Joy Williams

Breaking and Entering

For Elisabeth Williams and William Williams

For Caitlin and Rust

I

Then the strangest questions

are asked, which no human

being could answer: Why there

is only one such animal; why

I rather than anybody else

should own it, whether there

was ever an animal like it

before and what would happen

if it died, whether it feels

lonely, why it has no children,

what it is called, etc.

— Franz Kafka, “Cross Breeze”

1

Willie and Liberty broke into a house on Crab Key and lived there for a week. The house had a tile near the door that said CASA VIRGINIA. It was the home of Virginia and Chip Maxwell. It was two stories overlooking the Gulf, and had been built with the trickle-down from Phillips-head screw money. Willie achieved entry by ladder and a thin, flexible strip of aluminum. Crab Key was tiny and exclusive, belonging to an association that had an armed security patrol. The houses on Crab Key were owned by people so wealthy that they were hardly ever there.

Liberty and Willie saw the guard each morning. He was an old, lonely man, rather glossy and puffed up, his jaw puckered in and his chest puffed out like a child concentrating on making a muscle. He told Willie he had a cancer, but that grapefruit was curing it. He told Willie that they had wanted to cut again, but he had chosen grapefruit instead. He talked quite openly to Willie, as though they had been correspondents for years, just now meeting. Willie and Liberty must have reminded him of people he thought he knew, people who must have looked appropriate living in a million dollar soaring cypress house on the beach. He thought they were guests of the owners.

Willie did have a look to him. People would babble on to Willie as though, in his implacability, they would find their grace. Willie walked through life a welcome guest. He had a closed, sleek face that did not transmit impressions. He was tight as a jar of jam. People were crazy about Willie.

The guard said, “The doctor says to me, ‘Say you want to see the Taj Mahal. You travel all the way to the Taj Mahal, but then you don’t go inside. You don’t pay the little extra to make the trip worthwhile.’ ”

“What was he talking about?” Willie asked.

“Me! The Taj Mahal was the inside of me! They go inside there to see what’s up, and while they’re inside they shine their light in all your corners. They take out whatever they want to besides. Haven’t you ever talked to a doctor? That’s the way they talk.” The guard sighed and looked around him. “If I were young, I wouldn’t be here,” he said. “The big show is definitely not out here.”

“The big show is in our heads,” Willie said.

Willie and the guard got along famously.

In the house, Clem was lying in the air-conditioning, before the sliding glass doors, his breath making small parachuting souls on the glass. Clem was Liberty’s dog, a big white Alsatian with pale eyes. His eyes were open, watching his vacation.

The guard said, “You know, I’ll tell you, my name is Turnupseed.”

“Pleased to know you,” Willie said.

“That name mean nothing to you?”

“I don’t believe it does,” Willie said.

The guard shook his head back and forth, back and forth. “How quickly they forget,” he said to an imaginary person on his right.

Liberty said nothing. She supposed they were about to be arrested. She and Willie were young, but they had been breaking into other people’s houses for quite some time now. The town was a sprawling one on the Gulf Coast of Florida, and there were a number of Keys offshore. Everywhere there were houses. There was certainly no dearth of houses. They had their own that they were renting, but it didn’t seem to suit them. Anyplace they saw that appealed to them, and even some places that didn’t, they just went inside. They seemed to have a certain freedom in this regard, but Liberty thought they were bound to get caught someday.

“My nephew, Donald Gene Turnupseed, killed Jimmy Dean. You know, Jimmy Dean’s car ran into his car.”

“Well,” Willie said, “1955.”

“It seems like a long time ago, but I don’t see what difference that makes,” Turnupseed said. “We are talking about something immortal here. Young girls have made a cult of Dean even though he was a faggot.”

“Life is not a masterpiece,” Willie agreed.

“Life is a damn mess,” the guard said. He seemed genuinely outraged. He looked at Willie. “I’m somewhat of an expert on that incident. Ask me a question about it.”

“There was something definitely sinister about the Porsche,” Willie said.

“There sure was!” Turnupseed said. “A mechanic had both legs broken when the wreckage fell off the truck — a Beverly Hills doctor who acquired the engine was killed using it — another racing doctor using the drivetrain was seriously injured when his car turned over — the wreckage, with admonitory notices declaring THIS ACCIDENT COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED, was toured by the Greater Los Angeles Safety Council, and it was at such a show in Sacramento that the car fell off its steel plinth and broke the hip of a teenage spectator …” Turnupseed was out of breath, wheezing heavily. “Coincidences are a hobby of mine,” he panted. “Another hobby I got is reading cookbooks.”

Turnupseed enjoyed reading cookbooks. In inclement weather, he could be seen sitting in his patrol car, poring over colored plates of food. He and Willie would speak with fervor about chili and cassoulet and pineapple-glazed yams and pastry sucrée.

“I guess I’ve read just about every cookbook there is to read,” Turnupseed said. “I get a big kick out of it, not being able to eat much myself. I only got one quarter of a stomach. It really don’t bother me much. It’s nice just looking at the pictures. Now Mrs. Maxwell has had a cystostomy, but she’s chipper as the dickens about it, I don’t have to tell you that.”

“She’s always been a very chipper lady,” Willie agreed.

There were indications in the expensive house that an unpleasant operation had recently been endured. The Maxwells were subscribers to the Ostomy Quarterly.

“She’s a scrapper, Mrs. Maxwell,” Turnupseed said. “You know, after she come home from the hospital, she called up the paper and wanted them to send out a reporter to do an interview with her, but the paper wouldn’t do it.”

“The media prefer not to handle the subject of excreta,” Willie said.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Turnupseed said. He removed his hat and his thin hair fluttered, startled. “She got herself a Windsurfer. I’ve never seen her use it, but it’s the attitude that counts is my belief.” He looked at Liberty, his chin trembling gently. “Your wife looks sad,” Turnupseed said to Willie. “Has she had a loss recently?”

“She’s just one of those wives,” Willie said.

“What do women want, let me ask you that,” Turnupseed said. “My last two wives always maintained they were miserable even though they had every distraction and convenience known to modern times. Number Two had a four-wheel drive vehicle with a personalized license plate. Every week she’d have her hair done. She died of a stroke, at the beauty shop, under the dryer.”

“Liberty isn’t distracted easily,” Willie said.

“What would our lives be without our distractions,” Turnupseed said, “that’s the question.”

Liberty excused herself and went inside. She stared at the Gulf, which was always there, every time she looked, filling the windows. Clem was lying on his side, his legs shuddering in a dream. Perhaps he was remembering the mailbox he was stuffed into as a puppy, by unknown persons, before Liberty found him, barely breathing, years ago.

Liberty wandered through the house. Breaking into houses caused Liberty to become pensive. She would get cramps and lose her appetite. Stolen houses made her think of babies all the time. She supposed that was common enough.

The house on Crab Key had chocolate-colored wall-to-wall carpeting covered with Oriental rugs. It had five bedrooms, four baths, two kitchens, a liquor closet that contained eleven half gallons of gin, and one piece of reading material on a polished oak coffee table, a notebook containing Mrs. Maxwell’s philosophic musings. The advantages of a cystostomy are myriad, one of the musings stated. Each new day brings me increased enjoyment. Sunrises are more radiant, sunsets more glowing, flowers more brilliant. And even the grass is greener!

The handwriting was round and firm. It appeared likely that it was not Mrs. Maxwell who was the drinker.

Liberty looked down at Willie conversing with Turnupseed on the beach. From above, Turnupseed’s head looked like a vulnerable nest. Willie was wearing a sweater he had found in the Maxwells’ closet, a green and white sweater covered with daintily proceeding reindeer. Willie loved living in other people’s houses and sleeping in their beds. He wore their clothes and drank their liquor, jumped in their pools and watched himself in their mirrors. Breaking into houses and living the ordered life of someone else appealed to Willie.

In the large walk-in closet off the Maxwells’ bedroom, there were mirrors and cosmetics. There were shoe boxes and garment bags. There were hats and ties and shoes. Everything was neatly categorized. Cruise Wear. Ethnic Shawls and Dresses. Daddy’s WWI Uniforms. As in the other homes that Willie and Liberty tended to occupy, the absent owners were hopeful, acquisitive, and fearful of death.

Liberty selected a white terry-cloth robe from the closet and lay on the blue satin coverlet of the king-size bed. She dreamed of fishing, her feathered hooks catching squirming rabbits. She dreamed of rowing down the streets of a flooded town, rowing into a grocery store where they were selling ten unlabeled cans for a nickel. She woke with a start and took off Mrs. Maxwell’s white terry-cloth robe.

Liberty and Clem took a walk along the beach. They passed women searching for sharks’ teeth. The women had elaborate tooth scoopers made of screening and wood. They had spotting scoops and dip boxes. They were dedicated and purposeful, and hustling in and out of the surf they knew what they were about. Liberty admired them. They knew the difference between a spinner’s tooth and a lemon’s. They were happy women, ruthless in their selections, rigorous in their distinctions. In their bags they had duskys’ and blacktips’ and nurses’ and makos’ teeth. They loved those teeth. In their homes, lamplight glowed from glass bases filled with teeth. On their walls the best teeth were mounted on velvet and framed behind glass. The more common teeth spelled out homilies or were arranged in the shape of hearts.

The women ignored Liberty. And they regarded Clem with downright unease as though fearing he would squat on their fossiliferous wash-ins. Liberty felt that the women were correct in not introducing themselves and being friendly. She, Liberty, was a thief and a depressive. She and Willie had been married by a drunken judge at Monroe Station in the Everglades. The bridal couple had eaten their wedding supper in a restaurant that had antique rifles and dried chicken feet mounted on the wall. Their meal consisted of a gigantic snook, which Willie had miraculously caught on a doughball, and a coconut cake that the cook had whipped up special.

The women on the beach, holding their bags full of teeth, probably saw Liberty’s problems just written all over her.

As for Clem, they avoided him like shoppers swerving from a swollen can of bouillabaisse.

Liberty strolled back to her stolen home. Willie was on the beach, roasting potatoes over a little fire. Turnupseed stood nearby, his hands on his hips, his back toward the water, surveying the row of expensive houses under his protection.

“Them houses are filled with artwork and jewels and all sorts of gadgetry,” Turnupseed said, shaking his head. “It gets to be a burden just responding to it all. I’ve tried to respond to everything that’s been presented to me all my life, and I am just now thinking that I could have saved myself considerable time and effort. Response has been my bane. Number Two and I once went to Niagara Falls. You know we put on them slickers and got wet? Three days, two nights and seven meals. We slept in a heart-shaped bed. You ever try to sleep in a heart-shaped bed? Number Two said I was as exciting as a bag of cement.”

Liberty looked around her, at all that was being guarded by Turnupseed, a man obsessed with woks, dead wives and movie stars, and armed with a floating flashlight and a tire iron. He was obviously not in the best of health. His eyes looked like breakfast buns spread with guava jelly.

Willie said, “All worldly pursuits and acquisitions have but two unavoidable and inevitable ends, which are sorrow and dispersion.” He rearranged the potatoes in the pit.

“Yup, yup, yup,” Turnupseed said, shaking his head. “But each one of us has to find that out for himself.” He turned to Liberty and politely said, “That certainly is the strangest white dog I’ve ever seen. Nothing unfortunate is about to happen to you, not if that dog can help it.”

“I don’t know,” Liberty said.

“Thank God it ain’t a black dog. Black dogs are bad luck.”

“Thank god,” Liberty said. The thought of a black dog! Black as dirt and filled with blood. She would never have a black dog.

Liberty and Turnupseed gazed at one another. It seemed as though they could never build up a dialogue.

“Where’d you get that dog?” Turnupseed asked, cranking up again, his voice hoarse.

“Found him,” Liberty said.

“I’ve never found a thing myself,” Turnupseed said. “I try not to dwell on it.” He gazed at Clem, not knowing how to salute him.

Turnupseed lived on the mainland in a little cement block house on land sucked senseless by the phosphate interests. Every time he tried to plant a tree in the queer, floppy soil, the tree perished.

“I’ve had three wives, and each one of them died,” Turnupseed confided. “Isn’t that a ghastly coincidence?”

“In continuity there is a little of everything in everything else,” Willie said when Liberty just couldn’t seem to pick anything out of the air. Willie and the guard seemed to have a way of conversing that was satisfying to them both. Liberty guessed that Willie enjoyed a simple deceit more than just about anything in the world. The words he exchanged with Turnupseed rocked gently in her head, unwholesome crafts on a becalmed sea.

Liberty and Willie sat in one of the Maxwells’ several tubs. She sat behind him, her legs encircling his waist, writing words upon his back with soap.

“WIZ,” Willie said. “SKY. SEA.” Liberty erased the invisible marks with her hand and splashed water upon Willie’s shoulders. She put her lips to his warm back, then drew away and wrote a U, then an 5. “WITHHELD,” Willie said. “INCARCERATE.”

Purple, monogrammed towels hung from hooks. Liberty got out of the tub and patted herself dry with one of them. She was tanned and high-waisted. Pale hair curled from her armpits. At her throat was a soft scar that looked like a rosebud. She put on a man’s black bathrobe, rolled up the long sleeves, cinched the belt tight. She imagined Mr. Maxwell standing in this robe, breathing heavily, looking around his house at his things in it.

“Poor Chip hasn’t been able to cope very well with Mrs. Maxwell’s maiming,” Turnupseed had told Willie. “For twenty-five years she was his little singing bird, you know what I’m saying, and then she had that operation and she became his cheerful mutilated wife. She doesn’t have a morbid bone in her body, but Chip proved to be more delicate. I found him once on the beach at midnight, the drunkest man I’ve ever seen, crying and trying to stab himself with a spoon.”

“Turnupseed’s heart is going to break when he finds out what we are,” Liberty said.

“Friends are what we are,” Willie said.

Liberty went downstairs and sat alone in the living room, which was arranged for conversation. Clem lay in the kitchen, the same color as the refrigerator, his legs straight up in the air. In the living room was a fireplace containing a screen that, if plugged in, would project a fire burning. Liberty did not want the illusion of a fire burning. Liberty loved Willie. She believed in love and knew that every day was judgment day. It didn’t seem to be enough anymore. If someone loved you, Willie said, you became other than what you knew yourself to be. He did not want to become that other one. Willie was becoming a little occult in his attitudes. His thoughts included Liberty less and less, his coordinates were elsewhere, his possibilities without her becoming more actualized. This was marriage.

“Why don’t you and Willie have a baby?” Liberty’s mother demanded frequently when she phoned them at home. “What are you waiting for! If you had a baby I’d come and take care of it for you. I saw a cute little quilt for its crib the other day in town. I do wish you’d have a baby, Liberty, I’d like to have someone to eat ice cream with. Your father can’t eat ice cream, as you know. He swells up. They have some very exotic flavors these days like Hula Pie. I don’t think it would be wise to start the baby right off on Hula Pie, though. I think something simpler would be in order, like French Vanilla. How soon would it be, do you think, before the baby could have a little cup of French Vanilla ice cream?”

Liberty looked out the windows at the sunset colors rushing, funneling, toward the horizon. It was a good sunset. When it was over, she curled up on the couch and turned on the television. On the screen there was a picture of a plate with a large steak and a plump baked potato on it. The potato got up and a little slit appeared in it, which was apparently its mouth, and it apparently began talking. Liberty turned up the sound. It was a commercial for potatoes, and the potato was complaining that everyone says steak and potatoes instead of the other way around. It nestled down against the steak again after making its point. The piece of meat didn’t say anything.

Willie and Liberty went to a party given by the Edgecups of the Crab Key Association. Turnupseed had reminded them to go. He was surprised that the Maxwells hadn’t told them about it. The house was pink, and shuttered in the Bermuda fashion. Everything was pink. The phones were pink, the statuary and chaise longues. The balloons bobbing in the swimming pool were pink. The punch was pink.

The hostess greeted them with ardor. She was standing beside a gentleman wearing bathing trunks which were imprinted with flying beach umbrellas.

“You two are just cute as buttons,” she said. “Are you related?”

“We’re brother and sister,” Willie said.

“That’s adorable,” she said. “I had a brother once but he was …” she fluttered her fingers “… one of those. Very into the Greek tradition. He stole away all my boyfriends.” She looked down at Clem, who stood beside them chewing on an ice cube. “What,” she asked, “is that supposed to represent?”

“It’s a dog,” the gentleman suggested. “A pet would be my guess.”

“It certainly has peculiar eyes,” the hostess said. “My, I wouldn’t want to look at them every day. They sure remind me of something, though.” A memory knocked, then tramped muddily through her otherwise fastidious memory rooms. “Goodness,” she said excitedly. “I haven’t been this broody in years!.. Have you tried the pears stuffed with Gorgonzola? I want everyone to promise me they’ll try them.” She wandered off.

“What’s your line of work, son?” the gentleman asked Willie. He was drinking a martini from a jar. He would unscrew the cap of the jar, take a sip and screw the lid back on again. After each sip, his jaws would go slack, giving him a meaty look.

Willie shrugged.

The man nodded. “I don’t believe in work either,” he said, and laughed. “It’s my money that believes in it.” His laugh had bubbles and clots in it. He probed delicately at one of the beach umbrellas tipped at the crotch of his bathing trunks.

“I’ve saved a few people recently,” Willie said. “If you call that work. It’s what’s been coming up recently.”

“What are you, one of those Witnesses? Sneak up to a place with those little booklets, trying to make a man change his ways? A stranger comes up to my door, I greet him bare-ass, dick out, pistol ready.” He narrowed his eyes.

“I’m not doing what you think,” Willie said. “This wasn’t your redemption stuff. This was minor. Material stuff. Isolated events. Drowning. Shock.”

It was true. Willie had been saving people, though he knew it didn’t have the feel of a calling.

The first person Willie had saved was a young man struck by lightning on the beach. It was late in the afternoon of a stormy day, and they were watching the surfers enjoy the high, troubled Gulf. The sky was the color of plums and the water pale, and the surfers were dark on their bright boards. The boy had been hurled out of the water and thrown twenty feet through the air onto the beach by the force of the charge. His chest had been badly burned. The burns were delicate and intricate like the web of a spider. Willie had administered cardiopulmonary resuscitation. The young man’s name was Carl. He was small and blond and looked ferocious even when he was unconscious. A few days later his parents had come over to the house with a box of chocolate-covered cherries. The parents were old and grateful. They had had Carl very late in life. They said he was a wild boy whom they had never understood. They thought he had a death wish. They were old and Carl was young. They couldn’t understand his hurry.

While they were at the house, Carl’s father, Big Carl, who was an automobile mechanic, gave their truck a tune-up. Carl’s mother found a tick the size of an acorn under Clem’s chin and disposed of it without fuss in the toilet. She confided to Liberty that Carl had once called her a bugger and made her cry. She never cried about anything, she said, except her little Carl.

Willie had saved two people next, an elderly couple in a Mercedes who had taken a wrong turn and driven briskly down a boat ramp into eight feet of water. Willie had been there to pull open the door. His hand had first rested on a man’s bearded face, and for an instant, Willie said, he thought he was going to get bitten. The old woman wore a low-cut evening gown which showed off her Pacemaker to good advantage. The three of them stood dripping on the ramp, staring at the fuchsia pom-pom on the Mercedes antenna, all that was visible on the surface of the bay. They had been going to the opera.

“You’ve always been a fool, Herbert,” the old woman said to her husband.

“A wrong turn in a strange city is not impossible, my dear,” Herbert said.

To Willie, he said, “Once I was a young man like you. I was an innocent, a rain-washed star, then I married this bag.”

“Herbert’s lived in this town for years,” the man with the beach umbrellas flying over his bathing trunks said when Willie recounted the incident. “They love accidents, those two. Gets their blood going. Puts the sap in old Herb’s stick.”

The old couple had given Willie a thousand dollars, all in twenties, delivered by messenger.

“It’s good work, but it doesn’t sound steady,” the man said, clapping Willie on the shoulder. “Ruthie!” he hollered, gesturing wildly to a woman on the other side of the pool. “Come over here and meet this grand guy!” Ruthie made her way toward them, plunging her fingers in the soil of each potted plant along her route.

“She never waters anything,” Ruthie complained.

“Meet these two here,” the man said. “Ask them if they’ve got a Mississippi credit card.”

“Oh, I know that one,” Ruthie exclaimed cheerfully. “That’s four feet of garden hose to siphon gas, am I right?” She looked at Willie slyly, then turned to Liberty and showed her teeth.

Ruthie wore a great deal of jewelry. She glittered, resembling a chandelier. Willie declared admiration.

“I always wear my jewelry,” Ruthie said. “All the time, everywhere. Life is short.”

“Do you know why people are interested in jewels?” Willie asked. He touched a large red stone at the woman’s wrist. “It’s the way the visionaries experience things. Their world is a dazzling one of light. Everyone wants to see things that way. Materially, jewels and gems are the closest thing to a preternatural experience.”

“Come over here a sec,” Ruthie said and led him away from the party.

“What kind of drugs you got?” she asked, smiling. “I’m your lady. I’ll buy anything. I want to bong myself to the gills.” She clutched a little purse.

“I don’t have any drugs.”

“What’s all this lapis lazuli stuff?”

“I was just giving you some background.”

“You’re the youngest person here by at least twenty years. You don’t deal?”

“Nothing.”

“No? I can’t believe it. You think I don’t know? That I’m too old or ordinary to know?” She was still smiling. “They gave my husband heroin when he was dying. He kept telling me how profoundly uninteresting life was.”

“Good,” Willie said. “That’s good.”

“You’re a creepy kid,” Ruthie said.

Liberty watched, from a distance, Willie speaking. He looked back at her, scanning the space between them like a machine. How long would it be before they were caught, Liberty wondered. Caught, they would be separated. Separated, the contradictions between them would disappear, would vanish. No one would catch them then.

They had not fallen in love as though it were a trap, not at all. Love was not a thing that merely happened. Love was created, an act of the will, something made strong in the world, surviving the world’s strangeness and unaccountability. But Willie was inching out, his eye on something, the angling of some light coming from beneath some closed door.

All one day at CASA VIRGINIA, Willie took pictures of Liberty. He had found a camera in the house and a few rolls of film. Willie took shots of Liberty eating from a can of peaches. He took shots of her in her mildewy bikini. He took shots of her with a sea oat between her teeth. He took her hip bone, her nipples, her widow’s peak. Liberty saw that her life was being recorded in some way. Nevertheless, she was aware that her moments lacked incident.

Willie put the rolls of film in an antique brass bowl on the floor in the middle of the living room. Liberty took them outside at noon and broke the film from the cartridges. She would give the film to Little Dot, a child she knew. Little Dot found uses for useless things. She might attach the coils to her headband and pretend she was a princess from the planet Utynor. The sheets of film would be her face. Things had purposes for which they were not intended certainly. That’s what enabled a person to keep getting up in the morning.

At last Willie decided to move along. They saw Turnupseed staggering along the beach with an enormous Glad bag filled with empty beer cans.

“There’s enough aluminum on the beaches of Florida to build an airplane,” Turnupseed said.

Turnupseed looked tired. He was tired of the responsibility. “Looking back on it,” he said, “if I had to do it all over again, I just don’t know if I could.”

Willie said, “We can’t disown the light into which we’re born.”

In the uncaring light, Turnupseed gave a smile rather like a baby’s.

“You’ve got a lot of my first wife in you, son. What a sweetie she was. Number One was the one I really boogied with, if you know what I mean. She said that being sad separates a person from God.”

“She said that?” Willie wondered.

“I believe she used those very words,” Turnupseed said.

“We’ve got to be off now,” Willie said. “We’re leaving.”

“Leaving this radiant place?” Turnupseed said. “Well, I don’t blame you. Last night, you know, in town, I just could swear I saw my last wife in the laundromat. She didn’t speak to me.”

“Well, the dead can’t disappear,” Willie said. “After all, where would they go?”

“I like your manner son, I’m going to miss you,” Turnupseed said. “Take care of that wife of yours. She seems to be living in a world where this don’t follow that, if you know what I mean.”

Later, when the Crab Key Association discovered that Turnupseed had been on such excellent terms with the besmirchers, an aneurysm would smack into the old guard’s heart with the grace of a speeding bus touching a toad. Liberty could still see him waving good-bye.

2

Willie and Liberty and a locksmith stood outside the Umbertons’ house on Featherbed Lane. Willie and Liberty were not acquainted with the Umbertons, who had been away now for several weeks. Newspaper delivery had been canceled, the houseplants placed outside in filtered shade, the phone disconnected, and several lamps of low wattage had been lit, burning dimly at night and invisibly by day. The Umbertons were away, in another state, in a more vigorous clime, in a recommended restaurant where they were choosing with considerable excitement items from the dessert cart. They were absorbed and concerned by the choices offered — the napoleons, the lemon tarts, the chocolate-dipped strawberries — much as they would be weeks later, after their return home, in cylinder rim vertical deadbolt locks, hardened shackles and electric eyes.

Willie had noted that the house had no alarm system, so he had called a locksmith from a phone booth.

“Locked yourself out, huh?” the locksmith said.

“You know what happened to us?” Willie said. “Our keys were stolen. Keys to everything, stolen.”

“That’s awful,” the locksmith said. His name was Drawdy. “The stealing these days is just awful. People will steal anything. My sister come home one night and somebody had dug up every dwarf pygmy palm in her yard. She’d just had some landscaping done, and there were these four dwarf pygmy palms, except when she came home that night, there was just four holes there. Those holes were so neat she didn’t notice at first that the palms were gone. Never seen neater holes in my life. It was like little men from outer space came down and just plucked up those dwarf pygmy palms.” He looked at the lock on the front door of the Umbertons’ house. “You know what I’d give you for this,” he said to Willie. “I wouldn’t give you fifteen cents for this.” He went back to his truck and got his tool box. “I’ll tell you,” Drawdy said, returning. “You’ve got to think like a burglar these days to protect yourself. You’ve got to look at everything just like a burglar would.” He set to work on the door. Clem walked around the corner of the house and sniffed the locksmith’s leg. “God in heaven,” Drawdy said. He grew rigid, then slowly smiled. His smile was fixed and gray, lying on his mouth like a cobweb he had stumbled into.

“That’s just Baby Dog,” Willie said. “He’s one of us.”

Drawdy turned his smile on the door’s lock and picked away at it.

“Before I got into locks and such, I sold light bulbs,” Drawdy said. “I worked for a store in Mobile that sold nothing but white light bulbs. Now I bet you think that a white light bulb is nothing but a white light bulb, that white is white, but that is not the case. In Mobile I personally dealt with and sold Soft White, Warm White, Deluxe Warm White, Cool White, Deluxe Cool White, Daylight, Design White, Regal White, Natural White, Chroma White 50, Chroma White 75, Optima White, Vita-Lite, Natur-Escent, Verilux and …” he pushed open the Umbertons’ door with a flourish “… White.”

