The New Yorker Stories Part 47

"Well, I just don't see the need to criticize you over an accident, accident, Keller," she had replied. Everyone called him by his last name. He had been born Joseph Francis, but neither Joe nor Joseph nor Frank nor Francis fit. Keller," she had replied. Everyone called him by his last name. He had been born Joseph Francis, but neither Joe nor Joseph nor Frank nor Francis fit.

"It was clumsy of me, and I wasn't quick enough to help," he said.

"You were fine," she said. "It would have brought you more pleasure if I'd cried, or if I'd become irrational, wouldn't it? There's some part of you that's always on guard, because the other person is sure to become irrational. irrational."

"You know a little something about my wife's personality," he said.

Sigrid had lived next door before, during, and after Sue Anne's departure. "So everyone's your wife?" she said. "Is that what you think?"

"No," he said. "I'm apologizing. I didn't do enough for my wife, either. Apparently I didn't act soon enough or effectively enough or-"

"You're always looking for forgiveness!" she said. "I don't forgive you or not forgive you. How about that? I don't know enough about the situation, but I doubt that you're entirely to blame for the way things turned out."

"I'm sorry," he said. "Some people say I'm too closemouthed and I don't give anyone a chance to know me, and others-such as you or my daughter-maintain that I'm self-critical as a ploy to keep their attention focused on me."

"I didn't say any such thing! Don't put words in my mouth. I said that my getting tea dumped on my back by accident and the no doubt very complicated relationship you had with your wife really don't-"

"It was certainly too complicated for me," Keller said quietly.

"Stop whispering. If we're going to have a discussion, at least let me hear what you're saying."

"I wasn't whispering," Keller said. "That was just the wheezing of an old man out of steam."

"Now it's your age! I should pity you for your advanced age! What age are you, exactly, since you refer to it so often?"

"You're too young to count that high." He smiled. "You're a young, attractive, successful woman. People are happy to see you walk into the room. When they look up and see me, they see an old man, and they avert their eyes. When I walk into the travel agency, they all but duck into the kneeholes of their desks. That's how we got acquainted, as you recall, since calling on one's neighbors is not the American Way. Only your radiant face met mine with a smile. Everybody else was pretending I wasn't there."

"Listen: Are you sure this is where we parked the car?"

"I'm not sure of anything. That's why I had you drive."

"I drove because your optometrist put drops in to dilate your pupils shortly before we left," she said.

"But I'm fine now. At least, my usual imperfect vision has returned. I can drive back," he said, pointing to her silver Avalon. "Too n.o.ble a vehicle for me, to be sure, but driving would be the least I could do, after ruining your day."

"Why are you saying that?" she said. "Because you're pleased to think that some little problem has the ability to ruin my day? You are being impossible impossible, Keller. And don't whisper that that's exactly what your wife would say. Except that she's a fellow human being occupying planet Earth, I don't care care about your wife." about your wife."

She took her key ring out of her pocket and tossed the keys to him.

He was glad he caught them, because she sent them higher into the air than necessary. But he did catch them, and he did remember to step in front of her to hold open her door as he pushed the b.u.t.ton to unlock the car. Coming around the back, he saw the PETA b.u.mper sticker her husband had adorned the car with shortly before leaving her for a years-younger Buddhist vegan animal-rights activist.

At least he had worked his way into his craziness slowly, subscribing first to Smithsonian Smithsonian magazine and only later to newsletters with pictures of starved, manacled horses and pawless animals with startled eyes-material she was embarra.s.sed to have delivered to the house. In the year before he left, he had worked at the animal-rescue league on weekends. When she told him he was becoming obsessed with the plight of animals at the expense of their marriage and their son, he'd rolled up one of his publications and slapped his palm with it over and over, protesting vehemently, like someone scolding a bad dog. As she recalled, he had somehow turned the conversation to the continued illegal importation of elephant tusks into Asia. magazine and only later to newsletters with pictures of starved, manacled horses and pawless animals with startled eyes-material she was embarra.s.sed to have delivered to the house. In the year before he left, he had worked at the animal-rescue league on weekends. When she told him he was becoming obsessed with the plight of animals at the expense of their marriage and their son, he'd rolled up one of his publications and slapped his palm with it over and over, protesting vehemently, like someone scolding a bad dog. As she recalled, he had somehow turned the conversation to the continued illegal importation of elephant tusks into Asia.

"You always want to get into a fight," she said, when she finally spoke again, as Keller wound his way out of Boston. "It makes it difficult to be with you."

