wondered whether to shake his hand, but felt awkward, and in the end she simply left. "Don't get up. I'll see myself out," she assured him. She couldn't help contrasting this visit with the other visit last spring. Then the sharp banter between the men had intrigued, even excited her. She perfectly recalled the cool May twilight lit by slanting yellow sunlight, the fresh fragrances of flowers and new leaves, the steady murmur of passing traffic, and, permeating all of these like a background, the faint fetid odor of the river.

Walking down the street after that visit, she'd seemed to float rather than step. She'd felt somehow transported--or transformed. Had she fallen in love with Paul at that moment? She could no longer be sure, but of this she was certain: she'd been inspired with the conviction that life was mysteriously beckoning to her.

Now, in contrast, she felt confusion and doubt. She even questioned Bryce's politeness. In retrospect it seemed too deliberate, even unctuous. She realized, as she descended in the elevator, crossed the lobby, and walked past the adjacent rowhouses to her own address, that Bryce kept his own counsel, and he had already chosen a course of action. She appreciated that he was a man of depth and complexity. Perhaps she ought to be grateful that he was extending his hospitality to her. After all, he didn't have to.

She tried to guess his thoughts. Very likely he was intending to repay her and Jeanne by inviting them to a party. Then he could consider the slate wiped clean. He also might be trying to prove to her and Jeanne that he and Paul were a united couple, even if this wasn't really the case.

She could probably come up with other reasons, too, if she tried. As she unlocked the door to her apartment, she reminded herself that she didn't have to decide immediately if she wanted to go to Bryce's party.

* * *

After saying goodbye to Althea and Bryce, Jeanne walked home. As she entered her apartment, the blinking red light on her phone machine informed her that someone had called in her absence. She rewound the tape, but not far enough at first, for she found herself listening to the middle of a sentence. She recognized the voice of the caller instantly. With a thrill of excitement, she located the start of the message.

"This is René Duval. Do you remember me? We met at The Mount Restoration last Monday."

As if she wouldn't remember him! she thought, as the message continued, "It's Saturday, after five o'clock. I'm at the offices of an architectural firm in Boston, where I've been working as a consultant. I had to go in to work this afternoon, and I'm just finishing up now. I'm calling to tell you that I'll be in New York at the beginning of the week, on business.

"I realize this is short notice, but I'm hoping I can see you. I'll try you again, or else, if you like, you can call me. My home number is 617-926-3124.

"Right now I'm alone in the office. The others have gone, and I'm standing at the window, thinking of you. It's the end of a day so mild that it seems like spring. From my window I can see the Charles River basin and a beautiful, nuanced, golden-brown sunset, moving and precarious. Au revoir."

Jeanne was entranced by René's recorded voice, silky and passionate, and his poetic speech. Less than a week had passed since they'd met, but after the events of this afternoon and evening, it seemed like a long time ago. She wondered why she wasn't more suspicious of him. Somehow he inspired belief in her, and yet her responsive warmth made her feel shy. She was eager to speak to him.

Glancing at her watch, she realized that it was after eleven o'clock. Shall I call him right back? she wondered. If I lose my nerve, I can always hang up. He'll probably be out anyway; it's Saturday night.

She dialed his number. To her surprise, he picked up the phone.

"Hello, René?"

"Jeanne." He pronounced her name in the French way, rhyming it with "ahn."

"Is this too late to call? Are you alone?" She could have bitten her tongue for asking that last question.

But he let it go. "I'm wide awake and all alone. I suspect you are, too, or you wouldn't be phoning me."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be snooping."

"I think you did, but I accept the apology."

"And I accept your invitation." She realized that she appreciated his candor. "I'm looking forward to seeing you again. When do you arrive?"

"Tuesday morning. I have meetings on Tuesday afternoon and all day Wednesday. Are you free on Tuesday evening for dinner?"

"Yes. Where would you like to go?"

"It doesn't matter. You select the restaurant."

She gave him her number at work, and they agreed to speak again on Tuesday. Then he said good-bye and hung up so abruptly that she found herself wondering if he was really alone after all.

From René, her thoughts returned to Paul. She hoped he was asleep and not suffering from pain in that depressing hospital room. She considered how her life seemed to be opening with possibility just when his was closing in. How strange it was to feel pity for him; it didn't seem right.

* * *

The morning after his surgery, Paul awoke feeling wretched, and in the days that followed, his state of mind went from bad to worse. At first, after the accident, he hadn't been able to think at all. Others had taken over and cared for him. Afterwards he was under sedation from the pain that continued to increase just when he'd assumed it would be lessening. Then he became groggy from morphine and the after-effects of the anesthesia.

How he disliked the hospital--the regimentation, the unpleasant odors, the constant noise. The offerings of flowers and other gifts that filled his room were like gilding over an essential grimness.

Once he might have found in the selection and abundance of these gifts a measure of his importance. He would have enjoyed the possession of so much bounty. But now, mired in apathy, he hardly cared. Any other attitude, he decided, was a pretense. He thought he wished to be left alone, and so he suffered from the intrusions of visitors, from the phone calls, and the cards with cheery messages.

The day after the operation his parents had telephoned from Minnesota. They had heard the news from "your roommate," as they referred to Bryce. Now they wanted to learn about it from Paul directly. But Paul couldn't bring himself to say very much. Hearing himself speak of the accident made it seem unreal and distant, as if it were an event that had happened to someone else.

He knew that, no matter what he really desired, he would have to change this reaction, but he didn't realize how much resistance he would give himself. How he wished that he might have regaled his parents instead with accounts of recent triumphs on the stage, but the opportunity for that conversation had come and gone.

"How long will you be in the hospital?" his mother asked.

"I don't know."

"Should I come to New York?"

"She'll come if you like," Paul's father emphasized, lending an awkward note to an already strained conversation.

"It's not necessary," Paul assured them.

Their relief was so palpable that Paul could sense it over the long-distance phone lines. Nevertheless, his mother wanted to feel good about being let off the hook. "Are you sure?" she insisted.

"Yes."

"We want you to know that we're here for you if you need us," his father reminded him.

To Paul, however, his father's tone of voice, questioning rather than confident, seemed to belie this assertion. Besides, Paul had known for years that his mother didn't really like presiding over sickrooms. He predicted that Bryce and she would clash if she stayed in the apartment, and if he put her in a hotel, her feelings would be wounded. He concluded that, inevitably, her visit would be more of a burden than a blessing.

Just as he was trying to figure out how not to say any of this and still persuade her that she needn't feel bad about not coming, there came a knock on the door to his room. He was able to excuse himself from the phone without actually bringing the conversation to a close. "I'll be in touch," he assured his parents without conviction.

After he hung up, Paul spoke to the door, shut three-quarters closed: "Come in."

It opened, revealing Kurt Matthews with the company in tow. With hearty hellos, they entered the room, crowding the available space. Immediately Paul was given a large box of imported chocolates. After he removed the wrapper, he handed the box to Eric, asking him to pass it around. Pamela presented Paul with a lime-green stuffed alligator which wore a collar around its neck displaying the following warning: "I bite." "For protection against the doctors," Hector explained.

From the instant they arrived, Paul wished they would leave. He could hardly bear to accept their concern. It was too painful for him to observe his fellow dancers and friends, relaxed and contented, now that their engagement was over, an acknowledged success. He didn't want to hear about the final performance at the Joyce Theater, in which he'd been replaced. Fortunately, they were sensitive to his feelings, for after he failed to ask, no one offered to tell him. In addition, they all avoided the obvious question: would he be coming back to the company, and in what capacity?

After some innocuous exchanges between Paul, Kurt, and other dancers, Hector and Eric, irrepressible for long, were beginning to enliven the atmosphere with their brand of humor, when the visit was ended by the arrival of Paul's lunch. "It's time for the patient to eat," announced the aide who had brought the tray, as she shooed the Kurt Matthews Dancers out of the room. "You can come back later." Once Paul might have resisted such bossiness; now he was glad of an excuse to be left alone and to let himself shut down.

But as long as he was in the hospital, he had no real privacy. His intermittent periods of solitude were abruptly interrupted by nurses, residents, aides, and--more rarely--by Dr. McNab, his surgeon. A hospital resembles a jail, Paul conceived, and I'm like a prisoner waiting to be released, with the expectation that I might somehow, even modestly, be rehabilitated.

He suffered from regret: if only he could take back those moments before the bumper fell! In his mind he replayed them, adding different conclusions in which injury was always averted, until he grew disgusted with this useless exercise.

He reproached himself: why had he deliberately waited to see the Thunderbird being hoisted? He'd believed that at the time he was acting purely from curiosity. But now he couldn't get the notion out of his head that there was some deeper significance to his procrastination. Yet if his injury was a punishment, for what was he being punished? Did his sins truly deserve such retribution?

This kind of magical thinking was impossible for Paul to resist. It permeated and affected his apathy and denial.

He soon realized that word about his injury had gotten around. Besides the Kurt Matthews Dancers, he heard from many of the members of Loti Tenenbaum's Pantomime Circus. He'd been performing with that troupe of ten dancers for a couple of years. At the moment, Loti herself--the director--was out of the country. Yet she'd somehow been informed about him, for he received a cable from her: "My heart is with you. I pray for your recovery. May God be with you."

Paul was surprised. He had never suspected that Loti was devout, and because he wasn't, her message irritated him. Her assumption that her prayers could actually improve his condition struck Paul as arrogant and presumptuous.

He realized that he was overreacting, that she'd meant to convey an expression of concern, but in his present state of mind, he was offended. He couldn't help but wonder if, besides the claims of sympathy that he was receiving from other dancers, there was also some secret rejoicing that now he was out of the competition.

* * *

After five days Paul was discharged. It was November 27--Thanksgiving. Bryce had come to take him home. Paul was wearing a non-weightbearing fiberglass cast on his right leg that went from just above his toes to his knee. Two aides had brought him down in a wheelchair to the ground floor of the hospital, where Bryce was waiting for him. The aides gave Bryce Paul's overnight bag. The bag and a pair of crutches were all Paul was taking with him. He'd left the wilting flowers, the cards, and the gifts behind in the room.

With Bryce accompanying them, the aides wheeled Paul out the front door. After being shut in for five days, Paul was shocked by the feeling of the raw, wet air against his skin. Although the dreary noon sky was as dim as twilight, he was cheered by being out of doors. The cold braced him; he felt as if he had been asleep and were just waking up. He waited in the wheelchair, flanked by the aides, while Bryce hailed a cab. Watching Bryce fling up his arm, Paul couldn't help but wonder if Bryce was secretly glad that he, Paul, was the one who needed help now.

A taxi pulled up to the curb. Paul endured the aides lifting him from the wheelchair to the backseat of the cab. From lifting other dancers, he knew how to be lifted, and so he helped them.

Once they were headed uptown, he turned to Bryce. "Did you notice that the cashier's window in the hospital was closed?"

"No, I didn't. It must have been closed for Thanksgiving. Why do you ask?"

"I was told to go to the cashier's window before I left."

"I guess someone forgot it's a holiday."

"I guess so." Paul lowered his voice. "That's the first time anyone even hinted about the bill to me." He paused. "You know, I don't have medical insurance."

"No, I didn't know. You've always been healthy so it's never come up."

"I've never had any, not since I left my parents and have lived on my own. It's not a benefit that usually comes with part-time employment with dance companies. Since individual premiums are so expensive and since, as you say, I've always been healthy, I took a chance and did without. What am I going to do now?" Paul sighed. "I was beginning to hope the bill had been forgotten."

"I hate to disappoint you, but they never forget about the bill. They know where to find you. They don't need to pursue you out of the hospital, yelling, 'Stop, thief!'" As Bryce invoked this image, his smile was twisted with suppressed laughter.

Paul hung his head. In the past he would have applauded Bryce's wit, for he was accustomed to encourage Bryce's teasing as a way of coaxing him from sulks and broodiness. Why am I so wounded by his teasing now? Paul wondered. I don't like my reaction, but I can't seem to help it. Without looking, he felt Bryce's hand over his.

"You don't need to worry about the hospital bill," Bryce assured him.

"Why not? Are you offering to pay for it?" Paul heard the petulance in his voice. As soon as he'd spoken, he was ashamed of himself. Though he'd received help before, he'd never asked for it. He'd always taken pride in not appearing needy, even when he really was. He'd had an unwritten rule: everything given to him was offered freely. Now he wondered, Has this principle changed as well?

"No, I don't have to," Bryce replied.

Paul looked at Bryce. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Don't you realize that you have a liability suit against the moving company? They were clearly negligent, and their negligence has resulted in an injury which has apparently ended your career. They could be liable for the cost of your care as well as the estimated amount of your future earnings as a dancer."

Paul snorted. "And judging from my earnings so far, that must be an enormous amount, indeed."

"Who knows? Your star was rising--wasn't that what Kurt Matthews has said, and what some reviewers have claimed? Leave that part of it to your lawyer."

Paul noticed a glint in Bryce's eye. Or was it a twinkle? "Who's that going to be?" Paul asked. "You?"

"Oh no, we'll pick someone who specializes in these cases. I'll serve only in an advisory role."

Halted by a red light, the taxi driver jammed on the brakes too suddenly, and Paul was flung forward. Bryce grasped him by both shoulders and braced him. "Whoa!" Bryce exclaimed.

Separated from them by the divider, the driver seemed oblivious. "I'm all right," Paul assured Bryce. But even as he shrugged off Bryce's protective embrace, he still felt trapped in his angry mood.

"You stand to make a windfall--an innocent bystander minding his own business," Bryce continued. "The absurdity of the accident will undoubtedly help you. A car doesn't belong in an apartment as a piece of furniture. The jury will be amused and contemptuous. If you don't make mistakes, I predict that they'll find for you in a big way."

"I'll tell you what," said Paul. "I'll let you take care of it. You're the lawyer."

Paul surprised himself by how rude he sounded. He couldn't understand his resentment. He reminded himself that Bryce was on his side.

"If you want me to manage the case for you, I'm willing to do it."

Bryce's voice was measured and careful. Paul recognized its ring of sincerity. Yet the better Bryce behaved, the more annoyed Paul felt. "Do we have to discuss this now?" he complained.

"I'm sorry. You're much too exhausted. I ought to have waited to bring it up. Please forgive me."

Bryce patted Paul's wrist again in reassurance. Paul looked away again, out the window. Too precipitously his annoyance was dissolving into self-pity. It frightened him. He had to resist it. "I'm glad we're almost home," he said, keeping his face averted.

He had always assumed that he was the worldly one, and Bryce, because he stayed home more, was naive. But now Paul began to consider that he'd been mistaken, and Bryce was actually more worldly than he was. Paul had always believed that he himself was interested in money, and that he would unfailingly act on this self-interest. Once Bryce had pointed it out, a lawsuit seemed an obvious remedy. Paul wondered why he hadn't thought of it first, and why he should be reacting now with an apathy so pronounced that it seemed a disinclination. He tried to summon up an interest in discussing the grounds for a lawsuit, but he couldn't, because he'd have to talk about the accident, and right now he couldn't bear to. He slumped down in the seat, but no sooner had he closed his eyes than they arrived at home, and he had to face the ordeal of getting to the penthouse.

Bryce paid the driver, who helped Paul out. Alonzo, the porter, was on hand to help Paul along the way from the lobby to the penthouse, but Paul insisted on going it alone. He was clumsy, but he made it. When at last he was inside the penthouse, he was dismayed at how exhausted he was. He got as far as the living room and collapsed on the couch.

"I'd be surprised if you weren't tired," Bryce commented. "Why don't you get right into bed and rest?"

"Why don't you leave me alone?" Paul complained. He knew that he ought to apologize, but he didn't want to. He was getting a bitter pleasure from his rude behavior.

"It's hard to feel helpless. You'll have to get used to it for a while. I know, I've been there."

"You never had so much to lose."

"Don't you believe it."

Bryce's reply was instant, his voice low and chilling. Hearing it, Paul knew he had gone too far. He was ashamed of himself. But it seemed to him that he was set on a course, and he couldn't stop.

"My injury seems paradoxically to have improved you," he continued. "When I first saw you in the hospital, you were in a wheelchair. Look at you rush around now, apparently elated."

Paul crossed his arms and leaned back against the couch, waiting to see if Bryce would blow up at him. Bryce bit his lips in a thin line, as if he were biting back words that he might regret saying. Then he took a couple of steps backward, keeping his distance.

"I know it's because of strain that you're acting this way. But I won't keep taking it," Bryce assured Paul. Then he left the room.

By walking out, he's made a mistake, Paul thought. If he had stayed, I would have had to answer him. But now I don't have to. Like a predator stalking his prey, Paul seized on Bryce's error. Bryce is afraid of me, he rejoiced.

Before the accident, his longing for Bryce to return to him had overcome his dread. But now he couldn't seem to stop himself from driving Bryce away. He was fueled by hatred he didn't understand. Darkness was settling over him. He couldn't stop it; he couldn't see past it.

* * *

Paul had drifted off to sleep while still on the sofa. The first sensation he was aware of when he awoke was the throbbing of his right foot in the cast. Even worse was the itch. It was driving him crazy because he couldn't scratch it. He tried to control it with his thought, but that proved impossible.

He bit his lips and shifted the position of his other leg, stretched out on the sofa. He noticed that a fire was lit in the wood-burning stove, and that there were other homey touches in the room as well: a wreath of pine boughs exuding a sharp scent and underneath it, on the parson's table, an autumnal arrangement of gourds, striped green and white, solid yellow, and orange.

"You're awake!" Bryce exclaimed, as he came in bearing a tray rich with the smells of a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. Paul looked up, and glanced away. He couldn't face it.

"Take it away," he said. "I don't want it."

Bryce's face fell. "I'll just leave it here on the coffee table. If you feel like trying a bite, please do."

Pointedly ignoring Bryce, Paul stared straight ahead, focusing on the wall. If I pretend he isn't here, Paul thought, he might go away. In fact, Paul was aware of every move that Bryce made. Bryce stood, hesitating, and then laid the tray down as he had said he would. He backed off and waited, and finally he turned and quietly left the room.

Yet Paul's victory was hollow; now that he let himself look at the tray, he was actually gloomy that Bryce was not there to share the experience with him. For the food was artfully arranged and not as hefty in its portions as he had feared: there were two slices of turkey (the white meat), a shallow pool of glossy, dark-brown gravy, a mound of chestnut stuffing, some crisped half-moons of potatoes, and strips of roasted zucchini and red peppers.

Bryce must have ordered this meal from a very good caterer, Paul decided, for I doubt he could have prepared it, since he was at the hospital with me this morning. Paul couldn't help being impressed. He's trying so hard, Paul thought, but how can he win, when I am so dead set against him? Paul neither cared to fathom the source of his attitude nor change it. Still, though it altered nothing, he felt a tinge of shame on Bryce's account. Perhaps I ought to taste the dinner after all, he reflected.

Yet he could scarcely summon up any appetite. As he looked at the beautiful plate without enthusiasm, he felt a surge of despair. He couldn't seem to be able to get a grip on anything.

I ought to make the effort and try the dinner, he told himself. But his instinct was against him. Ignoring instinct, he spooned the gravy over the turkey, spreading it thinly. Picking up the knife and fork, he cut a small piece of the meat and conveyed it to his mouth. Yet stronger than the tastes of the turkey or the gravy was the sweet, sickening taste of the anesthesia, almost as strong as when he had breathed it just before the operation.

He gagged, spitting out the mouthful of food. The taste was nauseating. Why did it still linger? Overwhelmed by sickness, he continued to gag, bringing up ropes of saliva, until at last he stopped. His face was broken out in a sweat.

He took a deep breath. He picked up the plate of food and cast it forcefully to the ground.

It landed with a crash, breaking into two. The Thanksgiving dinner lay scattered and spoiled, part of it on the rug and the rest on the floor.

Paul could hear Bryce's approaching footsteps. I have succeeded in making him return, he told himself. He steeled himself for the onslaught.

It seemed to Paul that an evil imp had gotten control of him. He waited, all anticipation, while Bryce came in. Bryce stood next to the coffee table, his hand covering his mouth, rounded in shock. He's expecting me to explain myself, Paul realized.

Paul smiled cruelly. In a tone of justification and utter calm, he said, "The dinner was lousy."

Bryce flew into a rage at last. "I've had it with you," he yelled. "Get out of my sight. Go to bed; I won't bother you again. You can starve to death for all I care."

Sidestepping the mess of food, he gripped Paul's forearm, pulling hard, but he lost his balance and fell against the sofa arm, nearly toppling onto Paul, until he caught himself.

Even this mishap couldn't make either man smile. Instead, they each glared at the other. Reaching for the crutches resting against the end of the sofa, Paul raised himself up. Then, while Bryce watched silently, with a nearly expressionless face, Paul hobbled from the room. He went to the bedroom, just as Bryce had told him to. He closed the door behind him. Ostentatiously, he slid out the latch, locking the door.

By now, Paul's feelings and motives were so twisted that he couldn't begin to sort them out. For the next three days, while his mood grew blacker, he remained in the room, only venturing out to use the bathroom. Bryce stayed away, although, after all, he did leave trays of food for Paul by the door--toast, tea, broth, and the like. Sometimes Paul accepted them. In solitude he partook of the food, though not with pleasure.

* * *

Paul found the knife in the drawer of the bedside table, under some papers. He had been looking for a deck of cards, but he forgot the search when he saw the knife. It was a bright-red Swiss army knife, a thick one with six attachments, and it looked brand-new. He didn't remember having seen it before. He picked it up, enjoying its heft in the palm of his hand. He opened the largest blade and tested it against the plush of his thumb. Feeling how sharp it was, he shivered with fear and pleasure. He closed the blade and replaced the knife in the drawer exactly where he had found it. He shut the drawer.

He lay down, trying to sleep, but he kept thinking about the knife. He kept seeing it in his imagination. He couldn't help himself; he had to take it out again. He knew what he was going to do.

He sat up in bed, his left hand lying palm up in his lap, the knife opened in his right fist. Picturing the next move, he uncontrollably began to rub the inside of his wrist against the cloth of his shirt and pants over his stomach and pelvic bone. He rubbed hard, as if he were already rubbing away the blood, or as if he could rub away the despair that had taken him this far.