“Thanks,” Willie said.

“I would say that animal was close to a Chroma White 50,” Drawdy said, staring at Clem.

“How much do we owe you?” asked Willie.

“Twenty-five dollars,” Drawdy said.

“Could you bill us?” Willie asked. “I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure,” Drawdy said, squinting at Clem. The Umbertons’ name was given and their address. Drawdy wrote it down.

“I bet y’all don’t know how light bulbs are made,” Drawdy said.

“We don’t,” Willie agreed.

“Light bulbs are made by feeding glass in a continuous stream to the bulb-making machine,” Drawdy said somberly. “Don’t y’all want some keys made?”

“We’ll be in touch,” Willie said.

“Right,” Drawdy said. He watched Clem. “If I had that animal I’d teach him something maybe.”

“Like what?” Willie asked.

Drawdy looked puzzled. He rubbed his jaw and looked. “Like how to play an instrument,” he said. He picked up his toolbox, walked back to his truck and drove away.

The Umbertons had many possessions. The house was heavily furnished. They had glass torchères, leather couches, massive sideboards, thick carpets. And then the house was cluttered with small objects. The objects were of a different quality, as though the Umbertons had bought them for somebody else and then took them back after a quarrel. The kind of objects intended for a recipient who died before the occasion of giving.

On the leather-topped desk in the living room was a framed photograph of the Umbertons on their wedding day. They were standing on marble steps, he one step above her. He had a crew cut, her dress a long train. Their round faces were set resolutely toward one another. On the desk too was a picture of a large orange cat in front of a Christmas tree. It was obvious that a superior choice had been made that year in the selection of the tree, for in an album photos of many previous Christmas trees were mounted. The kitchen cupboards were filled with an assortment of nourishing and sensible canned goods. Large clothes hung in the closets in predominant colors of blue and beige. There was a cabinet off the bath that was filled with nothing but toilet paper.

“This is how some people prepare for nuclear attack,” Willie said, staring in at the treasury of white two-ply.

The Umbertons could be imagined as tall. The sinks and counters were set several inches higher than usual. Perhaps they had even become giants since their wedding day. The beds were oversized, the coffee mugs. Everything was heavy duty.

The Umbertons could be imagined as loving games. In one of the rooms was a pool table and a pinball machine. On the walls of this room hung a series of coconut shell heads, loonily embellished. An entire community of coconuts, masculine and feminine, mean and happy, hanging on the wall, contemplating the Umbertons’ life of leisure. In the kitchen it was clear that the Umbertons loved their Cuisinart, for which they had many attachments, and their orange cat, who had a box full of toys. Clem looked the box over. He selected a rubber pig, which squealed, and went off with it.

The sofas had pads under the legs to protect the rugs. The toilets had deodorant sticks to protect the integrity of the bowls. There was plastic on the lamp shades to protect them from dust and on the mattresses to shield them from nocturnal emissions. The Umbertons were waging a sprightly war against decline. They protected their possessions as though they had given birth to them.

“How about cutting my hair?” Willie asked Liberty. “Just a trim.”

She knew his intention and shook her head. He would gather the hair up and put it in the middle of the rug when they left, or on the table, in the center of something. Nothing would be missing, nothing out of place, but addressing the Umbertons when they returned, would be a mass of hair.

“You can’t read my mind,” Willie said. “I just wanted my hair cut.”

“It doesn’t need it,” Liberty said. “It’s fine the way it is, it looks good, I like it.”

“I could write your diary,” Willie said.

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Liberty said. Then she said, “That’s not true.” Finally she said, “I wouldn’t keep a diary.”

Beyond the windows the bay winked greenly. It was sick, filling up with silt. Each day there was less oxygen in the water than the day before. It labored against the cement wall the Umbertons had erected between them and it.

Liberty went into a sewing room off the kitchen. There were patterns and folds of fabric, a sewing machine and a dressmaker’s dummy. The room was snug and painted a placid peach. A calendar on the wall showed tittering bunnies and kittens playing musical chairs in a wholesome meadow. The room was obviously Mrs. Umberton’s tender retreat from the large life she shared with Mr. Umberton. Liberty sat on a hassock covered with a cheerful chintz and felt the top slip slightly. Removing the lid, she found inside a well-thumbed paperback with a torn cover. He plunged his head between her spread thighs, Liberty read. Lunging and licking, he thrust his tongue in her sea-smelling channels and velvet whorls tasting the wine which is fermented by desire. He drew back and she whined in pleasure as she saw his glistening shaft …

Liberty threw the book back into the hassock and went into the living room. Willie was holding his hands above a spray of plastic flowers in a bud vase as though he were warming them there.

“What are we looking for here,” Liberty asked, “just in general?”

“You know, when anesthesia was first invented, many doctors didn’t want to use it,” Willie said. “They felt it would rob God of the earnest cries for help that arose from those in time of trouble.”

“Anesthesia,” Liberty said. “You can’t rob God.”

“I keep having this dream,” Willie said. “It’s a typical prison dream. I’m wandering around, doing what I please, choosing this, ignoring that. And then I realize I’m locked up.”

Liberty looked at Willie, who was turning and folding his hands. Her own hands were trembling, and her mind darted, this way and that. Once, on a sunny day, much like this day, she had been driving down the road in their truck and she had seen a male cardinal that had just been struck by a car. It lay rumpled, on the road’s shoulder, and the female rose and dipped in confusion and fright about it, urging it to continue, to go on with her. Liberty’s mind moved like that, like that wretched, bewildered bird.

During the night, it rained. The rain came down in warm, rattling sheets. It pounded the beach sand smooth, it dimpled the bay, it clattered the brown fronds of palms where rats lived. It entered the lagoons and aquifers and passed through the Umbertons’ screens. Willie was playing pinball. Liberty could hear the flap of the paddles and the merry bells. She lay on her stomach on a rug in another room, glancing through the only other reading material in the house, a newspaper, several weeks old.

The local paper was highly emotional and untrustworthy. Truth was not a guarantee made to the paper’s readers, but certain things could be counted upon. One could expect, on any given day, a picture of a lone, soaring gull, a naked child holding a garden hose, or a recipe for a casserole containing okra. The editors took paragraphs from the wires for international affairs and concentrated on local color and horror — the migrant worker who killed his five children by sprinkling malathion on their grits; the seven-car pile-ups; the starving pet ponies with untrimmed hooves the size of watermelons. In this particular edition, there was one article of considerable interest, Liberty thought. It was an article about babies, babies in some large, northern city.

A nurse had made the first mistake. She had mixed up two newborn babies and given them to the wrong mothers for nursing. A second nurse on a different shift switched them back again. The first nurse, realizing her initial error, switched them a third time, switched the little bracelets on their wrists, switched the coded, scribbled inserts on their rolling baskets. At this point, the situation had become hopelessly scrambled. Three days passed. The mothers went home with the wrong babies. This was not a Prince and Pauper-type story. Both mothers had nice homes and fathers and siblings for the baby. Four months later the hospital called and told the mothers they had the wrong babies. They had proof. Toe prints and blood types. Chemical proof. They had done the things professionals do to prove that a person was the person he was supposed to be. The mothers were hysterical. They had fallen in love with the wrong babies and now they didn’t want to give their wrong babies up. But apparently it had to be done. It seemed to be the law.

Liberty put the paper aside, closed her eyes and listened to the rain. It rang against the glass like voices, like the voices of children screaming in a playground. Children’s voices sounded the same everywhere, a murmurous growth, a sweet hovering, untranslatable, like wind or water, moving.

Liberty and Willie were wanderers, they were young but they had wandered for years, as though through a wilderness, staying for days or weeks or months in towns with names like Coy or Peachburg or Diamondhead or Hurley. Then larger towns, cities, still as though through a wilderness, for there was no path for them or way — West Palm, Jacksonville, Sarasota. There was always a little work, a little place to stay, and then there was this other thing, this thing that was like an enchantment, this energy that kept them somehow going, this adopted, perverse skill of inhabiting the space others had made for themselves. For they themselves were not preparing for anything, they were not building anything, they were just moving along, and Liberty was aware that this house thing, this breaking and entering thing — time for the thing, they’d say, let’s do the thing — became more frequent, accelerated, just before they left a town.

The rain increased, it fell in shapes, its voice children’s voices.

Liberty and Willie had not been in this town long, six months, she knew two children well, Teddy and Little Dot. In a way they were her children in this town.

Tee, Little Dot called Liberty. There was always a scrape on her cheek or a cut on her arm, for she hurt herself often and was unaware of it. Her eyes were deeply set and dark. “Tee,” Little Dot called, something glittering on her wrist, something shining that she loved, something cheap, bright and useless that Liberty had bought her from a gum machine. Little Dot had been brain-damaged from birth, for her parents had been heavy dopers, now reformed. Her mother, Rosie, had been junking up so long she hardly knew she was pregnant, and when she finally acknowledged that she was, she was twenty-three weeks along. The doctor said they probably had just enough time to slip in the saline, and that it was just as well since Rosie was so toxic that the baby would probably be a very unhealthy one. As Rosie lay on the table and the doctor was preparing to do the abortion, Little Dot slipped out. She just pushed her own way out, bawling, a little bigger than a lady’s hand. “She’s a keeper,” the doctor said. “Can’t do anything about this one now.” And no one could. Little Dot lived in world of her own, in mindscapes no one could know.

It had been Liberty’s first night in town and she had been walking with Clem on the beach when she first met Little Dot. The child was all alone, a broken rope around her waist.

“I like to pee on the sand and look at the stars,” Little Dot said.

“Well, we all like to do that,” Liberty said.

She wore a dog tag with her name and address stamped on it, and Liberty took her home. It was just across the beach in a rundown shopping center where her parents, Roger and Rosie had a pottery shop called Oh! They lived in their shop and in a van that was parked out front. Behind the shop was a kiln and a tepee, where Little Dot slept.

“Oh,” Rosie said, “you must think we’re awful tying a little kid up, but it’s a long rope and you can feel how light it is and if we don’t, at night she just goes over to that beach. My baby’s just mesmerized by that beach, aren’t you baby? You’re my little turtle, aren’t you? Rosie’s little turtle. You just love those bright lights.”

Rosie’s eyes filled with tears but then she drew them back somehow, they didn’t fall.

Liberty sees Little Dot all the time now. She takes her to the supermarket and to water-ski shows and roller-rinks. She buys her crayons and Big Gulps. But Little Dot hurts herself more and more. She goes for days without speaking. Little Dot is her own small keeper, and she is alone with an aloneness so heavy that her self can hardly bear its weight. Liberty is not like a mother to her, Liberty knows that. She may even be adding to the terrible weight. Sometimes Liberty thinks that each moment she spends with Little Dot is like a stone she gives the child, a small stone added to other stones.

It is Teddy to whom Liberty seems like a mother. “You could be my mother,” Teddy often says to Liberty. They both have brown eyes and are allergic to tomatoes. Liberty could easily be his mother, Teddy reasons, because he needs one and they like each other. His own mother is in California where she is in love with another woman, and Teddy lives with his father, Duane, his father’s four restored Mustangs and his father’s latest girlfriend, Janiella. They live in a modest cement-block house with an extensive attached garage on the same street along the same narrow river where Willie and Liberty live. Liberty first saw Teddy high in the banyan tree in their yard the day after they had moved into the house. She had wanted to rent the place because of the banyan tree, a tree of such magnificence that it had extinguished all vegetative life in its vicinity. The banyan was awesome with its many cement gray trunks and its pink pendent aerial roots. It was so beautiful it looked as though it belonged in heaven or hell, but certainly not on this earth in a seedy, failed subdivision in the state of Florida.

Teddy had played in the tree for years.

“There are twenty-eight places to sit or lie on in that tree,” Teddy told Liberty. He was too old now to play in the tree, he said, but he used it as a place to think. He would crawl around and think, or sit and think. Teddy is seven. Liberty sees him mostly at night, almost nightly, for Duane and Janiella like to go out. They like to get drunk, dance, and drive around.

“Put this pony to bed at nine,” Duane would say, instructing Liberty in Teddy’s care, slapping his little boy on the back with such enthusiasm that the child would spin sideways.

“Don’t let Little Dot play with that bowl and spoon too long,” Rosie would say, “it gets her too excited.”

Teddy and Little Dot, they are Liberty’s children in this town, for this moment. But she and Willie will be moving on soon, and there will be another town, although she cannot visualize it. Another place has no shape for her, it is still nothing to her.

The rain fell, swelling the Umbertons’ yard. A tree limb toppled with a crack.

Liberty opened her eyes. A single light glowed dimly in the room that was papered with silver flowers. Clem had become bored with the pink pig. He dropped it back in the box and selected a squeaking carrot. Liberty could hear the jingling and clashing of the pinball machine. She went to the doorway and watched Willie playing. He stood with his arms clasped over his head while the ball, sent forth but undirected, continued to rocket off bumpers, to plunge down channels that would not have it, its ultimate fall checked again and again.

“This thing is rigged for an awful lot of free games,” Willie said.

“I want to get back tomorrow.” She pushed her hip against the machine and it stopped.

“Don’t you like it here?” Willie asked.

“Here? In the home of the tricky, comfy, rank-hearted Umbertons? Of course not.”

“You have no feeling for reality,” Willie said. “I’ve suspected it for some time. You have a real contempt for it.”

“This is someone else’s reality.”

“I’ll find the place,” Willie said. “You’ll see.”

She reached toward him and ran her fingers through his hair. She wanted to kiss his cheekbones, hold him tightly, feel him once more. She feared that they both had a longing for discovery, capture. And the longing to turn oneself in was, she knew, a fascination with the buzz saw, the stove’s red electric coil, the divider strip, the fierce oncoming light.

Willie pulled her hands away and held them in his. He rubbed them as though they were cold. They were not cold. In another room, a bed loomed white and vaporous in the darkness.

“Lie down with me,” Liberty said. “Let’s comfort one another.”

“Comfort takes twenty minutes for old hands like us,” Willie said. “I’m talking averages. Growing excitement, passion, fulfillment, despair. Twenty minutes.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Liberty said.

“Not that? What comfort then?”

“I meant that actually,” Liberty said.

“I’ve always loved you,” Willie said.

Something in the Umbertons’ house ticked, as though expanding.

At daybreak, it was still raining. Rosy-fingered dawn bloomed elsewhere, in higher, purer altitudes perhaps, where the heart beats more slowly. Liberty was dreaming the things she dreamed in stolen houses — churches and flowers and suitcases, bowls and water and caves. She stirred, and felt that Willie was standing over her, staring at her. And that was part of the dream, she thought, for Willie to be studying her so solemnly, as though he were choosing something. She was a woman in a house, sleeping. She looked at Willie, safe in her sleep-looking. She looked at him and saw herself, the form he would have her assume, a woman in a house, sleeping.

Later, she opened her eyes and saw Clem’s muzzle aimed at her, several inches away, his tail wagging slowly. She knew Willie had gone. When he hadn’t returned in an hour, she and Clem left too.

The Florida sky, the color of tin, squeezed out rain. It fell on stone and seed alike. Across the street from the Umbertons, a neighbor’s lawn consisted of large white stones dumped on black vinyl. The rain fell on that. It fell on a sheriff’s car that drove slowly past. The deputy was opening a Twinkie wrapper with his teeth. He grinned at Liberty as though she shared with him the criminal goodness of Twinkies. The car went around a corner and the street was empty. Heat rose like smoke from the damp pavement.

Clem chose a hydrant painted yellow, a garbage can and a clump of ginger lilies and made them his own. Walking out of Featherbed Lane (JUNGLE LOTS YOUR PIECE OF FANTASY WITH CENTRAL SEWER AND WATER) they entered an area bristling with garden apartments. There were gun shops and establishments that dealt exclusively in sandwiches. There were auto body repair shops offering reasonable rates where gypsies who had roamed the streets denting cars with baseball bats the night before hammered out the dents today. There was an open air laundromat where surfers were gloomily drying their blue jeans. They sat in plastic chairs and stared at the heaving washers, all vacationers in this expensive resort that is life.

“Oh-oh,” a surfer said, “I didn’t mean to put that shirt in there.” A screaming red pressed against the soapy glass and was pulled back.

Liberty and Clem continued walking, over to the Trail to hitch a ride home. The Trail had once been a meandering Indian footpath over coral and limestone rock, but it was now a murderous six-lane highway that gobbled up small animals for breakfast, dreamy old geezers in walkers for lunch, and doped-up young honors students in their developer-dads’ Jeeps for dinner.

Liberty stuck out her thumb. Cars poured toward them and past. Then, a pickup truck pulled over sharply. It was Duane, Teddy’s father.

“Hey, Liberty,” he called. “Why you hitching? Old man kick you out?” He grinned. Liberty attempted to match his grin with one of her own. Her jaws began to ache. With a grin like that, Duane must drool some, Liberty thought. He was short and compact, with thick, graceful eyebrows, a ruddy, healthy, milk-and-spoonbread look. He was a genius with engine blocks. Other aspects of life puzzled him and frequently pissed him off.

“Hey!” Liberty chanted back. “Where did you get this truck?”

“It’s my buddy’s truck. I’ve been helping him with some tree work for the telephone company. Let the dog sit up here too. I’ve got my saws in the back.” He pushed open the door on the passenger side. Clem squeezed in front and settled himself. He looked like rising bread there.

A card taped to the windshield said NO ASS NO GRASS NO GAS NO RIDE.

“Don’t pay no attention to that,” Duane said gallantly. He popped the clutch and the truck tore off. “Guess who I saw today?”

“Who did you see today?”

“Everyone I looked at,” Duane said, grinning. Then his face grew somber. “You know that bitch, that wailing thorn-in-my-side bitch, the lezzie bitch I once revered as a wife, well she served papers on me yesterday.”

“I never met your wife, Duane,” Liberty said.

“Yes, she surely did. Seven-odd months to the day she left. She and her bitch girlfriend found a lezzie lawyer and they served me papers. Don’t want nothing, she says, just wants to get away from me. Can you believe that? My Teddy’s momma, my sweet boy’s momma, a lezzie. There was so much deceit in that woman! Like she used to go on about my hair all the time, talking about my hair, how much she loved my hair, how wonderful my hair was. Well what was that all about? My hair for chrissakes. Then she comes up to me one morning seven-odd months to the day and says, ‘I’m leaving, Duane, I want a divorce, Duane. I’m living a lie, honey, and I’m so bored and unhappy, my face is getting bumps.’ It’s true she used to have the nicest skin. Every night she’d put her face in a bowl of ice cubes. But she was getting bumps.”

Duane stopped for a red light. He rubbed his eyes, then looked at Clem. Clem was looking forward with distaste, his ears flattened against his skull. “You know that dog smells like peaches,” Duane said. “When I was a little boy, I just loved peaches. I’d eat peaches till I’d puke.”

“Peaches,” Liberty said. Clem was always reminding people of things, possibilities, better times, imagined pleasures, suppressed woes. Clem stimulated the meridians. The highs, the lows. Peaches.

“I had a dog like that once,” Duane went on. “He hung himself. It’s the truth. I had him tied up inside a shed because he was a rambler, you know. Rambled all around. So I had to tie him up, and I tied him inside a shed because he was a rambler. Rambled all around. A roamer. So I had to tie him up and I tied him inside a shed and he jumped out a window there and the rope wasn’t long enough to reach the ground and the poor guy hung himself. Actually he didn’t resemble your dog at all, but I get reminded, when I see a dog, I see a rope. Now when I see a rope it don’t remind me of a dog. Funny.”

A headache cupped Liberty’s skull. The light still shone red.

“God damn light,” Duane yelled. He gunned the truck and danced it halfway through the intersection. He looked at Liberty and smiled. “Do you know anything about lesbians?” he asked.

“I can get out anywhere along here,” Liberty offered.

“Nah,” Duane said. “I’ll take you right to your door. You’re always doing me favors, right? You watch Teddy real good.”

Liberty felt as though she were on a long hot ride with a lunatic to a honeymoon room in Racine, Wisconsin. Clem turned and pressed his nose against her neck’s artery. Peaches. She was relieved actually that Duane had quit the peaches business.

“I have some suspicions about lesbians,” Duane said. “I mean I have some theories about the way they might be spotted. I would think that might be worth something, don’t you?”

“Why what would that be worth?” Liberty asked.

The light changed and they peeled off. “A checklist,” Duane yelled, “like the seven danger signals of cancer! So a lezzie could see it coming on and do something about it. Number one on my checklist!” Duane shouted. His left arm was dangling out the window and he slapped the car door smartly with his hand. “Dream of black triangles. All the time dreaming of black triangles. Number two on my checklist!” He smacked the door again. “Don’t like their momma, can’t stand their momma. Three on my checklist, forgets to flush the toilet. Number four on my checklist …” Southern civility finally grabbed hold. He blushed. “I can’t go on,” he said. He slowed the car meekly and they drove for a moment in silence. Then he shook his head and began darting smartly in and out of traffic once more, cutting a swath, forcing to the side less-committed individuals.

A BMW with tinted windows abruptly snaked around them. The window rolled down, and a white-shirted masculine arm, its wrist adorned with a large gold ID bracelet, was extended. The hand on the arm gave Duane the finger.

Duane’s mouth flapped open like a lid on some ill-omened box.

“Did he throw me the bird?” he demanded of Liberty. Traffic flowed around them, but Duane had slowed almost to a stop and sat behind the wheel as though in a trance.

“He’s just a jerk,” Liberty said. “Ignore him.” She looked with alarm at Duane’s disordered face.

“Well, this particular jerk’s little glass of happiness is just about to be knocked over,” Duane said.

The truck pitched forward and homed in on the BMW. Duane reared it up to within an inch of the car’s rear bumper. Then he knocked it. The driver of the BMW braked and leapt out, a fit fellow with a blond mustache, well-dressed, with shiny shoes. Duane gazed at him for an instant, smiling faintly, then hurled himself out the door, but to Liberty’s surprise, he did not go forward, but retreated backward, to the bed of the truck. She turned and saw Duane grabbing a chain saw as long as his arm. He set his legs in a crouch, choked the saw, and started yanking on the cord. The man from the BMW stopped, his face turning first red, then white. It was an amazing thing to see. It was as though he were trying to withdraw all his limbs into some secret compartment of his torso. Duane was yanking away at the cord.

“God-damn saw,” he was saying.

The man fled back to his car, stalled it twice, then strained away in second gear.

Duane put the saw down in the truck bed and climbed back into the cab. Traffic was allowing him a large berth.

“Asshole like that makes the highway a dangerous place to be.” Duane composed himself and said cheerfully, “Guy won’t be able to get it up for a week. Now what were we discussing, oh yeah, the fact that Jean-Ann is queer. I feel I can talk to you, you know. I never told no one but Teddy that Jean-Ann was queer. My lady Janiella don’t even know. It’s bad enough she knows the damn woman left me. Janiella’s a woman of culture. She’d probably faint if I told her.”

“We’re almost home, Duane,” Liberty reminded him. “We’ve got to take the next right for Suntan.” Duane was the rugged, forgetful type, Liberty decided. The type who might go into a 7-Eleven for a beer and a bag of fried pork rinds and end up robbing the place instead.

Duane swerved across three lanes of traffic.

“You know, I’ve lived in this town my whole life. Smashed up my first car in this town, had my first drunk, got my first feel of titty, everything. I don’t like it here much anymore, but once you leave a town you can’t have lived there your whole life, know what I mean? Where you going to be from then? Got no place to be from.”

Suntan was a street in an area of town where the other streets were named for fun fruits — Kumquat, Tangerine, Mango, Java Plum — in an unfinished development which had been conceived in the fifties and failed in the fifties. The developer had been so out of step with the times that he hadn’t even bulldozed the trees, pumped out the mangrove lowlands, flattened the hammocks and seawalled the river. There were a few stucco, Spanish-style houses there in faded rose or white, and some frame houses set up on blocks with tin roofs and wraparound porches, but mostly there was shade on Suntan. Immense dappled shifting dark beneath the high crown of palms and oaks.

“You think Teddy resembles Jean-Ann?” Duane mused.

“I was never acquainted with Jean-Ann,” Liberty said.

“He favors her some,” Duane said. “He’s got her dark hair. Ugh. I love that little boy, but sometimes he gives me the creeps.”

The truck cortèged bleakly down Guava, than made a turn on Suntan. One of nature’s most sacrosanct laws is that one can slow time by motion. Liberty felt the truck speeding in place, the street yawning ahead of them like an animal’s short, dark throat.

“It seems like one day Jean-Ann was normal and the next …” Duane sucked in his cheeks, choosing his word carefully. “Abnormal,” he finally said. “Jean-Ann just took our marriage and chucked it out the window.”

Liberty envisioned marriage. A homely paper sack, aloft.

“It’s hard to know what’s normal and what isn’t sometimes,” Liberty said.

Duane looked at her with irritation, as though she were a girl who had burped while he was kissing her.

“Now that it’s all over between Jean-Ann and me, I wish she was dead,” Duane said. “It’s nothing real personal, I just wish she was dead is all.”

“Here we are!” Liberty said.

“That rubber tree you got is some big mother all right,” Duane said.

Liberty agreed that it was.

“I been cutting holes in mothers like that for the last week,” Duane said.

“Why?”

“They been smaller than that,” he admitted. “That’s got to be one of the biggest trees around here.”

“But why have you been cutting into them!”

“Why, well, for the telephone lines to go through,” Duane said. “We make a nice round circle right in the middle of the crown of the tree so the lines can go through. We got to keep them lines of communication open for people.” He chuckled as though making a joke. “But this one won’t get carved. We’re outside the city limits here.”

Liberty and Clem got out.

“I bet you don’t have a single drain that ain’t stopped up in that house,” he said. “Cut that sucker down and you’d have firewood forever.”

“It never really gets cold here, Duane,” Liberty said.

“That’s what I’m saying. Wood enough for five, six years.” Duane winked at Liberty, made two tight noisy circles in the street and sped away.

“Hello the tree,” Liberty called. She would usually say this upon returning to the house. It did no harm to keep in touch with the vegetable world.

“Hello, hello. Where have you been?”

“Teddy?” Liberty said, startled. Deep inside the banyan it still dripped rain. A curtain of rodlike aerial roots parted and Teddy scrambled down the trunk.

“Daddy brought you here,” Teddy said.

“He sure did,” Liberty said. “Why aren’t you in school?”

“Something happened yesterday. I called you and called you, but you weren’t home. Sometimes when I called, this voice would say ‘What number?’ I guess it was the operator.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, baby, what happened yesterday?” Life must be understood backwards, Liberty thought, or was it—Life can be understood backwards.