"I know it's difficult. I'm sorry."

"Come over and we can watch some Perry Mason Perry Mason reruns," she said. "It's on every night at eleven." reruns," she said. "It's on every night at eleven."

"I don't stay up that late," he said. "I'm an old man."

Keller spoke to his daughter on the phone-the first time the phone had rung in days-and listened patiently while she set forth her conditions, living her life in the imperative. In advance of their speaking, she wanted him to know that she would hang up if he asked when she intended to break up with Addison (Addison!) Page. Also, as he well knew, she did not want to be questioned about her mother, even though, yes, they were in phone contact. She also did not want to hear any criticism of her glamorous life, based on her recently having spent three days in England with her spendthrift boyfriend, and also, yes, she had got her flu shot.

"This being November, would it be possible to ask who you're going to vote for?"

"No," she said. "Even if you were voting for the same candidate, you'd find some way to make fun of me."

"What if I said, 'Close your eyes and imagine either an elephant or a donkey'?"

"If I close my eyes, I see... I see a horse's a.s.s, and it's you," she said. "May I continue?"

He snorted. She had a quick wit, his daughter. She had got that from him, not from his wife, who neither made jokes nor understood them. In the distant past, his wife had found an entirely humorless psychiatrist who had summoned Keller and urged him to speak to Sue Anne directly, not in figurative language or through allusions or-G.o.d forbid-with humor. "What should I do if I'm just chomping at the bit to tell a racist joke?" he had asked. The idea was of course ludicrous; he had never made a racist joke in his life. But of course the psychiatrist missed his tone. "You antic.i.p.ate the necessity of telling racist jokes to your wife?" he had said, pausing to scribble something on his pad. "Only if one came up in a dream or something," Keller had deadpanned.

"I thought you were going to continue, Lynn," he said. "Which I mean as an observation, not as a reproach," he hurried to add.

"Keller," she said (since her teenage years, she had called him Keller), "I need to know whether you're coming to Thanksgiving."

"Because you would get a turkey weighing six or seven ounces more?"

"In fact, I thought about cooking a ham this year, because Addison prefers ham. It's just a simple request, Keller: that you let me know whether or not you plan to come. Thanksgiving is three weeks away."

"I've come up against Amy Vanderbilt's timetable for accepting a social invitation at Thanksgiving?" he said.

She sighed deeply. "I would like you to come, whether you believe that or not, but since the twins aren't coming from L.A., and since Addison's sister invited us to her house, I thought I might not cook this year, if you didn't intend to come."

"Oh, by all means don't cook for me. I'll mind my manners and call fifty-one weeks from today and we'll set this up for next year," he said. "A turkey potpie from the grocery store is good enough for me."

"And the next night you could be your usual frugal self and eat the leftover packaging," she said.

"Horses don't eat cardboard. You're thinking of mice," he said.

"I stand corrected," she said, echoing the sentence he often said to her. "But let me ask you another thing. Addison's sister lives in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and she issued a personal invitation for you to join us at her house for dinner. Would you like to have Thanksgiving there?"

"How could she issue a personal invitation if she's never met me?" he said.

"Stop it," his daughter said. "Just answer."

He thought about it. Not about whether he would go but about the holiday itself. The revisionist thinking on Thanksgiving was that it commemorated the subjugation of the Native Americans (formerly the Indians). Not as bad a holiday as Columbus Day, but still.

"I take it your silence means that you prefer to be far from the maddening crowd," she said.

"That t.i.tle is much misquoted," he said. "Hardy's novel is Far from the Madding Crowd Far from the Madding Crowd, which has an entirely different connotation, madding madding meaning 'frenzied.' There's quite a difference between meaning 'frenzied.' There's quite a difference between frenzied frenzied and and annoying annoying. Consider, for instance, your mother's personality versus mine."

"You are incredibly incredibly annoying," Lynn said. "If I didn't know that you cared for me, I couldn't bring myself to pick up the phone and let myself in for your mockery, over and over." annoying," Lynn said. "If I didn't know that you cared for me, I couldn't bring myself to pick up the phone and let myself in for your mockery, over and over."

"I thought it was because you pitied me."

He heard the click, and there was silence. He replaced the phone in its cradle, which made him think of another cradle-Lynn's-with the decal of the cow jumping over the moon on the headboard and blue and pink beads (the cradle manufacturer having hedged his bets) on the rails. He could remember spinning the beads and watching Lynn sleep. The cradle was now in the downstairs hallway, used to store papers and magazines for recycling. Over the years, some of the decal had peeled away, so that on last inspection only a torso with two legs was successfully making the jump over the brightly smiling moon.