He said to himself, I won't be able to dance again. I might as well be dead. He repeated it, as if it were a lesson he was trying to learn. But his mind grew blank. No words, only the image of the knife--of its shining blade--filled it.

He began to try to cut himself with the blade. He did it badly, like a coward. Instead of plunging the knife into his wrist and severing the vein, he began to saw at the skin over it. He couldn't bear to cut himself, but at the same time he couldn't stop himself from trying. He knew that he was playing a terrible game--a shameful game.

At last he drew a few drops of blood. Bitterly gratified, he stopped to examine them. Soon he would start again, he told himself. He would keep at it until he really did it.

A bright drop of blood fell and spread on the white sheet. He thought about getting a towel, and then he wondered why he should care if he was going to make a mess.

But he had been accustomed to staging his effects. An idea would come to him, unbidden as a reflex. He would picture himself as he appeared to someone else--someone like himself, actually, who might be watching.

Now, when he tried to imagine himself lying dead, propped up on pillows in the bed, with his veins opened like a disgraced Roman emperor, he couldn't concentrate on the image. It flickered in and out of focus, like a badly-made movie.

He poked the tip of the knife into the cut he had made in his wrist. He drew more blood. The sharpness of the pain was an antidote to the dull throbbing in his foot. He raised his forearm and watched the blood trickle down in a zigzag. Can I keep this up? he wondered, fascinated.

He heard the latch in the door turn, and the door open. He looked up. Bryce was standing in the doorway. He had unlocked the door with a key. They stared at each other, in shock.

The moment seemed longer than it was. Soon, in quick strides, Bryce had crossed the room. He knocked the knife from Paul's hand, nicking Paul's finger in the process. The knife fell against the wall and clattered to the floor.

"Look what you did! You cut me," said Paul.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Paul had never heard Bryce speak like this before. He pressed his wrists together, as if to hide the evidence.

"Are you out of your mind?" Bryce continued. "Do I have to commit you?"

Bryce was not shouting--though it would almost be better, Paul thought, if he was.

"Why do you care so much?" Paul's words came out mumbled. His eyes were cast down as he spoke.

In response, Bryce knelt by the side of the bed. He took hold of Paul's hands gently, separating them. He held them apart, cupped and exposed.

Paul raised his eyes and looked at Bryce full in the face. He saw Bryce discover that the wound was, after all, superficial. Not until then did Paul understand that he wouldn't have gone through with it. And Bryce, Paul saw, had the tact not to comment. Instead, he urged Paul, he commanded him, "Don't do this again. Don't ever do this again!"

And Paul let himself crumple and be caught in Bryce's arms; he let himself be held as he wept.

Chapter Twenty-three

The first snowfall of the season came early in the second week of December. Paul leaned on crutches in the open doorway of the penthouse to watch it. A few of the weightless, delicate flakes drifted over his face. Against his bare cheeks they melted and slid in lines like tears. The cold burned his skin red. He breathed in the tangy smoke which unfurled out of the chimney from the wood-burning stove and mixed with the frigid wet air. He looked west, to the river and the Palisades. A tugboat was pulling a barge upriver. For a moment he fantasized that he was not in the city at all, but deep in the provinces where nothing was happening but this lone boat going by.

He had heard on the radio that morning that the Christmas tree had been installed in Rockefeller Center, and that this year it was the tallest ever. He pictured its dark green spire and below it, the skaters gliding and spinning on their lawn of ice. He imagined Fifth Avenue jammed with pedestrians, the shoppers snaking in long lines, waiting to see the elaborate displays in the department store windows. The Salvation Army volunteers were playing carols at street corners; drivers trapped under the changing traffic lights were yelling and honking their horns: Paul conceived of the sights and sounds of New York at Christmas that he was missing while he stayed at home, recuperating.

Black curls of ice nestled in depressions on the roof. The garden was withered. The snow was not accumulating; it was too fine, almost gritty. A sudden gust of wind rattled the dead stalks of the plants, and then Paul heard a gentle, melodious wave of sound swell and subside, like clear water tinkling over pebbles. It was the Aeolian harp, now mounted in the window, that he had ordered for Bryce.

He had entirely forgotten about it. Bryce must have installed it while I was in the hospital, he thought, and I didn't notice it when I returned. Or else he set it in the window sill later, during my black days.

This was how he thought about those days when he thought about them at all. It was as if they were slathered over with black paint in his memory. He'd turned his back on them. He'd left them behind.

Now, as he listened, the harp, played by unknown hands, gave him a symphony. The music soothed him like a medicine.

In a way it's a pity, he thought, that there are no passersby way up here to hear the music and be eased on their way. Yet it's also a pleasure to think that the music is just for me. I am an audience of one.

He was helpless to prevent the resonance of that phrase, the thought of how, as his own audience of one, he used to love to glimpse his reflection while he was dancing. He'd turned his back on that, too. Nowadays he avoided his reflection. He'd quickly grown adept at maneuvering his crutches, but he still didn't want to watch himself do it.

When Bryce had offered to give a party, like old times, Paul had declined at first. The old times were gone, it was too painful to remember them, and he wasn't up to company--these were the excuses that he'd offered to Bryce and to himself. Since he'd returned home twelve days ago, he hadn't left the apartment, and he'd refused to see visitors. But now he began to change his mind about a party.

* * *

Bryce came in glowing from the cold. He was carrying a shopping bag. "Yoo hoo! I'm home," he called out. On returning these days, he gave Paul a warning first. When he remembered how that creepy silence behind the bedroom door had caused him to unlock it, when he remembered the scene inside which had accosted him, he shivered all over. He didn't believe Paul would soon try suicide again, but he wasn't taking any chances.

"I'm lying down," he heard Paul call out from the bedroom, "just resting."

"Okay," Bryce called back. How strange, he thought, that I should go from one sickbed to another, with only an interlude in between. How dreadful, not only that Paul did what he did, but that he used my knife.

This was the knife he'd bought after that last good afternoon with his uncle Bill, when Bill had been well enough to whittle on the porch and had invited him to join in. "Got your knife on you, boy?" he'd asked, just as when Bryce was a kid.

Bryce hadn't, and so he'd gone out and acquired one, but it had been too late to use it whittling away an afternoon with Bill. When he'd returned to New York, he'd tossed it into the drawer of the night table and then forgotten about it.

When he considered the purpose for which he'd intended the knife, and how Paul had perverted that purpose, he was appalled. Now he contrasted Paul with Uncle Bill. Picturing Paul cutting his wrist with that knife changed his perceptions about Bill. Compared to Paul's depression and his evident panic, Bill's dying was dignified. Next to Paul, Bill seemed to grow in stature. Yet I could have predicted that, Bryce thought. What I didn't count on was that Paul's living alone in my house has changed my own feelings about it.

When Paul locked himself up in my bedroom, which we once shared, I let him do it. Why? Bryce pondered. Because I was afraid of him. Because I was sorry for him. And because it almost seems more his room now than it does mine.

Maybe if we split up, I'll sell this place to him, Bryce thought. I would, if he could afford it. But wait--if he gets a big enough settlement from the movers' insurance company, he will be able to afford it. I can ask a large price.

These thoughts were freighted with Bryce's pain and embittered by his deprivation. Since his return, he had still not slept with Paul. While Paul was in the hospital, Bryce had reclaimed his old bedroom. But on the day Paul was discharged, he took possession of the room again. Now the door was no longer locked, but Bryce was still sleeping on the fold-out couch in his study. He was waiting for Paul to ask him to come back, to confess that he wanted him and loved him. He told himself that he would never impose himself on Paul; he refused to do it, and Paul--he knew--knew it.

With the shopping bag still in hand, he approached the bedroom door. It was not quite closed. He tapped it lightly. "May I enter?" he asked.

"Yes, come in."

Paul lay on the bed, his head propped up on pillows. To Bryce his face seemed carved of ivory; he appeared slighter.

"It's strange to see you like this," Bryce confessed, "as if we'd changed roles." He smiled, to soften the comparison. I'm still afraid of him, he thought. Paul did not smile.

"I've brought you something." Approaching the bed, Bryce drew from the bag a large square box, wrapped in white paper and tied with yellow ribbon. He laid it on the bed. "Here," he said.

"For me?"

"As much as the harp was for me."

Paul pursed his lips--almost a smile. "I was on the roof this morning. I heard the harp being played by the wind. I'm glad you put it in the window."

Finally Paul turned his attention to Bryce's gift. He looked at it without touching it.

Bryce felt foolish, watching Paul eye the package with disdain. I bought the gift on an impulse, but why did I attach Paul's name to it? he wondered. Out of concern, out of pity, for the same reasons, he concluded, that Paul might have sent me the harp that he'd really bought for himself. Hence, the gift is being offered in repayment for the harp, and out of anger, too--Bryce admitted to himself--as a substitute for the emotion, the love that we don't give each other.

"Please, open it," Bryce urged.

"All right." Without enthusiasm, without suspense, Paul untied the bow, laboring over the knot. He unfolded the wrapping paper with exaggerated care. Inside the box, under tissue paper, he found a graceful ceramic bowl, cream-colored with a black geometric design.

"It's Southwestern pottery, isn't it fine?" Bryce exclaimed. He didn't resist the impulse to stand right next to Paul, crowding him, as if he were somehow claiming the bowl just as he was relinquishing it. "A modern copy of a thousand-year old piece found in a tomb. The original would have been smashed, you know, when it was buried, so that it could never be used again."

As he heard the sound of his voice, eager to impart knowledge and persuade, Bryce was embarrassed. When I'm nervous, I become boring, he admitted to himself. He suddenly realized why he had desired the Indian bowl enough to buy it, and why he had decided to make it into a present for Paul. It was as if, in giving Paul an object that reminded him of Bill, he was hoping to transmit to him a desirable quality of his uncle--his equanimity or his graceful resignation.

Paul picked up the bowl, studying its pattern. Four identical winged figures outlined in black radiated from a single head.

"The design is called 'Flying Birds,'" Bryce explained, tracing it with an index finger.

Slowly, Paul set the bowl down on the bed, as if it were heavy, and Bryce automatically drew back his hands, clenching his fists. He watched as Paul reclined against the pillow and closed his eyes. Assuming he was indifferent, Bryce felt annoyed. He realized that he was expecting that Paul would be more appreciative.

With this recognition, Bryce stiffened slightly, recoiling from himself. He studied Paul more closely. Paul lay still, breathing shallowly, as if he were asleep. Bryce observed the violet shadows under Paul's eyes and the translucent cast of his skin.

And as he watched Paul, Bryce felt a change stealing over himself, as if he were being transformed. Instead of opposing himself to Paul, instead of expecting something and not getting it and growing angry about it, he began to identify with Paul. He ceased to demand appreciation from him or gratitude.

He was struck by this irony: for as long as he and Paul had been together, he had wished he were more like Paul. Sometimes he'd tried to imagine that he was. Now that Paul was more like him, he felt like Paul.

He recognized in Paul's attitude the same resistance that he used to feel when his parents gave him presents. He had never been able to take any joy in their gifts because he was afraid of what might be demanded in return. He recognized that he had been behaving like his family by obliging Paul to be grateful.

What ritual of gift-giving has been evolving between us--the harp and then the bowl? he wondered. The exchange now struck him as silly, his expectation presumptuous. He lifted the bowl and placed it out of the way, on top of the dresser.

He sat down on the bed as gently as he could. He laid his hands over Paul's. Paul remained still, but Bryce believed he observed Paul steal a glance at him under fluttering eyelids. Perhaps Paul is only pretending to be asleep, he thought. The possibility that Paul was secretly watching him filled him with excitement. He wondered how long the pretense would last, and how Paul would betray himself.

Gently Bryce began to stroke Paul's arms. He could sense Paul's response, under the passive mask of his false sleep. I'm not mistaken; Paul is acting, he thought.

Paul's body lay open to him like a pool. He seemed to float, motionless, on the bed. Bryce couldn't help himself; he lay down full-length beside Paul.

At last, at long last, he had Paul to himself. He breathed Paul's scent, was warmed by his warmth. In these sensations, dear and familiar, their months of estrangement were obliterated. Yet a part of him shrank back. Abstinence had made him afraid.

Still, Paul did not stir. He did not betray himself. He is waiting for me to awaken him, Bryce realized. Nothing will happen unless I want it to. But now, at last, he wants it, too.

Bryce's fear dissolved. As gently and effortlessly as into water, he slipped into Paul's fantasy. He began to touch Paul deliberately, enticingly. He willed Paul to remain dormant under his caress until he could bear it no longer--a membrane stretched to the breaking point. Bryce felt their wills in unison, and when at last Paul groaned and gave himself away, Bryce exulted. He, too, was transported, swept by relief, and comforted.

* * *

When René had first asked Jeanne to come to Paris with him for a few days, she supposed that it was only a whim, and so she refused. But he persisted and she finally capitulated, intrigued. Why not? she'd thought. Wasn't this what I was longing for last summer--a foreign country to visit and a new man to share it with?

All this first day in Paris, she'd thought, Here I am, on another adventure. Just yesterday they had left New York. It was the second week in December. All night they flew into the dawn, arriving in Paris in the morning. They took a taxi from the airport to a narrow, graceful hotel on the Left Bank. Soon they went out again and ate omelets, bread, and salad in a bar. Afterwards, drinking espresso in a café, they sat at a tiny table next to a plate glass window. The café also had a shiny zinc bar and tile floors. "All Parisians have two homes, their apartment and their café," said René. They took turns inventing their ideal café, looking out the window from time to time at passersby. Like waves lapping a shore, Jeanne thought, the pedestrians seem to wash up against the glass and then recede.

René paused, reaching for Jeanne's hand. "It's almost as if they don't even exist," he said.

She was consumed by the certainty which neither of them spoke aloud though she knew he was thinking it, too: Soon we are going to make love for the first time. She remembered how he'd surprised her while she watched the swans at The Mount. When was that? Three weeks ago? Almost a month? From that initial contact, she had guessed that they might have to make love. Ever since, they had been slowly approaching it, tacitly postponing it, then saving it for Paris: a celebration.

They wandered for hours down grand boulevards and twisting streets. He pointed out to her monuments and landmarks that she had once seen before, as a college girl on a tour, and others that she had never visited. They drank Chablis with oysters and ate trout with almonds for dinner. Leisurely, arm in arm, they strolled back to the hotel.

Jeanne was laughing at a remark René made, but her laughter stopped at the door to their hotel room. As soon as she entered it, she headed for the balcony, as if she hadn't already had enough of the chilly, dirty air, as if she were stifling.

Now that the inevitable was soon to happen, Jeanne realized that she had misjudged what this consummation was really about--not just an adventure, but a transformation.

I am going to marry René, she thought. We are going to spend our lives together. I feel this, even if he doesn't. She was struck by the idea, It's almost as if we are married already and this is our honeymoon.

So overcome was she that she had to make a gesture of escape. Flinging open the windows, she stepped out on the tiny balcony, still wearing her coat. The curtains fluttered white behind her. She overlooked a narrow courtyard. Just across from the hotel was an apartment building. Most of its windows were dark, but one was lit, and she could look into a room lined with books, where a man sat in an armchair, wearing a robe, reading.

She gazed at this scene, scarcely seeing it, so focused was she on what she couldn't see: René still inside the room, watching her. She knew he was waiting to see if she would come back in, or if he should join her outside. Her heart was beating wildly, her mouth was dry. If this is my fate, she thought to herself, then I can't escape it. But I can't help resisting.

But she remembered how he had presented himself to her that evening at The Mount--as a prospective fiancé. So maybe he wasn't just being brash then, she considered, perhaps he'd surmised all along what she only just conjectured. Besides, the air outside was cold and gritty, and she was cold, too, so she retreated back inside the room. She saw that he was about to speak and then thought better of it. They exchanged a clear, durable glance. She observed him, not yet touching him. She studied his slightness, his narrow face almost like a woman's, his surprising dimples when he smiled. She regarded his honey-colored skin, his brown hair in ringlets like a Classical statue, his eyes like a cat's, but more thickly lashed.

These features, still a stranger's, she told herself, frightened by how much she wanted him.

He advanced, and she thought he was going to embrace her. Instead he locked the windows and drew the curtains and secured the chain on the door. He is careful, even obsessive, she observed, disappointed.

At last, at his touch, a shiver went through her like a wave. The sound of his voice calmed her. Raising her face to his, he kissed her, and at once he began to undress her.

He took her by surprise. He slipped off her coat. He unbuttoned her sweater and slid it off her shoulders, but no sooner did it slip to the floor than she bent to retrieve it. Neatly she folded it, arranging it over the back of the chair. She did the same thing with her skirt and blouse. Each time he paused and watched her without comment.

It's almost like a game, she thought. I'm obsessive, too, methodical, just as he is. She wondered why she was killing spontaneity by acting so deliberately, but she couldn't help herself. I'm trying to exert some kind of control, because I really don't have any, she realized. At least he doesn't seem to mind.

She laid her hands under his shirt. His flesh was warm and dry. The skin over his ribs was wonderfully smooth. She put her head against his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart. Isn't he nervous? she wondered.

"Tell me what you like," he said.

What I like is for him to sense what I like, without having to ask, she thought to herself. But she didn't say this, because then they would be having a discussion about it rather than intuiting it. Instead, she just smiled. So he is nervous after all, she realized.

Her belief that they were bound to be together, that this had to happen, made her feel confident. He was hers--or he would be soon.

They lay down in the white bed. As he touched her, she suddenly thought of the white swans swimming in the dark pool at The Mount. She pictured light suspended in darkness, her life in shades of black and white.

Paul and Althea were an experiment that didn't work out, she suddenly decided. Or at least Althea was an experiment. Paul was a fling.

René lay against her, his soft weight pressing her, growing against her leg. And it seemed to her, as he entered her, that she was burying the past; all that had happened to her with Paul and Althea could disappear into the dark depths of her. She would never have to speak of it. Her wild oats, sown, were being plowed under. She understood that she had not changed her life by herself; it was being changed by a man, in the old-fashioned way.

She thought, I don't have to hide my love for René. It's an acceptable love. I can wear it out into the world, like clothes, to protect my vulnerability. It's going to be a safe love, not a love that strips me bare.

Yet even as these thoughts went through Jeanne's mind, she realized they were partially wrong, because every love is dangerous. Because it is dangerous to love, she reminded herself; it is difficult to accept the burden of another's self, of another's flaws and frailties along with my own. But it is worse not to.

Then she ceased to think, because they were making love, and she only wanted to feel where they were, together.

Afterwards they lay reliving where this day had brought them: from the airport in the morning, where a customs official had sleepily waved them by, to the hotel. René had written her name in the register. Now she wondered if she would change her name when she was married. "Jeanne Duval"--she said it aloud without realizing it. Embarrassed at having betrayed this thought, she was glad that René couldn't see her blush.

"It has a ring," he remarked.

"She was Baudelaire's mistress."

"Yes, I think I knew that." But his voice brushed aside the past and its ghosts. "There's no one else in your life now, is there?"

"No." This time she gave him the answer that he had waited for in vain that first evening at The Mount. In the pause that followed, she guessed that he wanted her to lob the question back to him, but she didn't need to.

"What would you like to do tomorrow?" he wondered instead.

"Take me on a tour of your Paris. We've seen official sights of the city. Now show me the landmarks of your past."

"I didn't come to Paris until I was fourteen, you know."

"I thought it was earlier."

"No, Paris was the city of my adolescence. Here I invented myself as an individual. Against its backdrops, I discovered my vocation. Perhaps that's why I wanted to bring you to Paris of all places, because once before I found a new life here."

Under the velvet cloak of darkness, under the dim, diffused light through the covered windows, his words sank into her heart.

"I was dreading this first night as much as I was looking forward to it," he confessed.

She wondered what caused him to tell her these things. She was intensely curious about him. She realized that he wanted to reveal himself to her. All she had to do was listen.

"My parents are temporarily away, in case you've been wondering," he announced.

"I assumed they no longer lived here, or else you would have mentioned it."

"No, they're in Switzerland at the moment. I have another confession--I asked you to come to Paris while they were away because I wanted it to be just the two of us. I wanted to stay in a hotel. I wanted us to be tourists, adventurers. We'll come again, and you'll meet my family. This time I want to keep you to myself. You'll get to know my family--and my friends--soon enough."

They had not moved at all; they were still lying in bed, René idly stroking her arm as he spoke, but it seemed to Jeanne as if they had been swept a great distance out to sea, and there was no turning back.

"Are your parents nice people? Will they like me?" she wondered.

"They're quite presentable. I expect they will like you, if I do. They usually approve of me. What about your parents?"

"I don't think they do approve of me. But they'll probably approve of you." She laughed. "Maybe they'll begin to approve of me."

"I'll tell you what. Tomorrow I'll show you my imaginative landmarks. I'll show you, among sites I love, not the grand monuments, but quieter places that are nonetheless beautiful."

Jeanne thought to herself, If we are lucky, we will never exhaust each other's depths. The truth is, with Althea and Paul, I never could go as far as I would need to. With Paul I was right to hold back. Otherwise, I might have ended up like Althea, pacing the lounge of the Joyce Theater, suffering. I no longer understand what was between Althea and me. I'm glad that I don't have to think about it anymore.

She exhaled a long sigh, ridding herself of these lugubrious thoughts. Her awareness of René returned. "So, tomorrow, your Paris."

"And yours, too, while you are here. 'We'll always have Paris,'" he quoted.

"You sound as if you're pronouncing our epitaph."

"No, I just don't want to have to leave in three days."

"We'll be leaving together," she reminded him.

Chapter Twenty-four

On the second Saturday afternoon in December, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a crowd thronged the entrance to the exhibit on the Italian Renaissance. Althea ignored the snatches of other people's conversations around her and the buzzes from the headsets of those taking the self-guided audio tour. The best way to see art, she believed, is alone and in silence.