“It happened at school,” Teddy said. “They didn’t know what to say to us so they sent us home. We don’t have to go to school all week. Janiella’s really upset that I don’t have to go to school all week. She has all kinds of projects lined up to keep me occupied.”

Teddy tucked her hand in his and they went inside the house.

“Yesterday,” he said, “Mrs. Bates was telling us about protozoa. We have an aquarium in our room and it’s full of pond water and we were going to get to look at little drops of water under a microscope, and I hadn’t gotten my turn yet because I’m a W, so I hardly ever get my turn, but Billy Adams said it was amazing, all that stuff crawling around in a drop of water. So I was waiting for my turn and this man came in and shut the door. Everyone asks me what he looked like because he just stood back there for a minute where I was, but I don’t know what he looked like. He looked like anybody. Then he ran up to the front of the room and he grabbed Mrs. Bates. Nobody outside could see because our room doesn’t have any windows, there’s just our cubbies on the wall where a window could be. Then the man knocked Mrs. Bates down and banged her head on the floor and tore her dress, but when everyone started screaming, he ran away. I took off my jacket and covered her up with it and then I got the principal. I was the only one with a jacket. Janiella always makes me wear one.”

In the silence, Liberty could hear Clem drinking from his water bowl. One has these assumptions, Liberty thought, these foolish assumptions about life. This is the day that the Lord hath made — that sort of thing. It proceeds from sunrise to sunset. Dare, don’t adapt. Rejoice. Be truthful. Get enough rest. Take it easy on the sun and salt. Love. Reflect. Praise. Learn. As a child, Liberty had learned how to write with ascending accuracy between increasingly diminishing lines. That’s a child’s life. A child starts with intense admiration for the world. It’s him and the world. But there are too many messages. Most are worthless, but they still must be received. One must select and clarify. One must dismiss and forget. One is in a lighted room, then it turns dim. Inexplicably. One’s intense attachment turns to fear, then hate, then guilt. Finally, sorrow.

“Oh baby,” Liberty said.

“Do you know what they say? They say that that man used to be Mrs. Bates’ boyfriend. Do you have any paper? I have my colored pens. I want to make her a get-well card.”

Mrs. Bates had no husband, Teddy explained. Her husband was in New Zealand making hang-gliders. Teddy sat on the couch, a telephone book upon his knees, supporting the frail paper upon which he drew. He drew a plane descending upon a beautiful green and purple island in a blue sea. The island wore palm trees and waving, smiling children. Please get well Mrs. Bates, the plane’s wings said. It was a drawing of such earnest innocence and grubby grace that Liberty knew it would pluck Mrs. Bates from the plain of depressing twilight from which she was struggling to arise and shove her right back into the valley of bleakest night.

“Tonight’s Halloween, you haven’t forgotten, have you, Liberty? You said we’d all go out. I’m going to go as a doctor. My daddy and Janiella are going to give a party so I have to be out for a long time.”

“Okay, baby,” Liberty said. “We’ll have fun. I’ll see you tonight. Come over before it gets dark.”

“I love you,” Teddy said. He watches her, he opens his arms.

“I love you too,” Liberty said and hugged him. It’s timing. He always says it first.

The phone was ringing. Someone muttered something.

“What are you saying?” Liberty asked. “Who are you calling?”

“Number seventeen,” a voice said. It was a man’s voice. He sounded old and nervous, even on the verge of tears.

“I believe you have the wrong number,” Liberty said.

There was a strangled cry, then a click. She put the phone down and sat upon the sofa. Fallen between the cushions was a folded piece of mimeographed paper from the school that Teddy had left behind. GENERAL INFORMATION FOR PARENTS the paper said.

Drugs are being sold to schoolchildren in the form of brightly colored paper tabs. They resemble postage stamps in size and have pictures of Superman, Dopey and Mickey Mouse upon them. A young child could have a dangerous reaction to these “uppers” and “downers” by licking these tabs. Absortion can also occur through the skin by simply handling the paper. Alert your children.

The principal had misspelled absorption. The school had faulty wiring, daily tornado drills, and nervous German shepherds with names like Kong and Goforit prowling the corridors seeking illegal substances. They had banned The Little Lame Prince from the library, had a nurse who spanked children in the infirmary, and had turned off the drinking fountains because there was saltwater infusion in the wells. A teacher had just been attacked in a room where children were dutifully growing radishes in egg cartons and making cameras out of Quaker Oats boxes. There wasn’t time for spelling.

Liberty went into the bathroom where she turned the water on in the shower. She undressed and stood in the small stall beneath the spray until the hot water ran out. She turned off the water and stared uneasily at the shower curtain, which portrayed soiled palm trees staggered in rows.

“Hi,” Willie said. He pushed the curtain back. His lean jaws moved tightly, chewing gum. Willie made chewing gum look like one of the great pleasures of being a human being. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a snug, faded polo shirt. His eyes were a faded blue. Liberty felt that they passed over her lightly. Communication had indeed broken down considerably. Signals were intermittent and could easily be misread.

“Why are you standing in there?” he asked.

“I was just getting out.”

“I was in a house,” Willie said, “and in a shower pretty much like this one there was …”

Liberty raised a finger to her lips wanting to hush him. She felt awkward being naked in front of this man. This was her husband. She had known him for long years and was indeed closer to him than to her own self. She shivered.

“Don’t you want to know what was in this shower?”

“I trust you,” Liberty said. “I trust you and want to be with you.” She spoke loudly.

“There was a bitch nursing six puppies. Their eyes were squeezed shut. It was cute.”

Liberty looked at him and stepped out of the shower. She wrapped a towel around herself, went to the sink and brushed her teeth.

“I was in a house,” Willie said, “where there were huge paintings on the walls of greatly enlarged amoebae, jellyfish and polyps.”

“The things people do for protection,” Liberty said, rinsing.

“People are so deceitful these days. You wouldn’t believe the number of houses that merely give the appearance of being secured. Fake tubular locks. Alarm system decals that look as though they came out of cereal boxes. It’s all an illusion, produced for the stranger.”

“And you’re the stranger,” Liberty said. She looked into the mirror. There were her lips, her teeth.

“We’re all the stranger,” Willie said.

“We should lighten up this hobby of yours,” Liberty said. “Why don’t you hot-wire a nice car and we’ll drive to New Orleans, the City that Care Forgot.”

“That’s not the plan. Do you think I’m a thug?”

“What is the plan?”

“Liberty prefers not to read between the lines,” Willie said. “The clearly visible is exhausting enough, Liberty feels.”

She could no longer see herself in the mirror which had steamed up. She drew a line down the center of the glass with her finger. At the top on the right she wrote yes and on the left no. She regarded her list. It certainly lacked qualification.

Willie took a soft mask from his jeans pocket and pulled it on. It was a duck mask, the duck’s expression registering surprise and concern. It was not Donald Duck. It was a duck personality entirely different from Donald’s.

Turning, Liberty said, “Oh, that’s good!”

“I’m set,” the duck said. “What are you going as?”

“Nothing. But I’m going.”

“Nothing is usually indicated by a dark forest, a wasteland tract, a desert, et cetera,” the duck said.

“Don’t,” Liberty said.

“But instead you’re going as the path you could take. You feel the path you could take, the path you could have taken inside you. You feel it as an unhappiness, an incompleteness.”

“Don’t, Willie,” Liberty said.

3

Liberty had never cared for Halloween. The night gave the false hope that when one was summoned to the door by an unfamiliar knock, one’s most horrible fears could be objectively realized by the appearance of ghosts, witches, ambulatory corpses and the headless hounds of hell.

Liberty and Clem were not in costume. Willie wore his duck mask. Teddy came to the house in a white gown carrying a stethoscope and a saw. They walked through the streets to the small shopping center where Little Dot lived. They passed a shop that sold sportswear. A sign in the shop window said YES! WE HAVE MASTECTOMY BATHING SUITS!

The kiln behind the pottery shop was dark. Roger and Rosie hadn’t been able to fire anything in the kiln for a month, ever since a pair of feral cockatoos had chosen to nest there.

Liberty knocked on the door. Through the window she could see Rosie bounding through a clutter of pots and bowls and cups and vases, toward them.

“Hi,” she said. “Little Dot’s all set. She has the greatest costume but she doesn’t like it. She doesn’t want to come out of her tepee.”

“What’s that?” Teddy asked, pointing at a pin on Rosie’s blouse. There was a man’s picture on the pin.

“Oh!” Rosie said, “that’s the Dalai Lama. A friend of mine met the Dalai Lama. He said he wore horn-rimmed glasses and a little button on his suit just like this one that shows the Dalai Lama wearing horn-rimmed glasses. They sell these little pins all over the place in Tibet, and my friend bought one and gave it to me. At first I thought it was really stupid but then I felt the Dalai Lama’s spirit piercing me like little arrows. It felt just like that, like being pierced by little arrows. Now I love this pin, I don’t think it’s stupid at all! But I can’t wear it very much because it gives me a great yearning for nonexistence. That’s a great feeling, very relaxing, but it’s not the kind of feeling you should have all the time. That’s why little kids shouldn’t wear this pin. It’s like they shouldn’t sit in hot tubs either.” Rosie ran her fingers through her rusty red hair and beamed at Teddy. “I used to take drugs but the Dalai Lama made me clean. It’s great to be clean, let me tell you. Then I met Roger-Dad and that was great too. I mean, I’m very accepting now.”

Roger came into the shop. He kissed Liberty on the forehead. His pigtail harbored string and dust, part of a potato chip. “Liberty,” he said mournfully. “Willie.”

“Thanks for taking Little Dot,” Rosie said. “Roger-Dad and I are just so busy tonight. You’re Christians, right? I bet you are!” Rosie had made this inference many times.

“We believe in guilt and longing,” Willie admitted. “Confession and continual defeat. The circle and the spiral.” The words filled up the room pleasantly, like boulders.

“Jesus could never have saved me from drugs. Jesus is dead.” Rosie reflected sadly upon this for a moment.

Willie walked to the back of the store and called out into the yard where the tepee stood. The tepee looked serene. Little Dot had a sleeping bag inside and a collection of soothing photographs. Rosie subscribed to a club that sent a soothing photograph each month. The subjects offered were supposed to be especially mysterious, evocative and comforting. They were black-and-white photographs of columns and foggy roads, of ladders and lambs. Within each photograph was a place where Little Dot was free to come and go.

Little Dot pushed back the flap door of the tepee and walked stolidly past Willie and into the shop. The little girl was dressed half as a man and half as a woman. Half a tie was sewn to half a frilly blouse, half a skirt to a single trouser leg. On one side of her face was glued a beard and a thick eyebrow. There was lipstick on one side of her mouth and a rhinestone earring dangling from her ear.

“Oh, Rosie,” Liberty said.

“A representation in human form of the principle of wholeness,” Rosie said with pride.

Rosie gave Teddy and Little Dot large shopping bags, then put a highly speckled banana in the bottom of each one. “Have a ball now!” she said. The children looked at the first thing in the bottom of their bags. Before, their bags had been perfect. Now each bag had a redolent banana in it.

They left the shopping center and entered a neighborhood Willie and Liberty knew well, for they had, in the past, entered many of the homes uninvited and entertained themselves there. There was the home of the retired Colonel, for example. The retired Colonel had a bazooka and a collection of thunder jugs. He had made a coffee table out of an old gravemarker. The marker was slim and weather-pocked with an angel etched upon it and the dates 1797–1798. The retired Colonel, in whose home the marker lies, covered with magazines and overflowing ashtrays, is a heavy, sallow man, a widower with blackheads around his eyes. This night, the house is dark, the shades drawn, and the children do not approach the door. Instead, they run between the ant mounds on the lawn to the house beside it, a house from which came the voice of Elvis Presley singing “Heartbreak Hotel.” Liberty and Willie were familiar with the house from which the voice of The King rolled. An enormous Oriental carpet filled the floor of the living room and climbed one wall. Pinned to the center of it was a photograph of Elvis with his curled lip, his thickly lashed eyes, his look of humorous sadism, Elvis in his prime, signing the hand of a dazed-looking girl in an angora sweater and poodle skirt. In the bedroom were two large teddy bears, both blue and eyeless with pieces of red felt for tongues. In the bathroom, the medicine cabinet was filled with diet pills and expensive bubble bath.

The children ran across the grass.

“That woman made us each say ‘He was taken too soon,’ ” Teddy said. “Then she gave us both a little box of chocolate-covered cherries.”

Willie held Little Dot’s hand, Liberty held Teddy’s. Clem followed behind them. They were like any couple out with their children and dog on Halloween.

“How did you hurt your arm?” Willie asked Little Dot. From elbow to wrist, her arm was bruised. Little Dot stopped and set down her bag. With the index and middle fingers of her right hand she squeezed her arm, twisting it like a key.

“No,” Willie said. He pushed the duck mask off his face, kissed her fingers, then spread them flat and patted them.

“Do you know what a bruise is?” Teddy said excitedly. “It’s blood that’s leaked out of a blood vessel under your skin. It’s in a strange place and whenever blood is in a strange place, it begins to change. The spilled blood has to be cleaned up and you know what’s happening right now?”

Little Dot looked at him.

“White blood cells are cleaning up that blood right now. They’re like little garbage men who wander around your body looking for garbage. When they find it, they swallow it up. The spilled blood is like garbage and the white blood cells are gobbling it up and when all the blood’s been eaten, the black and blue marks will be gone!”

Little Dot hid her arm behind her back.

Cars crept along the streets, transporting small, ghastly beings. The children moved forward, grazing the landscape as thoroughly as Mexican goats. Six dwellings. Nine. The swimming pools were lit. The sprinklers cast their slow, soft arcs. Thousands of dollars of lighting and millions of kilowatts of electricity were used to make green plants red and blue. Thousands of gallons of water from the sulfurous, shrinking aquifer were pumped up to make thousands of bags of cypress shreddings dark against the pale trunks of palms.

A man wearing red trousers and no shirt opened the door of a small house. Cold air fled out into the muggy night. He feigned great horror at the sight of Teddy and Little Dot and, most particularly, the duck, and extended a bowl of candy bars.

“Can I use your toilet?” Little Dot asked.

“Sure,” the man said.

Little Dot squeezed past him and disappeared down a corridor to the right. Little Dot loved utilizing people’s bathrooms and had an unerring sense of where they were.

“Can that dog do tricks?” the man asked Liberty. “I had a dog once that was so well trained, you give him a cookie, he’d get halfway through it, you’d tell him to spit it out, he would.”

“He can’t do that,” Liberty said, looking at Clem.

“Not inclined that way, huh,” the man said.

They waited for what seemed a long time for Little Dot to reappear. “Why don’t you come in,” the man finally said, “and collect your kid.” He didn’t seem annoyed.

Inside, on a white bamboo table, were a dish of peanuts, two empty martini glasses and a ceramic dildo.

“That’s an old one,” Willie said.

“Why, yes, it is,” the man said, looking at the dildo with pride. “It’s from Martha’s Vineyard. It belonged to one of those poor whaling wives.”

“Little Dot!” Liberty called.

“The bathroom’s this way,” the man said. Liberty followed him down the corridor. The door was partially open and she saw a white towel in a ring, a mirror picturing the tiled wall of a shower, a urinal. The man she was following had a thin, young neck from behind. Liberty’s hands dangled at her sides. She felt as though she, somehow, were the threatening party. The sound of a television came from another room.

“Little Dot!” Liberty called.

“Here she is,” the man said.

Little Dot was sitting on a bed with a man in a linen suit. They were watching a documentary on the Renaissance. The large screen on the wall showed Ghiberti’s bronze doors of the Baptistery in Florence.

Little Dot bounced on the bed which was covered by a dark, synthetic fur. “Eden,” she said. “The sacrifice of Isaac.”

Little Dot went to Sunday School. She knew these people. She made them out of modeling clay. She drew them with her crayons.

“You’d be disappointed in Florence, kid,” the man in the suit said. He was smoking a cigarette. “Too many cars. It’s a filthy place.”

“C’mon, honey,” Liberty said, bending to touch Little Dot’s knees to keep her from bouncing. Thank you for not hurting her, she wanted to say. She knew it was an inappropriate thing to say.

“I flushed,” Little Dot said. She patted the man’s arm. “This is Gordon.”

“They’re going to show Michelangelo’s Four Captives in a moment,” Gordon said. “I’ve seen this program many, many times.” He looked at Little Dot as though he realized she was a captive too, a part of her imprisoned in a stony, unworked region of her mind.

Little Dot looked at the screen. “A doll,” she said.

“Nah, not a doll,” Gordon said. “You like dolls?”

Smoke lay in levels in the room. “You know what I can do?” Little Dot said. “I can fix zippers. I can get them back on track like nobody.”

Gordon stubbed out his cigarette and opened the drawer of a bedside table. Blunt, blurred features in stone filled the television screen. He put something in an envelope and handed it to Little Dot. She dropped it in her bag.

At the door, the other man murmured, “That is the most generous, the most genuine human being you will ever meet.”

Outside, the street looked peculiar to Liberty, as though dipped in milk.

“One more house,” the children begged. “One more!”

A truck drove toward them, a light on in the cab. A man was driving, and there was a dog on the seat beside him. The driver noticed Clem and put one hand over his dog’s eyes as they passed by.

“All I have left is gum,” the woman said. “You shoulda come earlier.” She appeared somewhat loaded. She was wearing a two-piece bathing suit and drinking a beer. The top of the suit did not resemble the bottom in its pattern. “Just gum, but even so, you got to do a trick before you get the treat.”

“I could tell your fortune if you give me your hand,” Teddy said.

“No thanks and I’ll tell you why,” the woman said, tapping Teddy’s chest with a long, painted nail. “You’re a little doctor, right? Doctors give me the shivers. They give me the heebie-jeebies. My first husband was a doctor. You know what he knew about? Livers. His whole world was livers. He was a little dark Iranian, always smiling. He was creepy beyond belief.” She looked at Willie. “What are you going to do for me, duckie?” she asked coyly.

The duck spoke without moving its beak.

All would be well

Could we but give us wholly to the dreams,

And get into their world that to the sense

Is shadow, and not linger wretchedly

Among substantial things; for it is dreams

That lift us to the flowing, changing world

That the heart longs for.

“My god,” the woman said. “That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard. You wait right here.” She went into another room and came back with a bottle of Cuervo Gold. “That was truly lovely, duckie,” she said, handing the bottle to Willie. “Now I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we tell the very worst thing that ever happened to us. How about you?” she said to Little Dot. “You look as though you’ve got a tale to tell.”

Little Dot sat down beside Clem and put her thumb in her mouth.

“Okay,” the woman said, rolling the beer can across her midriff, “I will tell you the worst thing that happened to me. I was just a little kid like you and I was at the circus. I was having such a wonderful time at the circus. The thing I liked best were the aerialists. I didn’t like the clowns and I didn’t like the man who caught the lead balls on the back of his neck and I didn’t like the tigers, I liked the aerialists. I loved seeing them up so high, flying through the air, the sequins on their costumes flashing. I wanted to be an aerialist. Well I was at the circus and a man on a trapeze missed the net and fell into the audience. He fell on me and broke my collarbone. He smelled terrible. I mean, really terrible, like a big mouse or something.”

The woman chuckled. This little group depressed her. She wanted to tell them everything. The truth was, she was worried. She could still bleach her hair and meet a man in a bar, maybe even manage a little water-skiing, but before her lay increasingly untrustworthy memories, hangovers, and pain during intercourse. A tooth had cracked the last time she ate barbecue. Innuendoes were being made. Diagnoses were being written.

“That actually wasn’t the worst thing,” she said. She really was high as a kite. “That happened to a little kid. The worst thing that happened to the lady you see before you was that she was robbed. She was robbed, but they didn’t take anything. Broke into her house and didn’t take a goddamn thing.” She folded her beer can in half with a pop. “I’m going to turn the light off on you now,” she said. Turning out the light on them, standing there, shutting the door on them, their worst things unsaid, unknown, unaccounted for, made her feel a little better.

The night was still young. They returned to Willie and Liberty’s house and got into the truck. Willie drove to the newest and most elaborate hotel in town, an establishment that had six bars and a waterfall that fell three stories. On one of the patio bars, a party was taking place around an open coffin, surrounded by calla lilies. In the coffin were tiny hamburgers, barbequed shrimp on sticks, all kinds of food. Liberty and Clem and the two children sat in a corner of the lobby on the edge of the patio. Little Dot held Clem’s head in her hand, moving her mouth at him without making any sounds. She had once told Liberty that Clem was a dog because he was not good enough yet to be a child. Chains and boots and feathers seemed popular among the adult revelers this year. They were throwing small sacks of talcum powder at one another. Willie had taken the duck mask off and was standing by the reception desk. A pear-shaped man in a brown business suit approached the desk and stood next to Willie.

“Where are the cookies in this town, pal?” the man asked. “This place sucks.” He threw his room key down on the shelf behind the counter. “I’ve got to get home tomorrow. I want to be sitting on the plane in the morning, sniffing my fingers, knowing I had a good time.”

“No cookies here,” Willie said. “Give me a piece of paper, I’ll give you some addresses.” He wrote some names and numbers down. “Thanks, pal,” the man said. As he turned, Willie scooped up the room key an instant before the desk clerk appeared.

“Who can I help here?” the clerk said.

It was a suite, high up, overlooking the bay. There was little sign of the pear-shaped man’s occupancy. His bag had not been unpacked and was still locked.

“I like hotels,” Teddy said.

“They belong to everybody,” Willie said.

“This is nice, I like it,” Teddy said, hugging Liberty. “How did you know that we could come here?”

“Now has the feeling of certainty about it,” Willie said. “Yet now is not the present moment. Now is incommensurable with the present moment.”

“Incommensurable,” Teddy said. “Is that a word? I learned ‘perspiration’ yesterday. I always used to say ‘sweat.’ ”

“The deal is,” Willie said, “that things change every moment, making everything happen either later or sooner. Let’s order food over the phone.”

“I’ve never ordered food over the phone!” Teddy said.

They ordered raspberries, burritos, black-and-white sodas. On television, everything concerned mayhem or thwarted love. Liberty checked the children’s Halloween bags to make sure there were no razor blades, tacks, pills, or hallucinogenic tattoos.

“Gorden gave me an envelope,” Little Dot said. “I’m the only who got an envelope.”

Inside the envelope was a fifty-dollar bill. The bill was crisp and thin without a bit of history to it.

“You can buy something you’d like with this,” Liberty said. “Lots of things.”

Little Dot didn’t see the connection. She held the bill in her fingers, then folded it into a square. She dropped it on the carpet, hid it with her foot, disclosed it again. She kissed it. She kissed Teddy, then Willie, then Clem, all gravely.

Liberty put the bill back into the envelope. “Don’t lose this,” she said. “This is yours, you hold onto it.”

“This is very relaxing here,” Teddy said. “When I think of all the things I have to do tomorrow!” He slapped his forehead dramatically with his hand. “But I’m not going to think.”

Little Dot took hotel stationery from a drawer and drew their picture. Each picture was a line as straight as she could make it. Liberty thought of circles, degrees, levels, dimensions, perspectives, all harassing things. The line soothed her, though she was quite aware that life was not a line.

“We should leave in about an hour,” Willie said. He doodled on another piece of paper. He made the doodle of the butterfly jumping rope and the doodle of the ship arriving too late to save the drowning witch. He drew the doodle of four elephants inspecting a grapefruit.

Little Dot told them her dream. It was always the same dream she told. She had a favorite bowl, no bowl that her parents had made but a little chipped china bowl, at the bottom of which was a rabbit in a garden. The rabbit wore a little dress. When Little Dot finished the soup or cereal in the bowl, she would find the little rabbit with its little dress and shoes. Little Dot loved the bowl. She thought it beautiful, its cracks and lines, the rabbit’s musing face worn pale by the scraping spoon. Each night she dreams she breaks it, it mends itself and becomes more beautiful still …

“Sometimes I don’t think I can find my way back from these places,” Liberty said to Willie.

“Isn’t that the point?” he said.

They were just a family traveling, on their way somewhere, but for the moment, at rest. It was just a moment without the future or the past. It was the moments that took practice.

“We lie too much,” Liberty said.

They were standing by the window, eleven stories up.

“Someone’s having a little trouble out there in the bay,” Willie said. There were two helicopters. Floodlights on a slight chop.

“Well, you’re too far away to do anything about it,” Liberty said.

“That’s got the real look of yesterday to it for somebody,” he said.

When they returned to the pottery shop, Rosie was standing in the doorway watching Roger sweep the floor. Roger’s shadow drifted thinly across the rear wall of the shop, past all the shelves that held the obscure work of their hands.

“I just love watching Roger sweep,” Rosie said. “Because you know when he sweeps he’s the sweeper and the sweeping and the broom and what the broom gathers up. All at the same time!”

Ribbons of dust unfurled in the air.

“Gee, I’m really grateful to you for taking Little Dot trick or treating,” Rosie said to Liberty. “How many hours have you watched Little Dot? Why, I bet you’ve watched Little Dot hundreds of hours!” She lowered her voice in dismay. “How much do we owe you?”

“Nothing,” Liberty said. “It’s …”

“Oh that’s great,” Rosie exclaimed. “I’m really grateful to you. Little Dot gets wary around me, you know. Just a little kid and so wary …”

Roger had been advancing toward them, steadily sweeping. Now he stopped. His broom nature receded.

“See those little boxes on that shelf?” Roger asked. “They’re modeled after the boxes the Peruvian Indians use to save their teeth and hair and nail clippings in. They put them all in one place so everything can be brought together conveniently later, after they die, so they can begin their new life.”

“Can you imagine if you came across one of those little boxes by accident,” Rosie said. “Yechhh.”

“Peru!” Teddy said. “Did you go to Peru? Did you see the ground markings of Nazca?”

“Yeah,” Roger said, startled.

“They’re lines on the desert,” Teddy said, thrilled with explanation. “When you see them up close, they don’t look like anything, just a lot of white furrows in the brown ground, but when you get up real high you see that they’re big figures, mostly birds. The Indians made them. Archaeologists think that the Indians were trying to signal to something up in the sky.”

“Nazca makes me sad,” Rosie said sadly. “Those poor people waiting for someone to come to them for all those years and nothing ever came.”

“We’re all waiting for something,” Willie said.

“Yeah, isn’t that strange,” Rosie said.

“I know a lot about Nazca,” Teddy said. “I took a course last month in gods.”

“Gee,” Rosie said. “A course in gods. I’d love to take that course.”

“The woman who gave it left town,” Teddy said.

“We’re going to leave town for a few days too,” Roger said. “The cockatoos in the kiln haven’t laid yet. Rosie thinks we’re making them nervous.”