He bought a frozen turkey potpie and, as a treat to himself (it was not true that he constantly denied himself happiness, as Lynn said-one could not deny what was rarely to be found), a new radio whose FM quality was excellent-though what did he know, with his imperfect hearing? As he ate Thanksgiving dinner (two nights before Thanksgiving, but why stand on formality?-a choice of Dinty Moore beef stew or Lean Cuisine vegetable lasagna remained for the day of thanks itself), he listened with pleasure to Respighi's Pini di Roma. Pini di Roma. He and Sue Anne had almost gone to Rome on their honeymoon, but instead they had gone to Paris. His wife had just finished her second semester of college, in which she had declared herself an art history major. They had gone to the Louvre and to the Jeu de Paume and on the last day of the trip he had bought her a little watercolor of Venice she kept admiring, in a rather elaborate frame that probably accounted for the gouache's high price-it was a gouache, not a watercolor, as she always corrected him. They both wanted three children, preferably a son followed by either another son or a daughter, though if their second child was a son, then of course they would devoutly wish their last to be a daughter. He remembered with bemus.e.m.e.nt the way they had prattled on, strolling by the Seine, earnestly discussing those things that were most out of their control: Life's Important Matters. He and Sue Anne had almost gone to Rome on their honeymoon, but instead they had gone to Paris. His wife had just finished her second semester of college, in which she had declared herself an art history major. They had gone to the Louvre and to the Jeu de Paume and on the last day of the trip he had bought her a little watercolor of Venice she kept admiring, in a rather elaborate frame that probably accounted for the gouache's high price-it was a gouache, not a watercolor, as she always corrected him. They both wanted three children, preferably a son followed by either another son or a daughter, though if their second child was a son, then of course they would devoutly wish their last to be a daughter. He remembered with bemus.e.m.e.nt the way they had prattled on, strolling by the Seine, earnestly discussing those things that were most out of their control: Life's Important Matters.

Sue Anne conceived only once, and although they (she, to be honest) had vaguely considered adoption, Lynn remained their only child. Lacking brothers and sisters, she had been fortunate to grow up among relatives, because Keller's sister had given birth to twins a year or so after Lynn was born, and in those days the two families lived only half an hour apart and saw each other almost every weekend. Now Sue Anne and his sister Carolynne (now merely Carol), who lived in Arlington with her doctor husband (or who lived apart from him-he was forbidden to inquire about the status of their union), had not spoken for months, and the twins, Richard and Rita, who worked as stockbrokers and had never married-smart!-and shared a house in the Hollywood Hills, were more at ease with him than his own daughter was. For years Keller had promised to visit the twins, and the previous summer, Richard had called his bluff and sent him a ticket to Los Angeles. Richard and Rita had picked Keller up at LAX in a BMW convertible and taken him to a sushi restaurant where at periodic intervals laser images on the wall blinked on and off like s.e.xually animated hieroglyphics dry-humping to a recording of "Walk Like an Egyptian." The next morning, the twins had taken him to a museum that had been created as a satire of museums, with descriptions of the bizarre exhibits that were so tongue-in-cheek he was sure the majority of people there thought that they were touring an actual museum. That night, they turned on the lights in their pool and provided him with bathing trunks (how would he have thought to pack such a thing?-he never thought of a visit to sprawling Los Angeles as a visit to a beach beach), and on Sunday they had eaten their lunch of fresh pineapple and prosciutto poolside, drinking prosecco instead of mineral water (the only beverages in the house, except for extraordinarily good red wine, as far as he could tell), and in the late afternoon they had been joined by a beautiful blonde woman who had apparently been, or might still be, Jack Nicholson's lover. Then he went with Rita and Richard to a screening (a shoot-'em-up none of them wanted to see, though the twins felt they must, because the cinematographer was their longtime client), and on Monday they had sent a car to the house so Keller wouldn't get lost trying to find his way around the freeways. It transported him to a lunch with the twins at a restaurant built around a beautiful terraced garden, after which he'd been dropped off to take the MGM tour and then picked up by the same driver-a dropout from Hollywood High who was working on a screenplay.