She went straight past the milling clusters of viewers in the first gallery. I'll retrace my steps later, she decided. The second gallery was emptier. In one corner, on a raised platform, were sixteenth-century furnishings: an inlaid table, a heavy chair with carved arms and feet, and, against a backdrop of draped tapestry, a small statue of a sleeping Cupid set on a chest. On the wall was a photograph of the same furnishings in the room they apparently came from. Althea read the description attached to the photograph:

A private study, or studiola, was an indispensable cultural symbol for a Renaissance ruler. The one constructed by Isabella d'Este in her apartments in the Castello di San Giorgio in Mantua was among the most famous. In this study and in the neighboring room known as the Grotia, she amassed a notable collection of antiquities as well as paintings and sculpture by modern artists.

Among the antiquities was a marble figure of Cupid asleep on a lion skin, optimistically ascribed to Praxiteles. Opposite it, Isabella installed another sleeping Cupid, this one by Michelangelo, who had passed his work off as an ancient sculpture.

In the description Althea recognized with growing excitement Michelangelo's early sculpture which she had read about in Vasari. She recalled that the cardinal who had bought the cupid was outraged to discover that it was not an antique. She wondered if the savvy Isabella had acquired the sculpture directly from him, or if there had been other owners in the interim.

It was the curator's guess, considered Althea, whether the sleeping cupid in the exhibit resembled Michelangelo's Classical forgery. She remembered how, the night she had returned from Block Island, she had lain in bed, imagining the subject of Michelangelo's snow sculpture for Piero di Medici. She felt suddenly strange, as if there were a connection for her to grasp that she was barely missing.

Was it about the Block Island paintings? For now, at last, she had completed them. On the Friday after Thanksgiving, she had returned to New York from Connecticut early in the morning. She worked through the weekend. On Sunday she laid down her brush and said aloud, "I'm done." Now, a week later, she was trying to put those paintings behind her by looking at this exhibit of great art.

In front of her, on loan from Paris, was Andrea Mantegna's Ecce Homo. Bound for crucifixion, crowned with thorns, Christ stared out of the canvas, pale and gold, his head and torso rendered as stone. To Althea the scratches on his flesh were like striations in marble.

Of all the paintings, drawings, and prints in the exhibition, it was this one, haunting and severe, which captured her most. The sacred and the profane: this is the great dichotomy, she thought. Once almost all art was for sacred purposes; now almost none of it is. The conventions, the subjects, the iconography are no longer a common language.

What has twentieth-century abstraction lost by purifying itself of these associations? Althea considered, as she left the exhibit. Now that abstraction is going out of style, some artists have returned to figurative painting. But they parody the conventions and warp art's sacred language to political statement. As much as the message, it's their execution I dislike--so often blatant, didactic, and ugly, she concluded.

As Althea walked along the balcony above the museum's great hall, absorbed in these judgments, she overheard an exchange without intending to. It concerned a lecture on art conservation that was apparently soon to take place. The subject piqued her interest, and she interrupted the speakers--two women--to inquire. One, thin and strong-looking, with iron-gray hair and startling light-blue eyes, directed Althea towards the information desk in the lobby.

"Better hurry," she said, shooing Althea along with a gesture of her hand. As Althea obeyed, she heard the second woman say to the first in a low voice evidently not meant for Althea's ears, "But she won't be able to get in."

Because of her resistance to that comment, Althea persisted, after a young man at the information desk with a bored and languid manner motioned her to the museum's education offices with a limp wave of his hand.

"This must be your lucky day," said another young man with more energy. "Seats for this lecture sold out months and months ago. It's part of a series that's very difficult to get into. Robin Bromley, who gives the lectures, is the head of the Met's Paintings Conservation Department. Students, professionals, and connoisseurs from all over the Northeast and mid-Atlantic attend these lectures. But it just so happens that I've had a cancellation. Not five minutes ago. If you like, I'll sell you the ticket."

"Sell? I thought the lectures were free."

"Oh, no. Not this one. You must be thinking of our public programs. A ticket to a single lecture in this series costs thirty dollars."

"I appreciate the offer, but I can't afford it," Althea admitted, ashamed.

She could feel his gaze on her, and she looked back at his dark eyes and curly, dark hair. "Oh, go ahead, take the ticket," he said. "It's already paid for, anyway."

"Do you mean it?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Why not?"

She didn't hesitate. "Thank you so much. I'm very grateful. I promise I'll listen to every word."

As he handed over the ticket, he announced, "There'll be a test afterwards," with such a perfectly straight face that she was nearly taken in.

The auditorium was almost full; she sensed anticipation as she took a seat at the back. There was a sudden hush as a man entered the stage and stood at the podium. This, apparently, was Mr. Bromley--fiftyish, stocky and square-shouldered, with thinning hair. It was hard for her to make out his features from where she sat in the last row. He spoke with an English accent; his voice was assured, sonorous, cultured.

"This lecture will continue from our lecture last week, about the ravages of time and the sins of previous conservators: 'Irreversible Changes Due to Time,' and 'Irreversible Changes Due to the Mistakes of Previous Conservators.'

"Our function is to care for the pictures--and in the fullest possible sense. A conservator is like a doctor looking at a patient. We should never forget that we're dealing with something alive, and anything we do is a threat to the life of the picture. This idea, that a painting is alive, some people find strange, although it's commonplace in the other interpretive arts. Can you imagine a musician looking on a Bach concerto as something dead, or an actor playing Shakespeare by rote? Our approach is not clinical, however, but one of warmth since we've all come into this field because the pleasure we get out of the visual arts is the greatest thing in our lives."

A murmur of assent rose from the audience. "Paintings are like people," Mr. Bromley continued. "They start to die as soon as they are born."

Althea's attention was riveted by this idea, but she dared not pursue it lest she miss some of the lecture. Mr. Bromley was elaborating, "The paint begins to deteriorate the moment the artist lays down his brushes. The colors start to change and tones alter, one to another. If you look at early Italian and Flemish paintings, you find that the landscapes are always autumnal. You might imagine there is some iconographical reason for this, but actually it's because the greens, which are copper resinate, have oxidized and turned brownish. For a similar reason, in the early religious paintings where the Virgin is depicted, we lose the azure blue of her robe. The color blue had an immense mystique in the Middle Ages but since blue pigment was often azurite--lapis lazuli being too expensive for ordinary use--it gradually oxidized and turned greenish or even black.

"With time and often with misguided treatment, the original values of the picture change markedly. The shadows darken and details become less visible. It's very much like going to a symphony concert and hearing the bass muffled. After four or five hundred years, the changes in paintings are so great that many an artist, if he could see his own work, would be hard pressed to recognize it. The thing to understand is that you can't mummify a painting. Changes occur. There is a built-in death. One has to recognize that, although it is a desperately sad thing, a painting won't last forever."

In spite of her determination to listen, Althea found herself thinking: If painting is such an evanescent art, and my pictures are bound to decay and disintegrate, why have I focussed my hopes on the future? Is it just ignorance, or is it a way not to mind so much my exclusion from the present?

Shrinking from this unhappy thought, she summoned her attention back to the speaker, who was progressing with his other topic, the sins of conservators. "Many restorers in the past destroyed masterpieces. It was just brute force and inexcusable ignorance.

"Among their crimes must be included painting relining. It's a great shame that most old paintings have lost their impasto, or surface relief, almost entirely. That's because, sooner or later, the canvas rots and the painting has to be relined. In the past, the new canvas was stuck to the back of the original with a glue adhesive which hardened after having been pressed with a hot iron. Sometimes the paintings were ironed both front and back, and naturally that crushed the surface.

"There are some other physical ills which restorers try to deal with. One of the most serious things that happens to a painting is what happens to the varnish, which is used to enrich the tonal values and act as a protective film. Varnish lasts an amazingly short time--only twenty or twenty-five years, sometimes as few as fifteen--and then the resin oxidizes and becomes semiopaque. After fifty years, the painting is very much obscured and all the colors are falsified. So you have this appalling thing called the cleaning cycle in which the old varnish is removed and a fresh coat applied. It's an enormously serious operation in which the life of the painting is at stake. Insensitive removal of these oxidized surface coatings often does irreparable damage, and even the most careful work irremediably harms the paint surface. It's an unfortunate fact that the greater the painting, the more it has been damaged by repeated cleanings. Every generation wants to take a fresh look at a masterpiece and so cleaning is frequent. For that reason, second-and-third rate paintings tend to outlive the great ones.

"People think of cleaning a painting as the removal of dirt. They think it's either on or off. But a paint surface is much more porous than the layman imagines, and it's nothing to do with dirt. You're taking off an organic layer, like skin."

Althea felt an increasing dread wash over her as he spoke. How ignorant she was! Unlike the painters of medieval times, who learned their craft during years of apprenticeship, modernism celebrated the visionary artist, the individualist. It occurred to her now that much was lost in valuing artistic self-expression to the exclusion of craft. While restorers today had more knowledge of artists' materials than in the past, it seemed that artists had much less.

Her attention continued to wander. She began to review her mission of finding a gallery to represent her, a mission she had half-heartedly begun with Jeanne at her side for support and which had been interrupted by Paul's accident. But, she remembered, it was this accident that had motivated her to finish the Block Island paintings at last and to go ahead with the search for a dealer. If Paul could be struck down so senselessly, who knows what might happen to me? she'd thought. What am I waiting for? I can't let my fear of rejection keep paralyzing me.

Once she'd made up her mind, she'd been in a rush to get slides of her work, to do everything the way she thought it should be done, only to discover the hard way that once she had the slides, it didn't mean that anyone would ever want to look at them. During the last several days she had spent considerable time going to gallery after gallery, only to be told by a haughty young woman or man her age or younger to leave her slides, which she had stuck in the pockets of a plastic storage sheet, and eventually someone would contact her. Each time Althea had seen her slides being put away without a glance into a drawer or box with lots of other slides.

On Friday afternoon, as she entered the last gallery on her list, the George Clarke Gallery on Greene Street, it seemed to her that all she had done that day was offer her slides to a void. She felt consigned to oblivion. She was determined not to give up the one sheet of slides she had left to the impeccably groomed and snobbish assistant who asked for them. By pure luck--or perhaps fate--Hannah Clarke herself, white-haired and straight as a stick in high heels, happened to come out of her inner sanctum just as Althea was preparing to leave.

"Who is this, Alexis?" Hannah Clarke asked her assistant, as if Althea couldn't speak for herself. Alexis asked Althea her name and then repeated it after her.

"No translation is necessary," Althea said. "We're all speaking English."

Then Hannah Clarke looked at her. A smile broached the elderly woman's imperious face.

"So we are," Hannah Clarke said. Althea heard the trace of an accent she couldn't place. "What do you want?" This time Hannah Clarke questioned Althea directly.

"I want you to look at my slides."

"Lay them down on the light table."

Althea was so unprepared for this response that she didn't react. After Hannah Clarke repeated herself, Althea obeyed her. Feeling that she couldn't bear to watch her slides being examined, she looked away.

After a pause, Hannah Clarke began to question her about the paintings represented in the slides--the Block Island series and five others--and about the rest of her work. Althea tried to answer straightforwardly. Hannah Clarke expressed no opinions. Then she said, "Expect us at your studio on Monday. That's the day the gallery is closed. We'll be there at four p.m. sharp." She turned to the assistant. "Take down the address."

Althea couldn't believe her ears. "What?"

"Do we indeed speak the same language?" Hannah Clarke commented. "I said we'll come by to look at your work next week, on the 15th. I'm usually prompt. I take tea in the late afternoon," she added.

"So do I," Althea replied.

After that she had left the gallery immediately. She was afraid that Hannah Clarke would change her mind.

In the Metropolitan Museum lecture hall, as she relived this surprising interview, Althea even wondered if she'd imagined it. If the gallery takes me on, it'll be like winning a ticket in the lottery, she decided. Absorbed in examining her feelings, she suddenly realized that she'd missed a lot of the lecture, in spite of what she had promised her benefactor with the ticket. It seemed that a change in the speaker's tone of voice had brought her back to the present, and she roused herself in time to hear his final words.

"Essentially I'm a pessimist. Time wins in the end. But that doesn't mean that we have to help it along. I'm continually amazed," Mr. Bromley concluded, "that anything has come down to us at all."

* * *

Althea left the museum with the sense that she was experiencing a change of heart. A lecture which she had attended by sheer accident was causing her to rethink her attitudes towards art, towards her own creations. Most artists, she realized, lived in the present much more than she had. She was thinking of Michelangelo, of his youthful cupid and his mysterious snow sculpture, of his ease at the beginning of his career and his obduracy at the end, when, after having pleased others, he could no longer please himself.

As always, when she reflected on the giants, she felt small in comparison. Tonight, though, the thought was a solace. Obscurity can be a relief, she reflected. Obscurity is not necessarily failure. I wonder if I can manage to please myself and Hannah Clarke.

Outside the museum, it was dark. Althea looked at the lights up and down Fifth Avenue and the streams of lights from cars in swift motion. It seemed to her that she was reentering the flow of her life, which had somehow been stopped inside the museum. She walked quickly down the long flight of steps. On an impulse she paused at the bottom to look back.

The museum seemed to drift and dissolve, a mirage insubstantial as air. Just imagine, she said to herself, all those paintings locked within but not sealed from time, in slow but inevitable deterioration. What, in my ignorance, I had assumed was permanent is actually in flux.

She pictured building, paintings, precious objects disintegrated into dust. As she stood thinking, a father and son passed her. Their exchange flew out to her in the night.

"Why do you like New York City so much?" the boy asked.

"Because everything is here," his father replied.

How strange, Althea thought, that these words should land on me like a gift just as I was imagining a scene of vast destruction, where all trace of what had been is eroded away. Yet she did not feel despair at this barren prospect; in a way it was strangely consoling. What would it matter then, she thought, if once everything was here?

But it was nearly impossible to believe that this great fortress with all its treasures would disappear. No, the Metropolitan would continue to consolidate and conserve its collections; and she, with anxiety and hope, would show Hannah Clarke her paintings on Monday.

Chapter Twenty-five

From her apartment, Althea heard a seagull laughing. Involuntarily, she pictured a Block Island scene: a blue sky and a bluer sea, the melancholy tolling of a buoy, the regular crash of the waves, and the call of a circling gull. The vision was so intense that she had to make a conscious effort to realize where she actually was: New York City on the 18th of December. Surely she'd imagined the gull. She pressed her cheek against the cold glass window, peering up at a sliver of gray sky. There it was, a white scrap of a wing, just disappearing.

The Hudson River is tidal here, Althea reminded herself. In New York City it's easy to forget how close you are to the sea.

The thought of Block Island flew away with the gull. New preoccupations came trailing behind. I know I've done the wrong thing, she worried. I better call Jeanne. She's the one who got me into this.

"I have some news," Althea announced, after she and Jeanne had exchanged hellos. "I took slides to some galleries."

"And--"

"Well, it doesn't work exactly as you said," Althea couldn't resist saying, "but anyway, there's a gallery that wants to sell the Block Island paintings."

"That's great. Which gallery?"

"Hannah Clarke from the George Clarke Gallery came Monday afternoon."

"That's a good one, isn't it? I know I've heard of it. Is Hannah George's wife?"

"No, his mother. And quite a termagant, too."

"You don't sound happy, Althea."

"I'm not."

"Why not? You've got a reputable gallery to represent you. It's what every artist dreams of. You'll get a show, publicity, exposure--what you need to get established, but can't give yourself. They'll arrange it for you."

"But that's just it. I don't think I will get these things. I feel I'm being exploited. I should have just said no. Oh, dear."

"I don't understand. Can you explain?" asked Jeanne.

"There isn't much to explain. Hannah Clarke looked at the slides I brought. She gave me an appointment. She came, saw, and conquered."

"What do you mean?"

"She made an offer to sell the Block Island paintings. I didn't like the offer, but I didn't feel I could refuse. I was intimidated by her. Besides, I'm not in a bargaining position, and she knows it. She left and took my paintings with her. How do I know I'll see them again?" Althea almost wailed.

"But what was the offer?"

"Just what I said--to try to sell the paintings. No show, no publicity, no nothing. She said she had potential buyers in mind. Some rich people, undoubtedly. The paintings will be separated from each other and disappear into private homes, and no one will know about them or see them. I feel like crying. If I could take them back, I would."

"Wait a minute. The paintings aren't even sold yet. You can take them back if you really want to. Aren't you overreacting?"

"I guess so. But if I take them back, that's the end of my relationship with this gallery, and I can't afford to do that, even though it's not what I really want. Once I thought that being taken on by a gallery would mean the end of my struggles. I was so naive. Now I see that being accepted means the beginning of a whole new set of worries and concerns. Do you know what's really strange about me?" Althea confided. "I'm finding it harder to be accepted than rejected, at least when the acceptance doesn't meet my needs."

"Maybe that's why you've been rejected in the past."

"That's not fair," Althea was quick to reply. "I hadn't been accepted or rejected. Because I hadn't tried."

"Well, then, maybe that's why it was easier for you not to try," Jeanne smoothly amended her statement. "Not because you were afraid of being rejected, but of being accepted."

"I guess I was afraid of both," admitted Althea. She thought to herself, I can't help it, Jeanne annoys me. All I really want is sympathy, but instead I get analysis. But that's Jeanne for you. I should have expected it. "I keep thinking of Van Gogh," Althea continued.

"Why?"

"It was impossible for him to sell his paintings. He either kept them or gave them away. I guess he couldn't bear to make a commodity out of them. His brother Theo, who was an art dealer, took over the selling for him. He was just experiencing his first successes when he killed himself: his paintings were beginning to sell, his work was getting reviewed. It's been argued that success was unbearable to him."

"I know you're upset when you start digressing."

"Of course I'm upset. What do you suggest I do about it?"

"Let go," Jeanne said.

"What do you mean?"

"You're so persistent. You hold on so hard. It's not always in your best interest. Maybe it can be said that everybody in his soul is an artist, but not everybody exhibits, publishes, performs in public. That's the difference. In my view you're an artist when you're able to let go of the things you've made. As long as you keep what you've done hidden, you're not connecting to anyone. You become an artist when you cross the frontier, step over the threshold to the public. Only then do you enable the world to give meaning to what you've done."

There was a pause in which Althea took in Jeanne's words. "I'd like you to be right," she said, "because it makes me feel better about what I'm embarking on. If Hannah Clarke gets any offers for my work, maybe I can have a clause written into the contract allowing me to borrow my paintings for exhibitions. If anyone ever gives me an exhibition. You know, I'm also afraid of being exhibited. I'm afraid of listening to people's comments and having to answer questions. I'm afraid of reading criticism about my work. I'm a hopeless case. And yet I want all this to happen, too."

"You'll deal with it when you have to."

"It seems harder for me than for other people," observed Althea. "I wonder why." After a pause, she continued, "Now that I'd like to show you the Block Island paintings, I no longer have them. If you want to see them, you'll have to call the George Clarke Gallery and arrange for an appointment. Maybe it will help me by letting them think that my work is in demand."

"We can get a campaign going," Jeanne suggested, "to influence them to exhibit your work, as well as try to sell it."

"Yes." But Althea sounded doubtful.

"So Paul and Bryce are giving a New Year's Eve party. You got an invitation," guessed Jeanne, changing the subject. "Are you planning to go?"

"I don't know," Althea replied with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

"Do you have other plans?"

"Not really. I just don't know if I want to subject myself to greeting the happy couple and acting as if nothing ever happened. I don't think I'm up for it."

"Who knows if they really are the happy couple. You'd find out, I guess, if you came. As for acting, we all acted in the hospital. Why do you feel different now?"

"Why indeed?" echoed Althea bitterly.

"I'd thought, after the accident, that you'd gotten over him."

"Have you?" challenged Althea.

"Yes," said Jeanne unequivocably. Then she confided, "I've met someone."

Althea was caught off-guard by this news. She felt a pang of jealousy. I'm so bad at living, she thought. All I know how to do is work, and perhaps I am not so good at that either. She was filled with despair, and she couldn't speak.

"His name is René," Jeanne continued. "He's an architect who specializes in historic preservation. I'm hoping he'll come to the party. Then you can meet him."

"Perhaps I'll be there," Althea said carefully.

"I thought if you knew I was going, you'd come, too."

"That, too," said Althea.

* * *

The following day, the Friday before Christmas, marked the end of Althea's Harlem residency. After her session with Jamal's class was over, she asked him to step into the hall for a moment. "I have something for you," she told him, rummaging in her bag. She pulled out an oblong box of Rembrandt pastels. She gave it to him, a little afraid to look him in the eye. She had never allowed herself to single out a child like this before. She watched as he lifted the top of the box and touched the sticks of colors arranged side by side in their separate grooves. He looked at the smudges they left on his fingers.

"Do you like it?" she asked anxiously and, without waiting for his answer, continued, "It's not the biggest box, but not the smallest either. I hope you'll make some beautiful pictures. I'll miss you, Jamal. Don't forget me."

His class was lining up outside the door. His teacher called to him. "Thank you, Ms. Montgom'ry," Althea heard him say. He replaced the top carefully. Ducking his head, he turned to join the other children. She saw that he was holding the slender box with both hands.

* * *

The next morning she was still wondering why she had asked Jamal not to forget her. Suddenly pensive, she looked out the window: no seagull today. She stared at the back wall of the next apartment building. How this view hems me in! she thought. How it depresses me! There's nothing to see.

Her glance slid over the wall disparagingly. Yet what she beheld made her look twice. In the pale winter light, the wall was a pattern of colored surfaces and textures. It's like a painting I'd like to paint, she thought. The morning sun cast in relief the tan brick wall, the rough patches of gray and pink cement on its bottom story, and the tiers of windows above. The windows were mostly old, with weather-beaten wooden frames, now in need of a fresh coat of paint. Behind one window five flights up, she glimpsed a blur of movement. Concentrating, she detected a bunched-up white cloth wielded by a slender arm. A woman was cleaning the glass.

Althea thought of making a sketch of the sunlit wall. Several ideas--possibilities for a new painting--occurred to her. From these, she thought, perhaps one will inspire me, sustain me, and prod me into my next creation.

What a relief to have even these inklings of what to paint next! she rejoiced, happy at the prospect of the Christmas vacation, with no teaching to interrupt her work. Will I be able to quit teaching and live off my art? she wondered. Will Hannah Clarke sell my paintings? She was obsessed with these questions, but now that she was ready to start the preliminaries to her next painting, it seemed easier to endure the uncertain wait.