“A few days?” Liberty stroked Little Dot’s hair which was sticky and fine. She should have brushed it out in the hotel. The pink barrette she had bought looked forlorn clamped above the child’s ear. She should have done something. What should she have done?

“Maybe a few weeks,” Roger was saying softly. “Maybe even longer.”

“We’re going to look for a place for Little Dot,” Rosie whispered. “We’ve heard there are these places. They know what they’re doing there. They can handle it.”

“Who is ‘they’?” Willie asked.

“We’re not ‘they,’ ” Rosie said.

“I can handle it,” Liberty said. “I’ll watch her.”

“You’re not ‘they,’ Liberty. None of us are ‘they.’ ”

Liberty knelt down quickly and embraced Little Dot. “Goodbye, honey,” she said. Little Dot opened her mouth, which smelled of chocolate. Her thumb moved about blindly, then found her mouth. She was the thumb and the little girl sucking the thumb too.

“Don’t do that, baby,” Rosie said.

Good-bye, good-bye, everyone said.

Little Dot did not hold onto the fifty-dollar bill. She gave it to Rosie who donated it to a large charitable organization. The large charitable organization funneled it into a drug rehabilitation clinic. It was taken from the clinic’s account to purchase a toaster oven for the office staff. The owner of the appliance store where the toaster oven was purchased blew it at the track one muggy matinee on a dog named Bat Mister. The bill then commenced a round of payment for lingerie, biopsy results and brake linings. It suffered a life that the most lurid of imaginations could not conjure. It penetrated deep into the repulsive nature of banality. It traveled and was suckered more than once. It knew bright lights and dark pockets. It knew admissions to pornographic films. It bought ten pairs of Mexican boxing shoes, a cheap cashmere sweater and a down payment for a trip never realized. It went off like an orphan, wailing. The flashly coincidences it disclosed were made routine by repetition. It never looked life straight in the eye. Not once. And it never returned.

4

The next morning, the phone rang before daybreak. Clem woke with a grunt. Liberty stumbled naked into the kitchen.

“Hello, Mother,” she said.

“I have been trying to reach you for a week, Liberty. Where on earth have you been? I want to explain some of the incidents in my life to you, dear.”

Her mother’s voice was clear and determined.

“Everything is all right, Mother. I love you. Daddy loves you.”

“I had a terrible dream about penguins just a few moments ago, Liberty.”

“Penguins are nice, Mother. They don’t do anyone any harm.”

“There were hundreds of penguins on this beautiful beach and they were all standing so straight, like they do, like children wearing little costumes.”

“That sounds nice, Mother. It sounds sort of cheerful.”

“They were being clubbed to death, Liberty. They were all being murdered by an unseen hand.”

“You’re all right, Mother. It was just a dream and it’s gone now. It’s left you and I think I’ve got it.” Liberty scratched Clem’s hard skull.

“I have to tell you something. I had another child, a child before you, a child before Daddy. She was two years old. I lost her, Liberty. I lost her on purpose.”

“What?” Liberty said.

“Yes.”

“Oh Mother, I don’t want to know this.”

“Can you remember yourself as a child, Liberty? You used to limp for no reason and sprinkle water on your forehead to give the appearance of fevers. You used to squeeze the skin beneath your eyes to make bruises.”

“Mother, I didn’t.”

“You were a gloomy child, sweetie. You were always asking me gloomy riddles like, What would happen if a girl was tied up in a rug and thrown off the roof? What would happen if you put a girl in the refrigerator alongside the milk and the cheese?”

“None of this is true,” Liberty said uncertainly. She opened the freezer and took out an ice cream bar. She unwrapped it, rinsed the paper and set it aside, put the ice cream in Clem’s bowl to soften.

“It’s almost Thanksgiving, Liberty. What are you and Willie going to do for Thanksgiving? I think it would be nice if you had turkey and made oyster stuffing and cranberry sauce. It broke my heart when you said you ate yellowtail last year. I don’t think you can do things like that. Life doesn’t go on forever, you know. Your sister was born on Thanksgiving Day. She weighed almost nine pounds.”

Liberty was getting confused. The fluorescent light in the kitchen dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened. She turned it off.

“I fell so in love with Daddy, I just couldn’t think,” Liberty’s mother said. “He was so free and handsome and I just wanted to be with him and have a love that would defy the humdrum. He didn’t know anything about Brouilly. I had kept Brouilly a secret from him.”

“Brouilly?” Liberty asked, not without interest. “That was my sister’s name?”

“It’s a wine. A very nice wine. She was cute as the dickens. I was living in New York, and when I fell in love with Daddy I drove Brouilly eighty-seven miles into the state of Connecticut, enrolled her in an Episcopalian day-care center under an assumed name, and left her forever. Daddy and I sailed for Europe the next day. Love, I thought it was. For the love of your father, I abandoned my firstborn. Time has a way, Liberty, of thumping a person right back into the basement.”

“You’ve never mentioned this before, Mother.”

“Do you know what I miss a lot,” her mother went on. “Playing Ping-Pong in the cellar. I haven’t always lived in this cellarless state, you know … Your father is saying ‘don’t start trouble, don’t start trouble …’ I chose the Episcopalians because they are aristocrats. Do you know, for instance, that they are thinner than any other religious group?”

“I don’t know what to say, Mother. Do you want to try and find her?”

“What could I possibly do for her now, Liberty? She probably races Lasers and has dinner parties for twenty-five or something. Her husband probably has tax havens all over the place.”

“Who was her father?” Liberty asked.

“He made crêpes,” her mother said vaguely. “I’ve got to go now. I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

Liberty hung up. The room’s light was now gray and Clem glowed whitely in it. A particularly inappropriate image crept open in her mind like a waxy cereus bloom. Little groups of Hindus sitting around a dying man or woman or child on the riverbank, waiting for death to come, chatting, eating, behaving in fact as though life were a picnic.

She poured dog food from a sack onto the ice cream and set it out for Clem. The phone rang. “I just want you to know,” her mother said, “that I’m leaving your father.”

“Don’t pay any attention to this, Liberty,” her father said on an extension. “As you must know by now, she says once a month that she’s going to leave me. Once a month for twenty-nine years. Even in the good years when we had friends and ate well and laughed, she’d still say it.”

Liberty’s mother and father were both over five hundred miles away. The miracle of modern communication made them seem as close to Liberty as the kitchen sink.

“Once,” her father said, “why it couldn’t have been more than a month ago, she threw her wedding ring out into the pecan grove and it took a week and a half to find it. Once she tore up every single photograph in which we appeared together. Often, she gathers up all her clothes, goes down to the Winn-Dixie for cartons, or worse, goes into Savannah and buys costly luggage, boxes the books and the French copper, makes a big bitch of a stew which is supposed to last me the rest of my days and cleans the whole damn place with ammonia.”

“It’s obviously a cry for help, wouldn’t you say, Liberty?” her mother said.

“I don’t know why you’d want to call Liberty up and pester her. She has her own life.”

“I am a victim of neglect,” her mother said. “Excuse me, everything’s just dandy here. I made pork chops last night for dinner.”

“Damn good pork chops too,” her father said. “So, Liberty, how’s your own life. How’s that Willie treating you?”

“Fine,” Liberty said.

“Never could get anything out of Liberty,” her mother said.

“You’re getting to be old married folks yourselves,” her father said. “What is it now, going on almost seven years?”

“That’s right,” Liberty said.

“She’s a girl who keeps her own witness, that’s a fact,” her mother said.

“I want you to be happy, dear,” her father said.

“Thank you,” Liberty said.

“But what is it you two do exactly all the time with no babies or jobs or whatever? I’m just curious, understand.”

“They adore one another,” Liberty’s mother said. “ ‘Adore’ is not in Daddy’s vocabulary but what Daddy is trying to say is that a grandson might give meaning and significance to the fact that Daddy ever drew breath.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say at all,” her father said.

“They’re keeping their options open,” Liberty’s mother said to her father. “They live in a more complex time.” Her mother began to sob. “Keep your options open, Liberty! Never give anything up!”

“We’d better be signing off now,” her father said.

Liberty replaced the phone in its cradle and it instantly rang.

“Is that tree still outside your house?” Teddy asked. “Because I’m sure it was here last night. It was waving its arms outside my window, then it plodded away on its white roots. It goes anywhere it feels like going, I think, that tree.”

“Trees aren’t like people,” Liberty said. “They can’t move around.” Her reasonableness, she felt, bordered on the insincere.

“I forgot to tell you. I’m taking a human sexuality course, and you know what I have to do all this week?”

“Oh, honey, why are you taking a human sexuality course? Don’t do anything.”

“I have to carry an egg around all week.”

“An egg?”

“I have to pretend it’s a baby and take care of it.”

“Honey,” Liberty said, “what time is it?”

“Nineteen minutes of six. My clock woke me up.”

Janiella had bought Teddy a clock. It was wired to his bed sheets. When Teddy first began to wet his bed, shortly after her arrival months before, Janiella had long discussions with him about the need to accept responsibility for his own bladder. When Teddy continued to refuse responsibility, Janiella began smacking him with a Wiffle bat every time she had to change the sheets. Then she decided on an alarm that would awaken him every three hours throughout the night, as well as every time the bed pad grew damp.

Janiella had standards. She was not without physical imperfection herself, her personal flaw being diabetes, but she did not allow her disability to get her down. She liked to party. Her preference was for a good time. Her preference was also that Teddy spend as much time as possible away from the house. When Teddy was not wired up in the darkness, he was out somewhere, taking instruction in something. Home at night, he wets the bed. All the alarm has managed to do so far is to increase the number of Teddy’s dreams. He is always dreaming when he wakes. Most recently, he dreams that he steals the single candy bar Janiella keeps in the house in the event she has an attack and has to have sugar. He dreams of Janiella crawling through the house, not being able to find her Payday.

“Janiella and Daddy are still asleep, but Janiella left the list for the day on my desk. I have woodworking, then I have a karate lesson, then I have a flute lesson. That’s at the other end of town. In the afternoon, I have sea scouts.”

Teddy traveled many many miles when he was not in school, practically from one end of the county to the other, in an increasingly extended maze of renaissance pursuits of Janiella’s devising.

“I have to change the sheets now, Liberty. I have to wash them and dry them and put them on the bed again. Bye-bye.”

Liberty went back to bed. When she heard the phone ringing again, she pulled the pillow over her head. After a few moments, she heard Willie saying to her, “That was Charlie. He wants us to have breakfast with him.”

Willie and Liberty could never refuse Charlie when he wanted to eat. Charlie was an alcoholic who seldom ate. The last time they had the pleasure of Charlie’s company at table was in a Chinese restaurant where Charlie had eaten eight kernels of rice in the course of an hour. Late in the evening, he had taken a bite out of the glass his gin was gone from.

Willie and Liberty got into their truck and drove to a restaurant nearby called The Blue Gate. Clem sat on the seat between them. From the back, he could pass for another person with long, pale hair, sitting there. At the restaurant, they all got out and Clem lay down beneath an orange tree growing in the dirt parking lot. The Blue Gate was a Mennonite restaurant in a community of cottages with living petunia crosses growing on the lawn.

Inside, Charlie was waiting for them at a table by the pie display. He wore a rumpled suit a size too large for him and a clean shirt. His hair was combed wetly back, his face was swollen and his hands shook. Nevertheless, he seemed in excellent spirits.

“Been too long, man,” Charlie said to Willie, shaking his hand. “Hi, doll,” he said to Liberty. “Where you two been lately? I never see you at the Gator.”

“Ahh, the Gator,” Willie said. “Doesn’t that bar depress you? JJ depresses me.”

“JJ’s all right,” Charlie said. “He’s a real good listener since his stroke.”

Willie shrugged. “Brings me down. I should be ashamed, of course.”

“I love the ol’ Gator,” Charlie said. “I had a great night. Saw some movies, went to some parties, met the dawn at the Gator. Man, I love The Thing. You ever see The Thing? ‘Tell the world! Watch the skies! Everywhere! Watch the skies!’ ” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of money. “I’ve been celebrating,” he said. “One sale.” Charlie was a real estate agent, the most successful agent at Ace Realty in a decade. Buyers seemed mesmerized by Charlie. His appearance before them made them desperate to purchase terra firma. “Two acres of land on a golf course to a Canadian couple. They smelled like cooking gas for some reason. They laid their dreams out right in front of me. They wanted an opulent staircase and a sauna. They wanted a special room for the missus’s collection of dolls. They wanted a special room for the mister’s aqua leather sofa. Your Charlie found them just the place. They wept with joy.” He began to tear absent-mindedly at one of the bills in his hand.

“Put that stuff away,” Willie said.

Charlie took a wallet out of his jacket and opened it. He pressed the bills inside.

“Why are you carrying around a picture of a tree?” Willie asked.

“Do you know that each person in the world needs all the oxygen produced in a year by a tree with thirty thousand leaves?” Charlie said. He looked at the snapshot of the tree in his wallet. “Isn’t that a nice tree!” he said.

He ordered eggs, fried mush, orange juice, milk and coffee cake. “I love this place,” he sighed. “These are good people, these are religious people. You know what’s on the bottom of the pie pans? There are messages on the bottom of the pie pans, embossed in the aluminum. I got a pineapple cream cheese pie here last week and it said Wise men shall seek Him. Isn’t that something! The last crumbs expose a Christian message! You should bring a sweet potato pie home, Liberty, get yourself a message.”

“There are too many messages in Liberty’s life already,” Willie said. “Liberty is on some terrible mailing lists.”

Charlie nodded vigorously. “I got a letter from Greenpeace once. They’re the ones who want to stop the slaughter of the harp seals, right? Envelope had a picture of a cuddly little white seal and the words KISS THIS BABY GOOD-BYE. You get that one, Liberty?”

“Yes,” Liberty said. She ordered only coffee and looked at Charlie, at his handsome, ruined face. He was a Cajun. His mother still lived in Lafayette, Louisiana. She was a “treater” whose specialty was curing warts over the phone.

“Well, I’m in love again,” Charlie said. “You ever give any thought as to how many people there are to love! My only fear is that I will awake one morning and be indifferent to love. Bam. It will be like forgetting Shakespeare. I knew a boy once you give him a line of Shakespeare’s tragedies and he could give you the next line. Any line, he knew what came next. And that boy was me!” Charlie spoke in wonder. “It was me who could do that! All those thousands of lines were ordered in the chambers of my mind, like little virgins dressed in white, waiting to be called upon, eager to serve whatever purpose I had. It was a gift, then Bam. Consigned to oblivion.” Charlie laughed his high, cackling laugh. The Mennonites glanced up from their biscuits and thin, pink gravy.

“You’re taking too many vitamins,” Willie said.

“I am taking a lot of vitamins,” Charlie said. “You think that’s why I’m in love all the time? Maybe it’s a side effect. It got so, well I’d have a few drinks and I’d be incited to grief and confusion. You know? I couldn’t even take a shower. The thought of standing alone under a shower, alone under those sheets, those strings of water, would give me the shakes. So I thought the old brain was shutting down, you know? So I got to taking vitamins. I still don’t take showers. I give myself little kitty-baths.” He looked at Liberty. “Oh, you’re such a good-looking woman,” Charlie said.

A waitress arrived and warily placed a pint carton of milk by Charlie’s right hand. The carton of milk had a straw sticking out of it.

“Oh, look at that!” Charlie exclaimed. “I love this place. You gotta get a pie, Liberty. Bring it home to Clem. Dog’d scarf it down. Lemon meringue, say. Lap the words clean. Be zealous and repent. Dog’d go wild!” He picked up Liberty’s hand. “Let’s talk about you for a while. Tell me something you’ve never told me before.”

“She’s going to say ‘David,’ ” Willie said.

“ ‘David’?” Liberty asked. “Who is David?”

“David is the boy you never slept with,” Willie said. “David is your lost opportunity.”

“I think we’re talking too loud,” Charlie yelled. “These are polite, God-fearing people. Their babies come by UPS. Big, brown Turtle-waxed trucks turn into their little lanes. They have to sign for them, the babies. It’s better to get babies by UPS. It’s swift and efficient. The sound of two bodies yattering together to produce a baby the other way is a terrible thing.”

“With David you would be another kind of woman,” Willie said. “At this very moment, you could be with David, cuddling David. After you cuddled, you could arise, dress identically in your scarlet Union suits, chino pants, Ragg socks, Bass boots, British seamen pullovers and down cruiser vests and go out and remodel old churches for use as private residences in fashionable New England coastal towns.”

“But David,” sighed Charlie, “is missing and presumed dead.”

“Change the present,” Willie said. “Through the present, change the future and through the future, the past. Today is the result of some past. If we change today, we change the past.”

Charlie shook his head. “Too much to put on a pie plate, man. Besides, it doesn’t sound Christian.”

“If you were another kind of woman,” Willie said, “you could be married to Clay, the lawyer, dealing in torts. You’d have two little ones, Rocky and Sandy. They’d have freckles and be hyperactive. They’d be the terror of the car pool. Clay would have his nuts tied.”

“Oh, please, man,” Charlie said.

“You and Clay would fly to your vacations in your very own private plane. You’d know French. You’d gain a reputation as a photographer of wildflowers, bringing out the stamens and pistils in a provocative way. Women would flock to the better department stores in order to buy the address books in which your photos appeared. But then a turnaround would occur. You’d stop taking dirty pictures. You’d divorce Clay.”

“I knew it, I knew it,” shouted Charlie. “There he’d be with his useless nuts.”

“You’d become a believer in past lives. You’d become fascinated with other forms of intelligent life. You’d become involved in the study of whale language.”

“Oh, I love whales too, man,” Charlie said, spilling coffee down the front of his button-down shirt.

“You’d curse the house in Nantucket that Rocky and Sandy had spent so many happy summers in.”

“Ahh, Nantucket built on blood. Let’s abandon this subject.” Charlie looked sadly at his shirt. “Whales are poets who are in tune with every aspect of their world. They sing these songs, man.”

Breakfast was placed before them on the table. Charlie looked at the food in surprise. “Our songs are so messed up. You ever thought of that? Our songs are so garbled.”

Liberty reached across to Willie’s plate and spooned up a small piece of fried mush.

“Who are you in love with?” Willie asked Charlie, pouring syrup on the mush.

“Janiella,” Charlie said.

“Janiella?” Liberty said.

“Janiella the heartless, Janiella the faithless, Janiella the demanding,” Charlie said.

“Janiella,” Liberty said.

“Janiella the indiscreet, Janiella the throbbing, Janiella the—”

“All right,” Liberty said.

“I am crazy in love with Janiella, but she has lots of lousy habits. She never shuts doors for example. I have to tell you what happened. I was there last week, right? I’m beneath the sheets truffling away and her kid comes in. Actually, he’s not really her kid. He’s her boyfriend Duane’s kid. He’s forgotten his spelling book. His spelling book! ‘Ma’am,’ he says, ‘have you seen my spelling book?’ I’m crouched beneath the sheets. My ears are ringing. I try to be very still but I’m gagging, man, and Janiella says sweetly, ‘I saw your spelling book in the wastebasket,’ and the kid says, ‘It must have fallen in there by accident,’ and Janiella says, ‘You are always saying that, Ted. You are always placing things you don’t like in the wastebasket. I found that lovely Dunnsmoor sweater I gave you in the wastebasket. That lovely coloring book on knights and armor that I ordered from the Metropolitan Museum was in the wastebasket also.’ The kid says, ‘I’m too old for coloring books.’ Picture it, they are having a discussion. They are arguing fine points.”

Liberty did not want to picture it.

Charlie sighed and looked at his food.

“Well?” Willie said.

Charlie seemed to be losing his drift. He looked at his food as though he were trying to read it.

“So what happened,” Willie insisted. “Finally.”

“Well, I don’t know man. The future is not altogether scrutable.”

“Janiella and Teddy,” Willie said, glancing at Liberty. “The spelling book.”

“I fell alseep, I guess,” Charlie said. “The last thing I heard was the kid saying, ‘I thought Daddy was in Miami at a car show.’ I passed out from the heat, man.”

“You see Janiella at Duane’s house?” Willie asked. “Who does Teddy think you are?”

“We’ve never met,” Charlie said. “I’ve only laid eyes on him in a photo cube. Cute kid. Spiky hair. Janiella wants to keep him out of the house so she’s got him busy every minute. He has soccer practice, swim team, safe-boating instruction. He’s hardly ever at home. Ask him, I bet he’s ignorant of the floor plan. After school he takes special courses in computer language, sea shell identification, God knows what all. Poor little squirt comes staggering home, his brain on fire. I think of myself as a fantastic impetus to his learning.”

“Liberty’s not happy with this situation at all,” Willie said.

“Liberty’s all right,” Charlie grinned, oblivious, showing his pale gums. “Liberty’s a great girl.”

Liberty spooned up another piece of mush from Willie’s plate.

“That’s extremely irritating,” Willie said. “You never order anything, then you eat what I order.”

Liberty blushed.

“Liberty,” Charlie cried, “eat off my plate, I beseech you! Let’s mix a little yin and yang.” He picked up a piece of coffee cake in his large hand and waved it at her.

“It’s just one of those things that’s been going on too long,” Willie said.

“Really, man, you’re losing energy with these negative emotions. You’re just going dim on us here. Your song is fading.” Charlie cupped the hand that was clutching the coffee cake to his ear. Crumbs fell. “Ubble-gubble,” Charlie said.

Outside, Clem lay beneath the orange tree, his paws crossed, yawning. Two deputies sat nearby in their cruiser, looking at him as though they’d like to write out a ticket. Circumstances had not allowed them to write out a ticket in what seemed to them to be an extraordinarily long time. Look at the size of that dog one of them said you run over him and you’d know it.

“What a great animal,” Charlie said, pointing with the diminished cake at Clem. “How did you get such a great animal, Liberty?”

“He came in on the night air and settled on her head as she slept,” Willie said.

“Gubble-ubble,” Charlie said.

“He was in the envelope with the marriage license,” Willie said. “We sprinkled water on him and he was expanded and made soul.”

“Leave this creep and come away with me,” Charlie said to Liberty.

Willie said, “We got him from the Humane Society. He ate a child. The police impounded him, but what could they do, after all, this isn’t the Middle Ages, we don’t hang animals for crimes. And he was an innocent, a victim himself, belonging to a schizophrenic, anorectic unwed mother who kept leaving her infant son alone with him, unfed, in her fleabag apartment. Clem, unfed, day after day. Although his name wasn’t Clem then, it was Sword and Pentacles. Or sometimes Sword, and sometimes Pentacles.”

Charlie said, “I mean it. I love married women. I treat them right. Your blood will race, I’m telling you. I’m also a cook. I make great meat loaf, no, forget meat loaf, I’ll make gumbo. I’m third in line for two acres of land in St. Landry Parish. Only two people have to die, and it’s all mine. It’s got a chinaberry tree on it. We’ll pole the bayous and eat gumbo. We’ll drink beer and listen to chanky-chank bands.”

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Willie said. “You were the only Cajun I knew who couldn’t cook.”

“I cook,” Charlie said, affronted.

“Actually,” Willie said, “Liberty found Clem lying partially in the road, partially in a ditch of water hyacinths, injured by some vehicle. Blood all over the place. What a mess.”

“Everything’s so relative with you, man. I don’t know how you make it through the day,” Charlie said. He gazed at Liberty, absorbed.

“I found him in a mailbox,” Liberty said. “It was at a house where we were staying for a while, inland, in the country. Somebody had hurt him and then stuffed him inside the big mailbox at the end of the drive. He was just a puppy then.”

“That’s awful!” Charlie exclaimed. “You are on some bad mailing lists.”

“A linear life is a tedious life,” Willie said. “Man wasn’t born to suffer leading his life from moment to moment.”

“I’ve come to the conclusion that Janiella is not for me,” Charlie said. “For one thing, she’s mean, she’s not married and she talks too much. Even in situ she’s gabbing away. And she’s into very experimental stuff. There are not as many ways of making love as people seem to believe.”

“I’m splitting,” Willie announced.

Charlie rubbed his face hard with his hands. Liberty knew that he wanted a drink. He had that look in his dark eyes.

Willie stood up and leaned toward Liberty, his hands on the table. His hands were tanned and strong and clean. His wedding band was slender. Liberty remembered the wedding clearly. It had taken place in a lush green tropical forest in the time of the dinosaurs. “I’ve got to shake myself a little loose,” he said. “Do you want the truck?”

“No,” Liberty said.

“Just a few days,” Willie said. “Later,” he said to Charlie. He left.

“A butterfly vanishes from the world of caterpillars,” Charlie said.

Liberty saw Clem get up and look after the truck as it drove away. He trotted over to the restaurant and peered in, resting his muzzle on a window box of geraniums. Liberty waved to him.

“He can’t see that,” Charlie said. “Animals live in a two-dimensional world. For example, like with roads? To a dog, each road is a separate phenomenon that has nothing in common with another road.”

“That sounds about right,” Liberty said.

“And so it is, the truth specific to each species. To each and all, one’s own dark wood,” Charlie said. He picked up Liberty’s hand and kissed her wrist bone. “I love you,” he said. “There’s only you. I have employed Janiella only for the purposes of obfuscation.”

“You’re a bottle man,” Liberty said.

“Liberty!” Teddy called. He hurried over from the bakery counter, holding a cruller and a bag in one hand, an egg in the other. It was a small brown egg. Liberty hugged him and ran her fingers through his hair. Charlie closed his eyes.

“I’m going to learn how to build furniture,” Teddy said. “I was a little late today because I saw a joke shop on the way, but the man let me hammer a piece of wood.”

Charlie’s eyes were shut.

“Is he all right?” Teddy asked Liberty. “Is he dead?”

“I am dead,” Charlie said. “I was in the Alps, hiking. I started out on a spring day. The air was sweet and warm. As I went higher it grew cold. There was a blizzard. I took refuge in a cave and built a small fire for comfort. The small fire caused an avalanche, which flattened me. Ever since then I have been dead.”

“Who is this,” Teddy demanded.

“My man,” Charlie said, opening his eyes. “Liberty and I were just discussing running away together.”

“We weren’t,” Liberty said.

“You’re dead,” Teddy said to him somberly.

“I was a swimmer,” Charlie said. “I waded in. Soon I was out of my depth. Ever since then, I have been dead.”

Teddy put a napkin in an empty cup and placed the egg in it.

“My man,” Charlie said. “Why are you carrying around an egg?”

“I have to take care of it. Wherever I go, the egg has to go.”

“Wow, man, how did you get talked into something like that? Is the egg boiled?”

“Boiled!” Teddy said in alarm. “No!”

“I just thought it would be easier to take care of, if it was boiled, but you’re right, what a deplorable suggestion. What would be the sense of that, right? Let’s not even think about boiling that egg. Do you know that an egg knows when it’s about to be boiled? Its terrified acknowledgment can be measured.”