It was good they had bought him a ticket for only a brief visit, because if he'd stayed longer he might never have gone home. Though who would have cared if he hadn't? His wife didn't care where he lived, as long as she lived in the opposite direction. His daughter might be relieved that he had moved away. He lived where he lived for no apparent reason-at least, no reason apparent to him. He had no friends, unless you called Don Kim a friend-Don, with whom he played handball on Mondays and Thursdays. And his accountant, Ralph Bazzorocco. He supposed Bazzorocco was his friend, though with the exception of a couple of golf games each spring and the annual buffet dinner he and Bazzorocco's other clients were invited to every April 16-and except for Bazzorocco's calling to wish him a happy birthday, and "Famiglia Bazzorocco" (as the gift card always read) sending him an enormous box of biscotti and Baci at Christmas... oh, he didn't know. Probably that was what friendship was, he thought, a little ashamed of himself. He had gone to the hospital to visit Bazzorocco's son after the boy injured his pelvis and lost his spleen playing football. He'd driven Bazzorocco's weeping wife home in the rain so she could shower and change her clothes, then driven her, still weeping, back to the hospital. Okay: he had friends. But would any of them care if he lived in Los Angeles? Don Kim could easily find another partner (perhaps a younger man more worthy as a compet.i.tor); Bazzorocco could remain his accountant via the miracle of modern technology. In any case, Keller had returned to the North Sh.o.r.e.

Though not before that last odd day in L.A. He had said, though he hadn't planned to say it (Lynn was not correct in believing that everything that escaped his lips was premeditated), that he'd like to spend his last day lounging around the house. So they wouldn't feel too sorry for him, he even asked if he could open a bottle of Merlot-whatever they recommended, of course-and raid their refrigerator for lunch. After all, the refrigerator contained a tub of mascarpone instead of cottage cheese, and the fruit drawer was stocked with organic plums rather than puckered supermarket grapes. Richard wasn't so keen on the idea, but Rita said that of course that was fine. It was Keller's Keller's vacation, she stressed. They'd make a reservation at a restaurant out at the beach that night, and if he felt rested enough to eat out, fine; if not, they'd cancel the reservation and Richard would cook his famous chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s marinated in Vidalia-onion sauce. vacation, she stressed. They'd make a reservation at a restaurant out at the beach that night, and if he felt rested enough to eat out, fine; if not, they'd cancel the reservation and Richard would cook his famous chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s marinated in Vidalia-onion sauce.

When Keller woke up, the house was empty. He made coffee (at home, he drank instant) and wandered out through the open doors to the patio as it brewed. He surveyed the hillside, admired the lantana growing from Mexican pottery urns flanking one side of the pool. Some magazine had been rained on-it must have rained during the night; he hadn't heard it, but then, he'd fallen asleep with earphones on, listening to Brahms. He walked toward the magazine-as offensive as litter along the highway, this copy of Vogue Vogue deteriorating on the green tiles-then drew back, startled. There was a small possum: a baby possum, all snout and pale narrow body, clawing the water, trying futilely to scramble up the edge of the pool. He looked around quickly for the pool net. The night before, it had been leaning against the sliding gla.s.s door, but it was no longer there. He went quickly to the side of the house, then ran to the opposite side, all the while acutely aware that the drowning possum was in desperate need of rescue. No pool net. He went into the kitchen, which was now suffused with the odor of coffee, and threw open door after door looking for a pot. He finally found a bucket containing cleaning supplies, quickly removed them, then ran back to the pool, where he dipped the bucket in, missing, frightening the poor creature and adding to its problems by making it go under. He recoiled in fear, then realized that the emotion he felt was not fear but self-loathing. Introspection was not his favorite mode, but no matter: he dipped again, leaning farther over this time, accepting the ludicrous prospect of his falling in, though the second time he managed to scoop up the possum-it was only a tiny thing-and lift it out of the water. The bucket was full, because he had dipped deep, and much to his dismay, when he saw the possum curled up at the bottom, he knew immediately that it was already dead. The possum had drowned. He set the bucket down and crouched on the tile beside it before he had a second, most welcome epiphany and realized almost with a laugh that it wasn't dead: it was playing possum. Though if he didn't get it out of the bucket, it really would drown. He jumped up, turned the bucket on its side, and stood back as water and possum flowed out. The water dispersed. The possum lay still. That must be because he was watching it, he decided, although he once more considered the grim possibility that it was dead. deteriorating on the green tiles-then drew back, startled. There was a small possum: a baby possum, all snout and pale narrow body, clawing the water, trying futilely to scramble up the edge of the pool. He looked around quickly for the pool net. The night before, it had been leaning against the sliding gla.s.s door, but it was no longer there. He went quickly to the side of the house, then ran to the opposite side, all the while acutely aware that the drowning possum was in desperate need of rescue. No pool net. He went into the kitchen, which was now suffused with the odor of coffee, and threw open door after door looking for a pot. He finally found a bucket containing cleaning supplies, quickly removed them, then ran back to the pool, where he dipped the bucket in, missing, frightening the poor creature and adding to its problems by making it go under. He recoiled in fear, then realized that the emotion he felt was not fear but self-loathing. Introspection was not his favorite mode, but no matter: he dipped again, leaning farther over this time, accepting the ludicrous prospect of his falling in, though the second time he managed to scoop up the possum-it was only a tiny thing-and lift it out of the water. The bucket was full, because he had dipped deep, and much to his dismay, when he saw the possum curled up at the bottom, he knew immediately that it was already dead. The possum had drowned. He set the bucket down and crouched on the tile beside it before he had a second, most welcome epiphany and realized almost with a laugh that it wasn't dead: it was playing possum. Though if he didn't get it out of the bucket, it really would drown. He jumped up, turned the bucket on its side, and stood back as water and possum flowed out. The water dispersed. The possum lay still. That must be because he was watching it, he decided, although he once more considered the grim possibility that it was dead.