Once, when I was younger, I had an idea about being a great artist, of making something sublime, she recalled. How my ambitions have changed, how they have scaled down! Now I just want to be able to support myself by making art I want to make.

* * *

Influenced by a new spirit of practicality, Althea decided to respond to a bulletin board notice in the health food store advertising a second-hand air conditioner. The price was twenty-five dollars. Why not? she thought. I won't find one cheaper. I ought to do something to help me survive next summer, if I can't afford to go away. She sighed, thinking of how soon, in January, the real estate agency on Block Island would be accepting reservations for the next summer's rentals. How I'd love to go back to the same house! she thought wistfully. But I don't have the money.

The notice had a heading, "Moving Sale," and there were other items listed as well. When she telephoned the number indicated, a man's voice informed her that the air conditioner had been sold, but that she was welcome to come see if there was anything else she wanted. Something in his tone--an unusually musical timbre--so appealed to her that she found herself agreeing even though there was nothing on the list she could think of that she needed.

His name was Cam Richards, he told her, and it turned out that he lived just two blocks away from her, in a building on the corner of Broadway, on the eleventh floor. "I'm leaving town in two days, on Christmas Eve," he told her, "and I'll be back after New Year's. Then I'll be getting ready for the big move."

"When's that?" Althea heard herself asking.

"The end of January. But I'm quickly divesting myself of possessions, so come soon if you're interested. Now's as good a time as any, if you like."

"All right," she heard herself say. Soon she was standing outside his apartment. She saw that the door was slightly ajar. She knocked, and when there was no response, she pushed it open.

"Hello," she called out.

She faced a foyer lined with bookcases. Ahead of her was an arched doorway. She called again.

"I'm back here."

She followed Cam's voice down a short, darkened hallway to a room opening off to the left, lit only by two tall windows. It was dusk, and the light was dim. The room was sparsely furnished. A tall man was sitting on a rug, reading a book by one window. The dim light fell on the page, while he was in shadow. He did not look up, but continued to read. He was slender; he wore a checked shirt, dark jeans. Tousled brown hair fell over his bent face.

She was irritated that he didn't speak to her right away, since he had invited her over, but he looked so peaceful that she was loathe to disturb him.

Entering the room behind her, an orange tabby cat surprised her. The cat went straight to him, ignoring her. Its back was arched, its tail raised. Cam patted it without looking up; to Althea he seemed as sure of his touch as a blind man.

He laid the index finger of his other hand between the pages of his book like a bookmark. At last he acknowledged her.

"It must be a good book," Althea said with a note of reprimand in her voice.

He did not apologize. "Well, look around." He continued, "Whatever's left is probably for sale." And he went back to his reading.

Perhaps I ought to leave, Althea thought. But she couldn't bring herself to go. It seemed as if she were waiting for something to happen, though she didn't know what it was. Instead, she looked at the things he had directed her to: a coffee table of carved wood and an armchair with frayed upholstery. She studied objects arranged on the floor at the edge of the rug: a battered radio, a floor lamp with a stained shade, an empty fish tank. There were boxes against another wall, but she didn't approach them. "I guess I was really only interested in the air conditioner," she admitted.

At last he laid the book down. "That was the first to go. I guess I priced it low." He shrugged, as if to say--Althea thought--that he didn't really care. The last light fell on his handsome face: high cheekbones, straight brows, and narrow, light eyes--either green or blue, in the fading daylight she couldn't tell. His hair had a rough sheen; it hung tangled into his brows, over his perfect features. He wears his beauty carelessly, she thought, as if it mattered little to him. Not like Paul.

Cam saw that she was staring at him. He smiled, as if indulging her. "Would you like some homemade vegetable soup?" he asked. "I have some on the stove."

"Yes, I would."

"Sit down," he said. "Make yourself at home."

"May I turn on the lamp?"

"Of course. It's gotten dark, hasn't it?" he observed, as if he'd only just noticed.

The cat followed him out of the room. The lamp cast deep shadows. Althea, sitting cross-legged on the rug, picked up the book he had left there. It was a volume of Plato in the original Greek. She turned the pages, looking at the mysterious, beautiful letters of a language she couldn't decipher.

She had not yet put down the book when he returned, bearing a tray. He set it on the coffee table.

"Now I see why you couldn't put this book down," Althea said.

"So you read Greek," Cam said, looking pleased to have discovered a kindred spirit.

"No."

Puzzled, he studied her for a moment. Then he burst out laughing. "Here, come sit at the coffee table. Have some soup," he said, giving her a white crockery bowl full to the brim with a broth thick with vegetables. "There's bread and butter, too."

His remote expression vanished. For the first time, he really seemed to notice her. His eyes twinkled at her.

She stirred the soup, releasing steam. She filled her spoon, blew on it to cool it, and let the contents slide into her mouth. There were potatoes, carrots, red beans, corn, and leafy green ribbons of Swiss chard in a tomato base. "It's very good," she complimented him. She took a round of the French bread, buttered it, and dipped it in the soup.

He was eating, too. Suddenly they were like old companions.

"So you're a Classicist."

"No, a philosophy student."

Soon he was telling her about himself. "It was a mistake for me to come to Columbia. Among the top faculty, there's no one in my field."

"No one in Classical philosophy? I find that hard to believe."

"No, that's an interest, but not my subject."

"Which is--?"

"Phenomenology." The word rolled trippingly off his tongue, intimidating Althea.

"I'm transferring to McGill, in Montreal," Cam continued. "There's one professor I want to work with, and he's there."

"Do you think you'll be happy in Montreal?"

"I expect I will. It doesn't matter so much where I am. It's what I'm doing that's important."

As Althea digested his words, she thought to herself, Maybe he's right, and I give too much importance to where I am.

"When I was in school, I liked the idea of studying philosophy, but it was so hard for me that I grew discouraged," she confessed. "Sometimes I could just grasp it, but I couldn't hold onto it." She shook her head. "Naturally, this hindered my advance as a student. Since I didn't get too far, the idea of a life where your work is reading and thinking, and what you produce is more thought, is foreign to me."

"Yeah, we get away with a lot, don't we?" He laughed and spooned up the last of his soup. "But I'm not arguing that studying philosophy is useful, just that it's meaningful to me."

In him, an air of the ivory tower is mixed with a down-to-earth quality, she thought. "Now you're a student, and one day you'll be a professor," she said. "You already know that you will probably live your life in a university, you want that. You will want students as you now desire this professor."

"Oh yes," he said. "To have students seems wonderful to me. But first I must have something to give them. That's why I'm going to McGill, not to be a mouthpiece for him but to learn from him so that my ideas may be worthy of his."

Althea found herself admiring the fervor with which he spoke. So when he said, "You seem opposed to this life," she replied, "Not at all. In a way I'm envious. In comparison, my life seems so unformed, so unknown to me. But I have to admit, this also attracts me."

"But you must have a group of people you depend on for insight--other artists."

She looked at him, surprised. "I don't remember telling you I was an artist."

"You're wearing the evidence," he teased her.

She was perplexed. "There's no paint on my clothes."

"Look at your hands."

Althea opened and closed her fists. There were crescents of paint under her fingernails. Faint ghosts of color dyed her skin.

"When I came in to your apartment, you seemed so intent on your reading that I thought you noticed nothing else."

"Is that so?" he asked with mild interest. There was a remote expression on his face again. She thought, At first he seemed elusive, like a will-of-the-wisp, and then he grew substantial. Now, once more, he's fading.

She reached across the coffee table and touched his wrist, as if to reassure herself that he was still there, and then drew back. She surprised herself. When have I last touched a man before he touched me? she wondered.

He took the touch for granted, like a friend. His attention returned to her. "I have a friend who's an artist." He mentioned a name: Christina Gray. Althea shook her head.

"Perhaps she's heard of you," he said. "Which is your gallery?"

"George Clarke." How easily the words came out, Althea thought, even though this is the first time I've given this answer to the question. Even though, as far as I know, nothing's yet been sold.

"I'll ask her," he said. She expected that he wanted to tell her about his friend's art, but instead he wondered about her own.

"I never know how to describe what I do," she said. "Whatever I say, I usually succeed in annoying myself. I'm sure you do a better job explaining Greek philosophy. Maybe after you see my paintings, you can explain them to me."

"I might enjoy that," he said, surprising her. "Come," he said, rising to his feet, "have some more soup."

With him, she felt permission to speak more boldly than she usually did. Trailing in the wake of his easy walk, she followed him back to the kitchen.

It was a small, high room, with a glaring fluorescent tube on the ceiling, tile on the floor and halfway up the walls, and wooden cabinets obscured by many layers of paint. There was a gas range, a large porcelain sink, and an outdated refrigerator. It was a typical New York City apartment kitchen, the same vintage as hers, but a better version. Right in the middle of the floor is the best thing about it, Althea thought: a large, square butcher block table, a very old and beautiful one, with a scarred, uneven surface from years of use. Unlike the living room, the kitchen was still well-lived in, from the double row of racks on the walls from which hung pots and pans, to the fragrant steam of the soup kept hot on a low blue flame.

Cam ladled out the soup. "Would you like some wine?" he asked. "I should have offered it to you already."

Althea ran her hand over the gently sloping surfaces of the butcher block. "What a beautiful table, hallowed by use," she observed. She looked at him daringly. "I'd like to buy this, if it's for sale."

"It's not," said Cam, getting down two glasses. "I can't bear to be parted from it." He poured white wine from a jug kept in the refrigerator and handed her a glass. "Although I found it in Massachusetts, it's actually from France--a provincial farmhouse, I'd guess. It's absolutely true that food chopped or sliced on it has a better taste. Shall we eat around it? You have to be careful how you place the dishes."

"I'll pass this time," said Althea.

"We'll go back to the living room."

"How many bedrooms are there?" Althea asked, as they crossed the hallway.

"Just one. The other door's the bathroom," he gestured over his shoulder.

"This is such a nice place," she remarked once they were sitting at the coffee table again. "Won't you be sad to leave it?"

"No. I told you, I'm ready to leave New York."

"What will you do with this apartment?" To protect herself from disappointment, she pretended to herself that she was asking the question idly.

"My lease isn't actually up until next August, but I imagine it won't be too hard to get out of it. It's not easy to find an apartment these days, and the landlord will be able to ask a vacancy increase."

"Have you thought of holding onto it? What if you don't like this professor after all? What if you want to come back?"

"Why," he said slowly, fixing his eyes on hers, "I believe you'd like to live here."

Althea felt herself blush.

"Wouldn't you?" he probed.

She drew a breath and let it out slowly. "Do you think I could sublet it from you? Whenever you came to town, you could still stay here."

Yet no sooner had she asked him than she despaired. "I don't even know what the rent is. It's probably too expensive for me."

"It's not too bad--three hundred eighty dollars a month."

That's only about sixty dollars more than what I'm paying now, Althea thought. The increase will be around eight percent--she calculated rapidly--that adds up to about ninety more dollars a month, or a little over a thousand per year.

"I can handle it," she said softly, embarrassed. Her finances were a most vulnerable subject. "If I were subletting from you, you could keep things here that are hard to transport, but which you want to hang onto. Like your butcher block table, for instance. I'd take care of them for you until you were able to take them."

"I bet you would," he said.

I can't believe I said that. I could sink through the floor with shame, she berated herself. Unable to face his ridicule, she hung her head. "You've already promised the apartment to someone else, haven't you?" she mumbled, desolate. "To your friend Christina?"

He laughed at her. "No, Christina already has an apartment and a studio outside of it, too."

He's enjoying himself, Althea realized. At my expense.

"As a matter of fact," he continued, "I'd given it some thought, but I hadn't yet decided what to do about the apartment. You're serious, aren't you?" he asked her. "You really want it?"

She nodded.

"What about it appeals to you?"

"The light, the space, everything. It's so much nicer than where I live now," she admitted. "My apartment is so dark it depresses me to be there. I know I'd be happy here. I would work right in this room, with the two long windows; I can picture it. And I can afford the rent; I won't have to get a roommate."

Still sitting cross-legged, he stretched his arms above his head. His litheness reminded Althea of the cat, whom she had forgotten while it had disappeared in some recess of the apartment. But now it reappeared again. Cam addressed it, "Come, Barney."

But the cat curled up on the rug a short distance away. "He's jealous of you," Cam explained. "He senses you're invading his territory."

"I guess he's right."

It's a relief to join in the joke, Althea thought. Now I just have to prepare myself for the refusal.

"It would be better if the lease was signed over to you. If you were subletting, you'd risk losing the apartment when the lease expired. You'd have to pay a little more up front--a vacancy increase plus a renewal--but it would be secure."

Althea couldn't believe her ears. "Are you offering me the apartment?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Why not? You really seem to want it. And I don't need it anymore."

"And you're willing to transfer the lease? Do you think the landlord would consent?"

"Well, that would depend on you, too. You'd have to prove you could pay for it. You'd probably have to get someone's signature to back you up."

"I'd get my parents to sign. They did it before. But what's your landlord like? How will you arrange it?"

"He's an old Jewish immigrant. From Berlin. He's--shall I say--eccentric. But he likes me. There were five applicants for this apartment, and I got it. I think there's a good chance he'd give it to you, if I told him about you and brought you into the office personally. But I'll have to give you a few tips on behavior. You can't come on as strong to him as you did to me."

"I know you won't believe it," Althea said, "but I've never done this before. It's out of character." She paused. "I'm overwhelmed by your offer. I was afraid I'd offended you by asking. It's unbelievably kind of you. I wonder--why would you want to do this for me? You've only just met me."

Cam smiled. Althea thought he looked utterly relaxed. "Let's just say I like the idea of masterpieces being created in this room," he said.

"But you haven't seen my paintings. How do you know you'll like them?"

"How about this: if I don't, I'll rescind the offer."

"No." Althea shook her head.

* * *

Althea was jubilant as she left Cam's. She practically bounced down the short flight of steps in the lobby. Gazing at her passing reflection in the art deco mirror, she thought, I may soon live in this building. It seemed that energy was welling out of her to meet the cold and dark outside. A new year, a new life, she told herself. Maybe my fortunes are really turning.

These thoughts buoyed her up as she stopped to buy some groceries at the Cathedral Market. This evening the errand seemed a pleasure. She lingered over her selections. The elation lasted until after she returned home. Setting down the grocery bags, she looked around her apartment with the thought that she would soon be leaving it.

Yet doubts soon beset her. What if Cam's landlord turns me down? she worried. And can I afford the extra rent? I sounded more confident than I really am. At least I already know I can handle living here. It's not really so bad. I've gotten used to it.

She gazed around her room. What I am experiencing is the fondness of the prisoner for his cell, she thought, and she was filled with disgust. Working in this apartment sometimes I have felt like a wraith. Toiling away in this dark space, this true obscurity, I have ceased to exist. But paradoxically I have also felt at those times most like an artist--an invisible creator, like God.

What will it mean to me, she thought, to shed the dark, close, camouflaging skin of this apartment? Like a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis, spreading its crumpled wings. What will it mean to me to live in that larger, lighter space? What will it mean to my work?

She pictured Cam's living room as she had first seen it, at dusk, with the dim light falling on the page of the book and the reader in shadow. She recalled the lovely shape of the long windows. From the moment I entered the space, I seemed to belong to it, she thought, even if I don't feel the same joy or sense of encompassing freedom that met me on a cliff on Block Island with a 360-degree perspective. But it's a vantage on the city, all the same--one I don't have now.

She thought to herself, This move will signify that, even in a small way, I am aspiring to a greater station in life. That my existence is becoming more material, encumbered with a greater obligation. In the past I've avoided this, as if my creativity depended on a sense of myself as somehow floating, uncommitted, not quite real. But in fact whatever I'm giving up I'm glad to give up. I'll be more creative in the new space, not less. In truth, working here, I've more often felt like a ghost than like a god.

All during the autumn, it seems to me, I was living a dim, unreal existence. I believed in the inflated value that I placed on my love for Paul, and I felt so desperate. It was really just the ghost of a love, Althea admitted to herself, the longing without the fulfillment.

And it's more complicated than this, she realized, for part of my desire for Paul was a yearning for his comfortable life, which Bryce made possible. How often I pictured Paul in his roof garden and envied him! I wanted what he had, but by falling in love with him, I resisted it, too. For he was obviously never going to provide such a life for me.

Althea sighed. If I were to get Cam's apartment, I would have--if not quite what Paul has--then something comparable, along more modest lines. I won't have to envy him any longer or anyone else. I will have to make more money so I can afford it, she concluded. The thought of putting myself out on a limb--in reality a rather low one--no longer frightens me. It excites me.

* * *

Yet Althea woke startled the next morning with the impression that she had forgotten something crucial. Drinking tea at breakfast, she remembered it: her plans for her next painting, derived from her hemmed-in view from her window. If I move, will my ideas have to be abandoned? she wondered. Mug in hand, she stood before the window, but the images which had inspired her several days before were missing, though she still looked upon the same scene.

I responded to a certain quality of light, she remembered. Because I can still see it in my mind, I can take it with me. Because I see it in my mind, I can hope to paint it. Besides, if I get Cam's apartment, I have a month until I can move, and the first two weeks of that are vacation. In that time I can accomplish a lot.

Inspired, she decided to begin right away. She took out a sheet of fine, thick, soft paper and sticks of charcoal and colored chalks. She moved her table before the window and organized her supplies there. I'll work today, tomorrow take an early train to Greenwich, and spend Christmas with my family. I'll stay two or three days and then come back, she planned. Today I'll begin to work out a composition.

But before she could make a mark on the page, she was distracted by thoughts of Cam. He's really very good-looking, she reflected. I'm attracted to him. I wonder--is he involved with Christina? Did he mention her as a subtle way to tell me to keep away? He actually revealed little about his personal life, except that he's moving away. Yet already he feels like a friend.

Her forehead creased in concentration, Althea drew a pink chalk line down the page.

Chapter Twenty-six

Christmas had come and gone. On Monday, December 29, Bryce accompanied Paul to his appointment with Dr. McNab. Five weeks had passed since the accident. The cast was to be taken off, the foot X-rayed, and a new cast fitted on.

It was a dark gray cold day. The wet smell of snow was in the air. In the afternoon, when they left for the doctor's, the sky, smothered by clouds, had a pewter, ominous glow.

Dr. McNab's office was in one of the low Forties, in a building east of Park Avenue. Bryce sat in the waiting room, leafing through magazines, while Paul saw the doctor.

At five o'clock, Paul came out on crutches to the waiting room. He said little to Bryce; he was anxious to leave. Soon they stood on the sidewalk. While they had been inside, a light snow had begun to fall.

"What did the doctor tell you?" asked Bryce.

"That I'm doing okay," Paul replied, and then fell silent.

Slowly they went towards Park Avenue. Soon they came to a long stretch of grillwork in the sidewalk. Sidestepping it with his crutches, Paul stopped to look down.

"Look, we're really not standing on the ground at all, but on a roof," he said. "Down there are railroad tracks. You can see the dusting of snow that has filtered down through the grills and fallen on the ties. And here comes a train, moving slowly."

In silence they both watched the dark scene below the street, until the train had passed, and then Bryce said, "Because of what's underneath, this is a mysterious part of the city. The whole edifice seems to hover--the massive buildings, the streets and sidewalks and all they hold."

"That's true," agreed Paul. After a pause, he confessed, "You know, I'm not ready to head home right now."

"Where would you like to go?"

"I've hardly been anywhere. I haven't even seen the Christmas tree this year at Rockefeller Center."

"Well, we're close by," replied Bryce. He hailed a cab, and soon they were being let out next to the plaza, which, they discovered, was thronged with sightseers. The tops of the buildings disappeared in dense clouds. Even the massive tree was like a mirage.

At Fiftieth Street and Rockefeller Plaza, they stopped above one of the flights of stairs that led down to the balcony overlooking the rink. Paul told Bryce that he did not want to attempt the steps, made slick by the snow. For a while they watched the skaters from the curb, but they were too far away; the fine snow, like mist, obscured the scene before them. Particles of snow stung Bryce's face, and so he was grateful when Paul suggested that they have a drink somewhere.

An empty cab instantly materialized on Fifth Avenue, and they got in. They crossed Forty-ninth Street and headed up Madison Avenue. At Fifty-third Street, they turned west. As they crossed Fifth Avenue, Bryce saw that people were entering St. Thomas Church. A notice posted beside the door advertised a "choral evensong" at 5:30 pm. "Let's go," Paul said to Bryce.

"What?" Bryce was unsure he'd heard Paul correctly.

"Driver, we'll get off here," Paul ordered.

"Why did you do that?" Bryce asked, once they were out of the taxi.

"I don't know. It was an impulse."

"How will you climb the steps to the church?"

"I won't. Some good Samaritan will help me."

Paul was right; a man came and let them through a small side entrance at street level into a vestibule. He took them up in a narrow elevator to the entrance to the sanctuary. Bryce and Paul sat in a back pew, Paul on the end, his foot in a cast sticking out into the aisle.

The air was rich with incense. The nave seemed as long to Bryce as a street. At the other end of it was the altar, where a priest stood, and a choir sang a heavenly music. In spite of himself, Bryce warmed to the religious spirit. A silent communication seemed to emanate from his heart. He could not have told what it said. If not to God, then to whom? he asked himself. Perhaps I have faith without belief, he considered. His skepticism returned, detaching him from devotion. He grew attentive to Paul. Without seeming to, he observed him, a picture of piety--his bent head in sharply-drawn profile, his eyes cast down.

They had been inside the church for about a quarter of an hour when Paul clasped Bryce's hand. "I'm ready to go," he whispered.

They left by the way they had come. On the street, against the dark backdrop of the city at evening, Paul looked radiant to Bryce. "I was praying," he said, his voice rising breathlessly.

"I think everyone could tell," replied Bryce, consciously cultivating a tone of mild amusement. My way of resisting Paul's self-dramatization, he thought. "Let's get that drink," he suggested.

Inside the bar of the Hotel Dorset, Paul changed again. Leaning against a black leather banquette, while Bryce sat across from him in an upholstered chair, Paul said, "This bar is so much more inviting than the church, don't you think? The church is cold, but it's warm and comfortable here. If churches were more like bars, they'd attract more worshippers." He looked at Bryce to see if he would smile, and so Bryce did.