“How can it be measured?” Teddy asked cautiously.

“With one of those terrible instruments of modern times that records impulses on a graph,” Charlie said.

Liberty shook her head and smiled.

“Look at this pretty lady smile,” Charlie said to Teddy. “I love this lady. I’ve loved her for a long time. It’s been a secret, but now you know too.”

Teddy whispered in Liberty’s ear, then slipped something out of the bag he had put on the table. “Don’t you want some ketchup?” he said to Charlie.

Charlie looked at the red plastic bottle. It looked just like restaurant ketchup.

“I believe in bringing my own condiments too, man. See how alike we are! Always bring your own condiments. I chugged a bottle of ketchup once. Won a dollar.”

“No, no, put it on your food,” squeaked Teddy.

Charlie squeezed the bottle. A long red string leaped toward his lap.

“He didn’t jump,” Teddy said.

“I’ve been wounded.”

“He knew,” Teddy said.

“It’s just that my pulse is slow, sixty-eight, maybe sixty-nine, always. I should have been a pilot. Cool in the pitch, roll and yaw. Imperturbable when controls break down. This is great. Do you have the snapping pack of gum, the blackening soap, the fly in the ice cube?”

Teddy nodded.

“You got the lady in the bathtub?”

Teddy shook his head.

“You just can’t keep her in the bathtub,” Charlie said. “She keeps popping out. Well, I guess that’s something else.”

“If you run away with Liberty, I want to come too,” Teddy said.

“A beautiful woman, a little kid, a dog, and yours truly,” Charlie said. “We can do it! We will become myths in the minds of others. They will say about us …” he leaned forward and lowered his voice, “… that we all went out for breakfast and never returned.”

“Good,” Teddy said.

“So where shall we go?” Charlie said. He kissed Liberty’s face. The line of people waiting to be seated, old women in bonnets, holding one another’s hands, looked at them.

“There’s no place to go,” Liberty said.

“There are many places to go,” Charlie said. “Hundreds.”

“Let’s make a list. I love lists!” Teddy said.

“We’re the nuclear unit scrambling out, the improbable family whose salvation is at hand,” Charlie said. “We’ll go to Idaho, British Columbia, Greece. No, forget Greece. The Greeks are mean to animals. We’ll go the Costa del Sol, Venice. We’ll go to Nepal. No, forget Nepal, all those tinkly little bells would drive us crazy. What do you say, we’ll go to Paraguay. That’s where Jesse James went.”

“Jesse James didn’t go there,” Liberty said. “That’s where the Germans went.”

“You’re right,” Charlie said. “It wasn’t Paraguay. It was Patagonia where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid went.” He was fidgeting now. His dark eyes glittered.

“They were outlaws,” Teddy said.

“They were outlaws,” Charlie said. “Successful outlaws.”

“Why are you crying?” Teddy asked Liberty. “Are you crying?”

“We’ve got to move along, it’s later than we think,” Charlie said. “How about some lunch?”

5

Liberty sat on a metal chair behind the house, near the riverbank. Stenciled on the back of the chair were the words LOPEZ PRE-ARRANGEMENT AND FUNERAL PARLOR. Dice River gave off a sweetly rotten smell. Crabs darted around in the green mud. The river was still quiet, clogged with water hyacinths and plastic six-pack rings. Later in the day it would be clogged with motorboats. Willie had been gone part of a day, a full day, part of another day. Liberty sat in the chair, breathing conscientiously, gazing at the winding, sluggish water. Dice River was a river all right, but it was not the kind of river you’d want to have in your mind.

River you’d say to Teddy, and he’d think of the river in the Just So stories where Bi-Colored-Python-Rock-Snake knotted himself in a double clove hitch around the baby elephant’s hind legs to save him from Crocodile.

River you’d say to Willie, and he’d probably think in terms of the wide path and the narrow gate, the river would be a philosophic religious construct, the great broad self-mirroring delusionary stream of the ordinary.

River you’d say to Charlie, and he’d think of the creek trickling past his Cajun home to merge eventually with the swamp that lay beneath the two-lane, pit-bull, jai alai highway down which his daddy had disappeared for good.

River. Liberty marveled at how properly people conducted themselves for the most part, greeting the world each morning in a spirit of bemused cooperation and polite assumption, agreeing on words, sharing words, acceding to the same reality of one thing or another.

As a child, Liberty had very much wanted her own words, made enthusiastic by a phrase much employed by the adults of the time—tell it in your own words. But they hadn’t meant it. Having your own words just wasn’t feasible. Having your own words isolated you from the rest of humanity. A personal vocabulary indicated a distrustful spirit, a lack of faith in the way things were.

River.

She and Willie had lived on a river once before. It had been just after they married. They spent the days in a massive mahogany four-poster bed above which was a navy-blue bubbled-glass window. The windows of the room had green louvered shutters brought from Barbados. It was a beautiful house on a river that had been ditched and dammed by the Army Corps of Engineers. The river was a spiritual and biological abattoir. Willie had said, “We will make up everything. Nothing will be the same.”

Everyone gazed on his river alone.

River you’d say to Little Dot. River … Liberty missed Little Dot. She sat on the chair, her knees up, the backs of her hands pressing against her eyes. The chair from the funeral parlor was gray and sturdy. How had it escaped, Liberty wondered. How had it made its way to the riverbank, a refugee from preparation and mourning.

She remembered another river she had known, a river in a room, winding through a wood. The room had been wallpapered with this sight and the view had appeared seamless, but it was not seamless. Liberty knew that there had been twenty-one wallpaper sections in all, for she had counted them often. There were no windows, but there was a door, and the door was papered too so that when someone came through the door, it always seemed surprising.

This had been in a hospital, in a wing of the hospital called Five North. She had been there, but Willie had not, for she had been sicker than Willie. Willie had never known the room with the river in it, for he had been outside while she had been inside. No one thought that this was unusual.

When Liberty had been in Five North, there had been a girl there who looked like Little Dot, but Little Dot grown older. She was there because she had carved YUCK on her stomach with a screwdriver. She had done it in front of a mirror, and to some, the markings on her mutilated flesh appeared foreign, holy and serene. They would ask to touch her stomach for luck. This girl, who looked like an older, more sorrowful Little Dot, had hurt herself in other ways at other times. She had broken her ankle once with a hammer. She said that these things that she did to herself always cleared her thoughts and she felt better after. Didn’t everyone want to feel better after?

Five North with its cold, meticulous name … it was Jack Frost Land, it was Little Match Girl Land. The room with the river in it was the common room in which the patients could gather in the hours of the afternoon. Liberty had sat there with others, one of whom was a bald man who wore polished oxblood shoes. He always held a child’s plastic Thermos in his hand. The Thermos had Pluto on it, chasing his tail around it. You didn’t pay did you, the man would always say to Liberty. I’ve been watching you. You said you’d pay at the other register but you have no intention of doing that, do you … you pretend you’re browsing, making up your mind about something. Oh, I’ve been watching you …

The walls the river lay upon enclosed them, and Liberty remembered it being a washable surface for she had seen an orderly clean it with a sponge. The river glinted through the trees, but even then the trees had names that escaped her. The man in the oxblood shoes would unscrew the top of his Thermos and raise it to his mouth. Pluto was yellow and inside the Thermos it was yellow too. Yellow flecks clung to the bald man’s lips. You keep pretending and I’ll keep watching, he said. The river twisted through the trees. It might even have looked like the one her mother had been drifting down at the time, unaware that her daughter had died, almost died, Liberty forced herself to recall, for her mother’s hobby had then been to tie herself to a canoe and float down a quiet river, gazing through her face mask into the crystalline depths, collecting the white bones of mastodons.

River, Liberty thought, and imagined a stream so clear that it reflected the sky and everything growing and moving along its banks. So that drifting down it, on it, in it, she passed through the images of things. There was something repulsive about such a river. Floating in such a river, Liberty felt only the desire to get out …

She had promised Teddy they would go to the beach that day. It was almost noon and Teddy would be back at noon, fresh from instruction in something. She and Clem walked down Suntan toward his house. The day’s heat pressed against the crown of trees. A few old people moved quietly around, sweeping their yards with brooms, pinching off dead blossoms, sprinkling with big, old-fashioned watering cans. Duane’s perfect Mustangs adorned his driveway. They were black, red, white, black; a Fastback, two convertibles and a Shelby. The black Shelby had NIGHT MARE in script upon the trunk.

A large picture window exposed Janiella doing exercises in Duane’s trophy room. There were silver cups from rallies and car shows on the shelves, and on the paneled walls were the heads and hooves of deer and the bodies of fish. Liberty watched as Janiella did the Plough, the Cobra and a lengthy headstand. Snook and bass and baby tarpon gazed absently down upon Janiella as she moved on to alternate nostril breathing. With a finger pressed against her nose, her shut eyes snapped open and locked on Liberty’s. She got to her feet and sauntered to the door. Her blonde hair was twisted into an elaborate roll and her haunches were firm and heroic in their proportions. A thin line of perspiration lay prettily above her upper lip. Liberty disliked her enormously.

“Hello,” Liberty said.

“The Phantom’s not back yet.” Janiella extended an arm and slowly rotated it. “I call him the Phantom because he’s never here. He’s a busy, busy child. The Phantom. The Ghost. Kids like names. Makes them feel popular.”

Liberty rubbed Clem’s paw with her foot.

“So come in, come in,” Janiella said. “Duane said he gave you a lift the other day. You lead a peculiar life, don’t you? Have you ever been employed by an escort service?”

Liberty considered placing her knuckles in Janiella’s throat. “I have never been employed by an escort service,” she said.

“I wasn’t trying to be offensive. You just look as though you might be regarded with favor by certain men.”

“Clem’s telephone number is sometimes requested,” Liberty said. “Not mine.”

“I can see why some would want to get in touch with that,” Janiella said, frowning, “but not me. What kind of a vocabulary has he got? I was told that a German shepherd could understand eight hundred words.”

“He knows a few words,” Liberty admitted. “Love, angel, ice cream, retribution …”

“Goodness, was he raised in a monastery or what?” She raised her arms over her head and jiggled her wrists. “What do you think of Duane? Do you think he’s a little crazy?”

“He’s a little crazy.”

“He was sort of cute for a while. I’ve always been attracted to the primitive. I sometimes confuse primitive with genuine. It’s a fault of too much education, I’d be the first to admit it. Duane’s always trying to surprise me now. He can’t do it. He was cute before he started trying to surprise me. As for shocking me, I’m unshockable. I have diabetes and a partially webbed foot. The foot drives most men wild. As for my father, I loathe him. I’ve loathed him ever since the death and burial of my horse, Spritzer. This was long ago. Spritzer was old and feeble. My father dug a hole in the pasture with a back hoe. The veterinarian was called, and we led Spritzer by the halter to the hole. The veterinarian gave him an inoculation and he instantly toppled over and in. The hole was the precise width and depth, which was a great relief to my father, but I’ve loathed the man ever since the day Spritzer fit the hole. I may sound like an unhappy person but I want to assure you I’m not. Never have I considered myself an unhappy person. I have fun.” She smiled at Liberty. “You resent me considerably, don’t you, I have just the tiniest of inklings.”

“It’s Teddy I’m concerned about. You’re just passing through.”

“I probably am just passing through, but what about you?” Janiella laughed. “The family situation intrigued me for a while, but its potentialities are just something I’m going to have to deny myself. I’ve been slumming if you want to know the truth. Rednecks have always given me a flutter, but family life is paranormal in my opinion. There’s no anticipation in family life. I’ve had some nice orgasms in this house, and I’ve introduced the concept of candlelight at dinners. But that’s about it. The Phantom is cute, but he lacks immunity. His heart’s a doormat, poor kid. He’ll know everything, but he’ll never learn.”

“You do this for a living?” Liberty asked. “You just spread joy where you can?”

“Do you know that big guy?” Janiella asked. “The guy who sells houses?”

“I know Charlie.”

“Drunks are so much trouble, aren’t they.”

“He’s a friend of mine,” Liberty said.

“You do look as though you’re abstaining, but that look can be very sexy. There’s a pallor to you that a tan can’t quite hide. But pallor appeals to a lot of men. It’s that suggestion of confinement. It’s difficult to believe you’re a babysitter. I had an experience with a babysitter when I was a little girl.”

“I’d prefer not to know about it,” Liberty said.

From the river there was the sound of an outboard engine starting up, sputtering, quitting. There was silence, then cursing.

“She was a fat girl,” Janiella said, “with hair down to her waist. She was always ironing her hair. She’d come over to the house, study algebra, iron her hair, and then when it was my bedtime she’d masturbate me to get me to go to sleep. At Christmas my mother bought a little present for me to give to her. It was a bottle of perfume with a swan on the cap. Giving her that perfume was the worst, the very worst moment in my life.”

“That’s affecting,” Liberty said. “It really is.”

“I think the stress of that moment triggered my diabetes, but being able to pinpoint those two incidents from my early life was a real breakthrough for me.” Janiella snapped the fingers of her right hand. “Mother,” she said. “Father.” She snapped the fingers of her left. “I’ve felt completely in control ever since I’ve framed the perfume and Spritzer’s hole. I do what I want. I say what I want. I don’t finish what I begin if I don’t want. I just begin and begin.”

“You’ve got the keys to the candy shop,” Liberty said.

Janiella looked at her uncertainly. “You’re a little strange. Where have you been? Have you ever been anywhere?”

Liberty said nothing.

Janiella looked at Clem. “That dog would be pretty if his eyes weren’t so weird. Can he see out of those things? They look like ice cubes or something.”

“I’ll just wait for Teddy in his room,” Liberty said.

Teddy’s room was at the rear of the house and overlooked a small patio and swimming pool. Hoses had drained the pool and a man stood in it, studying a long, undulating crack in the tile. The man took a lollipop from his shirt and put it in his mouth. He shook his head at the crack. The lollipop did not make him forget the cigarette that he craved. He sucked in his stomach. He sensed there was someone in the room at his back, and he wondered if there was a naked woman standing in it, or a woman wearing just panties maybe, studying him. He didn’t look, in case there wasn’t.

Liberty dropped the tattered bamboo shade.

Teddy’s room was low-ceilinged and narrow. The walls were stained a muddy color, and there was a red rug on the floor. Half the ceiling was covered with the silver bears from Klondike Bar ice cream wrappers. Liberty took two wrappers from her pocket, found a paste pot in the desk and pressed two more bears upon the ceiling.

Teddy had begun collecting the wrappers after his mother had gone away. When she disappeared, he had first become deeply interested in cartography. He made elaborate maps and memorized airplane routes and bus schedules. He learned wilderness techniques and how to read a compass, determined to track his mother down. Then Duane had taken him aside for a little talk. He told Teddy that his mom had become a freak, that she had grown whiskers, and that he should hope that she never came back. If she came back, he should fight against her as though he were fighting against the forces of evil for his very life. Duane had told him (and he told him, he said, reluctantly) that if his mom came back it would likely be for no other purpose than to cut his little pecker off, put it on a key chain and present it to her girlfriend.

“Remember at the county fair last year, son, do you remember that tent we went into?”

“The Ambassadors from Mars were in that tent, Daddy.”

“Well, yeah, they was, but remember what was in there too was that individual who bit off hens’ heads.”

“I couldn’t see that too well, Daddy.”

“Well, that individual hates chickens like the way your momma hates us men now,” Duane said. “So forget momma, son. Be on your guard, but put her right out of your mind.”

Not long after Duane’s metaphorical chat, Teddy began breathing oddly and wetting the bed and waking in the night with terrible dreams of something gaunt and bearded, like the person he had almost seen in the tent, chuckling and tearing at him, snipping off his fingertips with its teeth and pulling his toes out with its teeth in the same way he had been taught by Liberty to get the meat out of an artichoke leaf. In the night he imagined his mother calling to him … Teddeee … Teddeee … a pale stretched-out skinny sound … calling and laughing and groaning to him.

He decided he needed a little magical protection, something he could devise for himself, so he began collecting the silvery paper bears. The phalanx of bears would protect him when he slept, when he could not be on guard. Their thick cold coats would muffle the sounds of chuckling and tearing and calling. They had already caused the dreams to change their nature, and he felt that when he had gathered enough of the bears, when the ceiling was complete, the terrible dreams would stop.

The bears marched glittering across the ceiling. Teddy was getting there, Liberty thought. He was almost there.

Teddy rushed into the room. “Liberty!” he said. “Do you know that during the Second World War, the Americans were going to use bat bombs against Japan? They were going to tie little cylinders filled with napalm to the bats’ chests and drop thousands of them from airplanes. They would be in hibernation, but as they fell from the planes they’d wake out of hibernation and then they’d go into buildings and houses and after a few hours they’d blow up.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I’m taking a course at the junior college called Oddities of War.” He took the egg out of his pocket and examined it. “Still with us,” he said. “You know, it’s hard to take care of an egg. A baby’s easier to watch than an egg, isn’t it, Liberty? It’s so much bigger. It would be hard to lose a baby. Some of the girls in my class have lost their eggs already. They think it’s a stupid assignment. Liberty, do you know that at that party Daddy and Janiella had, our pool got broken? Daddy broke it. He was just fooling around, Janiella said.”

“Let’s get out of here right away,” Liberty suggested.

“Yes!” Teddy said.

They waited at the end of the street for the bus. When the bus came, Clem leapt nimbly up the steps and settled himself on a seat beneath an advertisement for roach poison. Roaches were entering a Roach Motel, carrying little suitcases, little tennis racquets. They were wearing sunglasses and smiling.

The bus driver wore mirrored sunglasses, and there were comb marks in his hair. The big wheel moved smoothly through his hands. The bus driver loved his wheel. He would have taken it home at night with him if he could.

The only other passengers on the bus were three elderly women comparing the scenic designs on their bank checks. One had kittens, one had seashells, one had an old man and a small boy raking leaves together.

“The leaves are nice, but they don’t represent very well life in the South, what do you think?” the woman in the middle of the group said.

“Well, I’m from Cleveland,” the woman with the autumnal checks said. “I think it captures the nostalgia of a simpler time very nicely.”

“Oh, look at that dog,” the woman holding the seashell checks said.

One of her friends looked at Clem and frowned. “White dogs are so difficult to keep clean,” she said. “They show every speck of dirt. I had a white poodle once.” She placed her hand against her heart and rolled her eyes.

“I think Ethel has made the best choice,” the woman in the middle said, looking moodily at her own yellow kitten checks. “These shells are so refreshing. I can almost feel the ocean spray just looking at them.”

The three women stared at Clem. They began talking about their dead husbands.

“When Ernest passed away I was there by his side in the hospital and there was a napkin under his juice glass and I went out of the hospital with it,” Ethel said. “I left the room immediately with the napkin in my purse. It had sleigh bells printed on it because it was the holiday season.”

“Do you still have it?” the woman with the kitten checks said. She was a little embarrassed. She looked at her wrist-watch.

“I do,” Ethel whispered.

The woman from Cleveland gave a little grunt. “After my Harold died,” she said, “I found the most disturbing items at the bottom of his sock drawer.”

Her companions stirred in their seats.

“We always exchanged greeting cards on special occasions and there were cards there for the next five years, all signed by Harold and marked with the year. There were Christmas cards and Easter cards and Valentine’s Day cards and anniversary cards and birthday cards. And there was a get-well card for me in case, with no date on it …”—her eyes were fixed on Clem’s blank, benign ones—“… and Harold had written on it, ‘Hope you get your pep back soon.’ ”

Liberty and Clem and Teddy got off at the children and dogs’ beach. There was the nude homosexual beach, the nude heterosexual beach, the surfing beach and the shelling beach, as well as the beaches that belonged to the condos and the beaches that belonged to the rich. It was all the same thin, sparkling ribbon, but mind and predilection had divided the areas as effectively as shark-infested inlets. Liberty and Teddy sat on lumpy sand. There had been a sandcastle contest there the day before and the beach was humpy with failures. The sand structure contest had become a highly competitive annual event. Nonprofessionals and children were being edged out. Often there were fights. Grown men in madras bathing trunks could be observed circling one another, dying to throw a paralyzing punch. Slim, freckled ladies would be kicking. Plumper ladies, screaming. There were categories and prizes. Participants weren’t satisfied with making space platforms and cattle herds anymore. They busied themselves with cathedrals and Rolls-Royces. The winner yesterday had been The Last Supper. Judas had even had red hair.

The day was sunny, the water calm. Tiny, endless waves died upon the shore. Liberty suppressed visions of cruising barracudas, undertows, cramps, heart attacks, kidnappers bearing down in shining cigarette boats.

“Look, Clem,” Teddy said, “there’s Hermann.”

A Doberman acquaintance of Clem’s trotted by. He was a gorgeous-looking animal, but overbred. He had narcolepsy. In the midst of high-spirited play, sometimes even while eating, he would collapse as though hit on the head with a brick. He would have fallen asleep, deeply asleep. Who knows what he felt before he dropped? An indeterminate anxiety, a vague malaise, a sense of detachment, a revival of memories, a sense of harmony with the universe? He would wake up in a minute, several minutes perhaps. He had to take a tricyclic antidepressant daily so he wouldn’t get excited about things, perhaps triggering an attack. The Doberman ambled along and past them, his destination all about him.

“Poor Hermann,” Teddy said. He found some sticks and made a little awning with his T-shirt for the egg.

A woman in a large hat ran toward them down the beach, waving.

“There is someone who knows us,” Teddy said.

“Hi!” Sally Farrell said, falling down beside Liberty in a spray of sand. “Hi, everybody!” She kissed Liberty on the cheek. “I came down here to see the babies. I love the baby beach.”

Teddy looked at her with wide eyes.

“Don’t look at me too hard or you’ll wear me out,” Sally said, laughing.

He scrambled up and ran to the water.

“That didn’t scare him, did it?” Sally said, dismayed. “You’ve heard that before, haven’t you, you look at something too hard and you’ll wear it out? Maybe I don’t have a way with children. I brought my lunch. Do you want some of this sandwich? I’m making my own bread now, but I’m also trying to lose some weight. You know, I want to do different things these days.”

Sally exhibited her sandwich. Shredded carrots and a few raisins lay between two large pieces of underdone bread. The bread was damp and pale, as though it had seen something terrible.

“Sally,” Liberty said. “How are you, Sally? How’s JJ?” She felt guilty that she had not kept up with the troubles of Sally and JJ.

JJ was a retired movie stuntman who owned the Gator Bar. During his career he had broken his right leg three times, his left leg half a dozen times and his back and his jaw bone twice each. He had been a highly respected stuntman. He was a tumbler and a horseman and did cars and motorcycles and helicopters, but he liked fire gags the best. He had a muscular, battered body and a big, well-formed head. He loved his bar, which was cool, dim and loud. The walls were covered with framed stills of incredible stunts. To garrulous regular patrons like Charlie, JJ would speak about skill and pride and bravery. The two of them would yell and shout about meeting Death man to man, cojónes to cojónes, about triumphant exits. JJ Farrell had grand plans for Death. Then he had a stroke. The light went out only to flicker back on again. JJ’s grand plans for Death went right down the pipe … Sally had been running the bar for the last month ever since JJ’s stroke. They’d been married for three months now.

“Well, I had all my moles taken off, notice?” Sally pushed her pleasant square face forward and waggled it. “Remember how I used to worry all the time about those moles? I didn’t have a worry in the world back then except those silly moles and they turned out to be nothing. Six big nothings. JJ’s back from Haiti. He went over there for the herbs and the voodoo, but the herbs and the voodoo didn’t work. Still, he’s better. He’s a lot better than he was when you saw him in the hospital. Remember that! The guy on the other side of the curtain had cancer of the corneas. Cancer of the corneas, can you imagine! That hospital is so overcrowded. They send tourists someplace else now, they won’t even let them in. But JJ’s got his looks back. He doesn’t say much and he can’t use one leg and one arm, but the amazing thing is he’s got this permanent erection. He is just engorged all the time … I mean even when I help him out of the bathtub … especially when I help him out of the bathtub.…” Sally patted Liberty’s hand.

“I’m sorry I disappeared on you, Sally. I didn’t know how to help.”

“We haven’t seen you and Willie for a long time,” she said without offense. “But what could you have done? There was nothing you could have done. You know what I did all those weeks I was waiting on JJ in the hospital? I colored. I bought all these coloring books and I really went to town. I’d like to show them to you sometime. I’m not saying they’re art but they’re awfully good … It’s a pretty day to be on the beach, isn’t it? Do you know what JJ told me they do in Haiti? People offer to drown for a dollar or two. They pretend to drown.”

Liberty raised herself up on her elbows so she could better see Teddy in the water.

“They thrash around and then sink and then come up and float on their faces,” Sally said. “I mean I imagine that’s what happens. And people give them money.”

“Stay close in, honey,” Liberty called to Teddy.

Sally looked around them at all the children playing on the shore. “I’ve got to have some babies,” Sally said. “I love babies. I still want to get my babies from JJ, but who knows, I might have to get them from a man I don’t even know yet.” She made a fist and punched her thigh, annoyed. “JJ hasn’t lost his touch, but I must admit not much has happened lately. He gets confused. He says that sometimes when he feels my breast he doesn’t know what it is. Sometimes his brain says honeydew melon, you know, sometimes it says gearshift knob. But he’s better. Maybe he’ll get even better. When he got the stroke he was at the bar making somebody a piña colada. God, I hate piña coladas. I was at home and I remember the exact moment it happened. This big picture fell off the wall. There was something else too, this feeling. I knew something was happening. There was no reason for that picture to fall off the wall. Then the phone rang. Have I told you this before?”

“That’s all right,” Liberty said.

In the sky, a solitary pink cloud hurried by. It seemed just the type of cloud that would appear in answer to an unspoken prayer, dumping rain precipitously, for example, on a single, parched tree in a forest. The cloud hurried over the Gulf.

“It’s always a telephone call these days,” Sally said. She sniffled, having sad memories. She was remembering JJ. she remembered him jumping from a helicopter onto a speeding train. Actually, she had never seen this, he had told her about it. JJ was considerably older than Sally. She had been ten years old when he had done this stunt. She had been in school, learning about participles, about how light went around corners. She remembered JJ falling, his back full of arrows, JJ leaping from bridges, JJ burning up in a German tank. She was eleven or twelve when her husband was doing these things. She had no idea he existed. JJ loved to fall. She remembered him falling. He loved to die. He had different expressions for different deaths. How did light go around corners? Sally wondered.

“When I first saw JJ,” Sally said, “I got hot all over. Fate’s got that kind of heat, don’t you think? I was just burning up.” She nibbled on her sandwich, then made a face at it and buried it in the sand. “Do you know what his initials stand for? They don’t stand for anything. His parents just gave him those two lone letters for a name. I always thought they stood for something, but they’re just two lone letters. I learned that in the hospital. Actually, what I know for sure about JJ you could put in a cup.”