He stood still. Then he thought to walk back into the house, far away from it. It was dead; it wasn't. Time pa.s.sed. Then, finally, as he stood unmoving, the possum twitched and waddled off-the flicker of life in its body resonated in Keller's own heart-and then the event was over. He continued to stand there, cognizant of how much he had loathed himself just moments before. Then he went out to retrieve the bucket. As he grasped the handle, tears welled up in his eyes. What the h.e.l.l! He cried at the sink as he rinsed the bucket.

He dried his eyes on the crook of his arm and washed the bucket thoroughly, much longer than necessary, then dried it with a towel. He put the Comet, the Windex, and the rag and the brush back inside and returned the bucket to its place under the sink and tried to remember what he had planned to do that day, and again he was overwhelmed. The image that popped into his mind was of Jack Nicholson's girlfriend, the blonde in the bikini with the denim shirt thrown over it. He thought... what? That he was going to get together with Jack Nicholson's girlfriend? Whose last name he didn't even know?

But that had had been what he was thinking. No way to act on it, but yes-that was what he had been thinking, all along. been what he was thinking. No way to act on it, but yes-that was what he had been thinking, all along.

The water had run off, though the tiles still glistened. No sign, of course, of the possum. It was doubtless off a.s.similating its important life lesson. On a little redwood table was a waterproof radio that he turned on, finding the cla.s.sical station, adjusting the volume. Then he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly, stepped out of his pants and underpants, and took off his shirt. Carrying the radio, he walked to the deep end of the pool, placed the radio on the rim, and dove in. He swam underwater for a while, and then, as his head broke the surface, he had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. He looked back at the house, then looked slowly around the pool area. The fence that walled it off from the neighbors was at least ten feet high. Behind the pool, the terrace was filled with bushes and fruit trees and pink and white irises-Keller was crazy: he was alone in a private compound; no one was there. He went under the water again, refreshed by its silky coolness, and b.r.e.a.s.t.stroked to the far end, where he came up for air, then used his feet to push off the side of the pool so he could float on his back. When he reached the end, he pulled himself out, then saw, in the corner of his eye, who was watching him. High up on the terrace, a deer was looking down. The second their eyes met, the deer was gone, but in that second it had come clear to him-on this day of endless revelations-that the deer had been casting a beneficent look, as if in thanks. He had felt that: that a deer was acknowledging and thanking him. He was flabbergasted at the odd workings of his brain. How could a grown man-a grown man without any religious beliefs, a father who, in what now seemed like a different lifetime, had accompanied his little daughter to Bambi Bambi and whispered, as every parent does, "It's only a movie," when Bambi's mother was killed... how could a man with such knowledge of the world, whose most meaningful accomplishment in as long as he could remember had been to fish an animal out of a swimming pool-how could such a man feel unequivocally that a deer had appeared to bless him? and whispered, as every parent does, "It's only a movie," when Bambi's mother was killed... how could a man with such knowledge of the world, whose most meaningful accomplishment in as long as he could remember had been to fish an animal out of a swimming pool-how could such a man feel unequivocally that a deer had appeared to bless him?