Soon Bryce was supplied with a Scotch on the rocks and Paul with a vodka martini. Before them were two small plates of canapes and a bowl of peanuts to take the edge off their hunger. While they nibbled hors d'oeuvres, Bryce said, "I can't believe the party's in two days. It's the biggest one we've ever given, and it's come together so quickly. I wish more people had R.S.V.P.'d, though. It's hard to plan when you don't know how many will be there. We could have forty or sixty or even more, if people bring uninvited guests."

Paul took a sip of his drink. "In my opinion," he said, "you can only plan so far. The party will take on a life of its own. It will fall flat, or it will soar."

"I still haven't decided on my costume. What are you going as?" asked Bryce.

"I already have the costume," Paul replied. "I'm wearing a blue velvet cloak. I'll be a rogue--a pirate, or a highwayman."

"What should I be?" Bryce appealed to Paul.

"We could go as a theme," Paul suggested.

"If you plan to be a pirate, like Captain Hook, for example, and you think I'm going to be Tinkerbell or Peter Pan, forget it."

"You always stand back, you never want to join in."

Bryce knew there was justice in what Paul was saying. Maybe I should just put myself in his hands, he considered. "All right, who do you suggest I be?"

"If Peter and Tinkerbell are out, what about one of the Darlings--Wendy?"

Bryce shook his head. "I'm not into drag."

"The first mate? That should be a suitably masculine role."

"I'm not brawny enough."

"The crocodile?"

"There's an idea, but I don't think I'm up for it."

"I give up," said Paul. "Come as yourself. See if I care."

"I'll surprise you," said Bryce.

"I'm not sure I want to be Captain Hook anyway," said Paul. "Why should I parade my injuries?"

"I know what you mean," agreed Bryce. He was wondering if he would like another drink. Recklessly, he ordered one. "And you?" he asked Paul.

"Why not?" Paul replied. Once fresh drinks had arrived, he took a long sip. "When the doctor took off the cast, the smell was dreadful," he confessed. "The skin underneath was dried up and decayed. I'm drinking to forget it."

A look of mortality, of dread shone in Paul's eyes. Bryce realized that he had not really joined with Paul in his fears. The suicide attempt upset me too much, he told himself. The extravagant, histrionic gesture I have never allowed myself.

He realized that he was still angry, but now, as he reconsidered, his anger melted. After all, Paul's gesture was as ineffectual as I could have wished, he concluded. It was a joke, really.

"When your cast comes off, your skin will grow back. It will be the same as before," he assured Paul. He stirred the ice in his drink and tasted it. Just then, the bar, which had been quiet, was invaded by a group of five or six well-dressed, middle-aged couples. Even before he heard them speak, Bryce guessed that they were fellow Southerners.

After overhearing their conspicuous accents, Paul asked Bryce, "How did you know?"

"Their appearance gives them away as much as their accents," Bryce whispered, so as not to be overheard. "Obviously, these folks are prosperous. See the ladies' mink coats. Probably they came to New York to have an opportunity to wear them." He shook his head. "But they're so un-hip. See how perfectly coordinated their outfits are," he pointed out, as the ladies were removing their coats. "They're not dowdy, just behind the times. Every hair is in place, and they all have on such obvious make-up. And the men are wearing plain gray or blue suits, loosely cut, unlike New Yorkers, who like a tailored, European look. And everyone's smiling."

Paul giggled.

"It's true," Bryce protested.

"I see," said Paul. He had to move his coat closer to him on the banquette to make room for the two couples at the next table. Now that they were surrounded by the new clientele, Bryce and Paul turned their attention back to themselves. Bryce wanted to hold Paul's hand across the table, as they slowly sipped their drinks, but with these onlookers he felt inhibited.

Like a surprise, he felt Paul's good foot prod his ankle under the table. Making no outward show, he pressed his calf against Paul's.

Jazz piano music was playing over the sound system, the bar was humming with conversation. The whisky went to Bryce's head. He leaned back in his chair. The atmosphere was so dense it was like being under water. He felt he was drowning. If I speak softly to Paul, I won't be overheard, he thought. Who else would care what I said anyway? he asked himself. Just because I'm surrounded by Southerners, I don't need to think that I'm back in Meridian, where they know me and would gossip about me.

Yet all the same he eased the pressure of his leg against Paul's, as if the touch were forced and blatant, and he was ashamed of it. Admitting this to himself, it was as if he'd betrayed Paul.

Feeling Bryce withdraw, Paul eyed him narrowly, but before Bryce had endured his stare long, Paul gave his attention to his drink.

"Waiter, another!" he waved his arm to attract attention. "And you?" He levelled his gaze again on Bryce, challenging him to keep up.

Bryce nodded, accepting the challenge. Suddenly we're in competition, but for what? he wondered. The clearest head?

"Bottoms up," said Paul, after their refills arrived.

"I believe you're trying to get me drunk," commented Bryce.

Paul smiled. His smile is like a pirate's smile, Bryce thought. There's no mercy in it. "I could come to the party as your victim," Bryce proposed, "bound and blindfolded, ready to be thrown to the sharks."

"You must be confusing me with someone else," Paul said.

Bryce shook his head. Suddenly, he felt wistful. "Are you happy about the party?" he asked, his voice turning gentle. "You're sure it's not too much for you?"

Paul shook his head. "I have too much time. Planning it has given me something to do. It used to be that half the day would be gone before I'd noticed. Now, time hardly seems to pass at all. But I've been able to lose myself in this party. And besides, I'm going to surprise you," he added.

"Do you mean the decorations you've been so secretive about?"

Paul nodded. "You're going to love them."

"Why won't you tell me what you're doing?"

"Because it sounds silly if I describe it. I want you to see it. I want to observe your reaction. Besides, the party's only two days away. They'll arrive in the afternoon to start setting up."

"Who's 'they?'"

"Some friends from the Kurt Matthews Dancers. If it all comes off, it will be beautiful. But you'll have to see it at night to appreciate it."

He's sincere, Bryce realized, watching Paul's face lit by enthusiasm. Even with his secrets and surprises, he's transparent, whereas I'm the one with something to hide. Because even though I first suggested this party, by the time Paul decided he wanted it, my enthusiasm for it had waned. Though I pretended to be happy, my heart wasn't really in it. But I couldn't tell him that. To summon up the energy to make the party happen became burdensome to me, but it turned out that I didn't have to do anything, because Paul wanted to. Do I mind that Paul took over my idea and is making it his reality? Not really. Paul needs this party; it's allowing him to go forward.

Impulsively Bryce took Paul's hand and kissed it. Close by, he heard a woman tittering, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her alerting her companion. She's clearly averting to me, Bryce understood.

He felt himself growing angry; his cheeks were hot. But he didn't let go; he grasped Paul's hand all the tighter. "I'm hungry," he said in a low voice. "Let's go eat."

Paul returned the pressure of Bryce's hand. They looked at each other with perfect comprehension and then remained motionless, unwilling to budge, until they had outlasted their neighbor's attention.

It didn't take long: she soon grew bored and glanced away. Bryce signed for the check. The two men rose. Bryce helped Paul on with his coat. Not until they were standing outside in front of the bar did Bryce speak again. "There are some Southerners I truly despise," he snapped.

"Calm down, old man, calm down," Paul said. "There's no point in getting all worked up. It's not just Southerners who are pigs, you know. You don't have to look far wherever you are."

"All the same, I'm glad I don't live in the South anymore," Bryce remarked, "and I'm glad we're out of the bar." Sobered by the cold air, he glanced around: it had all but ceased to snow. A few last flakes drifted down, illuminated by the streetlamps. On the salted pavements, the snow had already melted to slush. Not a cab was in sight. "We'll have to walk to Sixth Avenue," said Bryce.

As they set out down the block, he asked Paul, "Where would you like to eat?""One of those new Japanese restaurants on Columbus Avenue."

Bryce was surprised by Paul's swift reply. He'd expected more deliberation. "You must have been planning this."

"I was."

It was so quiet that Bryce could hear the soft thuds of Paul's rubber-tipped crutches against the sidewalk. To Bryce, he looked angelic, in profile, his chin tilted into the night. At Sixth Avenue, he waited with a serene expression, while Bryce waded through the slush to hail a taxi.

Decorating the window of the restaurant Jo-Ann were origami sculptures folded into the shapes of birds, animals, and party hats. Made of brightly colored papers, hanging on vertical strings, they caught Paul's admiring notice. "Aren't they festive," he commented. "They make me want to look twice to see what they are. I hope they stay up after the holidays."

Bryce held open the door for Paul to pass through. They entered a long, narrow room, with tables of pale wood and austere paper scrolls decorating the walls. All of the tables were full. Paul was given a seat at the bar, while Bryce stood right next to him, trying to keep out of the waiters' way. While they waited, Paul gave his rapt attention to a man behind the bar making sushi and sashimi. Because Paul was watching, Bryce watched, too. The man worked rapidly, scooping up rice and shaping it into a plump little pillow, rubbing it with a bit of wasabi horseradish paste, and covering it with a gleaming rectangle of tuna, fluke, mackerel, or yellow-tail snapper. After each step, he rinsed his hands clean.

Casually, Bryce rested his hands on Paul's shoulders, and Paul reached up to take Bryce's hand in his. It seemed to Bryce that they were testing the restaurant to see if they provoked a reaction as they had in the bar. But in here, no one seemed to care. As long as we're discreet, Bryce thought, we're to be allowed privacy.

Soon a table was vacated for them. After Paul ordered sake and a platter of sushi, Bryce did, too.

The waiter poured the fragrant wine into thimble-sized cups. "It's nice to be out and about again, isn't it?" Bryce remarked. "Think of all we've done since we left the doctor's office."

"There are worse fates than being housebound in your house," replied Paul.

Bryce was struck by Paul's tone of conviction. I'm witnessing a transformation, he thought. What has happened to Paul's bitterness, his resentment, his despair?

"I'm imagining the party as an improvisation," Paul announced, "as an event which I set in motion. The guests are the performers. They carry it off. Or they don't."

The platters of sushi arrived. Delicately, with his chopsticks, Paul lifted a piece of tuna roll wrapped in kelp, dipped it into soy sauce, and popped it into his mouth. Bryce copied him. He thought to himself, Suddenly Paul has regained his old splendor. The aura which I hadn't seen since the summer has returned to him.

"I'm beginning to look forward to this party," Bryce said. "Until now, I confess I wasn't."

"Why not? It was your idea in the first place."

Bryce shrugged. "Seeing those Southerners made me think about my family," he went on, changing the subject. "When I left Mississippi, I thought that things might be different with my parents, but they aren't, and it's my fault as well as theirs."

"What do you mean?"

"There's still the old silence between us," Bryce explained. "At Christmas, we exchanged boxes of fruit, like business associates. Before I left Mississippi, I mentioned something to them about a New York visit, but I was nervous, and so were they. We've hardly spoken since. I knew they wouldn't come, and the fact is, I'm not really sorry. I don't think I'm prepared for them to see my life with you, and I don't think they are, either. Ever since I got back, I've been wrapped up with you, because of the accident," Bryce continued. "I didn't pursue the connection with them, nor did they. So maybe there wasn't so much to preserve, after all."

"I'm sure that's not true," Paul objected. "There has been a change. The regret you're expressing--it's new."

"I don't know how to talk about you to them, and so I haven't called them."

"But what would you have to say?" Paul wondered. "Really, you wouldn't have to say anything."

"What do you mean?"

"If you were to invite them for a visit, and then you acted as you just did with your compatriots at the hotel bar, that would be quite sufficient," Paul replied. "You made yourself clear without saying a word. I thought you were masterful." And he chuckled.

Bryce blushed. "But it's different if it's your family," he argued.

"No, it's not."

"You're asked to account for yourself."

"But you don't have to. You can choose not to."

"Are you so free, then, with your own family?" Bryce wondered.

Paul shook his head. "You've lived with me. You know how little contact I have with them. In many ways it may be similar to your situation." He spoke matter-of-factly. "It's easier to give advice than to take it," he admitted.

"We've never met each other's families. We're missing this essential knowledge of each other. We're renegades from families. Whatever our life together is, we've had to invent it. We're not a family. We're not a marriage."

Paul nodded. "We've distanced ourselves from what we came from. We've had the freedom to decide what we are. Yet in some ways, I think, it's not been so good for us."

"What do you mean?"

"When you went to Mississippi, it was as if you'd disappeared into a black hole."

Bryce felt himself growing tense. Here is Paul, he thought, broaching the subject of our separation, which we've not yet settled.

Paul remained silent, forcing Bryce to respond. "I don't know why you say that," he countered defensively. "After I got to Mississippi, I called you several times, but I never reached you. I wrote you a letter, but I never heard from you. After a while I gave up."

"I was mad at you," Paul explained. "I'm not proud of it now, but there you are."

Paul's reply upset Bryce. After all these months, he realized, I'm still hurt. "Why were you so angry?" he wondered.

"Because of what I just said. Because you went home to your family and shut me out. Before you left, you told me next to nothing about why you were going. It was as if I didn't matter enough to you to know what was in your heart."

Paul's accusation confused Bryce. "I didn't think you'd want to know," he pleaded.

"How could you believe that?"

Paul's fervent tone surprised Bryce. "You astonish me," he replied. "You act as if whatever I told or didn't tell you matters more than your deliberate silence."

"No, I never said that," Paul replied coolly. "I just explained the reason for my silence."

"I refuse to fight about this now," said Bryce.

"Who's fighting?"

"I feel as if we are." Suddenly, Bryce seemed about to burst into tears. "Maybe I couldn't tell you why I was going to Mississippi," he said. "Maybe I couldn't talk about it."

A stricken look crossed Paul's face. Like a mask of conscience, Bryce thought. "And when I was ready to tell you about my uncle," he continued, "when I needed to tell you, I couldn't reach you. How do you think I felt then?"

"Did it ever occur to you," said Paul, "that I was out of town?"

"But your dance tour didn't start until October."

"That's right."

"Where were you then, at the end of August?"

"Remember Althea? I visited her on Block Island, where she was renting a house. Her friend Jeanne came, too."

"Visiting two women? That doesn't sound like you."

"No, I suppose not," Paul admitted, "but I wanted to get out of the city, and she invited me."

"You were using her."

"You could say that, if you wanted to, but why be so critical?" Paul eyed Bryce narrowly.

"So your revenge on me was not to let me know," Bryce concluded.

"One sin of omission for another," replied Paul.

"Why didn't you call me when you got back? Why didn't you answer my letter then?" Bryce wondered. "You weren't still angry at me, were you?"

"No-o-o." Paul spoke slowly, as if he were only now considering his reasons. "I don't know why, really. I stayed in mostly. I didn't see anyone. I didn't make phone calls. You know, after a while, when no one sees you, you start to feel as if you're invisible."

Bryce looked hard at Paul. He's withholding something from me, he thought. He waited to see if Paul would continue. He thought of pressing him, but all of a sudden the restaurant, though beginning to empty, seemed too close. He couldn't go on. His gaze swept over their empty platters. "Let's go home," he urged. "I'm tired."

* * *

It had gotten colder. Icicles hung from the eaves of the penthouse. While Bryce had gone ahead, unlocking the door to the roof from the top landing, switching on the outdoor lights, Paul trailed behind. Ever since he'd left the doctor's, he'd kept postponing his return home. Now he stood on the boundary of home, still not ready to cross the threshold. Though he was tired, he was unwilling for the evening to end.

He stood on the roof. Under the floodlights, he saw a sheen of black ice, formed from water that had pooled on the uneven tar and then frozen. "Go for it!" he urged himself on, the show-off coming out in him. Starting from a stop, he pushed himself off on his crutches, holding them back and away like ski poles, while he slid on the ice on his good foot, his foot in the cast outstretched behind him.

But it was only a patch of ice, and he lost his balance at the edge of it, and swayed, and nearly tumbled. Awkwardly, he caught himself on the crutches. The moment of exhilaration had lasted less than a split second. He looked up to see how Bryce would react, but Bryce had gone inside. At least he didn't see me make a fool of myself, Paul thought, feeling silly.

Part of him craved attention, and part of him didn't want it. He was nervous, keyed-up--the way he used to feel before a performance. "Aren't you coming in?" he heard Bryce calling him.

"In a minute," he called back.

He gazed around at the expanse of roof, seeing it as an empty stage waiting to be filled in. Can I really pull it off? he wondered. Can I make my dream come alive? The ugliness of the roof, its bare, tar-beach aspect won't have disappeared, but will be camouflaged, covered over, and lit by my devices. He pictured festoons of crepe paper radiating from a striped maypole, like the fragile spines of a tent. He imagined tinkling silver bells strung on ribbons and icicles hanging from the eaves, as they were now, like glass. He conceived of his guests, wandering as if in a magical wood, mingling and transformed by their own audacious costumes. He heard glasses clinked in toasts, felt the mood of celebration, conveyed in the taste of the Champagne that everyone was drinking. Envisioning all of this, he was captivated by excitement, and he trembled with sheer hope.

How awkward I was, talking to Bryce about the party, he reflected. I wanted to tantalize him, but I didn't. Because I also wanted to keep it a secret, and so what I ended up saying sounded stupid and banal.

Leaning on his crutches, Paul ambled around the side of the penthouse. He sat down in the wrought-iron loveseat, looking at the ruined beds of his withered garden. This is the heart of the transformation, he told himself. Can I really bring it off? Instead of flowers growing from a rich loam, these beds will display once-discarded toe shoes blossoming out of the snow, of all colors and discolored, frayed, stitched and restitched. He wondered, Will they really be just as they appeared in my dream, spinning and whirling up as if they were still being worn by the ghosts of dancers past? How fortunate I was that Kurt knew how to lay his hands on a few boxes of old toe shoes. In the meantime, materials and supplies are accumulating, and all kinds of deliveries are scheduled. He mulled over the arrangements: Eric was taking care of the music; Hector was bringing the big floor fans and the cords to power them. And Benny Pensky was in charge of the lighting, just as in a Kurt Matthews production. So perhaps my comparison of the party to a performance wasn't so far-fetched after all, he concluded.

He heard the kitchen window being flung up. He saw Bryce's face peer out. "Aren't you coming in?" Bryce asked again, this time querulously.

"I guess so," replied Paul, with a note of reluctance.

"It's damn cold," Bryce emphasized. And the window went back down.

But I'm from Minnesota and Michigan, not Mississippi, Paul thought to himself. I'm in my element. He lingered a moment longer, feeling the night around him, black and bold, full of stars he could barely discern through the city's aura and the clouds. A quarter moon peeked out, hanging low in the sky. Making noise, flashing its lights, a plane flew over the Hudson River. There's something odd about the shape of that plane, Paul considered. I bet it's a military plane, down from West Point, on a midnight joy ride. His deduction contained a criticism, even contempt, yet he had to admit the idea of such a flight was appealing. Maybe, for the party, I ought to hire a plane to carry a banner, like at the beach, he thought: "Welcome, 1981." At night, the sign would have to be lit up. Just imagine.

He was lost in his thoughts, as he went around to the front door, which was unlocked, and let himself in at last. The foyer was dark and empty. He locked the door behind him and followed the trail of light down the hallway. Bryce was in the bedroom, sitting at the little table, apparently at work.

"What are you doing?" Paul asked.

"Writing out checks to worthy causes. It's that time of year," Bryce replied without looking up.

Impulsively, Paul clasped the nape of Bryce's neck. Under his soft skin, Bryce's spine felt strong and delicate. In response, Bryce arched his neck. Paul welcomed the pressure against his open palm. "Put the checkbook away," he urged. "It can wait until tomorrow. Come have a nightcap with me."

"Haven't you had enough to drink tonight?" Bryce teased. In the far distance, Paul perceived, like an echo, the hoot of a passing train. Bryce laid his pen aside.

In the living room, they were hit by a blast of cold air. "Oh dear, we left the Aeolian harp in the window. It was there all afternoon and evening during the snowfall. I expect it's been ruined," Bryce lamented.

"Get it out of the windowsill and shut the window. It's freezing in here. Bring it over to the coffee table," Paul ordered. As he spoke, he was reminded of Don, the old man who'd showed him an Aeolian harp. He recalled how knowledgeably Don had examined that other damaged harp. I, on the other hand, am not truly knowledgeable. I am only peremptory, he thought. He lowered himself from his crutches onto the couch while Bryce meekly did as he was told. "I suspect it was my fault," he confessed. "I must have left it in the window."

"I should have remembered it, too," said Paul, absolving Bryce.

Bryce placed the harp on the table in front of Paul and plucked one of the strings. The sound was like a muffled thud. "I expect we'll need to have it restrung," he said.

Carefully, Paul touched the cold, damp wood. "And have the sound board replaced, too. The wood is warped," he added. "I'll call the company I ordered it from." He also considered, Or I could try to find Don's number through Boston Information. But the old man spooked me. I'd sooner try the first solution.

Having decided on a course of action, he put the harp out of his mind. "How about a brandy?" he suggested. "Doesn't that sound lovely?"

* * *

They sat at opposite ends of the green velvet couch, Paul's feet--both the good and the damaged one--resting in Bryce's lap, drinking brandy from big snifters. Paul felt peaceful at last. The warmth of the liquor and a knitted afghan helped chase away the chill that still hung in the air. He'd found the contentment that had been eluding him all evening. But his tranquility was disturbed when Bryce remarked, "I read the reviews of Savage Landscape. I wish I'd seen you in it."

"It's too late now," said Paul.

"The reviews seemed odd to me," Bryce went on. "There was no consensus, which made me think that perhaps you'd done something great."

"God forbid," Paul replied. "Heaven is for greatness. No, I'm just a trivial footnote in a very obscure subject--small modern dance companies."

"It doesn't have to be like that," said Bryce.

"What do you mean?" Paul felt himself growing tense.

"You could become a choreographer, as many dancers do when they get older. As you'd already begun to do."