The small pink cloud Liberty had noticed earlier seemed to have reversed direction and was now hovering directly overhead. Liberty had the unsettling feeling that the cloud was about to rain blood on them. This was not unheard of, but it usually happened in places like Calabria or Tennessee. Homer had even written about it, although, of course, Homer had been blind. Liberty remained still, barely breathing, until the terrible feeling passed.

Black Hermann, believing himself invisible, stalked a seagull on the white sand. The gull looked at him with scorn.

Sally adjusted her hat. She wore a long, gauzy dress. She was a neat, round young woman, a measurer, hopeful. The small brown egg beneath its makeshift awning suddenly appeared to her. “What’s that!” she cried.

“Teddy’s taking a sex-education course,” Liberty said. “He has to take care of an egg for a week.”

“That’s an egg! Well of course it’s an egg, isn’t it. What will they think up next.” Her hand veered from touching it and fell lightly on Liberty’s leg. She began patting Liberty’s leg. “I like you a lot, did you know that? You’re reserved. I always liked it when you dropped in at the bar. I got so I looked forward to it. Didn’t we have some nice chats? I love the way your pelvic bones stick up like that. I think women are more genuine than men, don’t you think so?” She moved her hand up to Liberty’s stomach. Liberty removed the hand and placed it against Sally’s own stomach. The hand had taken on certain properties. Both women looked at it. Clem looked at it.

Sally blushed. “I like you. That isn’t nothing, you know. Are we friends? What are friends? I’m sorry,” she said, “all I can think about lately is sex. JJ was the most sexual man I’d ever known, but I don’t know him any more. How much do you know about Willie? He’s smart, isn’t he. Does it make sex any different?”

Liberty laughed.

“I just love that reserve of yours. I always felt Willie was sexual too, but he has sort of a malignant sexuality, do you know what I mean?”

“I don’t, no,” Liberty said.

“Sure, you know what I mean. Sort of like Pete. You know Pete. Poor Pete.”

“What’s Pete doing these days?” Liberty asked.

Sally’s brother, Pete, had been a Marine in Vietnam. There would be a Club Med in Vietnam one of these days. People would pay for drinks with beads, fuck strangers and dance beneath whispering palms. Pete had been eighteen when he had gone to Vietnam and now he was over forty. His specialty had been defoliating jungles, turning ancient forests into pancakes. He had been happy enough at the time, but now he was terribly unhappy.

“He’s still suffering a little environmental dislocation,” Sally said. “He thinks he’s still there or something. ‘Here is here, Pete,’ I keep telling him. JJ used to try to talk to him too, but it didn’t do any good. He’s pretty aggressive even after all these years. He had a job for a while at Skippy’s Cars which he really liked, but he lost it. He was the guy on the television commercial. Did you ever see it? It was wild.”

“The man in the white tuxedo,” Liberty said.

The man in the white tuxedo ran back and forth in front of a row of cars. The hoods of the cars were raised and pennants flew from the antennae. I want your attention! the man screamed. Give me your attention! He took something out of his pocket and threw it in the window of an unassuming green sedan, and the sedan blew up. Orange flames climbed skyward. What do I have to do to get your attention, the man, Pete, screamed. Do I have to hit you over the head with a shovel! Sweat poured down his face. I can make you the best deal in town!

“Pete loved that job,” Sally said. “But now he works in a juice bar. Why don’t you come down there with me sometime and say hello. We could get a glass of juice.”

“Oh, certainly,” Liberty said. Someday, absolutely, she thought, Pete was going to pour Liquid Plumber into the papaya essence and rock the retirement community by terminating two dozen social-security checks simultaneously.

“We’re all so deceived by life, aren’t we,” Sally said. “In many ways, I’ve been thinking, I’ve probably been deceived by my life of love.” She looked at Liberty earnestly. “I was very very happy with JJ, and by being so happy I became blind to my own development. I never had any satellite emotions, like fondness, say. It was a very stable, very inflexible situation. There was just JJ, and upon him I pinned all my hopes for self-fulfillment and satisfaction. I’m not saying he exploited me, but let’s face it, JJ domesticated me and made me a craven woman dependent upon his love. I’m not saying our love wasn’t unique, I’m saying it was sort of suffocating, well, not really suffocating, somewhat suffocating. It was a very deep, very unique love. Do you remember the way he used to talk to me intimately? Well, there’d be no way you could remember that, of course, I get so mixed up these days, I have to talk for two you know, I have to recall all this stuff for two, but JJ used to talk to me all the time in this sort of rapid whisper, this quick nonsense whisper, as though I were a race horse or something, like this high-strung filly or something. This was very important, this fantasy element of our love. It was very important to JJ and I cooperated fully because our love was so great, but I realize now that I was a very unfulfilled person. JJ was real even though he was acting, but I wasn’t real even though I was just going along. I wasn’t self-actualizing. I was just part of JJ, a man who doesn’t even have a proper name.”

Sally was talking eagerly with a far-off look in her eyes.

“Such language!” Liberty said. “Have you been speaking with your clergyman?” Clergymen often tried too hard, Liberty felt. They had misplaced God in the wilderness and stumbled into the neon wonderland of serial polygamy guidance.

“There’s a voice on the phone, actually,” Sally confessed, “and it gives advice. It’s very sensible. It’s general, but it applies to the particular too. I discovered a lot about my own situation, it was incredible. I discovered I wasn’t autonomous. I’ve got to become autonomous now.” Sally took a deep breath. “What if Willie just left you, he didn’t really die, but he died to you, he couldn’t help it, he just left?”

“He’s left before,” Liberty said. “What I did was wait, I guess.”

“So the waiting made sense because it finally stopped, but what if it didn’t make sense?”

“Waiting never makes sense,” Liberty said.

“We’re all asleep, aren’t we,” Sally said. “Like we’re under a spell and something keeps saying, ‘No need to think about it, nothing’s going to happen, if anything were to happen it’s not going to happen now, anyway, not this minute …’ Who says that anyway?”

“The Magician in us,” Liberty said. “The Kindly Master.”

“Ugh,” Sally said. She frowned. After a moment, she said, “You’ve still got that dog. I suppose pets give your life a certain continuity. Maybe I should get a pet. I want to lose some weight too. Fifteen pounds would be about right, I think. JJ liked for me to be an armful. ‘My squeeze’ he’d call me. Can you imagine? He called me his squeeze. What a dear man.” Sally began to cry quietly. “He isn’t able to squeeze me any more.”

Liberty reached for Sally’s hand and held it. The sky was once again cloudless and very blue. And the Gulf was blue too, but with a greenish cast. Pale schools of mullet moved through it. There were terns and plovers working the shore now, and later in the day the herons would arrive, and later than the herons, close after sunset, the skimmers would appear, flying swiftly and close to the water, shearing the water with their bills …

“That sky is aloof, isn’t it,” Sally said. “It’s hard to plan on fulfilling yourself under a sky like that.” She patted her eyes dry with the back of Liberty’s hand and stood up. “I’ve got to get back to the Gator. I wish you’d come on by. We’re having a welcome home party for JJ tomorrow night. I wish you weren’t such a stranger. You know what they say about ’gators? They say they’ve got seven emotions and they make a sound for each one of them, but it’s all the same sound.” A peculiar expression slid across Sally’s face. “Just like JJ,” she said. “Oh, god,” she said, “I didn’t say that. Don’t tell me I said that.”

“Sally,” Liberty said.

Sally closed her eyes and shook her head, giggling. “I just didn’t say that,” she said. “But you know what, you know that big Cajun? Charlie, right? He’s got such a crush on you. He talks about you all the time.”

“A crush?”

“A big crush.”

“A gin crush,” Liberty said.

“Don’t be that stranger now, you come on by,” Sally said. She kissed Liberty briskly on the cheek. “Good-bye baby beach!” she said to the beach.

Teddy ran up from the water, holding a shell in his hand. “I found a murex!” he said. “It doesn’t live around here. Somebody must have bought it in a store and then come here and dropped it. It lives in the Mediterranean. And look what I’ve got too, I got these from the trash. Will they count?”

She looked at the ice-cream wrappers. Five wrinkled bears.

“They’ll count.” She smoothed them out on her knee. “What do you think the word crush means, honey?”

“Conquer and destroy.”

“Conquer and destroy,” Liberty said. “Maybe you should drop that war course.”

Outside Teddy’s house, Duane was gazing under the hood of a matte black ’69 Shelby Cobra Mach 1. There was reverence in his eyes as he contemplated the gleaming air cleaner with its crinkle finish and polished aluminum hi-lite fins. Teddy touched a brilliantly twinkling radiator cap with his fingers. His father nudged him back a bit.

“You’re sandy, son,” he said. “Take a shower and then you can look.” He took a clean rag from his pocket and flicked it across the grille.

“You shining up the engine again, Daddy?”

“Boy, son, you sure are sandy,” Duane said. He glanced quickly at Teddy. He wished his boy were sturdy — even, perhaps, a little wild and nasty, with a face of his own.

“We’ve been to the beach.”

“Nah,” he said. “Nah you haven’t. Impossible.” Duane’s eyes were focused a little above Teddy and beyond. He cuffed the child’s shoulder playfully.

“Yes we have, we have!” Teddy said excitedly. “See, Liberty’s sandy too. And Clem! We’re all sandy!”

“Nah, you haven’t been to the beach,” Duane said, feinting a jab at Teddy’s chest.

“We have, we have!” Teddy shrieked.

“Okay, son, enough play for now.” Duane slammed the hood shut and crouched beside one of the Shelby’s mag wheels. He had just mounted four new tires — Pro Trac 60’s. He had longed for those big meats for a long time and now he possessed them. The big meats thrilled him, but he knew he was not as happy as he should have been. Duane sighed. His little boy with his narrow mouth and black wild hair looked exactly like his bitch-lezzie wife, Jean-Ann, and it made his heart sink anymore just to look at him. Duane loved his son, but whenever he showed him any affection, he now felt weird, even wicked. He had gone to a drive-in movie with Janiella a few nights ago to neck and eat fried chicken and they had seen a horror film about giant, soulless pods taking over the living, except that in this one instance the transformation was incomplete and a dog ended up having the head, the face, of a man on it. It was a grotesque sight and it had planted itself firmly in Duane’s mind. On the surface of things he was a fortunate man. Jean-Ann didn’t want a nickel from him, only a divorce and the freedom to live her own, ghastly life. He had four cherry cars and an intelligent, worldly-wise girlfriend who really liked to get it on. But all was not well beneath the surface of things. His little boy depressed him. Teddy was like a knocking in his Dad’s life’s engine.

Janiella came up behind him and blew on his neck. She was wearing high-heeled sandals, short shorts and two handkerchiefs tied around her breasts.

“I was thinking,” Duane mused, “maybe we could dye Teddy’s hair.”

“What?” Liberty said.

“That’s some idea,” Janiella said.

Duane turned around and nodded. “Dye his hair. Bleach it from one of those little packages women use.”

Janiella giggled.

“That stuff could turn his black hair white,” Duane said.

“It will come out orangey, believe me,” Janiella said.

“I don’t mean white like that dog of yours,” Duane said to Liberty. “I mean a light blond like. He wouldn’t be so partial to Jean-Ann in his looks that way.”

Teddy and the two women stared at him. Duane’s cars, sleek as rats, crouched around them.

Duane raised the thumb and index fingers of his hands and boxed Teddy’s head in the square they made. He squinted, shrinking the square.

“Getting rid of the hair would help,” Duane said. He dropped his hands and regarded Teddy thoughtfully. “If his jaws were a little fuller that would help too.”

“You’re crazy, Duane,” Janiella said appreciatively.

“How tall you believe my boy’s going to get? Jean-Ann was one tall drink of water.” Duane looked at Teddy reproachfully.

“Jean-Ann,” Janiella said. She nibbled on Duane’s neck.

“Jean-Ann, Jean-Ann. You’ve seen better heads on mule dicks, right!” Duane laughed and pinched her buttocks.

Teddy was blushing. His narrow chest was mottled with red. “That’s the way they are,” he said to Liberty. “I’m going to go inside now.”

In a slash pine, a crow perched on a branch. Smaller, frantic, brighter birds darted and swooped at it, calling. There was a nest somewhere. Everywhere, in the day’s last, lingering light, liaisons and arrangements were being made. It’s the dry season and somewhere, in the middle of the state, a pine tree blows up. Farther north, an elderly man with Alzheimer’s lives contentedly with his dead wife for three days while to the south a couple wearing scuba gear get married underwater. A teenage boy kills himself so he can donate his heart to his sick girlfriend while a homosexual whose lover has just left him goes into Woolworth’s and buys two gerbils. Love comes and goes, pitching its mansion. And on the circular track of days, it appears that Dread is gaining on Devotion every second.

6

When Liberty returned to her own house, she found it locked. She jiggled the doorknob. They never locked the house, but there it was, locked. Perhaps Landlord had come back. Landlord was, in fact, the landlord’s name, a person whom Liberty had never met, but who by his uncaring absence seemed generous enough. Willie dealt with him. Apparently the understanding was that Landlord might return, and when he did they’d have to find another place.

Webby matter fouled the jalousies. Large moths clung to the darkness beneath the eaves. Looking in the window, she saw that the room was unchanged from the way she and Clem had left it when they had gone to the beach at noon. She pushed at the door once more, then returned to the street to study the house, surprised at how neglected it looked. A rusting hot-water heater, resembling a bomb, stood on the sagging side porch. Firecracker plant spilled out of the cracks in the foundation. The mailbox, which was stationed on a black chain coiling rigidly upward, dangled open, empty.

It had been in just such a mailbox years ago where she had found Clem, a puppy barely alive, his soiled shape filling up dark space. The sun had beat down upon the box then as she looked in, and black insects had shifted in the hinges where it was damp. When she pulled him out, she saw that someone had burnt the pads of his feet, there were burns on his coat, on his soft muzzle. One eye was shut and oozed a clear liquid. She had taken him to a regular doctor because the veterinarian’s offices were farther away. The doctor, who knew her, said she hadn’t found him a moment too soon.

All the doctors knew her there, for she hadn’t been well and doctors knew her. It had been this time of year but in another place, and seven years ago, before she and Willie were actually married. They were living near an abandoned orange grove, and the rotting fruit, on the ground and still hanging in the trees, made the air smell like a sad bar. It was the fall of what was their last year of school, but neither of them was going to school. By the end of that summer, Liberty knew she wasn’t going back. That was over, school, the excitement of making connections, the doors opening in her mind, the babble of voices becoming isolated, subdued, orderly. In science she had been the only one in the class who had seen the connection between the Thermos bottle and rocketry. She had seen the line leading from picnics to atom bombs.

She had a gift, the teachers said. It was as if she’d been given a gift, the teachers said, and she was throwing it away.

She had thrown it away. She took no comfort in connections. She had learned the strange paths love followed and believed only in clamorous uproar, cruel seasons, random acts.

Where do you go when there’s nowhere to go, and the death you might have died belongs to you no longer?

She heard a phone ringing, then it stopped. She went back across the dirt yard to the banyan tree, climbed up the trunk and walked out on a limb wide as a train track. The limb, rather than penetrate the house, had accommodated it nicely by veering up only inches from the bathroom window. Liberty lay on the limb and wiggled the screen out of the rotting wood, then squirmed through the window headfirst. Two lizards darted down the wall.

“Willie,” Liberty called.

At the front door, Clem was standing on two legs like any human being. He dropped softly inside when she pulled the door back. The lock was old and had gummed itself shut. She turned it back and forth. In the kitchen she covered a plate with dog food and set it on the floor for Clem. The plate was a large plastic one that depicted the First Presbyterian Church in Port Gibson, Mississippi, with its peculiar steeple atop which a large bronze finger pointed skyward. Clem worked away at the food, exposing the shrubbery, the steps, and the door to the nave. He always saved the revelation of the finger for last.

The phone rang.

“Why did you answer so quickly? What’s wrong?” Liberty’s mother demanded.

“Nothing, nothing,” Liberty said.

“Something’s wrong,” her mother gasped.

“No.”

“I hate it when you pick up the phone on the first ring. When I called your number before, the most peculiar thing happened. I got a tape. Are you hooked up to some answering machine, Liberty?”

Liberty thought of life-support systems. Tubes and pumps. Machines that cleansed.

“No.”

“Where do you get the money for these things, Liberty. Having an answering service … the life you must lead!”

“I have no answering service, Mother. You must have dialed wrong.”

“Now how could I have dialed wrong. Really, the things you infer sometimes. I thought it was a trendy little joke you were making, something you felt was bohemian. The man was talking about friendship, how to make friends with the opposite sex or something. It was so sappy, but the man had a lovely voice. I have often wished your father’s voice was more mellifluous. Sometimes I dial Time and Temperature just to hear the mellifluous voice of a male stranger.” She sighed. “I wanted to ask you a question, dear. Do you remember Peter Marsh?”

“I don’t, no.”

“Oh, Liberty, are you on drugs or something? I sometimes wonder what has happened to your mind. You used to have such a good mind, Liberty. You were always so good with those hard questions like if there are four houses on a street and the Blakes live next to the Browns and the Burtons live next to the—”

“I’ve never heard of Peter Marsh, Mother.”

“Why when you were a child, you even knew the name of Hitler’s dog. I remember how astonished all our friends used to be at your acumen.”

Liberty lowered herself to the floor and put her chin on her knees.

“Peter Marsh used to be one of Daddy’s patients in the long ago,” Liberty’s mother began. “One day he came into the office and he was very quiet. Later, of course, everyone realized how uncharacteristic it was for him to be so quiet. He was a very handsome man and very successful with the ladies. Men liked him too. He was a city commissioner then. He always seemed to be having the best time, but that day he just didn’t smile or say a word and when anyone spoke to him he just shrugged or nodded. Well, finally he sat down in Daddy’s chair and opened his mouth and his teeth were just braided with pubic hairs. The little dental hygienist Daddy had at the time practically screamed her head off.”

“Oh,” Liberty said.

“It was a joke, Liberty. A joke! You’re so stuffy sometimes.”

“Well,” Liberty said.

“The point is,” her mother said, “that Peter Marsh is running for governor. Isn’t it a small world? I hope you and Willie are still involved in the democratic process, Liberty. I think it would be fun for you to go out and vote for someone you know for governor.”

“Umm,” Liberty said.

“Is everything all right?” her mother said coolly. “There isn’t a burglar or anyone there, is there? A burglar just waiting until you complete this call, threatening you? Is Willie helpless somewhere?”

When time permitted, her mother practiced attitudes toward disaster. She studied carefully the written or televised accounts of victims’ responses — in particular the survivors of floods, hurricanes and plane crashes. She attended with grave interest the replies of mothers whose small children had been missing in some National Park for forty-eight hours. Liberty suspected that her mother still cherished the possibility of little Liberty in some alternate world toddling away from the cheerfulness of a family campfire into the wolf-filled gorges and bottomless lakes of a vast forest so that she could react with composure and grace.

“No, Mother, no, no. A burglar.” Liberty made a laughing sound. “How’s Daddy?”

There was an affronted, momentary silence. “How do you envision my life, Liberty? Really, I’m curious. You used to be such a sensitive girl. You act as though my life was the sound of laughter carried by a breeze over a green lawn. You act as though my life took place on a sunlit balcony someplace. Daddy’s the same as ever. When I met Daddy I had twenty-two cavities and filling them was the last thing that man has ever done for me. Do you remember Tina Terrance?”

“Yes,” Liberty said. “Tina was the artist who was living with you last Christmas.”

The Christmas turkey had crouched before them on the table. There was wine and brandy. There was a sweet potato and banana casserole. There was pecan pie. There was a white mop leaning against a wall, and just outside the window, there was a collapsing septic tank. Willie had been silent and extraordinarily silent that day like someone laid out in a casket. Before they sat down to the meal, they had watched a “Star Trek” rerun on television. The episode concerned a woman named Stella Mudd who was so shrewish that her husband fled into space, creating a colony of androids, including a duplicate of Stella, which could be silenced upon command. Lucile had felt that Lamon had been inordinately amused by the plot and it had put her in a bad humor.

“Your mother’s tense, very tense,” Tina had whispered to Liberty later, above the soapy dishes. “Very into signs like tent caterpillar shapes or dead wrens at the feeder. There have been these headless wrens lying around by the feeder and it drives her wild. Your mother’s not wrapped very tight, I think.” Tina grinned. “Like her marbles are a little flat on one side.”

“You’re saying her elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top, like,” Liberty said.

“Boy, you’re a cold one,” Tina said. “Innocence is not your game, I can see that.”

Liberty said, “I can even remember the name of Hitler’s dog now, Mother. It was Blondi.”

“I don’t mean to suggest that you should remember everything,” her mother said. “Only schizophrenics remember everything. Tina isn’t living with us any more. She moved out a month or so ago. She married the largest Negro I have ever seen in my life.”

“My,” Liberty said.

“Well, you know Tina. Everything is art to her, her life is her art, but honestly, the size of that man. Sometimes he puts his hands around her head, just playfully, you know, and her head just vanishes. Well, Tina’s gone and Daddy has already got two other students living here. These are boys. They bring home the most peculiar assortment of groceries. I think they must steal them out of people’s cars.” She sighed. “You know when you know you’re really old, Liberty?”

Liberty looked at a vein tapping in her wrist. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“I never dreamed I’d just grow old like this,” her mother said.

“You’re not old.”

“Forty. I’m forty years of age, Liberty.”

Liberty knew for a fact that her mother was forty-five.

“But we have to make the best of things!” her mother said. “You know the woman who got 1.2 million from the jury, the one whose husband died in the plane crash? Pots of people died in that crash, but she got the biggest award. She was in the hospital giving birth to their second child or something right after it happened. Isn’t that always the way? These women always end up in the hospital giving birth right after their husbands die, the same old revolving door story, and the nurse comes in with the fellow’s effects in this little box and there was his watch on one of those elasticized bands. There was this stuff webbed around in the band, it was like his skin, and the nurse said, ‘Why that’s nothing, dearie, it’s just a little fuzz like caught there’ and she rubbed it off with her fingers and dropped it on the floor. The wife got 1.2 million for mental anguish. Now that’s making the best of things …”

Liberty could hear her mother breathing.

“Talking to you at times is like addressing a paper plate,” her mother said. “Well, I’ve got to go now. I have to turn the water off under the carrots.”

After her mother hung up, Liberty kept the receiver to her ear. There was a faint sound, as of waves breaking. She could hear a distant conversation murmuring across the wires. Frequently the conversations of strangers were made quite plain to her. She had heard very clearly, for instance, a woman once describing a monkey-hair jacket she had had in her youth.

It was beautiful, the woman said. I knew what I was doing. I was ten years ahead of my time.

The voices that seemed clearest were the ones most lonely and aggrieved, the bitterest, the most amazed. There seemed to be a great dark mournful web of voices that Liberty could swing into as easily, as lightly, as one of its essential threads.

She returned the phone to its cradle. It instantly rang. When she answered, the communicant on the other end dropped the receiver.

“Doll,” Charlie said. “Scusi. Phone fell. I had to call you. I have new thinking relevant to our future together. I think we should change Teddy’s name to Reverdy. What do you think? Reverdy, a good Southern name. Do you know what Janiella, that awful woman, calls him sometimes? Odd. She calls him Odd sometimes.”

“How can she call him Odd?” Liberty asked.

“ ‘Odd’, she says. ‘Put that chicken pot pie in the microwave for three minutes.’ She says, ‘Odd, pick up your feet for godssakes.’ Things along that line.”

“I hate that woman,” Liberty said. “You have no taste.”

“I have no odor. Sterile men have no odor. We’re like vodka. Didn’t you know that? That’s why we’re in such demand.”

Everything was very quiet. Then she heard ice tinkling in a glass as Charlie swallowed.

“I didn’t know that,” she said.

“Liberty, Liberty, Liberty,” Charlie said.

Liberty imagined being with Charlie — two lovers in a melting embrace floating in a glass of whiskey on a sponged Formica table in an unfamiliar town.

“I have been a drunk for fourteen years,” Charlie said. “That’s seven years twice. I have spent this day in the contemplation of this crucial number, for it’s widely known that every seven years one’s nature changes. There are seven changes of personality in each of us whether our life be long or short. There are seven faces we will eventually show. There are seven attachments that must be broken. Yet seven, too, is the number of perfection. If one does not change, one remains perfected. Completed and therefore solved. Indeed, considered finished and so—”

Their connection was abruptly interrupted by a piercing whine, followed by a hum, followed by silence. Liberty replaced the receiver and pressed her hand against her ear. She sometimes had a grim vision of herself being this ear alone, a large and pale organ attuned only to complaint, bewilderment and sorrow — the antennaed hairs rough and sturdy as swamp grass, its intricate whorls pink and cute as a nest of rat pups — her true self teetering beneath it.

She looked at the phone, a black, horrid, hunkering thing. It rang.

“I hate being disconnected like that,” Charlie said. “It brings to mind The Big Disconnect, you know? They’re teaching Death to little children now in the schools. They have to write essays on How I Would Feel If I Had to Die at Midnight and they have to write it neatly. Neatness still counts.”

Liberty wrapped the phone cord around her arm. “Death’s always been in vogue,” she said.

“How’s the kid’s egg?” Charlie asked. “Is he still carrying it around? What a cute kid! He and you and me could really make it. I’m telling you our time to change has come. I’m talking life! By my calculations you have been married to this Willie person for seven years. Clem, your holy hound, is seven as well, am I right? And so is Reverdy.”

“Why does everyone want to change Teddy’s name,” Liberty said. “Reverdy, the Phantom, Odd …”

“We give many names to the things that matter most,” Charlie said. “Like, as you know, the Eskimos and snow.”

“Duane wants to dye Teddy’s hair a different color so he won’t remind him of his wife.”

“Watch out! He’ll do it. He’s a very sincere man. I met him just the other night at a party they gave. I had to keep my distance from Janiella but I chatted up the other ladies. Turquoise, teal and aqua are the big colors for the upcoming season, I told them. Mauve is out. Peach is still holding its own. White and bleached woods are very big. Country French is still in style, but Scandinavian never caught on. Beds are being emphasized, Euro-modernist is in. Then I chatted up Duane for a while. We drank. We spoke fornication, weaponry, engines, you know, boy talk. I know my business, I told him. If you want to sell a house, you’ve got to have a house that’s happening. Anecdotes, I told him. The buyer loves anecdotes. If a house has character, you can add another five grand to the sale price. We drank. Well, something clicked. He went into the bedroom, took his twelve gauge from the closet, strode over to the pool, wherein there were people, I might add, and took a bead on this little rubber frog that was drifting around in it. The little frog trails chlorine from its bottom, you know. Nice little frog with a happy smile, his rubber legs crossed and his rubber eyes happy? Well, Duane blasted that poor little froggy to smithereens.”