But he knew it had.

As it turned out, the blessing hadn't exactly changed his life, though why should one expect so much of blessings, just because they were blessings?

Something that had had profoundly changed his life had been Richard's urging him, several years before, to take a chance, take a gamble, trust him, because the word he was about to speak was going to change his life. "Plastics?" he'd said, but Richard was too young: he hadn't seen the movie. No, the word had been profoundly changed his life had been Richard's urging him, several years before, to take a chance, take a gamble, trust him, because the word he was about to speak was going to change his life. "Plastics?" he'd said, but Richard was too young: he hadn't seen the movie. No, the word had been Microsoft. Microsoft. Keller had been in a strange frame of mind that day (one month earlier, to the day, his father had killed himself). At that point, he had hated his job so much, had stopped telling half-truths and finally admitted to Sue Anne that their marriage had become a dead end, that he a.s.sumed he was indulging the self-destructiveness his wife and daughter always maintained was the core of his being when he turned over almost everything he had to his nephew to invest in a company whose very name suggested smallness and insubstantiality. But, as it turned out, Richard had blessed him, as had the deer, now. The blonde had not, but then, very few men, very few indeed, would ever be lucky enough to have such a woman give them her benediction. Keller had been in a strange frame of mind that day (one month earlier, to the day, his father had killed himself). At that point, he had hated his job so much, had stopped telling half-truths and finally admitted to Sue Anne that their marriage had become a dead end, that he a.s.sumed he was indulging the self-destructiveness his wife and daughter always maintained was the core of his being when he turned over almost everything he had to his nephew to invest in a company whose very name suggested smallness and insubstantiality. But, as it turned out, Richard had blessed him, as had the deer, now. The blonde had not, but then, very few men, very few indeed, would ever be lucky enough to have such a woman give them her benediction.

"You're fun fun!" Rita laughed, dropping him off at LAX. On the way, he had taken off his white T-shirt and raised it in the air, saying, "I hereby surrender to the madness that is the City of Angels." It had long been Rita's opinion that no one in the family understood her uncle; that all of them were so defensive that they were intimidated by his erudition and willfully misunderstood his sense of humor. Richard was working late, but he had sent, by way of his sister (she ran back to the car, having almost forgotten the treat in the glove compartment), a tin of white-chocolate brownies to eat on the plane, along with a note Keller would later read that thanked him for having set an example when he and Rita were kids, for not unthinkingly going with the flow, and for his wry p.r.o.nouncements in a family where, Richard said, everyone else was "afraid of his own shadow." "Come back soon," Richard had written. "We miss you."

Back home, on the telephone, his daughter had greeted him with a warning: "I don't want to hear about my cousins who are happy and successful, which are synonymous, in your mind, with being rich. Spare me details of their life and just tell me what you did. I'd like to hear about your trip without feeling diminished by my insignificance in the face of my cousins' perfection."

"I can leave them out of it entirely," he said. "I can say, quite honestly, that the most significant moment of my trip happened not in their company but in the meeting of my eyes with the eyes of a deer that looked at me with indescribable kindness and understanding."

Lynn snorted. "This was on the freeway, I suppose? It was on its way to be an extra in a remake of The Deer Hunter The Deer Hunter?"

He had understood, then, the urge she so often felt when speaking to him-the urge to hang up on a person who had not even tried to understand one word you had said.

"How was your Thanksgiving?" Sigrid asked. Keller was sitting across from her at the travel agency, arranging to buy Don Kim's stepdaughter a ticket to Germany so she could pay a final visit to her dying friend. The girl was dying of ALS. The details were too terrible to think about. Jennifer had known her for eleven of her seventeen years, and now the girl was dying. Don Kim barely made it from paycheck to paycheck. It had been necessary to tell Don that he had what he called "a considerable windfall from the eighties stock market" in order to persuade him that in offering to buy Jennifer a ticket, he was not making a gesture he could not afford. He had had to work hard to persuade him. He had to insist on it several times, and swear that in no way had he thought Don had been hinting (which was true). The only worry was how Jennifer would handle such a trip, but they had both agreed she was a very mature girl.

"Very nice," Keller replied. In fact, that day he had eaten canned stew and listened to Albinoni (probably some depressed DJ who hadn't wanted to work Thanksgiving night). He had made a fire in the fireplace and caught up on his reading of The Economist The Economist. He felt a great distance between himself and Sigrid. He said, trying not to sound too perfunctorily polite, "And yours?"