Paul was tempted to give Bryce a flippant answer. But he deserves better, he thought, and so he replied carefully. "I've thought of it, of course," he admitted, "but so far I'm resisting. There's an enormous difference between choreographing a solo for myself and undertaking a career as a choreographer. I don't know if I want that, if I have the talent or vision for it. Maybe I don't want that much control. I don't relish the responsibility. Do I really want to be involved in dance if I'm not a dancer? Do I want to serve other dancers?" He shook his head.

"One could argue that dancers serve the choreographer," Bryce countered.

"They are his instrument; it's not quite the same," Paul clarified.

"When I come to think about it, I realize I can't encourage it," mused Bryce, in a sudden change of heart, "not unless you're desperate to be a choreographer, which you clearly aren't. Maybe you ought to do something entirely different."

In what Bryce was saying, Paul sensed a subtext. He guessed that Bryce had something to reveal to him. "What are you going to tell me?" he wondered.

Bryce gazed at him intently. "Why do you think I have anything to say?"

Paul smiled. "But you do, don't you?" He thought to himself, I bet it's about the lawsuit.

His attitude towards the lawsuit had changed. He was intensely interested in it. He was also nervous and superstitious. If I act as if I care too much about it, he believed, I'll lose. I'll only get what I want if I act as if it doesn't matter.

But Bryce's reply surprised Paul and disappointed him. His news was about himself. "I'm thinking of looking for a job in a law firm. For the first time in my life, I really want to work at something. And the law is what I'm trained to do."

Paul dissimulated his first, selfish reaction. It behooved him to encourage Bryce, and so he did. But he couldn't resist asking him, "What has inspired you?"

"Although I didn't anticipate it at first, I ended up taking the autumn off. I've had a lot of time to think. So far, professionally, I haven't taken myself too seriously; I've picked up what's come my way. I haven't tried to make real money or establish a reputation. But my uncle's death and some other events have caused me to realize, What am I waiting for? This afternoon, while we were on Park Avenue, I started to think about all the law firms in the buildings around us. I thought, Here's a world I've never been part of, a future I've rejected out of hand. Yet, until I join that world, I think I'll feel that I never grew up. A part of me believes that I'll never be serious until I do my stint in it and see where it takes me."

"Are you sure you'll be able to find a job?"

"I expect so," replied Bryce, responding to the doubt, while overlooking the hint of cruelty in Paul's question.

Paul felt betrayed by Bryce's decision. It's almost as if, in becoming buttoned-up instead of bohemian, Bryce is deserting me, he reflected. I'm afraid he's going to leave me behind.

The irony was not lost on him that, not too long ago, he seemed the one ready to leave Bryce behind. I can't afford to let him go now, Paul realized, with some pain. How I hate feeling needy! In the past, I took care of the apartment and the garden and Bryce, too, and in return Bryce took care of the bills. When the cast comes off, and I'm back on my feet, I'll do it again. That's not what's troubling me now, Paul realized. When I was performing, I possessed a glamour that attracted Bryce, like a moth to a flame. It was what was special about me, what made me worth the trouble. But now it's gone. I'm a moth, too.

"Are you turning conventional on me?" Paul asked Bryce.

"In some ways I've always been conventional or at least conservative," Bryce replied.

Paul thought the conversation was growing deadly dull. Besides, his curiosity was too strong to be squelched. "Speaking of the practice of law," he said, "is there any news about my lawsuit?"

A slight smile curved Bryce's lips. "I'm expecting to hear of an offer to settle any day now."

"Any idea about how much it will be?"

"It's premature to speculate now." And Bryce's smile grew broader.

Paul suspected that Bryce was toying with him. "You devil," he said. "You're giving me a hard time on purpose." Will Bryce throw my earlier attitude up in my face? he wondered, already feeling beset.

But Bryce didn't. "I thought you'd come to your senses," he said.

"Will I be a rich man?"

"What's your injury worth, do you mean?" asked Bryce, laying his hand over Paul's foot in the cast, which rested in his lap. "Whatever you can get for it."

A melancholy thought seized Paul: Whatever it is, it won't be enough. But he argued with himself, Maybe that's not true. Maybe this is my big chance to collect. I didn't have so many years left as a dancer anyway.

But he was afraid to go on, lest he seem to contaminate his hope with greed, and so he fell silent.

"When I know of anything, I'll tell you," Bryce promised. He reached over to clasp Paul's hand, to reassure him.

Paul automatically withdrew before they touched. Then, embarrassed by his action, he covered it up by lifting his glass to his lips. He drained the last sweet drops of brandy and set the snifter down, beside the warped harp, on the coffee table.

In response, Bryce shifted away, extricating himself from under the weight of Paul's legs. He stood up abruptly and walked over to the window, turning his back on Paul, facing out into the dark night. "The sky's cleared up," he announced. Then he turned around.

Inadvertently, he collided with the display shelf set into the wall next to the window. He knocked down the Indian ceramic bowl, which he had bought for Paul and had placed there. He watched helplessly as the bowl broke into pieces. He looked utterly dejected.

"We'll glue it back," suggested Paul, "and then it will look authentic. Didn't you say that the original ones were smashed and buried?"

Slowly, Bryce gathered up the fragments. He laid them on the coffee table opposite the harp and the empty glasses. He knelt and began to fit the pieces of the bowl together. Only a few tiny chips were missing. "I'm sorry, that's the best I can do," he apologized. To Paul's surprise, he had tears in his eyes.

"It's all right," Paul soothed him. "Things can break, and they don't hurt."

Paul thought of how, after the suicide attempt, he had wept in Bryce's arms. Days after that, when they had made love, he was painfully aware of his broken foot. And it wasn't only his foot; there seemed something more--as if his life and not just his foot was in pieces. And how will I gather them up? he wondered.

Months ago, I pictured Bryce in my thoughts, and I dreamed of him in the act of betraying him, Paul recollected. The memory of these visions, which troubled me with pain and longing, is sweet. Because of them, I feel that Bryce was somehow complicit, and I wonder what he has guessed, what he already knows.

Paul's impulse was irresistible. The secret which he'd thought he'd never tell Bryce, the secret about Jeanne and Althea, now rose to his lips.

Chapter Twenty-seven

On New Year's Eve, Althea was one of the first guests to arrive at Bryce and Paul's party. Only the Kurt Matthews Dancers were there before she was, and that was because they'd been there for hours, hard at work setting up. They were still putting on the finishing touches when she walked out on the roof. Under her coat, she wore a kimono of heavy silk brocade, a gift from an uncle who, years ago, had been stationed in Japan.

She recognized the Dancers at once from the performance at the Joyce Theater, though they had never met. There was Eric Fuller, standing on a ladder, weaving a string of bells through a trellis. He looked enormous in a cowboy costume--boots, spurs, chaps, vest, and a ten-gallon hat. At the foot of the ladder was Michiko Kinoshita, with more bells in her arms. Perched on her head was a glittering star. She wore an oversize down jacket for warmth over an ivory silk sheath with a straight skirt that hung to the ground. Pamela Katz, back from Seattle, the danger past and her mother recuperating, wore ordinary jeans and a heavy sweater. She and Jane Vaughan, elegant in a fur coat, sheer stockings, and high heels, were patiently winding streamers from a striped pole. Hector Prado, in a red devil costume with a forked tail, was tacking up garlands of greenery. They greeted Althea; they introduced themselves. With their typical friendliness, they made her feel welcome.

She volunteered to help, preferring to join the Dancers rather than navigate the party alone. They accepted her, and, even after the party began to grow, she stuck with them. As one of their inner circle, she had more fun than she had thought she would. She was in on their jokes and privy to their plans.

At last they were done except for Paul's garden. They invited her to witness the transformation. On two raised flower-beds, covered with heavy black plastic, they poured dozens of bags of sparkling white sugar. Then they took pairs and pairs of worn toe shoes from boxes. Impulsively, she joined them, as they balanced the shoes upright in the sugar. With deliberate pleasure, she handled the old shoes, broken in by use until they were unusable. Limp, torn and restitched, faded and stained, the toe shoes seemed to Althea to shine with a proud, illiterate life. In their marks of wear were recorded all the dances of their pasts.

The joking and laughter of the dancers melded with the brittle music of the bells. Althea couldn't resist; she tasted the sugar. It was sweet and gritty. One of the toe shoes fell over, and she had to poke it in again.

"This was all Paul's idea," Eric Fuller told her. "It came to him in a dream."

Just as she was about to ask him what he meant, Kurt Matthews arrived. She noticed that all the dancers suddenly looked up from where they knelt, planting toe shoes in sugar. A pale crescent moon in the sky above him, under the glare of a spotlight, he appeared in a harlequin costume. From around the side of the house drifted the bells' tinkling music.

Kurt began to laugh. "You've done it," he congratulated them. He made them stand up so that he could comment on their costumes. Then he noticed Althea. "I'm Kurt Matthews," he said, extending his right hand, "I'm the ringleader of this conspiracy. And who are you?"

His blue eyes twinkled at her. His handshake was firm, his smile welcoming. Though he was not a tall man, he emanated vitality. He stood with his legs slightly apart, showing off how well, at his age, he filled his costume. Yet there was a shy quality to his vanity, a sweet, lopsided expression on his face, as if he were about to blush.

"This is Althea. She's one of the crew," said Hector, claiming her. "A friend of Paul's," he added.

"A dancer?" Kurt sounded puzzled.

"No, a painter," Althea said.

"Is that so? We'll put you to work painting a backdrop for one of our dances," Kurt said.

"I'd like to do it," replied Althea. "Plenty of artists have--Picasso, Chagall, de Chirico."

"I'll come see your paintings, and we'll talk."

"Do you really mean it?"

Kurt nodded. "Absolutely."

Althea was astounded. Can this be so easy? she wondered. "This isn't a volunteer job, is it?" she demanded sharply.

"Of course not. We're a legitimate company. We may not pay well, but we pay."

"You'll have to tell me what you want. I'll try to paint what you like," Althea said.

Kurt scratched his head thoughtfully. "We're interested in your vision," he said. "The unifying vision of an artist. But come, come! We'll talk more about this later. I'm here to get you all, now you're chilled and exerted," he said, addressing everyone with a nod of his head, "to bring you inside. It's time to open the bar."

A mingled shout came up, and everyone, Althea included, came into the house. The party had begun. Lots of people were arriving, and soon the bar was in full swing. Bryce stationed himself by the front door. Paul was ensconced in a chair in the living room. Althea had not yet spoken to either host, nor did she feel like approaching them now. She had found her niche at their party, and she was having a good time without them.

* * *

It was past ten o'clock at night when Jeanne and René were walking down Broadway, on their way to the party. They were late. Under their coats, they wore costumes. Other people, looking festive, passed by. "Maybe some of them will end up at Paul's," Jeanne speculated. She confessed to René, "I don't think I'll know anyone there, except Althea and Bryce and Paul. And I don't know Bryce well at all."

"Then why are you so eager for us to go?" René asked..

"I'm starting to wonder about that myself," Jeanne confessed. "I'm having jitters. But we've gone to the trouble to get dressed up. If we don't like it, I promise, we'll leave."

"We'll think of a way to signal each other. How about this: tap the side of your nose once with your index finger?" René suggested. "Then we'll know to confer about leaving."

"That sounds so stagy. Like something from a grade-B movie."

"It all depends," replied René, as he slipped his arm around her. "Perhaps no one will even notice."

Soon they turned the corner of Broadway. As they entered Paul's building, Jeanne told René, "I've never seen their house before, but I've heard about it. Althea thinks it's a palace."

The lobby was garishly decorated for Christmas: tinsel streamers of red and silver were looped on the walls; there was an artificial Christmas tree with blinking lights. Jeanne and René passed these without comment. They called the elevator and began their ascent to the top floor.

The door to the roof was open, and they stepped out to the cold air. They heard tinkling bells. Floodlights illuminated a fantasy scene, like a small stage planted in the roof's expanse. There was a striped pole decorated with ribbons and streamers and strings of tiny bells. There were green wreaths and boughs and icicles made of glass and a trellis wound with lights.

"How wonderful!" Jeanne exclaimed.

Hand in hand, they walked under the streamers and the bells. Rock music was seeping out of the penthouse. Through the windows they could glimpse people moving about.

"Let's not go in just yet," Jeanne urged. "Let's walk around the house. I want to see the other side of the roof."

She led him around to the back of the house. He was just as curious as she was and the more astute observer of structures and design. Although he was critical of the penthouse's construction, he liked its site on the roof. Jeanne absorbed his judgments, then changed the subject. "Let's dance," she cried, and began to sway to the strains of the music.

Here there were no decorations, only the lanterns, and no one in sight. It was a dreary place to dance, and they stopped after only a couple of minutes. They circled the house and arrived by the long way to the garden, with the raised flower-beds blanketed in white and studded with markers, the deck around them, and the fountain, now bone-dry. Next to the fountain stood Althea, talking to a man.

To Jeanne she looked regal and beautiful in a long silk kimono, with a sweater flung over her shoulders and a black half mask perched on her head like a pair of sunglasses. The sight of her stirred Jeanne like an old memory. For a moment Jeanne's life stood still, as she recalled another New Year's Eve party a decade ago, in Connecticut, when she and Althea were teenagers.

That party was in a beautiful old house of white limestone, with a view of the surrounding hills and a formal garden which, like this one, had a fountain. The father of the boy who was giving the party--his name was Jon, Jeanne recalled--was president of the small Catholic college that owned the house, so Jon's family got to live there. That New Year's Eve, Jon's parents were out of town, and he had invited all of his friends, who'd brought their friends.

Jeanne suddenly remembered how on that night, just as now, she'd come upon Althea standing by that other fountain. Only on that night she was kissing a boy. For an instant, that earlier image replaced the present one. It was snowing very lightly, Jeanne remembered. Snowflakes drifted in Althea's long hair and in the hair of the boy she embraced. Was it Alex that year? Jeanne tried to recall. Yes, I think it was.

Now, on Paul's roof, Althea made no sign that she'd noticed Jeanne. She appeared deep in conversation with a handsome, rangy, older man dressed like a harlequin from a Picasso painting. Jeanne did not know him, and she was reluctant to break in.

"Why look at that!" René's voice held a note of wonder. "Those are toe shoes stuck in the snow. There are so many of them."

"Why so they are," said Jeanne. "I didn't look closely; I assumed they were markers of some kind. And where did the snow come from? There's none on the street. They must have brought it in from somewhere."

"It's artificial," said René knowingly. He started to approach the garden, but Jeanne held him back. "That's Althea," she said, "but I don't want to interrupt her. I'll introduce you later. Let's go inside and find the party."

As she took René's hand, leading him toward the house, Jeanne remembered how at Jon's party, she'd also begun to walk away, leaving Althea and her date undisturbed. But suddenly Althea had looked up, as if she'd known all the while that Jeanne was there. "Come over here and see us," Althea urged. She sounded happy, and she and Alex had smiled at Jeanne, as if they didn't mind at all that she had discovered them.

I did go to them, Jeanne recalled, and Alex put his arm around me, and we began talking. I have no idea what we said; I only remember that Althea seemed so protective of me, so maternal. I had the feeling she would watch over me and take care of me.

But this time Althea did not acknowledge Jeanne, and Jeanne kept her thoughts locked in her heart, as she and René went inside the house to join the party.

* * *

For over an hour, it seemed to Bryce, he had stood rooted to the spot, as if he were a plant lashed to a stake. He greeted people as they came in, exchanging a few words with each one, before going on to the next person. He wore a tuxedo with a black silk cummerbund, a pleated white shirt, and a black bow tie. A domino covered half of his face, but he assumed he was known and did not introduce himself. He had almost forgotten what he looked like. Piled high on a silver tray sitting on a small table near him were masks identical to his. He encouraged each guest to select one.

I'm playing a role, I am unreal, said Bryce to himself in those snatched seconds when he had time to think at all. It's odd that I should be standing here like a figurehead, claiming the party as if it were mine, when, really, I've had so little to do with it. "Hello, Romula. Hello, Nicky. Hello...and you're?...Oh yes." Bryce clasped hands; he kissed cheeks. "Coats in the bedroom down the hall, drinks in the living room." Like an usher, he waved his guests by. "Paul? He's somewhere about." Bryce suddenly felt envious that Paul, since he could not stand for long, was relieved of these duties.

Everyone seems more unreal in one way, more real in another, he thought. It's partly the clothes--fancy dress and evening dress--and the atmosphere. There's a sense of freedom. One can say things that one is too inhibited to say in ordinary life. But not me, not yet anyhow. He shook his head.

The front door opened again. "Jeanne, how nice to see you." Bryce extended his hand, but not his cheek. I'm speaking by rote, he thought. I don't really mean it. He cringed slightly, his hand was limp. I felt the same way when I saw Althea, he reminded himself, and so he wasn't listening when Jeanne introduced René, though he nodded automatically. "Coats in the bedroom down the hall, drinks in the living room." He repeated the lines like a formula. "And don't forget to take a mask."

He watched them proceed. Then he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Jane Vaughan in a short black dress. "Paul sent me to relieve you. You've manned the door long enough."

"I feel almost as if I've ceased to exist," he confessed. "I'd like a drink. I want to join the party, too." Still he hesitated. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Not a bit," she assured him. She looked so serious and lovely--her hair like silk, her skin like milk--that he hugged her. "Do you think it's a success?" he whispered.

"Smashing. Now run along; I'll do the honors for a while. After that, the stragglers can fend for themselves."

* * *

Jeanne walked past Bryce with a shiver. When he shook her hand, it was like being pierced by a splinter of ice. If I were not with René, she thought, it would have been unbearable.

The pulse of music drew her, allowing her to forget Bryce's cold greeting. She got caught in the crowd in the hallway, dancing in a line, hands on each other's hips, and was swept along. There must have been eight people, all dressed in disguises. She wasn't ready for this; she still had on her coat.

"René!" she called, and he clutched her wrist, to prevent her from being pulled away.

"Let's get rid of our wraps." She had to speak loudly to be heard over the music.

The bedroom was full of coats, covering the bed, piled on the floor. Jeanne walked in first, with René behind her. She thought to herself, Paul and Bryce sleep in this room. She tried to picture it cleared of coats. Impulsively, she turned around and kissed René on the lips. He swayed against her and kissed her again, opening her coat, caressing her. His kiss was like charity, creating desire by holding back nothing at all. She slipped his coat from his shoulders and tugged it off his arms, as he twisted from side to side to help her. He was wearing a long, loose blue blouse, cinched at the waist with a black belt, and jeans. "What kind of costume is it?" Jeanne asked, as she pressed her cheek against the soft cotton.

"It's the uniform of a French porter of fifty years ago," he told her.

"How did you ever acquire it?" she wondered.

"I found it when I was a teenager. It was hanging in a closet in my parents' Paris apartment. No one knew how it had gotten there. Probably it had been left by a previous tenant. It reminds me of a costume out of La Bohème, something a nineteenth-century artist in a garret might wear. In my self-conscious youth, I used to wear it all the time and feel picturesque. Now I never wear it, except for special occasions, because it's gotten so worn."

As René spoke, he fanned her hair from her head, smoothing it carefully.

"To me, you look more like an artisan than an artist," she said.

"Tant mieux," he said. "Et puis, mon petit papillon, je te mets les ailes."

"You'll find them in my bag. They're gossamer wings, small, not too showy," she said. "They're attached to a sash that loops around my shoulders and ties in the back. I borrowed them from the Green Heron Theater. I guess I'm really a moth, not a butterfly."

With her coat off, she was a black silhouette in turtleneck and leggings. Crouching on her knees among the coats, she retrieved the bag she had dropped. It seemed to her that his kiss had armed her. She felt safe with him.

When she joined the party, she was in disguise. She wore one of Bryce's masks and a headdress of her own devising. Two wobbly black feelers attached to a black velvet headband extended several inches above her head. They looked like giant pipe cleaners curled into spirals at the ends. These antennae nodded as she inclined her head, but the pair of stiff little wings at her back didn't move. They were made of silvery gauze stretched over wire frames.

So many people converged in the candlelit space of Paul and Bryce's apartment that some breath seemed to go out of Jeanne, and she felt dimmed in the presence of so many flames. Gratefully, she accepted a glass of wine from a waiter balancing a silver tray full of glasses, one for René and one for herself. She watched a man she didn't know lift his glass high in a toast and loudly declaim over the music and conversation, "La vida, la vida--we'd be dead without it!"

She spotted Paul across the living room. He was not wearing a mask. He looks like a Renaissance prince, she thought, noting his robe of dark blue velvet, the high-backed chair where he sat, with carved wooden arms like a throne, and the people who surrounded him like courtiers.

"There's Paul," she said to René. "Come, I want to introduce you."

She was excited by the thought of showing René off to Paul. It was delicious to imagine Paul reacting with curiosity, perhaps even a twinge of jealousy. Yet it also struck her as odd that her first thought was of Paul and not René. It was only after she realized this that she began to wonder what René might think, what he might guess. I love René, not Paul, she thought. Still, it's a testimony to Paul's power that I still care so much what he will think.

As she approached Paul, his foot in a cast propped up on a footstool, leaning back languidly, apparently immersed in a conversation with people she didn't know, she was shocked to see his glance fall on her and then look past her, as if he had not seen her at all. He doesn't recognize me, she realized, at first with dismay and then with pleasure. The costume's a success.

Preening a little, she broached the small group around Paul, demanding him to notice her. He smiled at her, his lips curved, his eyes still uncomprehending, as he welcomed her casually, "So glad you could come." There was a pause. "Bess?" he guessed, his voice rising in a question.

She shook her head, only a giggle escaping her, not yet willing to give herself away by speaking to him.

"Come here," he urged her, beckoning her to kneel beside him. He spoke to her as if there were only the two of them there. Without thinking, she obeyed him. The touch of his long fingertips was as soft as a web on her face. Deliberately he lifted her mask. The conversations around them ceased.

"Jeanne! It's you!" Paul exclaimed. "I thought you were a dancer I know from Minneapolis. You look fantastic."

As he spoke, his voice trembled slightly. Jeanne looked at him closely. To her more careful eye, he appeared frailer than her first impression. Her pity was awakened, and so she spoke gently, "Paul, I want you to meet René Duval. René, this is Paul Carmichael."