“That’s how it happened?” Liberty said faintly. “The crack in the pool?”

“He had misinterpreted my remarks a little. He thinks in terms of ballads. Everyone thought it was fairly amusing once they realized they hadn’t been maimed. After that event, we were all given a hamburger, another drink and a tour of the garage. Included in the garage tour was the freezer tour. There’s a big white humming mother out there filled with neatly wrapped packages that Duane made out of various Bambis he’s bagged. Chillness, obscurity, disarray, extremis. The mind stirs with no thought of future life when it contemplates that thing, let me tell you. Did I ever tell you what my mother keeps in her freezer? It’s not her underwear. She keeps her underwear in the refrigerator, in the crisper bin. What she keeps in the freezer is the fruitcake my grandmother was bringing over to the house on Christmas Day when she was run over by a motorcycle. That fruitcake has been in the freezer for five years. It’s wrapped in green paper and has a red string around it.”

“You’ve never told me that before,” Liberty said. “I’ve never repeated myself to you, have I?” Charlie said, shocked.

“You told me that your grandmother died from plucking a wild hair.”

“That was my other granny,” Charlie said. “Everybody has two grannies. You think you know my limits, don’t you. You believe you sense my deficiencies. You think I’m the sort of fellow who would lie about his grannies. You think I’m the kind of fellow content to maintain intimacies with a beautiful woman by the fluctuation of a magnetic field, that is, the telephone. You think language is just the human medium after all, and I’m employing it because basically I’m shallow. This human business has gotten a little out of hand you think. Drinkers can’t be lovers, you think. Oh the bleak, gnawing, crushing painful things you think! Your silence is a little black garden. You know everything there by heart.”

Liberty said nothing. She listened to his voice, which seemed to be blowing to her from across some blank expanse of water.

“Silence is Liberty’s little hidey-hole,” Charlie said.

She heard more liquid being poured into a glass.

“C’mon, talk to me,” Charlie said. “With practice our language will grow to accommodate the event of you and me and Reverdy.”

“Charlie,” Liberty said. “Where are you calling from?”

“Where am I calling from? I am calling from home, specifically from Room 303 of the Paradise Hotel on the corner of Coconut and Main. Every time I wake up in this room, I think I’m a case of mistaken identity. Do you see Room 303? The linoleum floor painted red, the single window scraped by palm fronds, the hostile eye of the TV, the ant cakes in the corner, the bureau, the bed, the bottle, me?”

“I see it.”

“Room 303 is where I don’t want to be, and I have been in Room 303 for years.”

“You have plenty of money,” Liberty said. “You could move out tomorrow.”

“That palm is suffering from palm leaf skeletonizer. Have you heard of that disease? I’m sure this palm has got it. Everything’s got something these days. A guy told me his car has arthritis … I do have money. After I saw you at breakfast I made another three grand in commissions. A young couple buying their dream house, deciding in my hearing where to put the Bokharas, the highboy, their marital bed, the baby’s nine-foot toy giraffe. They stood beside the caged pool and I could see their heads practically glowing with visions of pool sex, fulfillment, happiness, dreams of God knows what. It was so depressing. Stop! I wanted to scream at them. Your destiny is one of chaos. You will find only disappointment behind these walls, beneath this roof. Your desires are petty, irrational, unattainable. Your infant will grow to detest you. Your husband will be unfaithful. Your wife will scream at you with her bathrobe open. Intimacies will only occur between you when incited by parties, alcohol or aberrant fantasies. You must change your life! Become wanderers. Possess nothing. Confront your solitude. Go forth into the world.”

Liberty held her breath, then slowly exhaled.

“This wouldn’t be us, of course,” Charlie said.

“Charlie.”

“You love me!” Charlie cried.

“I love Willie.”

“Love takes time, I’m willing to admit. Certain kinds of love. But I know you’ll be able to find a place for me in your love, and when you do, we’ll just move right into it … the hound, Reverdy, you and me. You’ve got to get the kid out of his daddy’s house, Liberty. Duane’s nuts. When I was speaking with him the other night, he said, ‘Charlie, buddy, if I ever found out that a man was messing with my Janiella, I’d tear out both their hearts. I’d tear off their hands and roast them and eat them, the palms of the hands being the only thing worth having off a human being.’ ”

“You’re the one who’d best get out of Teddy’s daddy’s house,” Liberty said lightly. But she was frightened. She heard Charlie crunching ice with his teeth.

“Everything’s cyclic,” Charlie said. “The desire to live is cyclic. Why don’t you tell me I give good phone? Come on, talk to me. Silence indicates a considerable nada. You’ve been associating with that dog of yours too much. Heavy nada there. Not that I don’t think he’s great. But the eye with which one sees nada is the eye with which one sees one. You know?”

“I’m a silent married woman,” Liberty said.

“I have the television set on here in my room,” Charlie said. “It’s a game show. Husbands can apparently win fabulous prizes by scaling a gigantic greased washboard. The husbands’ wives are at the top of the washboard urging them on. Whoops. None of the husbands seem to be making it.”

“I have to go, Charlie.”

“No, wait, I’ll change the channel. Uh-oh. Wow, that’s disgusting … heart just popped right out. When is all this supposed to be taking place? In the long, long ago. In the days of sorcerers and the bicameral mind … what’s this!..”

“Charlie—”

“No, wait, I’ll turn it off. There, it’s off. Do you want me to read to you? I used to like to read these tawdry doomsday books, the kind with virulent bacilli and climatic melt where millions die, there is sex and savagery and man’s inherent dignity never comes up?… But I’ve changed my habits. It’s all part of my alteration process. I’m working my way through seventeenth-century verse and prose now. Andrew Marvell, Sir Thomas Browne, Sir John Suckling.”

“Donne, of course.”

“ ‘If God could be seen and known in hell, hell in an instant would be heaven.’ That’s Donne.”

“ ‘Miserable riddle,’ ” Liberty said, “ ‘when the same worm must be my mother and my sister and my self.’ Donne.”

“Let’s drop the seventeenth century,” Charlie said. “Too much morbid imagery. Too much sensual asceticism. Turn the light off and I’ll turn the light off. There. It’s dark. Now let’s diffuse the dark into little pinpoints of light, tiny brief explosions of light with words of love. Seriously, when can I see you?”

“You can’t.”

“I will,” Charlie said. “I will see you. Has your old man returned?”

“No,” Liberty said.

“Where does he go? Where do you go? I saw in the paper that two kids had been saved from a burning house in the Panhandle by an unidentified man. Do you think Willie traveled up there to do that? Could that have been our Willie? He saved the children. I think he even saved the aged collie. Do you know if Willie gives blood?”

“I don’t think he’s ever given blood.”

“Too minor probably. There’ll always be blood, right? I think he’ll be donating his living organs soon, important living organs. Then he’ll open the zoos and prisons. I have a theory. I think Willie saves people as a kind of joke.”

“That would be terrible,” Liberty said.

“Really. A joke. Willie thinks abstractly. He thinks in opposition to his brain. Actually, Willie doesn’t give a shit. Now myself, I think concretely. Your past is irredeemable, but it’s not over yet. Here’s what I want to tell you. I went out and bought us a car with the money I just made, a finny old Caddy, big enough to hold us all, the means by which we will make good our escape. Blinding chrome everywhere, my favorite color. And the trunk! Wait until you see the size of the trunk! I’ve begun filling it with stuff for us. Butterfingers, hot sauce, Chuckles, hominy, potted meats. When we’re ready to go, I’ll fill the cooler with limesickles for the kid.”

“All this is impossible, Charlie,” Liberty said.

“We’ll have to start out by car. It’s only reasonable. Then we’ll determine other means of travel. The kid doesn’t like limesickles, I’ll fill it with Creamsicles.”

“He likes the ice cream with the polar bears on them, actually,” Liberty said. “He collects the wrappers.” But he wouldn’t need the wrappers if they went away, she thought. They’d leave all that behind.

“All right!” Charlie said.

“Those polar bears kind of depress me, really,” Liberty said. “I imagine the real thing. And then I see the real thing far from its ice floe home, lying flat, jaws agape, on the floor of a Dallas mansion.”

“Liberty, you mustn’t allow yourself to be brought down by an ice cream sandwich.”

She laughed.

“Liberty, Liberty, Liberty, you think going away is just a feverish fancy of mine, but it’s not. Why would I want to deceive us? We have to begin. What I’m going to do is give up drinking. This is my last drink. This one right here, this luminous lovely, unlike all the others and more precious because it is the last …”

Liberty heard the sound of breaking glass.

“Oh no, oh shit, I dropped it,” Charlie cried. They both clung to the phone in silence. Then there was a click. Charlie had hung up.

Clem gazed at her from the floor, his forepaws curled beneath him. Liberty’s hands were sweating. It was quiet. Someone could break into this house, and it would be like herself breaking into the house of another. It would be someone just like herself. What is it that you want? she would ask the intruder.

When the phone rang again, she stared at it. There was something wrong with it, surely.

“I’ve been on a very pretty inlet,” the voice began, “the tide comes in, goes slack, pours back out. Very peaceful there.”

“Willie,” Liberty said.

“One sinks gently from nothingness to nothingness. No bubbles.”

“You’ve been gone for days,” Liberty said.

“It always amazes me. There’s nobody out here.”

“There’s nobody out there, I thought that’s what we always said.”

“We have our parts, don’t we,” Willie said. “Our lines.”

“Please come back. I’m missing you.”

“Come to me,” Willie said. “I called earlier, but the line was busy. Who was that?”

“Charlie.”

“Charlie is a tragic figure, but dimly, only dimly so. Have you been seeing him?”

“No.” Liberty looked at some daisies she had cut and put in a glass.

“He believes that everything’s meant to be forgotten,” Willie said.

Liberty watched the daisies. There had been daisies in such a glass for years and years, everywhere.

“Come to me tomorrow,” Willie said. “Walk to the end of Buttonwood Beach. Go down around six in the morning. That’s when the Gulf is going to be pouring back through the Pass. Jump in, and it will sweep you about a quarter mile down Long Key to a yellow house. I’ll meet you there.”

“Jump in? There’s a bridge to Long Key.”

“But it’s almost twenty miles from you. Jumping in is the way. I’ve checked the tides. You’ll drift.”

“Jump in, then drift,” Liberty said. “It sounds like what we’ve been doing all right.”

“That’s what we’re doing,” Willie said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Liberty went into the bathroom and turned the water on in the shower. She undressed, then hesitated. She looked at the pitted handles and the silver water with its sulfur smell falling from the corroded head like thousands of needles. The water swept a small brown spider from a spotted tile. She turned the water off. Charlie had a point about showers.

In the bedroom, a voice from the radio was singing

Won’t that room of mine be a lonely place to be

After I been holding you so close to me

And won’t that old stairway be a little hard to climb

To a lonely room to wait for another place, another time.

The paddles of an overhead fan threw shadows on the wall. On the bureau was a framed picture of her and Willie, taken years before, when they were children. They did not stand close to one another. They had left plenty of room for something between them.

She wanted to take Teddy out of his daddy’s house, but she was weak, she could not be trusted. She was weak, a drifter. If she took him with her, he’d be a drifter too. A baby drifter.

She set the alarm clock, darkened the room and lay down on the bed. She heard Clem drop his weight to the floor. She tried to bring to mind her ladder, but this night it was not there, the smooth, furled, endless rungs, each of which she created, then searchingly found, down into sleep. This night it was the stairway of the song, now ended, a stairway rising crookedly upward, empty, but full of voices.

II

It is living and ceasing to live

that are imaginary solutions.

Existence is elsewhere.

— André Breton

1

The voices went on and on. This was years ago. Liberty’s father, Lamon, had once been a successful dentist. He was popular because he administered gas when he cleaned teeth and he used his prescription pad in an imaginative manner. Every afternoon after school, Liberty hurried to his office to observe his patients under the influence of nitrous oxide. Her mother thought she was there reading the magazines.

Liberty’s father was handsome and carefree, prone to minimalize the importance of the waning of love and the passage of time. His patients adored him.

“Your daddy,” Lenore Biddle said one hot morning in Liberty’s childhood, just before she reeled out the door, “highly resembles both William Holden and Father Johnson of St. Luke’s.”

In fact, there was something priestly about Liberty’s father’s ministrations. No matter how discouraged or tired his patients seemed when they entered the little rooms, they always left in high spirits, refreshed and confident, absolved, for the moment, of both care and carious lesions. The walls were blue, the color of peace; the tone of her father’s smock, green. The combination elicited confidence and confession. The need for confession seemed paramount among the men.

“I’ve been thinking, Doc, about time. We spend time as if we had too much time. We complain that the day is long and the night is long and then we complain because our days and nights are gone too soon. I’ve also been thinking about boredom. I have discovered that I am a boring man. It dawned on me yesterday when I walked into my office and realized that all the women I’ve hired look like Linda. Dark, sort of frizzy hair, so-so breasts, sweet personalities. You know my little wife, Linda. Well, it was a humbling realization, Doc, it was a boring realization. I can’t believe I was put on this earth just to be faithful to Linda …”

That was the lawyer. And there was the butcher, the gardener, the boat broker.

“I worry about being locked up. I can feel it, the pressure. Like being buried in mud, or frozen solid in a block of ice, or crushed beneath stones. Do you think I’m going to do something awful …”

There was the man who owned the old hotel, Oversea — where Liberty and her parents dined freely and badly once a week in the deserted dining room — who had the need, under gas, to recite limericks.

“There was a stout lad name of Pizzle,” he’d begin. “Oh, the little girlie’s here. Hi, sweetie,” he’d say to Liberty, who was slumped behind her copy of Jack and Jill.

He’d suck on the gas a moment more and puddle his bib a little. He couldn’t keep himself from continuing. “The best one of all,” he’d say. “There was a young plumber of Leigh …”

He seemed the cheeriest of the patients, but he killed himself one night, laying his head in one of the Oversea’s big dirty ovens.

The women seemed less philosophical. Even when the nitrous oxide took hold, they’d be talking about dinner and movies and what they’d read in the papers.

“D’jall see that article on those Siamese black girls joined at the head? They’re alike in every thought and mood except that one worries about her hair all the time, always fussing at it with brushes and combs and all, and the other one couldn’t care less … Joined at the head, I swear. They try to lead as normal a life as possible, the article says. They want to marry and have babies and they like Italian food and yard sales …”

Eventually, though, all would grow calm. Feet and knuckles would relax, eyes would shine, and mouths would move languidly around pic and pad and paste, as their terrors and concerns were absorbed for a moment in the vastness of the vision of a healthy mouth.

Liberty’s father lost his practice through prescription misuse and income tax fraud, but grateful patients kept the family going. Her father could always get a free haircut; her mother could have a chair reupholstered for next to nothing. Appliances and wine and citrus and quartered beef continued to arrive for months after the suspended sentence. Their house filled up with bad art. The gratitude of a man named Bobby String, who had been cured of trench mouth, knew no bounds. He owned a shop that specialized in Western Wear and Furnishings, and Liberty had a closet full of fringed jackets, chaps, leather vests and boots and belts with brass buckles the size of fists. Her books were clamped together with horse bookends, the shade of her bedside lamp depicted horses grazing and her bath towel hung from a ring gripped in the mouth of a bronze horse’s head. There were horses on her curtains, there were horses on her rug. She had a frightening milk mug where the handle was in the shape of a hysterically rearing horse. Liberty did not ride and actually had no longing for or opinion about horses, but her room resembled a shrine to the symbols and codes of puberty.

Lamon kept his good looks throughout his professional troubles. He kept his smile and his thick head of hair. Liberty’s mother, Lucile, fared less well. She detested being married to a failed man. She spent most of her days clad in silk pajamas, sitting in the breakfast nook. She brooded and let her housekeeping slip. The house became somewhat tacky to the touch. Plants withered. Even cast iron plants, even cacti, began to drop before Lucile’s devastating disregard.

Lamon took up painting. Lucile paced around in her darkening silk pajamas. Liberty concentrated on her homework.

“For special credit, I’m going to make up a country,” Liberty said. “I’m going to have a page on education and a page on religion and a page on weather. I’m going to make up a flag and a language and I’m going to draw the clothes they wear and their methods of transportation. I’m going to—”

“Oh, can’t you relax,” her mother said.

Liberty was an avid student. She loved school, she loved her teachers. She longed to tell her mother that the flowers depicted on her silk pajamas were four-o’clocks. Four-o’clocks had been one of the answers on her science test. Four-o’clocks hinted at the fathomless mysteries of genetics and fate, dominance and happiness. Liberty refrained from mentioning the four-o’clocks.

One evening during the long spring of the family’s disgrace, Liberty went outside to the picnic table and sat down beside her father who was tracing Elihu Vedder’s The Lair of the Sea Serpent out of an art magazine.

“That’s nice, Daddy,” Liberty said.

The painting was a pleasant landscape of sand dunes, beach, water and brilliant sky. Everything was rendered realistically, even the gigantic griseous lizard slithering toward the sea.

Lamon looked at the painting and then at Liberty. He poured bourbon into a tall orange glass that said FLORIDA THE SUNSHINE STATE on it. On the glass, the sun had a face. It had no nose or ears but it had a big smile and eyes with eyelashes.

“You understand life, don’t you Liberty?”

“I don’t think so, Daddy.”

“You understand that lurking in the heart of each pure, pretty day that is given to us is a snaky, malevolent, cold-blooded, creepy, diseased potentiality.” He patted her head, then cleared the picnic table of brushes and paints and set out plates for supper. It was a warm night with thunder, and the grass was long and yellow. Her father lit the charcoal in the grill and made another brown drink in the happy glass. Liberty went into the house to sharpen her pencils for school the next day. On the patio just to the side of the sliding glass doors was a planter in the form of a ceramic burro pulling a cart. The planter was full of leggy geraniums and the tip of the burro’s left ear. When Liberty had been smaller than she was then, she had sat in front of the burro every morning and attempted to feed him grass.

“Mommy,” Liberty called upstairs, “do you want one hot dog or two?”

“Two,” Lucile answered.

“Potato chips or potato salad?”

“Chips,” Lucile said and descended the stairs, smiling grimly. She wore nylons and heels, her good linen suit and the top to her flowered pajamas. A stole of several minks was draped around her shoulders, and she wore gloves.

“Are you going out, Mommy?” Liberty asked, perplexed.

“Yes, I am,” Lucile said, raising her eyebrows, which had been recently and severely tweezed. “I am going out.” Her thin, annoyed face was rouged, and her neck shone with perfume.

Well, if she is, she is, Liberty thought.

She followed her mother outside and the three of them sat down at the picnic table. Lucile pressed her gloved fingers together and gave a long, rambling, conversational grace that was equal parts prayer, complaint and nostalgia. She complimented God on certain things, expressing her appreciation of night-blooming flowers, the color violet and the vision of the world offered through snorkeling. She recalled Liberty’s birth and her craving, after its accomplishment, for a coffee malted. She remembered a vacation she and Lamon had taken to Mexico in the days when they had money.

“I thought I would have adventures,” her mother said. “I thought I would have experiences and make memories. But all I met there was Mr. Hepatitis. Your father took me all the way to Mexico to meet Mr. Hepatitis.”

This recollection seemed to stop her. She said “Amen,” nodded, opened her eyes, adjusted her mink, and began to eat her hot dogs. She ate ravenously. Ketchup dotted her gloves. The light dimmed and they finished their meal. A child in a house nearby began practicing the trumpet.

“I think we need a change,” Lucile said. She stood up. There were moth holes on the sleeve of her jacket and bun crumbs on her lap.

“Please, darling,” Lamon said. “I’m drunk and unhappy and I’m sure I won’t be able to react as swiftly as I would like.”

Her mother walked in her mink through the warm grass into the garage from which she emerged a moment later with a red six-gallon gas can.

“Oh please, Lucile, please, please, please.” Daddy lay his head on the picnic table.

“Do you have any matches, Lamon?” Lucile asked smiling.

“No, darling, I don’t.” His head was pressed against the picnic table as though glued. “I used them all up lighting the charcoal. There are no matches here or anywhere in the world.”

“Things come to an end,” Lucile said. “You have made us pariahs in this town. There is nothing in this town anymore for us but pity.”

“I bet you haven’t taken your pill,” Lamon said.

“Liberty’s teachers give her A’s out of pity,” Lucile mused.

“Please take your pill, darling, and you’ll go to those nice movies. You know that you enjoy that, darling. It will be like going to a pleasant movie.” Lamon sat up and tipped the ice from his empty glass into his mouth. Lucile turned abruptly and tottered toward the house, tipped toward the weight of the gas can in her right hand.

“Just remember that I love you, Lamon,” she yelled without looking back. “I love you, I love you, I love you!” The sounds of the trumpet ceased. Dogs began to bark. She went into the house.

Liberty hurried in after her. The gas can sat on a wicker love seat at one end of the living room and her mother sat in a chair at the other, smoking a cigarette.

“Mommy,” Liberty said. “What’s the matter? What are you going to do?”

“Do you know about the Buddhists, Liberty?”

“They meditate.”

“What else?”

Liberty chewed strenuously on her thumbnail. “They believe that there’s something other than existence.”

Her mother sighed. “What do they do to themselves sometimes, Liberty?”

“I don’t know,” Liberty said.

“You’ve never understood me,” her mother said.

Liberty, nine years old, bowed her head.

Lucile stubbed out her cigarette and twisted the little scowling minks from her shoulders with a strangling motion that, Liberty thought, must have terminated any illusion of life they might have had left.

“What the Buddhists do upon occasion is immolate themselves, Liberty.” She looked at Liberty expectantly, then sighed. “You’re too young to understand love,” she said.

Things seemed better the following day. The gas can was back in the garage where it belonged, beside the lawnmower. When Liberty returned from school, her father was standing in the backyard at an easel facing a blooming poinciana tree. Liberty approached the canvas, expecting to see a likeness.

“Daddy,” she said after a moment. “That’s a lot of teeth.”

“Fred Huxley’s mouth from memory,” her father said with satisfaction. “I’ve never seen such a mess before or since. He was playing catch with his son and the ball hit him smack in the mouth.”

Liberty wandered into the house and into the kitchen where she went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of 7-Up. Her mother stood washing dishes in the sink. She wore a pair of dazzling white shorts and a clean, blue shirt. Her hair was washed and neatly braided. She seemed happy and relaxed.

“Honeybunch,” Lucile said, “did Daddy tell you? We’re moving. Daddy’s going to get a job teaching in a little college up in the north of the state.”

“What’s he going to teach?” Liberty said. She looked at the girl in the bathing suit and cap on the dark green bottle, preparing to dive. YOU LIKE IT IT LIKES YOU the bottle said.

“Art, I think.” Her mother sniffed loudly. “It’s not much of a college.”

Liberty looked through the window at her father painting landscapes of teeth and gums from memory. “I don’t want to move,” Liberty said. “I’d miss school. I’d miss my teachers.”

“Now, honeybunch,” her mother said.

“I’d miss my friends.” Liberty clutched her knapsack and her bottle of 7-Up and widened her eyes to keep from crying. The thought of going off into some strange place with her parents terrified her.

“Well, actually, we thought you’d feel that way,” her mother said. “So Daddy spoke with Calvin Stone who apparently is very grateful for all the root canal work that Daddy did for him. Very grateful. And Mr. Stone said that you could live with his family.”

“Live with them,” Liberty said. “Live with Willie Stone?”

“Isn’t that nice?” Lucile said, cheerfully scrubbing the sink. “They have a little boy who’s in your class and you can be their little girl for a while.”

“Live with Willie Stone?” Liberty repeated faintly. Willie’s head and hands looked too big for his skinny body. He was so pale he looked as though he dusted himself in flour each morning, and his hair was dark and lanky. He wore boots and cuffed jeans like a redneck, although his father was a banker and his house had a swimming pool. Willie chewed on gum and a toothpick at the same time and always gave replies to the teacher’s questions that were wildly inappropriate without being exactly incorrect. At recess in the schoolyard when the girls combed one another’s hair and talked about the boys, no one ever talked about Willie Stone. No one wanted him in their heads at all.

“I think that a person thinks differently at night, Liberty,” Lucile said, “and last night I had a good think, and Daddy and I came up with this plan. Either we live by accident and die by accident, or we live by plan and die by plan. That’s my feeling.”

Liberty pressed the bottle of 7-Up against her cheek.

Lucile looked radiant. She moved about the kitchen as though it were a ballroom. “Now, Mr. Stone is well off, I gather, and Mrs. Stone is quite religious. I don’t mean crackpot religious, the type who claims that Jesus enters them through the vessels of their ears and tells them what color to paint the kitchen cabinets, I mean Sunday morning services, Wednesday luncheon prayer, Friday evening faith healing type religious. So we may have to go to the expense of getting you a pair of black patent leather shoes or something. A realtor is coming over this afternoon so the house will be listed tomorrow. We’re selling it furnished, so if you want anything from your room, you should get it out. It will be a breath of fresh air for all of us, I’m sure. Daddy will teach and I hope to get a position with the Forestry Service. I believe that one can outwit Time if one pretends to be what one is not. That’s my feeling.”

“Mommy,” Liberty said.

“Some of us weren’t meant to be mothers, Liberty. But as far as I can gather, Doris Stone is a fine mother. She plants flowers from seeds — something that’s always impressed me — and she knows how to sew. These are good signs. Of course, I’ll call you every week, and after Daddy and I get settled, we can make other arrangements, but I know you’d prefer staying behind for now with your school and your friends.”

Liberty sat in the kitchen, which she had sat in more or less off and on since she was a baby, and felt it becoming increasingly unfamiliar. The improbability and injustice of her parents’ plan did not really occur to her. She arranged her books and papers in neat stacks, then examined the contents of her purse, a cheap and cherished zippered bag, which pictured a pink, sequined flamingo. In her purse was a snapshot of her mother and father taken at some cocktail party where they appeared somewhat flushed. There was also a pyramidical folded paper predictor, several shiny pennies minted the year of her birth, and one gummy quarter.

“I don’t have any money,” Liberty said.

“Oh, you don’t need any money!” her mother said. “From what Daddy told me, he absolutely recreated Calvin Stone’s mouth — made it better than new!”

Liberty did not receive calls every week from her mother. During the first year, her parents telephoned half a dozen times. Her father’s vague and cheerful tone was much as she remembered it being with his patients, while her mother related with breathless excitement her volunteer work for the Forestry Service. Liberty listened, holding her own phone in her own little room in the Stones’ house.