"I was actually..." She dropped her eyes. "You know, my ex-husband has Brad for a week at Thanksgiving and I have him for Christmas. He's such a big boy now, I don't know why he doesn't put his foot down, but he doesn't. If I knew then what I know now, I'd never have let him go, no matter what rights the court gave that lunatic. You know what he did before Thanksgiving? I guess you must not have read the paper. They recruited Brad to liberate turkeys. They got arrested. His father thinks that's fine: traumatizing Brad, letting him get hauled into custody. And the worst of it is, Brad's scared to death, but he doesn't dare not not go along, and then he has to pretend to me that he thinks it was a great idea, that I'm an indifferent-" She searched for the word. "That I'm subhuman because I eat dead animals." go along, and then he has to pretend to me that he thinks it was a great idea, that I'm an indifferent-" She searched for the word. "That I'm subhuman because I eat dead animals."

Keller had no idea what to say. Lately, things didn't seem funny enough to play off of. Everything just seemed weird and sad. Sigrid's ex-husband had taken their son to liberate turkeys. How could you extemporize about that?

"She could go Boston, London, Frankfurt on British Air," Sigrid said, as if she hadn't expected him to reply. "It would be somewhere around seven hundred and fifty." She hit the keyboard again. "Seven eighty-nine plus taxes," she said. "She'd be flying out at six p.m. Eastern Standard, she'd get there in the morning." Her fingers stopped moving on the keyboard. She looked at him.

"Can I use your phone to make sure that's a schedule that's good for her?" he said. He knew that Sigrid wondered who Jennifer Kim was. He had spoken of her as "my friend, Jennifer Kim."

"Of course," she said. She pushed a b.u.t.ton and handed him the phone. He had written the Kims' telephone number on a little piece of paper and slipped it in his shirt pocket. He was aware that she was staring at him as he dialed. The phone rang three times, and then he got the answering machine. "Keller here," he said. "We've got the itinerary, but I want to check it with Jennifer. I'm going to put my travel agent on," he said. "She'll give you the times, and maybe you can call her to confirm it. Okay?" He handed the phone to Sigrid. She took it, all business. "Sigrid Crane of Pleasure Travel, Ms. Kim," she said. "I have a British Airways flight that departs Logan at six zero zero p.m., arrival into Frankfurt by way of London nine five five a.m. My direct line is-"

He looked at the poster of Bali framed on the wall. A view of water. Two people entwined in a hammock. Pink flowers in the foreground.

"Well," she said, hanging up. "I'll expect to hear from her. I a.s.sume I should let you know if anything changes?"

He c.o.c.ked his head. "What doesn't?" he said. "You'd be busy every second of the day if you did that."

She looked at him, expressionless. "The ticket price," she said. "Or shall I issue it regardless?"

"Regardless." (Now, there was a word he didn't use often!) "Thanks." He stood.

"Say h.e.l.lo to my colleagues hiding under their desks on your way out," she said.

In the doorway, he stopped. "What did they do with the turkeys?" he said.

"They took them by truck to a farm in Vermont where they thought they wouldn't be killed," she said. "You can read about it in yesterday's paper. Everybody's out on bail. Since it's a first offense, my son might be able to avoid having a record. I've hired a lawyer."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Thank you," she said.

He nodded. Unless she had two such garments, she was wearing the same gray sweater he had spilled tea on. It occurred to him that, outside his family, she was the only woman he spoke to. The woman at the post office, women he encountered when running errands, the UPS deliveryperson, who he personally thought might be a hermaphrodite, but in terms of real female acquaintances, Sigrid was the only one. He should have said more to her about the situation with her ex-husband and son, though he could not imagine what he would have said. He also could not get a mental picture, humorous or otherwise, of liberated turkeys, walking around some frozen field in-where had she said? Vermont.

She took an incoming call. He glanced back at the poster, at Sigrid sitting there in her gray sweater, noticing for the first time that she wore a necklace dangling a silver cross. Her high cheekbones, accentuated by her head tipped forward, were her best feature; her worst feature was her eyes, a bit too close together, so that she always seemed slightly perplexed. He raised his hand to indicate goodbye, in case she might be looking, then realized from what he heard Sigrid saying that the person on the other end must be Don Kim's stepdaughter; Sigrid was reciting the Boston-to-Frankfurt schedule, tapping her pen as she spoke. He hesitated, then went back and sat down, though Sigrid had not invited him back. He sat there while Jennifer Kim told Sigrid the whole sad story-what else could the girl have been saying to her for so long? Sigrid's eyes were almost crossed when she finally glanced up at him, then put her fingers on the keyboard and began to enter information. "I might stop by tonight," he said quietly, rising. She nodded, talking into the telephone headset while typing quickly.