She stepped aside to bring the two men face to face. "Delighted," said René, shaking Paul's hand. René's back was to her; she couldn't see his face, but she saw Paul look searchingly from René to her and then back to René. His gaze pierced her for an instant, then fixed on René. It made Jeanne feel lightheaded to watch her former lover and her current lover begin a conversation, while other conversations resumed around her. She moved closer to René, partly to claim him, partly to see him. He removed his mask, clasping it in his hand. His amber, dark-lashed eyes shone; a dimple danced in his cheek. He drained his glass.

* * *

Around Bryce was a buzz of conversation and casual innuendo, of introductions forgotten on the spot and perfect strangers who confided in each other like intimate friends. While he had been welcoming guests, the party had developed without him. Now he hung back shyly, his face still masked, sipping white wine. He made his solitary way into Paul's dance studio, where some people had gathered. He recognized Mary Blaine and Robbie Upshaw, the two Pamplona sisters, his former law school classmates Terence and Miles. He saw Tommy Jackson and Ed Winslow and Tommy's Fire Island friends whose names he couldn't remember.

He wandered out into the hall. He took off his mask. Beautiful Emily Lloyd came up to him in a white strapless gown, her blonde hair unfurling in soft curls over her shoulders. She was smoking a cigarette in an impossibly long holder. "Hello, dahlink," she said, captivating Bryce. She wore a glittering rhinestone necklace around her neck and a fur stole with a fox head. Awed, Bryce giggled.

Playing to him, she batted her false eyelashes and blew out three smoke rings.

"Whom do I have the honor of addressing?" he asked.

"Why, Tallulah Bankhead, dahlink. And you?"

Bryce thought to himself, I'm not quick enough tonight to play along. He shook his head a little sadly. "No one in particular. Somehow, I wasn't inspired."

He felt her searching, intelligent look behind the pose of a sultry vamp. She put out her cigarette. "Why are you standing here all by yourself?" she asked, flirtation erased from her voice.

He shrugged, and she smiled at him. "Let's find out what else is going on."

As he let her lead him down the hall away from Paul's studio, he felt pleasantly passive. She's so lovely, he thought, noticing the delicate curve of her chin and neck, the admirable smoothness of her skin and hair. With equal force he felt both the enchantment and his insusceptibility to it.

In the living room, people were sitting in a circle on the floor, succumbing to gales of laughter. He couldn't tell what amused them so. Emily, too, seemed intrigued.

In wordless accord, Emily and Bryce approached. Bryce saw Paul among the seated circle, his right leg extended in the cast, with Michiko on one side of him, and then Jeanne and René. He saw Colette Ireland and Barbara Hale and Ben Jacobson and James Craig. No one had masks on anymore.

"It's your turn now," he heard Michiko say to James. James nodded, and then Bryce saw his expression distend in a grimace. Slowly, deliberately, James passed his hand over his face, and the expression disappeared, as if it were peeled off. He raised his hand, as if he were actually holding something. He flung his arm back and then propelled it forward, like a pitcher throwing a baseball. He seemed to take aim at René, who pretended to catch whatever it was, passing his hand over his face, then imitating, in reverse, James's action, so that, when he moved his hand away, he, too, was grimacing.

"Could I have looked like that?" James mocked.

"Pretty near," said someone--Bryce wasn't sure who.

"It's your turn to throw now, René," said Jeanne.

Paul raised his hand like a policeman stopping traffic. "Hold off a second, René."

No one had taken notice of Bryce or Emily, but now Paul addressed them. "Colette has taught us the face-throwing game. Do you know it? One makes an awful face and then wipes it off with the hand and throws it at somebody else, who has to reproduce it, and then make another awful one and throw it at somebody else."

"It sounds like fun," said Emily.

"Come join us," urged Colette, opening the circle to make room for them. Bryce found himself being taken by the hand by Emily and given a place next to her and Colette. James was on Emily's other side. René scowled again and threw his face at Emily, who caught it eagerly and, frowning terribly, threw her face at Ben. But she wasn't used to trying to look awful, and her effort was lame. She shook her head ruefully.

When the laughter died down, Ben refused to go next. "I've had my turn," he said. "Let Bryce try now."

All of a sudden everyone was looking at him. Bryce writhed inwardly at their inspection. Until now, he realized, I've remained at the periphery of the party. I haven't tried to join it; I haven't wanted to.

He looked away from them, his eyes cast to the floor, preparing himself. He wasn't certain what he was going to do. His glance fluttered up inadvertently, and he saw Paul watching him. He thought Paul looked supercilious, superior, as if he were more sure of Bryce than Bryce was. Suddenly overcome by rage, Bryce hid his face in his hands. Anger rose in him and filled his thoughts, crowding out his other intentions. He stared straight at Paul with a look on his face full of hatred and loathing and bitterness. It was a look of enmity, stung with new reproaches that he had not allowed himself to speak.

No one laughed. No one said a word. Bryce felt everyone around him go quiet with suspense, perhaps with shock. Resolutely, he fixed his furious gaze on Paul, wanting him to flinch.

But Paul did not flinch. He stared just as steadily back, but he was expressionless. He gave no sign to Bryce that he felt anything. And then Bryce wiped the look off his face and flung his arm in the air toward Paul as hard as he could.

Paul made as if he caught Bryce's look with both hands. He splashed his hands over his face, as if they held water. He raised his head and dropped his hands, and on his face Bryce recognized a perfect imitation of his own horrible expression.

He surprised himself with his raucous laughter. Paul started laughing, too, and soon everyone joined in. It seemed to Bryce that a note of hysteria reverberated from himself and was echoed in the general hilarity. There was a moment of release, like a sudden rush of air through a vacuum: Bryce was released from his anger. It wasn't gone, but it no longer controlled him.

Though he hadn't spoken to Paul all evening, though he had deliberately avoided him, he now turned to him and said, "I concede it. You win the game. I quit." He started to stand up, intending to exit at this dramatic moment, but Paul's calm reply made him pause.

"In this game there are no winners or losers," Paul said. "There's the will to make the face and the wish to be rid of it, to see it on someone else's face and laugh at the picture of desolation."

Bryce shook his head. "I don't like this game. I don't share your fascination for it."

"Well," said Paul, "that's another story, isn't it?" He looked around at the others sitting in the circle, as if suddenly aware they were all ears. "We're ready to stop anyway. It's quarter past eleven; in a little while, we'll start gathering outdoors. At precisely ten minutes to midnight, the show will begin."

* * *

Away from everyone, in Bryce's office, Kurt Matthews was saying to Althea, "Young people often seem to their elders to be walking in a dream, their heads full of music no one but they can hear. At my age you lean forward. The dead are not dead, and the living are ghosts." Tiny bells attached to the collar of his harlequin costume tinkled faintly.

She studied him: trim and muscular, a picture of fitness. The only signs of age were tinting his hair and etched on his face. "You're not old," she said.

She had spent all evening with the Kurt Matthews Dancers and Kurt, until, one by one, the Dancers had filed away to join other companions. Now only she and Kurt were left. They had gone outside and stood by the cold, empty fountain and then come back in. Seeking a quiet place to carry on their conversation, they ended up in Bryce's neat office. She leaned against the desk. Kurt stood nearby.

He smiled faintly. "Sometimes it seems to me that I haven't changed; it's the dancers who have gotten younger. I admire them for their courage and their contempt of death. I like them to manipulate me. I love their shrewdness. Everything represents, nothing is. One eye watches the effect, the other weeps."

"I wish I were one of your dancers."

"Theater is filth, torment, muddle. The childishness of dancers is a filter against awareness. When we dance, we're on the edge of darkness, the mystery. We solve the riddle and learn repetition."

Althea looked at him, lost in thought. What did he mean? "I'm thinking of what Jane Vaughan said earlier this evening," she confided, wanting to give him a gift. "She was describing what it's like to dance with you. She said, 'The place he took me to was perfect meditation.' 'An out-of-the-body experience?' I asked her. 'No,' she said, 'into the heart of music.'"

"I'll show you," Kurt said softly. "Come, dance with me."

Automatically Althea tried to retreat, but the desk was in her way.

"Just a simple fox-trot," Kurt elaborated. "Four beats."

"But what's the music?"

"We'll pick a standard. I'll sing. You'll count the beat."

Althea shook her head. "I don't dare."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm proud enough not to want to make a fool of myself with you. You're the dancer. I don't know how to dance."

"You can only learn to dance with someone who knows how. Now's your chance. We're all alone. If you make a fool of yourself, no one will see."

"Except you."

"Believe me, I've seen it all before."

But Althea still shook her head.

"I thought you just said you wished you were one of my dancers."

"That's the point. I'm not."

Althea believed she wouldn't give in no matter how he pressed her, but she had no chance to prove it. Just then they were interrupted: Eric Fuller stood in the doorway. "Come on outside, guys. It's time to break out the bubbly and watch the show."

* * *

All of the guests had gathered on the roof by the trellis wound with lights and the pole and streamers. They had taken off their masks. Glimpses of finery were visible underneath their coats. Two waiters circulated with trays of champagne glasses. Inside the house, the caterers were laying out the after-midnight supper. Paul thought, If only there were a real snowfall.

Like a curved bone, the crescent moon hung in the sky. Wearing his 1920s-vintage raccoon coat, Paul sat on the iron bench before the toe shoe garden, sipping Champagne, while Eric and Hector wheeled out four large portable fans and placed them around the beds facing each other. They plugged the fans into stout extension cords. My fantasy is coming to life, Paul rejoiced. And the Champagne is excellent.

He summoned his guests to the toe shoe garden by blowing on a small high-pitched brass bugle. Alerted by the bright, fractured sounds, people gathered near the toe shoes stuck in sugar in the beds. We'll start now; it's too cold to delay, Paul decided. He stood up, free of his crutches, balancing his weight on one foot. Two spotlights bathed over him. He felt dissolved in the light and cold, thin air. He raised his arms high to quiet his guests.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he intoned with a flourish, "let us welcome 1981 with The Toe Shoes' Finale."

The music began, played on a piano, amplified by four speakers on the roof. Waiting for something to happen, the audience listened to a melody that subtly repeated itself. The spotlights trained over the toe shoes melodramatically. Paul, as if forgotten, was left in darkness. Am I going to make a fool of myself with this? The thought crossed his mind--I'm bound to. It's a joke, but to me it's a sweet one. Will everyone laugh?

The four fans started whirring. Their steady gusts agitated the sugar, creating a fine, blinding mist. Most of the toe shoes were instantly blown over and buried. A few skidded for a yard or so before tumbling on their sides. Some toppled onto the roof from the raised garden beds. Almost all of them were obscured by the local sugar storm.

There was laughter, but nothing else happened as Paul had hoped. The dance seemed over before it had begun.

A spattering of frugal applause erupted in the audience. It stopped, bewildered, when the fans kept blowing and the music playing.

Then a single toe shoe, dislodged, blew up and twirled in a spiral, caught in a cross-gust. For a second it stayed aloft, and then was flung over the edge of the garden bed onto the roof. Without realizing that he was going to do it, Paul hopped over and picked it up.

It was time. In the distances of the night, church bells tolled the new year. Standing on his good leg, Paul, trying hard to bury his disappointment, impulsively poured the Champagne left in his glass into the battered toe shoe. "Happy New Year," he airily wished his assembled guests, as, raising the shoe aloft in a toast, he drank from it.

On the street far below, car horns honked. On the roof, Paul's guests rattled noisemakers and cheered and hugged one another. Only Paul, like a king or an exile, stood apart.

* * *

Suddenly Althea was dancing. It happened so suddenly that she couldn't resist. Kurt swept her into his arms. On the curve of the wave of music, they danced together. Taken by surprise, Althea forgot to be afraid. She stopped thinking that other people were watching. Stepping nimbly, one-two-three, one-two-three, she followed Kurt's flowing motion. For a moment her eyes closed, as if in a dream. When they opened, she saw that they had been joined by other dancing couples. The roof was transformed to a ballroom.

She stumbled against Kurt's foot and faltered. "Oh!" she exclaimed, mortified, apologetic.

"Ssh--keep going. It doesn't matter," Kurt urged, without missing a beat.

* * *

Jeanne watched with René. With a start of surprise she recognized Althea dancing to a waltz. Her partner was the man Jeanne had seen her with at the fountain. Now Jeanne knew who he was--Kurt Matthews. She was about to point them both out to René, when René asked her to dance, too.

Before she and René had come out on the roof again for Champagne and the spectacle, Jeanne had removed the butterfly wings to put her coat back on. Now René held her by the shoulder where one wing had been. He took her other hand in his and led her away. He feels more substantial to me when I am dancing with him, she thought.

The ranks of dancers were swelling by the moment. Jeanne and René passed near Althea and Kurt. Jeanne saw that Althea saw her. She observed Althea's glance fall on René, then turn back to her. The two women smiled gently at each other.

"Was there ever such a party?" Jeanne asked.

"Isn't it fantastic?" Althea assured her.

Althea and Kurt spiralled out of sight. That's the first time Althea and I have spoken to each other all night, Jeanne acknowledged. The moment seemed to her an emblem of the future: she and Althea in separate orbits, happy to meet and not collide, moving past each other.

René's clear eyes are like topaz, Jeanne thought. He's looking at me, not Althea.

Like a column of water in a fountain, love for him rose in her. Over his shoulder she caught a glimpse of Bryce standing next to Paul. Then the two men passed from view.

* * *

Suddenly Paul noticed Bryce beside him. "Hi," he greeted him casually. "The Toe Shoes' Finale was a flop," he announced, before Bryce could say anything. "But not this," he went on, indicating the dance evolving before him. "This is beautiful. This dance saves my silly spectacle by reimagining it. My dance becomes the prologue to this dance, which is the real dance. I wonder whose idea it was."

"I can tell you that," Bryce said.

"It wasn't you."

"No, it wasn't."

"It was one of the Dancers, wasn't it?"

"The Dancer himself."

"Kurt?"

Bryce nodded. "I went in to check on the caterers and noticed Kurt in the living room, examining our music collection. But I didn't say anything to him."

"So he and I have collaborated after all--improvisationally. First, dancerless toe shoes collapsed in a contrived windstorm." Paul smiled, "Not like the dance of death, but like the end of dance, observed by spectators who then claimed dance for themselves. To me, it seems a natural, even an inevitable, movement."

"But it wasn't," objected Bryce. "It was completely arbitrary."

"That's the beauty of it."

"You make more of it than it is."

"So what if I do?" Paul countered. You try to deflate me, but I won't let you, he thought to himself. "Is the supper ready?" he continued, changing the subject.

"Just about. Shall I call in everyone to eat?"

"No, I'll do it," Paul said, "when this dance is over."

* * *

At last the music ended, and the couples broke apart. Paul stood once more in the spotlight. He raised his arms, garnering attention. Over the guests there fell a hush.

"The magic fades, but the memory lingers. You are part of a performance which will never be repeated. Please, take home a toe shoe when you leave tonight, as a memento. They'll be in boxes by the door. But don't go yet: refreshments are being served in the dining room."

He is ridiculous, Bryce thought, watching him. And he is also magnificent. Now I will tell him what I have been saving all night to say.

Their appetites whetted by exercise, people headed indoors. Paul, too, was hungry. He prepared to follow, but Bryce laid a hand on his shoulder, detaining him.

"May I speak to you for a moment?" Bryce asked.

Paul felt a premonition of dread. Bryce is going to break up with me, he guessed. This is why he has been avoiding me. This is the meaning of the face he threw at me in the game. After all we've been through, after the separation when it really seemed that we would break up and we didn't, it's happening now.

On Bryce's face was an unfathomable expression. Paul braced himself.

"I had news about your lawsuit today," Bryce began. "The moving company is prepared to make an offer to settle."

Paul stared at Bryce uncomprehendingly. Then he laughed out loud.

"It's absolutely true," Bryce insisted, assuming Paul didn't believe him. He paused. "Aren't you going to ask me about it?" he demanded.

Paul was in a daze. "How much?" he asked in a voice barely over a whisper.

"A million."

"What?"

At last Bryce smiled. "You heard me. They offered you a million dollars. I guess they got scared."

Paul suppressed an urge to shout the news to all the surrounding rooftops. He wanted to broadcast his triumph, yet he was superstitious that he would lose the prize. Until I know it's for certain, it's bad luck to say anything, he told himself.

Bryce watched Paul's blue eyes grow round in astonishment. "I'd advise you to settle," he said soberly, assuming a lawyerly tone, as if he were weighing the alternatives. "There's a chance you could do better if you went to court, but it's not a big chance. Of course, then your legal fees will be a lot higher, not to mention the emotional costs of such a litigation."

Paul stared at Bryce as if he were crazy. "Of course I'll accept," he said. "Take the money and run, that's what I say." He shook his head like a simpleton. "I can't believe it. A million bucks."

"Minus taxes and expenses," Bryce amended.

A mischievous look came over Paul's face. "Will I be as rich as you?" he asked.

Bryce's reply upset Paul. "I guess you won't need me any more," said Bryce.

Looking around him, Paul saw that the roof was deserted. Everyone had gone into the house.

* * *

In the crowded dining room, under the buzz of conversation, Jeanne laid her hand on René's arm, alerting him. "There's Althea. I want to introduce you to her. Let's not let her get away this time."

Near a long buffet table, where people were busy serving themselves, Althea and Kurt were eating standing up, with plates in one hand and forks in the other. René saw them, too, but he demurred, "I'm hungry."

"We can get our food first," Jeanne said. Her tone of granting permission surprised her. Will he take offense? she wondered.

He didn't. "Good," he said, propelling her towards the table. There were only four people ahead of them.

We're already like a couple, Jeanne thought, working out our differences, planning our way together. I have a partner; I am no longer all alone. At this thought, she felt immensely blessed. She wanted Althea to see her with René.

The vision of Althea dancing with the so-graceful Kurt, her blonde hair tumbling like a cloud over her shoulders, had piqued Jeanne's curiosity. Have they been together all evening? she wondered, remembering her glimpse of them at the fountain hours ago.

* * *

Flushed from dancing, Althea and Kurt were eating noodles lightly tossed with butter and cheese.

"You see, you could do it after all," Kurt said between mouthfuls.

"You were a perfect partner," said Althea. "I could tell, even if I was just barely keeping up." Though her voice held remorse, her tone was gentle and peaceful. "Your cues are so light they are nearly telepathic. You don't just lead; you get in touch."

He smiled, accepting her praise as his due.

"You have such influence," she marvelled. "Because we danced, everyone did. Tell me this, what inspired you to put on dance music?"

"The moment demanded it," Kurt replied. "The Toe Shoes' Finale had its whimsical aspect, but it didn't take off. There was a void, and I rushed in to fill it."

"But you had already selected the music before The Toe Shoes' Finale began," said Althea. "You must have done it when you went inside for a few minutes, while everyone was on the roof, drinking Champagne."

"Very observant of you," Kurt commented. He had stopped eating. He looked at her closely.

"So you'd planned the whole thing before The Toe Shoes' Finale," she pressed him.

"I had to," Kurt said. "How else was I to get you to dance with me?"

"The result was hardly worth the effort," Althea replied. She was suddenly nervous, her mouth dry. I am frightened, she realized.

"For me there was no effort," Kurt corrected her softly.

What is he trying to tell me? she wondered. Their eyes met. He did not try to escape her gaze; he allowed her to fathom his meaning. She looked at him. She forgot about the other people in the room. She saw that he looked at her with interest but without desire. His curiosity was generous, for there was no need in it. She divined an impersonal chill in his warmth. He appeared to retreat slightly, though he did not move. She was glad of his remoteness, because it was friendly. It restored her sense of safety.

He is everyone's mentor, Althea thought. He can be my mentor, too, even if I am not a dancer.

"Tell me," she said, her thoughts now free to wander, "about my collaboration with the Dancers. Tell me about the backdrop you want me to create."

After so much artistic solitude, the idea of making art for a purpose excited her. Late at night though it was, in the early hours of the new year, she felt infused with energy. I am already working on a new painting, she reminded herself. Very soon I will be moving to a new apartment with a view. Now I have a new opportunity: to make art for dance. And maybe I will sell my paintings through my new dealer.

In this optimistic light, her hopes seemed possible, even probable. Kurt took Althea's empty plate and placed it with his on the table. He said, "Your collaboration will be with me, not with the Dancers. I'm looking forward to seeing your work."

"My best paintings--the ones I've recently finished--are with a gallery," Althea told him.

"I'll go there," Kurt offered.

"You'll have to make an appointment."

"I can handle that."

"Watch out. They'll try to sell you a painting," Althea warned him. And she laughed, pleased at the thought.

Just then Jeanne, holding René's hand, approached.

"Althea!"

"Jeanne!"

Althea looks radiant, thought Jeanne. And even though she loved René, she couldn't prevent a twinge of envy, imagining Althea in love with Kurt.

"I'm Kurt Matthews," Kurt said, stepping forward with an easy glamour, shaking hands with Jeanne, then René, so that they had to let go of each other. With a surprising lack of restraint, Althea announced jubilantly, "Kurt's going to see my paintings at the George Clarke gallery. I may paint a backdrop for one of his dances."

Now I've said it he can't take it back, thought Althea.

Althea seems so full of herself, Jeanne observed. Usually she is silent about her work. Recently, she's been defensive about it. Now she seems more confident, which is a good thing.

Yet Jeanne felt disappointed that Althea was so self-absorbed that she did not even appear to notice René. "I hope it works out for you," Jeanne said, with a slight note of reproach.

"What are your paintings like?" René casually asked Althea, as if they had already been introduced. In fact, Althea knew who he was--the historic preservation architect, the "someone" Jeanne had mentioned over the phone. She remembered how the news had made her jealous, then depressed her. She admitted to herself that perhaps her avoidance of Jeanne and René all night had been deliberate. But why? she asked herself. It's silly. It's not necessary.

"You're putting me on the spot," she told René. Yet her tone invited him, flirted with him.

René's dimple winked as he smiled a dazzling smile. "I know how artists dislike describing their work. I guess we'll have to make an appointment at the gallery, too," he added. "Or have you already seen these paintings?" he asked Jeanne.

She shook her head. "No, but I plan to."

"You see," René told Althea, "your art is already attracting a crowd."

Althea smiled again; she couldn't help it. He's charming, she thought. "It would be nice if it were true."

"It will be," said Jeanne, full of generosity, if not confidence, pleased by René and by Althea's reaction to him.

Sure she was being indulged, Althea stiffened. Then, choosing not to challenge Jeanne, she softened. Jeanne felt a pang of shame. To her own ears, she'd sounded insincere.

"I have more news," Althea announced, this time speaking to Jeanne, while not excluding Kurt and René. "I'm moving."

"Where? Not out of the city?" asked Jeanne, truly surprised.

"Oh no, just two blocks away. Not exactly a radical change," Althea admitted. "Still, it's significant for me."

"I disagree," said Jeanne. "A new apartment, this gallery promoting you--I'd say these are radical changes."

Their eyes met. Jeanne realized that she was speaking to Althea as if they were alone. I have mystified her more than was warranted, Jeanne thought. She is not really so impenetrable after all.

Kurt had grown restless. "Please excuse me for a moment," he requested. He soon left and disappeared down the hall.

Jeanne looked significantly after him and then back to Althea. She is waiting for me to spill the beans, Althea thought. But I won't. In any case, there are no beans to spill.

"So you're Jeanne's friend," René said to Althea. "Come and talk to us for a while. You don't have to talk about your paintings. You can talk about whatever you like."

* * *

On the roof, a real wind was scattering the sugar, dry as sand, at Paul's and Bryce's feet. Licking his lips nervously, Paul hesitated before replying to Bryce. He searched his mind for an answer, as, in the desolate glare of the spotlights, he thought he saw the trace of a tear on Bryce's cheek. But he wasn't sure of it.

"Do you think that it is only need that has kept me with you?" he asked Bryce. "And that the need was only for money?"

Bryce shook his head, but it was less a denial than a refusal to answer. "Maybe I'll let you buy this place from me," he said. "It really will be yours, but you'll have to pay me for it."

I bet he doesn't mean it, Paul thought. He is very angry at me. Realizing this, Paul resented it. "What's your price?" he asked, goading Bryce.

"Whatever the market will bear."

"Whatever offer I make, I don't think you will accept it."

"Try me," Bryce said.

It's as if we're speaking in code, Paul thought, and we both know it. At this idea, a thrill seized him. "I'll win this game, too," he predicted mockingly.

"But exactly what, in this context, does winning mean?" Bryce challenged him, and he raised the stakes. "What do you want, Paul?"

"You," Paul replied, almost without thinking, surprising himself. Not until after he said it did he realize that he meant it.

Bryce just stared at Paul. As intensely as the cold air, Paul felt Bryce's gaze, dark and luminous. "You're wrong about me," Paul said. "I don't want to buy this place from you; I want to own it with you."

"Why should I consent to that?"

"Because you really don't want to renounce me."

Bryce's silence seemed like a dismissal or a contradiction. Paul waited in vain. "You are so cold," Paul marvelled. "In the past you were often detached, but never so cold."

He thought to himself, I've lost him. He desperately wished to arouse Bryce, to claim him, but he lacked confidence in himself. All he could call on was reassurance. "You were always in my thoughts," he said. "I felt your presence, though we were apart. I imagined I was with you."

"Even when you are not on stage," Bryce observed, "you are always acting. You are acting now."

Paul did not deny it. "It's the way I express myself." Then, more softly, he said, "I have already lived here alone. I do not prefer it." He gestured to Bryce, inviting him, "Come, take a walk with me around the roof."

"All right."

Paul could feel the tension begin to ease. They set off, reversing the route that Jeanne and René had followed earlier: the men went from the garden, to the bleak back of the house. The roof was still lit for the party. Paul's crutches made soft thuds on the tar surface. From inside the penthouse came the muffled noises of conversations. Paul looked away, across the roof's expanse to the night glow of the city beyond the four-foot-high parapet wall at the building's edge. Impulsively, at the back of the house, he urged Bryce, "Stop and listen to the silence around us."

Behind the wind, Bryce heard the distant clamor of the city, like white noise, as faint and as constant as the roar of the sea in a seashell.

"I'm imagining the ghosts on this roof," said Paul, not looking at Bryce, but ahead, into the distance, "not of the guests who have gone inside, but of us, as we've lived here together. I'm thinking of all we've shared, as well as what we've withheld--joy and sorrow, despair and desire--and it seems to me that all that life is still here, secret and continuous. I can see it and hear it."

He turned to face Bryce as he fell silent. In Paul's expression, Bryce read awe or the suppression of tears, and felt his being vibrate sympathetically in response. Whether Paul is sincere or not, I still believe in him, Bryce realized.

"Tonight I almost accepted that our paths were bound to separate," he confessed. "Yet what seemed obvious to me just moments ago now seems strange and obscure. All that resolve has ceased to exist, as if it were only a false will."

Hearing him, Paul was once more at ease. He waited in suspense, scarcely daring to breathe, as Bryce moved closer to him. When I'm on crutches, we're nearly of a height, he noticed. Though he did not move, it seemed to him that his entire being had dissolved in expectation, as he felt Bryce's hand caress his cheek.

Bryce's touch was soft while he studied Paul. Ruthlessly, ruefully, he observed, "Your hairline is receding."

"It's said we blonds don't last."

"It looks distinguished," Bryce consoled him. "It becomes you."

"God preserve me," Paul replied. "I'll be distinguished when I'm dead."

Bryce laughed.

One of the longest nights of the year was three-quarters over, when Paul and Bryce pledged their reconciliation with a kiss.

* * *

In the wood-burning stove, the fire lay in embers. Candles burned low, flickered. Almost everyone had gone home. Impulsively, Bryce invited the few people left to partake of a glass of port. After Kurt accepted, so did Althea. Then René and Jeanne decided to stay on, too. Michiko and Hector brought the group to eight. They urged Jane, the last holdout, to join them. On one end of the green velvet couch, Jeanne sat in René's embrace, as she watched Bryce decant the bottle of port. He carefully sifted out the sediment, which was collected by absorbent paper in a silver filter. The decanter was crystal.

Bryce poured the ruby red liquor into fluted glasses etched with flowers and leaves and passed them to his guests. There was a moment's pause as he looked around. Catching Paul's eye, he lifted his glass and offered: "To the party after the party," and everyone drank.

"I always did like the hours after a party," Paul confided from his side of the green velvet couch. "One has the illusion that time has stopped, like a moon that appears caught in the branches of a tree."

As he spoke, a candle put itself out in a pool of wax. Seated alone in an armchair, Althea sipped the port, as her mind wandered far away to the following summer. If I can make a thousand more dollars by selling paintings and painting backdrops for Kurt's company, then I can rent the Block Island house for three weeks next August, she calculated.

She wondered if other people wanted the house as much as she did. She wondered if she ought to hurry to reserve it. The island real estate agency would be open for business, she knew, just after New Year's. She wondered if she dared gamble again on her income, as she was doing already in subletting Cam's apartment. She was seriously tempted.

It's unlike me to be so reckless, she cautioned herself, as island vistas took shape in her imagination. They were so vivid that she could almost taste the salt air. I think I might do it, I might just dare. What's the worst that can happen? If I don't make the money, I'll lose my deposit. Mentally she shrugged her shoulders. But this year, if I get there, I won't invite Jeanne or Paul to join me.

Even as she day-dreamed about Block Island, Althea was half-aware, from the sound of her friends' voices as they sipped their port, that they were uttering very sober and serious thoughts. When at last she roused herself to leave the island, she realized that a conversation about love and friendship was going on in the candlelight. She had neglected to notice how the subject had first come up, but she found herself entranced by the elevated tone of Kurt's pleasant voice as he spoke from the shadows of the room.

"When we become disillusioned about someone we think we have loved," he was saying, "our injustice is such that we project the blame of the weakness in our own natures onto the person who had not the power to retain our love. We discover faults in that person to excuse our own inconstancy."

"That is true," René agreed, surprising Jeanne, sheltered in his arms. "We are infatuated for a minute to be melancholy for an hour. We worship our love like an idol, only to hurl it from the altar we had raised to it. Then we find it has been defaced by the smoke of the incense we have burned before it."

"As indifference begets indifference, vanity is wounded at both sides," pontificated Kurt, as he approached from the shadows. Althea watched as he appeared in profile in the soft, muted light. He sat down cross-legged on the floor. Hector moved to sit beside him.

"I was thinking about how friendship can develop into love, and wondering how love may also lead to friendship," Hector confessed, surprising Paul, who had never known him to be so serious.

"Remember the cliché that couples begin as lovers and end as friends," remarked Michiko. Paul briefly touched her silky, black hair as she knelt below him on the rug.

"That's true," agreed Jane. "Think, for instance," she went on, "of the affectionate friendship most of us have observed in the case of certain married couples, whose early love seems to be replaced by a sentiment less passionate but equally tender and more durable."

"You should say more enduring," objected Paul. "I think that if love dies, what keeps people together may simply be endurance, along the lines of 'what can't be cured must be endured.'" Bryce's watchful eyes were on him as he continued, "Who that has felt the all-engrossing passion of love could support the stagnant calm you refer to for the same object?"

"Can an affectionate friendship really spring up from the ashes of extinguished passion?" Jeanne wondered aloud from the depths of the couch and René's supporting arms.

Althea looked away, into the shadows, as she spoke. "Often, I am afraid, the recollection of a burnt-out love is too mortifying to admit the successor, friendship."

"Is it not wiser, then," said Kurt, "to choose the friend, I mean the person most calculated for friendship, with whom the long years are to be spent?"

"While idols are nearly always chosen for their personal charms," observed René, "they are seldom calculated for friendship. Hence the disappointment that follows, when the violence of passion has abated, and the discovery is made that there are no solid qualities to replace the novelty that has passed away."

"What does one look for in a friend," wondered Bryce, "if not an agreeable disposition, an affinity of mind, and powers of conversation? These win our regard the more they are known, and thus love often takes the place of friendship."

"I do not disagree with any of you," said Michiko, "nor, I believe, from what she has just said about certain married couples, does Jane. The only difference in our opinions is that I believe that friendship can and often does succeed love, and nothing will change my opinion."

Paul laughed. "Then all our fine commentaries have been useless," he said, not seeming to mind at all.

* * *

Before he and Jeanne left, René searched for a matched pair of toe shoes in the box by the front door. He found two of battered and smudged white satin, which Jeanne slipped in the bag with her butterfly wings.

"Why do you think Althea wouldn't let us walk her home?" René spoke in a low voice, so as not to be overheard.

They stepped out onto the roof. Jeanne noticed the black half masks that lay at their feet, discarded. "She was waiting for Kurt to ask her, of course," she replied, as she stooped to pick one up. "These masks are like the litter of playbills in a theater after the performance," she commented.

"Or like fallen leaves from an exotic tree," René suggested. "Do you think he will?"

Jeanne turned the mask over in her hand. "Who knows?" She shrugged. "What did you think of him?"

"The ubiquitous Kurt?" René made a moue--it seemed to Jeanne very French. "I prefer to admire him from afar."

"And Althea--what did you think of her?" she asked as she dropped the mask in her bag.

"She's beautiful." René looked at Jeanne closely. "Are you jealous?"

Refusing to answer, Jeanne shook her head. They both laughed. "Are we friends?" Jeanne asked.

She knew that he knew that she was referring to the discussion of love and friendship over Bryce's port. She was still mulling over what people had said. She was grateful when René took her hand. "We had better be," he said, "if we are to spend our long years together."

As casual as it sounded, it was a proposal, and she knew it.

"Yes," she replied.

* * *

"Don't bother to see us to the door," Hector, Jane, Michiko, and Kurt assured Bryce and Paul. Her goodbye chiming into theirs, Althea walked out with Kurt and the Dancers, exiting the party in their company, just as she had entered it. So she was among the last to leave, but not the very last. Although there were enough toe shoes in the box near the door for each departing guest to take one, only Jane and Althea did so. Jane selected a faded scarlet, Althea a water-stained lavender. Without discussion, the others declined to choose. It was all very casual--take it or leave it.

Althea felt compelled to go away with a toe shoe because Paul had asked them to. Though it seemed absurd to her to treat Paul's request as a command she must obey, she couldn't help it. But none of the Dancers seemed to care what she did one way or the other. Their indifference and their tolerance were a relief to Althea.

As she walked with them across the cold, windswept roof, she suddenly remembered how, at Paul's opening night at the Joyce Theater, she had overheard an exchange about a party after the performance and felt painfully excluded. Now, she believed, I'd be included.

Althea and the Dancers crowded inside the elevator and rode down to the lobby. The street outside was desolate. It was three o'clock in the morning.

"We're too many for one cab," Jane said. "We'll have to split up."

"I live just down the street," said Althea.

"We'll walk you to your door," Michiko offered.

Just as she was speaking, an empty taxi drove past. Instinctively, Kurt hailed it. With a screech of the brakes, the driver pulled up to the curb. "Here we are," Kurt said, efficiently ushering Jane, Hector, and Michiko into the back seat. "You all go on. I'll see Althea home."

Before anyone could react, he slammed shut the door of the taxi. Although Althea had wanted Kurt to walk her home, she resisted being presented with his fait accompli. She watched the gaudy yellow taxi drive off and disappear down Broadway.

"Why did you do that?" she asked.

"I'm not quite sure," he admitted. "It was an impulse."

"You sent them on their way before I got to say goodbye."

"I'm sorry," Kurt apologized. He paused. "I hope you'll still allow me to escort you."

"Do I have a choice?" Althea asked. But she felt herself softening; she had forgiven him. "All right," she said.

"Which is your building?"

"Number 321. It's just past the middle of the block."

They set off silently, walking side by side, not touching. Althea found herself thinking about Kurt with his Dancers, how readily they had obeyed him and climbed into the taxi. Had Paul submitted to Kurt like the rest of them, when he was a Dancer? she wondered. He must have, she decided, though it seems hard to believe.

"Have you found a dancer to succeed Paul?" she suddenly asked Kurt.

"Not yet. We shall have to hold an audition."

"I imagine that Paul will be difficult to replace."

"Not really. There is no lack of qualified applicants."

"But no one like Paul," Althea protested. What am I really trying to say? she wondered.

"Everyone is unique," Kurt replied evenly, "but no one is irreplaceable." He paused. "I don't expect we'll lose Paul. Whatever you may say about Savage Landscape, unlike The Toe Shoes' Finale, it was a real dance. I've been thinking--what Paul gave us tonight was the ghost of a dance. But now we know that the desire to create a dance is there. Some time, after he has truly healed, he'll give his desire flesh-and-blood: he'll make a dance again, and we'll perform it."

He loves Paul, Althea realized. What he is saying is motivated by love.

Inspired by Kurt's example, she felt her old love for Paul welling up in her. But it was too painful. At last, she was able to let the feeling go, as easily as an exhaled breath.

"Truly, Paul is fortunate," she resumed. "He has so much to depend on--you, the Dancers, his life with Bryce especially. I'm glad for him, and grateful."

She could feel Kurt's eyes on her. "What you say is very fine and noble on your part," he observed, "but I know that your candor is blended with falsehood."

She stopped. They were in front of her building. "Here we are," she said. "You're right. Even now I can't pretend to be disinterested. I loved Paul, or else I convinced myself that I did. I thought--well, I don't know what I thought. It seems crazy now. He's not my type. And I'm clearly not his."

"A great deal of suffering may be caused us by those who are not our type," Kurt said sagely.

"I was susceptible to him," Althea said. "I don't think I will be so susceptible again."

"No?" Kurt wondered. "Perhaps not." In the old gesture of courtesy, he extended his arm. "Let me see you inside."

She took his arm. Sedately, they began to mount the short flight of steps to the front door of her building. A finger of wind coming off the river slid up the street. Althea's kimono flapped against her legs. Wasting no time, she unlocked the front door. They entered a small vestibule. Another door was opposite, and Althea opened it.

"I can go on from here," she said.

But she hesitated, drawn by his probing gaze. There was knowledge in it and acceptance. She let him kiss her. His kiss was chaste, even refined, and soon over. He took both her hands in his. "Althea!"

The lavender toe shoe, dangled between them, slipped from her fingers to the floor.

She was tempted, but the temptation was not enough. Slowly, she shook her head.

"I don't need any more experience," she said. "I need a future."

"I see." His face looked grizzled in the yellowish light of the vestibule. She thought his expression seemed gentle, even fatherly. "There are many possible futures," he said. "I hope we will be friends, as well as artistic collaborators."

"I will like that," she replied.

* * *

Just before Bryce went to sleep, he thought of other New Year's Eve parties, hundreds of them, perhaps, that were being given throughout the city that night. They must almost all be over by now, and the partygoers gone home to sleep off their revels, he reflected. I'm glad I was already at home and didn't have to go anywhere, because I'm so tired.

He yawned. He was waiting for Paul to come to bed, but he fell asleep first.

Some time later, before dawn, he waked abruptly. He had been dreaming. His mind was still imprinted with the image of a wooded hillside. Under a white, occluded sky, the trees were stark and bare. Dead leaves littered the ground.

As he remembered the dream, a sense of desolation swept over him. He could scarcely endure the grief forced upon him.

Gradually he grew aware of his surroundings. In the darkness he made out

Paul's sleeping form next to him. He partly wanted to wake Paul, yet hesitated to disturb him.

Quietly Bryce rose from bed and went to the window. The sky was still dark. He saw adhered to the windowpane a hardened streak of frost in a swirling pattern like Art Nouveau glass. The design blurred as tears filled his eyes. Almost blinded, he stared out the window.

"Bryce!"

The sibilant sound of his own name cut through him like a knife. He heard a lamp being flicked on; he noticed the light. So Paul is awake, he thought.

"Yes?" Bryce kept his face averted, so Paul wouldn't see his eyes filmed with tears.

"What are you doing over there?" he heard Paul ask.

"Nothing. Just looking out the window."

"Is there anything to see?"

Just as Paul was speaking, Bryce impulsively turned to face him. Now Paul will observe that I've been weeping, he thought.

Bolstered by pillows, Paul sat up in bed in a circle of lamplight. His sharp features appeared somewhat flattened, as if bruised by sleep. Slowly, Bryce began to approach him.

"I was dreaming," Bryce began. I want to tell Paul about my dream, he realized.

But Paul did not give Bryce a chance to try. "I was dreaming, too," he announced. "But I should warn you first: I shouldn't be speaking to you."

Bryce had come close. He stood next to the bed. Paul's face wore a familiar, stubborn expression. Bryce comprehended that Paul was determined not to hear his dream, that Paul was afraid of it. That is why he is competing with a dream of his own, Bryce realized. That is why he is taunting me--to distract me.

Choosing not to oppose Paul, he let himself be distracted by Paul's dream, as Paul wished.

"So why aren't you speaking to me?" he asked.

"Because you ran away from me in my dream."

"I did what?" Bryce picked up the cue, but he was speaking mechanically.

Paul smiled conceitedly. "You heard me."

"Tell me how it happened."

"We were in a woods. My foot was okay; I'd never had the accident. We were walking up a hill. Althea was with us. You went on ahead of us, and you never came back."

Paul perceived a glint in Bryce's eyes. "No, you got it all wrong," retorted Bryce with spirit. "That was all in my dream, too. What really happened was that you left me up on that hill in the woods, and I got lost. I should be the one not speaking to you."

Bryce pouted. Paul could tell that he was pleased with himself.

"I say you left, and you claim I abandoned you," said Paul. "I doubt we'll ever resolve it."

"The score is tied," determined Bryce. "We're evenly divided."

Without replying at first, Paul gazed at Bryce as he stood motionless in the shadow of the lamp, his dark eyes still gleaming with the tears he had not shed. Tears, thought Paul, that I refused. Well, laughter is better than tears.

Yet his voice, tinged by remorse, was gentle as he asked Bryce, "What time is it? Can you see the clock?"

"Five-thirty."

"If this were the summer, it would already be dawn. The sky would be light; we'd be hearing birds." Paul sighed. "But now it's dark. Come back to bed. Let's go to sleep."

Bryce climbed in bed next to Paul. Paul turned out the light. They kissed good night. They lay side by side, listening to the silence of the room broken by the quiet hiss of the radiator.

"You may say what you like," said Paul after a while, "but the toe shoes were beautiful. They cast an illusion. Most people took one with them; there are only a few left in one box. The truth is, I'm afraid, that they won't look so good by the light of day. They'll have lost their magic. I bet you that most of them will end up in the trash."

"I think you're right," agreed Bryce. "But think of it this way: perhaps you can truly possess only what you have given away."

There was a pause. "What are you thinking about?" Bryce asked.

"A hummingbird that once flew into a shed I'd built behind our house. This was back in Minnesota when I was a teenager. The hummingbird got caught inside. For two hours it flew under the ceiling although the door and windows were wide open the whole time."

"Did it ever get out?" wondered Bryce.

"Eventually. I wasn't there when it escaped at last. Thinking that my presence was probably contributing to the bird's panic, I left the shed, but fascination kept drawing me back. One time, though, I returned to find the shed empty. I've never forgotten that hummingbird. Freedom was right there, but the bird couldn't see it." Paul paused. "What are you thinking about?"

"Just now, I was dreaming about you, and you were dreaming about me--"

"Were you really dreaming the same dream that I was dreaming?" Paul wondered, interrupting him.

Bryce shook his head. "I wouldn't say that. It's as if our dreams were cast from the same source. But the narratives change, and the interpretations differ." He paused. "I was also thinking about the conversation at the end of the party," he continued. "While we were talking and sipping the port, I felt a sense of security and safety like an atmosphere descending over all of us. It seemed that what we were saying about love and friendship--all the subtle thoughts and careful distinctions--mattered less than this sensation of well-being. It was almost as if we were being watched over by a god."

"What kind of god is he?" wondered Paul.

"I guess he must be a young, irresponsible god. Because, as I come to think of it, I see that he wasn't really watching over us. He had fallen asleep, while we stayed up to talk. Maybe, moved by the party spirit, he'd gotten drunk and was sleeping it off."

"He wasn't neglecting his responsibilities, because he wasn't meant to watch over us." Suddenly it came to Paul. "No, he was dreaming us the whole time. He is still dreaming us. He is the source you spoke of. Our twinned dreams are but reflections of his dream."

So Paul had the last word.