Exiting, he thought of a song Groucho Marx had sung in some movie which had the lyrics "Did you ever have the feeling that you wanted to go, and still you had the feeling that you wanted to stay?" He had a sudden mental image of Groucho with his cigar clamped in his teeth (or perhaps it had been Jimmy Durante who sang the song?), and then Groucho's face evaporated and only the cigar remained, like a moment in Alice in Wonderland Alice in Wonderland. And then-although Keller had quit smoking years before, when his father died-he stopped at a convenience store and bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked one, driving home, listening to some odd s.p.a.ce-age music. He drove through Dunkin' Donuts and got two plain doughnuts to have with coffee as he watched the evening news, remembering the many times Sue Anne had criticized him for eating food without a plate, as if dropped crumbs were proof that your life was about to go out of control.

In his driveway, he saw that his trash can had been knocked over, the plastic bag inside split open, the lid halfway across the yard. He looked out the car window at the rind of a melon, then at the b.l.o.o.d.y Kleenex he'd held to his chin when he'd nicked himself shaving-he had taken to shaving before turning in, to save time in the morning, now that his beard no longer grew so heavily-as well as issues of The Economist The Economist that a better citizen would have bundled together for recycling. He turned off the ignition and stepped out of the car, into the wind, to deal with the mess. that a better citizen would have bundled together for recycling. He turned off the ignition and stepped out of the car, into the wind, to deal with the mess.

As he gathered it up, he felt as if someone were watching him. He looked up at the house. Soon after Sue Anne left, he had taken down not only the curtains but the blinds as well, liking clear, empty windows that people could go ahead and stare into, if such ordinary life was what they found fascinating. A car pa.s.sed by-a blue van new to this road, though in the past few weeks he'd seen it often-as he was picking up a mealy apple. Maybe a private detective stalking him, he thought. Someone his wife had hired, to see whether another woman was living in the house. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the last of the garbage and stuffed it in the can, intending to come out later to rebag it. He wanted to get out of the wind. He planned to eat one of the doughnuts before the six o'clock news.

Sigrid's son was sitting with his back against the storm door, his knees drawn in tight to his chest, smoking a cigarette. Keller was startled to see him, but did his best to appear unfazed, stopping on the walkway to extract a cigarette of his own from the pack in his pocket. "Can I trouble you for a light?" he said to the boy.

It seemed to work. Brad looked taken aback that Keller wasn't more taken aback. So much so that he held out the lighter with a trembling hand. Keller towered above him. The boy was thin and short (time would take care of one, if not the other); Keller was just over six feet, with broad shoulders and fifteen or twenty pounds more than he should have been carrying, which happened to him every winter. He said to the boy, "Is this a social call, or did I miss a business appointment?"

The boy hesitated. He missed the humor. He mumbled, "Social."

Keller hid his smile. "Allow me," he said, stepping forward. The boy scrambled up and stepped aside so Keller could open the door. Keller sensed a second's hesitation, though Brad followed him in.

It was cold inside. Keller turned the heat down to fifty-five when he left the house. The boy wrapped his arms around his shoulders. The stub of the cigarette was clasped between his second and third fingers. There was a leather bracelet on his wrist, as well as the spike of some tattoo.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Keller said.

"Do you..." The boy was preoccupied, looking around the room.

"Have an ashtray? I use cups for that," Keller said, handing him the mug from which he'd drunk his morning coffee. He had run out of milk, so he'd had it black. And d.a.m.n-he had yet again forgotten to get milk. The boy stubbed out his cigarette in the mug without taking it in his hands. Keller set it back on the table, tapping off the ash from his own cigarette. He gestured to a chair, which the boy walked to and sat down.

"Do you, like, work or anything?" the boy blurted out.

"I'm the idle rich," Keller said. "In fact, I just paid a visit to your mother, to get a ticket to Germany. For a friend, not for me," he added. "That being the only thing on my agenda today, besides reading The Wall Street Journal The Wall Street Journal"-he had not heard about the boy's arrest because he never read the local paper, but he'd hesitated to say that to Sigrid-"and once again forgetting to bring home milk."

Keller sat on the sofa.