“The Florida black panther is, as I’m sure you know, Liberty, almost extinct, and my job is to go into the wild, deep into his habitat, and find out more about him or her, as the case may be. I find out more about him by finding his feces. Yes, that’s right. Yes, it is difficult. It takes a good eye. And I examine his feces and I find the hairs and little things of whatever he’s been eating and I analyze the hairs and whatever to determine his diet. And do you know what his feces tell me? Everything speaks to us, Liberty, remember that. His feces tell me that he eats rabbits and deer and armadillos.”

Liberty imparted this information at the Stones’ dinner table. It was received with respect. Conversation was encouraged at meals as well as any insight into God’s sometimes troubling ways. For some time, the subject discussed was Doris Stone’s daily struggle, through prayer, against a growing lack of confidence in her pastor who had cited wisdom from the cartoon character Charlie Brown in eighteen of his last twenty sermons.

Both Calvin and Doris Stone had always wanted a daughter and they were thrilled with Liberty’s presence in their moody home. Willie was a puzzle to them, as mysterious as a Communist. Calvin brought Liberty barrettes and comic books, taught her how to drive and how to fillet a fish. He wanted to teach her how to stuff an owl, something he had learned as a boy, but Liberty didn’t want to know. He taught her to dance by letting her stand on his feet, and he gave her a silver dollar for each of her years on earth. He taught her how to swim underwater with her eyes open. Whereas, once Liberty had stopped off at the dentist’s office on her way back from school, she now stopped off at the bank. They discussed the vile William Tecumseh Sherman and played a game of their invention called Beg-A-Loan in which Liberty would plead for large sums of money that would be used to put trees back together after they had been chopped down, or toward the invention of a new animal. At the bank, Liberty counted and added. She stuffed pennies into paper tubes and wrapped white bands around stacks of bills. Liberty was good and Calvin loved her. He was a simple man and he loved goodness. Choices had never been difficult for him to make.

Doris was kind to Liberty and told her many things. She told her that the way to prevent God’s anger was to be angry with oneself, and she advised her never to stumble over that which was behind her. Doris wasn’t a chatterer, but she told Liberty about menstruation and the idiosyncrasies of the Four Evangelists. She taught her calligraphy and stain removal and how to trim a rose bush.

The Stones lived in a development of two-acre tracts called Pelican Estates. The door knocker on each house was in the form of a pelican. Doris Stone had been drawn to this particular development because of the pelican motif. Pelicans were the bird of Christ, Doris Stone said, the bird of resurrection. The iconical pelican, as Doris had explained to Liberty, returns to its nest to find its young dead. Slashing its breast with its beak in grief, it draws blood which brings the young back to life. Pelican Estates had been built by the Abcoda Corporation, a fertilizer and insecticide giant, which had recently gotten into construction. Abcoda had no more connection with the bird of Christ than a tennis ball, but Doris lived her life by religious clue and inference, and it was Pelican Estates where inference had led her.

Each night Doris would come into Liberty’s little white room, set out her blouse and jumper and socks for the next day, smooth the bedsheets, plump up the pillows, remind her to keep God as a judge in her heart, and kiss her good night. She would then go down the hall to her son’s austere room where she would often find him, not in bed at all, but lying on an empty bookshelf, as cool and as still as a reptile, “just thinking” he would tell her. She would remind him that his evening thoughts should be an image of the day of judgment. She would urge him to recall the conversations and events and errors of the day and see if he could do better tomorrow. Then she would kiss her Willie and go downstairs where she would set out the breakfast things. This habit of Mrs. Stone’s always dismayed Liberty. Coming down in the middle of the night for a glass of water, Liberty would see the table set with its bowls and plates, its juice glasses and bottles of syrup. The kitchen would be dim and empty, clean and slightly humming, like a tomb in which comfy familiarities had been placed to accompany the dead into the unknown. Seeing clothing set out for the morrow or a table set out for a future meal would, years later, still fill Liberty with melancholy. But for Doris Stone, it was just another in the small acts of faith that enabled her to inch her way through the days.

After establishing, as far as she was able, the probability of a tomorrow that would proceed much in the way of the known today, Doris would make her own night preparations and slip into bed beside her husband. “Calvin,” she would say, “now, it’s too quiet outside to snore tonight. It’s a lovely, quiet night.” Calvin, half-asleep, would mutter, “I’m not as hard-hearted as people think,” in his mind already in the morning, in the bank, weighing and calculating, counting. The house would slowly grow still as each in their manner counted their own way into sleep.

Doris counts the foundations of the wall of the city of God. The first foundation is of jasper, the second, sapphire, the third a quartz of the palest blue, the fourth emerald, the fifth — the fifth she can never recall — the sixth and seventh are strange ones too, although sometimes they come to her, the eighth, beryl … and she sleeps. Below them all the table is set. Liberty lies with her cheek on the crisp pillowcase and counts. She counts the number of children she will have, their names and talents. And Willie counts too, counts something, perhaps the days ahead, the houses and voices and faces in them, their boredoms and luxuries and terrors …

When Liberty was twelve, Willie gave her a heart pendant for her birthday. It was a pretty little heart, thin and gold-plated.

“I was looking for a locket,” Willie said. “Something you could open up, but they were all too big. I wanted just a tiny one so you could maybe wear it all the time, so you’d hardly even know that you were wearing it.”

“I like it,” Liberty said. She was still a little frightened of him, but now she thought it was love. She clasped the necklace around her neck and kissed him.

“You don’t know how to kiss,” Liberty said.

“Sure I do,” Willie said.

Liberty giggled. “No, you don’t. You don’t kiss like that with your mouth just hanging open.”

“Well, where did you learn to kiss?”

“Travis kissed me once at school, but I’m sure I didn’t learn anything from that.” She made a face.

“Whores won’t let you kiss them. That’s why I don’t know.”

“Oh, Willie, you’ve never been to a whore.”

“One of them told me that the Devil was Jesus’ older brother. She insisted upon it.”

“You’ve never,” Liberty said.

“I might have,” Willie said. “But it’s a secret.”

“Just because you’ve told a secret doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve told something true,” Liberty said.

That night, on her birthday, Calvin took them all out to dinner. They went to Liberty’s favorite restaurant, a place called The Dollhouse. The building had once housed a loud, mean bar until, after a series of maimings and maulings, it had been shut up by the town, then bought by ladies of the Garden Club, an organization of which Doris was an active member. In the center of the restaurant was a five-foot, twenty-room, elaborately decorated dollhouse with over two thousand pieces of tiny furniture, the collective hobby of the Garden Club ladies. Doris had sewn the draperies for many of the rooms and the cabbage rose slipcovers for the chairs on the sun porch. Calvin himself had carved out a small plaque that was mounted near the front door of the dollhouse, because besides being a banker, he was a devoted fan of history. The plaque said:

On This Site

in 1865 Nothing

Happened

The Club was divided in their enthusiasm for Calvin’s addition. Some thought it too flippant an accord for all the work they had put into the project. Calvin Stone was a peculiar man, most of them agreed. He seemed to have no more pretense than a broom, but you never quite knew where you stood with him.

“How you all doing,” Calvin said to the diners to his right and left. He knew almost everyone in town. Doris followed and Liberty and Willie ambled behind. The hostess seated them at a round table near the dollhouse. She was a Frenchwoman with a fine bosom and round, fragrant arms.

“Ah,” she said, “it’s so good to see you and it’s an occasion, I can tell. May I bring you some wine?”

Doris placed her hand on her heart and shut her eyes, weakened by the very suggestion.

The hostess laughed and quickly removed the wine glasses. Her lips blossomed into a pout. “My car today, it just stopped on the road. You might have see it. It didn’t want to be a car anymore. My life, at times, seems planned by enemies. It’s an effort to live gracefully a life that seems planned by enemies, don’t you think?”

Calvin looked at her, bewildered. Liberty smiled.

“You look good today,” the woman said to Liberty.

Liberty had straw-colored hair, the white straight teeth of a dentist’s child.

“And your necklace, it is so beautiful. Is it a gift from your boyfriend?” She tousled Willie’s hair. “Un monsieur qui est par hasard un enfant,” she said. “It’s only chance that such a man is still a child.”

Calvin shook his head and grinned. “You sure are one heck of a hostess,” he said. “Do you believe we could all have some Coca-Cola?”

Whenever Liberty came to the restaurant, she would kneel on the padded platform encircling the dollhouse and raptly study its cluttered contents — its satin pillows, its variety of windows and cupboards, its closet hung with tiny clothes. The grand staircase in the hallway was papered with an optical deceit of gardens and flowers stretching into the distance. The parlor had wooden wainscotting and blue walls and in the corner was a New Year’s tree — a twig from a tree festooned with confetti. The ceiling of the nursery was painted with stars. In the kitchen was a black stove that flickered with paper flames and on the table was a plate of donuts. The donuts were toy automobile tires coated with baking soda. On the table too was a tiny knife and a pink-and-white roast on a platter. There was a gilded haircomb for the headboard of a bed, and there was water in the sinks and books on the shelves. There were a man and a woman sitting on leather chairs in the library, sprawled rigidly as though dead. There was always a lady writing a letter at a desk and always a child being given a bath by a girl in a white uniform. In the dining room, someone was always dining. In the pantry, a maid was always looking in horror at a plate just dropped and broken.

Liberty always examined the dollhouse carefully, noting what had been added and what removed. That night, as she knelt there, touring it carefully with her eyes, the Frenchwoman came up to her.

“You are a romantic, I know,” she said. “You remind me of myself when I was your age, when I was just beginning. Lots of things can go wrong with girls, you know, with boys not so much. Girls lose sight of themselves more quickly. Your little boyfriend, he is just a little boy, but he has many men inside himself. Perhaps you will not love them all.”

“Tonight’s my birthday,” Liberty said.

“Yes, yes,” the Frenchwoman said. “Everything is just beginning now.”

For dessert they had cake and ice cream. A sparkler flared from Liberty’s portion.

“This was so nice of you,” Liberty said, “all this.”

“What was in that package you got from your momma today?” Doris asked. “I’m just curious. Curiosity is something I just can’t stamp out of myself.”

“Well,” Liberty said, “it was a Fry-Pappy.”

“A Fry-Pappy!” Calvin said, slapping at his jacket pockets to call forth his wallet. “What you want with a Fry-Pappy?”

“We could make some banana fritters,” Doris said. “Maybe that’s what she had in mind.”

“Was it supposed to be a present or what?” Calvin asked.

“I guess,” Liberty said.

“We’ll make some banana fritters in it,” Doris said with determination.

“I’m not sure if it works,” Liberty said.

“It’s not a new Fry-Pappy?” Calvin said, puzzled.

“It might have come from a yard sale,” Liberty said. “It looks like it might have. My mother likes to go to yard sales.”

“Terrible advantage can be taken of a person at those places,” Doris said.

“Where’s your heart?” Willie said to Liberty. He put his hand against his own throat.

The heart Willie had given her was no longer there. The pendant had fallen from the cheap clasp. They all searched for it, on the table, on the floor, but it could not be found.

The Frenchwoman helped them look. “I know, I know,” she said to Liberty. “It’s just as though it were real. It is very important.”

Liberty thought that the woman did not know anything, although she was very pretty, very nice, crouching on the floor, searching, wrinkling her pretty skirt. She would later die of cancer, a year after she refused to have her breasts removed. She would die alone, the lonely death that disease had prepared for her.

“It is a great loss,” the woman said, trying to comfort Liberty, “but a romance like yours requires obstacles, dangers, fantasies. Always. Again and again.”

Then the locket was found. Willie found it. It was by the dollhouse on the lip of one of the staggeringly intricate rooms. After holding it in her hands for a moment, Liberty put it in her mouth and swallowed it.

“What a metaphor!” exclaimed the Frenchwoman. “What lovers they will be!”

“She is just a little girl,” Doris protested.

Afterward, they made Liberty eat a piece of bread.

But this was long ago. Liberty is not a little girl now, she is a woman, wedded to the boy who shared her childhood. She still has a beautiful hand and the power to render blood, wax, oil and grass stains invisible, but the mornings once spent in Doris and Calvin Stone’s house have darkened and become the afternoon. Years pass as moments do. And the moments of the past are stones behind her, over which she stumbles forward.

2

It was not yet light. The heavy, fish-scented air felt like a curtain falling, instead of rising, on the day. On the road to Buttonwood Beach, just before the macadam gave out, was a twenty-four-hour grocery and tackle store. There was a gas pump and phone booth in front of the store and a set of swings and some animal cages to the rear. By the pump was a large camper with a sedan in tow. Inside were a man, a woman, and a little thing in a terry-cloth playsuit eating a Ring Ding.

There were lots of things for sale inside — rods and lures, dirty greeting cards, food and wine, and souvenirs of all kinds including stuffed and varnished possums wired to pieces of driftwood. The possum creations were made by the owner, who had one arm. Whenever people asked him how he had lost the other one, he said he had lost it as a prank.

When Liberty went into the store the man who owned the camper was reading loudly from a printed tag tied by a rubber band to the varnished possum’s tail.

“ ’Because possums have spurred the imagination of man over a period of four centuries, a great deal of folklore exists concerning this common little animal. The forked penis of the possum is doubtless responsible for the long-held belief that copulation took place through the female’s nostrils, these openings being the only obvious dual orifice!”

“Argghh,” his wife said.

“I’ve got to buy one of these things for Woody,” the man said. He read on. “Since the mother was frequently seen pushing her snout into the pouch shortly before delivery, country people believed she was blowing the babies out of her nose into it!” The man looked up, baring his teeth. “Is this for Woody or is this for Woody!” he yelled.

The owner leered at them.

Liberty bought a container of coffee and two cheese sandwiches. Behind the counter, the schedule for the high school football team was posted. On the left side of the poster it said HERE, on the right, THERE. Beside the playing schedule was a flyer advertising the services of something called CounselLine, a tape service for the distraught. LET MR. BOBBY HELP YOU the flyer said. The tapes were categorized and numbered, and there were dozens of them available. There were commentaries on fear — fear of women, men, foreigners, heights, disease, success — and on loneliness, rage, alcoholism, depression and unwanted things. New topics would be added all the time, CounselLine stated. The number to call was the same as Liberty’s except for the final digit, which was a three instead of a four.

“How long have these things been up?” Liberty asked.

“ ’Bout a week,” the owner said. “I tell you, I use it all the time. That Mr. Bobby’s been so helpful I’d give him my other arm if he asked for it.” He flailed his good arm around to show it off.

“Can you think of anybody other than Woody?” the man was asking his wife. “How about Diane? Diane’s got a sense of humor.”

“Diane’s got a big nose,” the woman said. She leaned over and nibbled soft Ring Ding off her child’s fingers.

“I’d like to give my dog some water,” Liberty said to the store’s owner. “Do you have a bowl I could use?”

“Sure I do,” he said. He gestured with the shoulder his missing arm hung from. “There’s a faucet and a couple pans out back where the deer is at.”

Clem was lying beneath one of the swings in a furrow caused by children kicking the earth away. The morning was brightening and Liberty could see the cluster of cages, which seemed to be emerging step by step from the dark. Clem ate his cheese sandwiches. The family walked out of the store and headed toward their camper, the man swinging his possum basket.

“This is such a sick idea,” he said happily. “I love this sort of crud. It’s what this state is all about.”

The cages were empty except for one that held a single deer. The deer was a delicate pecan color and shared its home with a great many flies and a hubcap full of chopped-up watermelon. The pans by the water spigot were pie pans from The Blue Gate. Liberty filled one with water. BE THOU PREPARED, it said. Clem drank, and then they walked toward the road, but Liberty hesitated by the phone booth, which had another CounselLine flyer glued to it. The phone booth was like one anywhere with its books of names dangling on a chain, an obscure stain defacing its curved plastic. She dropped in a coin and began dialing her own number. It was like calling a grave, she thought, thinking of those people who buried a phone with their loved one in case an error was perceived by the dead. She shortened the last digit by one. The phone rang once, then twice.

“Yes,” a woman’s voice said. “Which number please.”

“What?” Liberty said.

“Yes,” the woman said.

“I’m sorry,” Liberty said.

“Did you call CounselLine by error?”

“No,” Liberty said.

“I could give you our most popular number if you don’t have a specific one in mind,” the woman said.

“Thank you.”

“We’re glad you called CounselLine,” the woman said.

A moth fluttered against Clem’s head. He snapped at it. The moth flew into his open mouth.

“Grief,” a man’s voice said into Liberty’s ear. “Dealing with grief.” There was a pause. “One can experience grief not only over the loss of a loved one, but over the loss of an opportunity. Even the loss of one’s youth, or a pet. We should not be ashamed of our grief. We have survived much before arriving at grief. We have survived fear, for grief is beyond fear. It is even probably difficult for you to remember what it was like to be fearful or apprehensive. All that was but a state of mind, and it is behind you now, as is the long night of sorrow with its twin moons of sadness and regret. Fear, sadness, regret, even anguish, which so terrify the spirit, are all behind you. You have lived through that long night that you thought impossible to live through, and have entered the dawn of a new day where you have been embraced by grief.”

There was another long pause suggesting that this was not a recording at all, but an intimate personal dialogue depending upon response, query and agreement. There were timed silences, like those on tapes giving instruction in a foreign language, giving one the moment to assimilate and repeat, but what was one supposed to do in the silent interstices of this running monologue on grief — accede? protest? scream?

“So we can consider grief to be almost our friend, but a friend, like all friends, who will not be with us forever.” The voice was a black man’s voice. “Grief will provide for you. You should be grateful to grief.” It was a river voice, laden with promise. “How best can I describe grief to you? I want to describe it in a picture sort of way.” There was another beat of silence. “What I want you to do is think for a moment of those quilted rugs that moving companies wrap around furniture for long trips in their vans. And I would like you to imagine a particularly fine piece of furniture. And a soiled, heavy, ugly cover draped around it. Now imagine that this piece of fine furniture being transported from one place to another is your …”—the voice hesitated—“… your heart, and that the cover is grief. The grief protects you in a way for the journey that must be made. For the time before grief is far away and in a different place than the time after grief, and the journey seems long. Indeed, sometimes the journey seems endless, and it is a frightful, difficult journey as we know, yet we know too in our heart that this must be so, that the journey cannot be easy or comfortable lest its significance be lost. The journey will end when it is time for the journey to end. And grief will be cast off.”

The voice dipped and soared like something hunting in an endless sky over a secretly teeming field. Then it dropped. It became light, confident, intimate.

“Mr. Bobby loves you,” the voice said. “Mr. Bobby has heard it all and he still loves you, each and every one. Now if you want to help Mr. Bobby reach others, lonely as yourself, just send on a little something. It need not be cash. You all know where Mr. Bobby is … Don’t be frightened at the silence that will follow now. Mr. Bobby is just on the other side of it and you can reach him anytime.”

The man with one arm was standing midway between the store and the phone booth, squinting at her.

“Ain’t he something,” he called. “You can get hooked on Mr. Bobby.”

“I don’t believe I want to,” Liberty said. “There are too many hooks around as it is.”

“I like to think of him as just being a voice, you know, not attached to nothing. You wouldn’t want to swap that dog there for my deer, would you? I need me a dog out here.”

“No,” Liberty said.

“Deer’s name is Elfina. She’s survived three assassination attempts by asshole hunters. Sure you don’t want to swap? She’s lucky. She’ll bring you luck.”

The deer stood watching them from the cage, flicking its gnat-gnawed ears.

“What’s that dog’s name?”

“Clem.”

“Not much of a name there. Where you off to anyway?”

“We’re off for a swim.” It seemed unlikely. She started out of the booth.

“I can’t believe you ain’t moved by Mr. Bobby. Here, try another one. My treat. The number of your choice.” He removed a coin carefully from his pocket.

Liberty dropped the coin in, dialed. “Thirty-nine,” she said.

“A later one!” he crowed. “Mr. Bobby really hits his stride with the later ones!”

With a click, the voice began. “Wanting,” it said lazily. “You got Wanting and Loving here. You want what you don’t got, which is the definition of wanting, and you love your clean kitchen floor don’t you or you love your blow and you want that clean kitchen floor to be cleaner still and you want more blow, and Mr. Bobby is not going to be the one to pardon you this nasty wanting and false loving. You don’t call Mr. Bobby for pardon, do you, no you don’t. You call Mr. Bobby because you suspect he’s got the ways and means to your damaged and enfeebled heart, and you know that Mr. Bobby don’t want a thing, just what you want to give—”

“Lemme hear now!” the man cried. He used the empty space of his gone arm artfully. Liberty felt its weight as he pushed past and grabbed the receiver from her. His face was full of expectation.

Liberty and Clem walked along the path through palmetto scrub to Buttonwood Beach. It was a pretty path, but toilet paper dangled from branches and there were several abandoned campsites with their nests of charred stumps and blackened cans. It was quiet in the pine and palmetto wood and the path was empty now, though obviously well traveled. Ahead, the Gulf was like a window placed between the dusty thatch of palms. The Gulf seemed swollen the same color as the sky and the beach lightened and darkened as long waves fell upon it then drew back. Liberty stared toward the Pass almost a mile away. It was narrow but fast-running, and from where she stood the severance between the Keys was barely visible. They startled plovers and terns working the shore into flight as they moved along, but a great blue heron standing hunched near the Pass remained motionless. As they came closer to it, Liberty saw that it was emaciated, fishing line tangled around its neck and head. The pale blue monofilament lay like fine cracks across its beak, and dangled down its neck in the long feathers there. Small twigs were caught in the line’s snarled end, even a shard of dark shell. The heron turned slowly and fixed Liberty with its yellow eye, but still it did not move. Liberty stopped, then inched forward. The heron shifted weakly, dipping its head and raising one leg to claw briefly at its beak.

A smaller heron, a green one, zigzagged toward them, then alarmed, veered chattering away. The blue stood like sticks a child had carelessly arranged. She should pass it by, she knew, for she possessed nothing with which to free it, yet she pulled her sweatshirt off and held it only for an instant before she rushed the bird, throwing the shirt over its head, clutching at its wings, trying to enclose its length in her arms. Its beak felt like an iron striking her with heat, its long bones felt like brittle grasses. She smelled the nutty, parched smell of dying on it as it flailed at her, making hoarse, barking sounds. The shovel of its chest glistened and was hot beneath her hands. She pushed its wings back close to its body, dragging the sweatshirt away from its head to bind them, and pressed the bird as lightly as she could against the cold sand. She leaned against its breast which rose in scatterings, like pebbles being thrown, and began picking away at the line with her fingers. She looked at the flecks of darkness in the bird’s bright eyes and felt that the moment was already over, that she was remembering it, that this was the moment that there had been just before it had become hopeless. The baggy line dug painfully into her fingers as she tried to snap it, then it suddenly broke. The heron’s head struggled back, the feathers beneath the broken line’s turnings frayed and damp. She was able to unravel several feet of the line, but there was so much of it, webbed and snarled like the matter glimpsed in some dreadful drain. Suddenly, the heron lunged, bringing its beak up and across Liberty’s cheek, tearing out of her grasp. Her hand slipped over its slick back, and then, with a last surge of strength, it was flying, its legs dangling, nicking the water, its long neck extended, trailing still the crippling line. Liberty held her hand to her face. She expected blood but there was no blood. The heron flew to Long Key.

She remembered a poem she knew as a child about an injured hawk who was able to fly only in his dreams. The child in her remembered everything.

She felt sleepy with failure and watched the rolling waters of the Pass without enthusiasm. The mist of early morning was rising, and she could see the silver Ts of docks on the sheltered side of Long Key. A red boathouse glimmered on water that looked flat and wooden.

There were scratches on Liberty’s arms, embalmed by drying salt, and her lips tasted of salt. Clem lay in streamers of railroad vine close by. When she stood up, he rose and trotted toward her.

They stepped into the water, let the water suck them down. Liberty opened her eyes and saw the emptiness of the water moving her. She couldn’t see herself, but felt her limbs aching dully, her eyes burning. Her body held her back, she felt its stubborn weight. It’s all a misunderstanding, she thought, like almost everything. The speed of the water was terrific. Her shoulder ground against sand and then she was flung upward and floating in calm yet moving water curving toward Long Key. She wanted to fix on something, a tree, the way the land fell, something that would remind her of something else. It had not been too far a distance, but she felt somewhat ahead of her body. Her body seemed to be behind her, still holding hard to nothing in the quick water. This is remarkable, she thought, the air, the muted sun … Her body caught her with a jolt. She coughed and shaking the water from her eyes, she saw Clem already waiting for her on the shore.

Liberty climbed from the water and sat for a moment, catching her breath. She wore only a bathing suit and a pair of shorts. She took the shorts off and wrung the water from them. Her arms and face stung from the scratches the heron had made. She felt afraid, and it was not a belated fear of the bird’s fierce beak but of the moment that had brought it to be doomed on such a fine morning, the moment that is the fatal one, which lies close and cold next to each thing’s heart.

Down the beach, she saw Willie, his trousers billowing out with the wind. He had his arms raised. She realized she hadn’t been thinking about Willie, only about reaching him. When she touched him, he kissed her. We are lovers, Liberty thought. We love. His kiss pushed against her like the wind and the sun. Then he pulled away and looked at her, saying nothing, but she saw herself as though she were fifteen years old again and listening to him, nodding her head, agreeing. She saw herself from somewhere, watching this girl in love, this sun-burnt girl, her ear close to this boy’s moving lips. One should listen. And yet … No, one should listen. It is one’s duty, one’s gift to listen.

Watching left her feeling sad and weary. She couldn’t remember. She didn’t want to. She remembered too much.

A low and rambling yellow house was behind a hump of dune over which a walkway of weathered boards was laid. They passed through a gated courtyard to the south where everything bloomed in profusion. The hibiscus were the size of dinner plates. Heavy brass wind chimes hung beneath the eaves, too heavy to stir in the wind that rustled the fronds of the Cuban Belly palms. Liberty touched one of the elaborate wind bells and it sounded dully. Behind the house, concealed from the road, was a curving, pebbled driveway. Each pebble seemed to have its place.

“Where’s the truck?” Liberty asked.

“I left the truck somewhere,” Willie said. “We don’t need the truck.”

Willie smelled of hot weeds and soap. There was a silky look to him, as though he’d been born in a cocoon. He looked incorruptible.

“You’re all scratched up,” Willie said, running his fingers across her arm. “You look thin. Have you been eating?”

“Sure,” Liberty said. “Sure I’ve been eating. You look thin too.”

“I need you. I need you to be with me.”

“I need you too,” Liberty said.

She was enchanted by him, she couldn’t look away. This was the long vacation in a rented world. This was their life.

“I went into a lunchroom yesterday,” Willie said, “but before I could order, the woman sitting beside me at the counter started to choke. She was eating a piece of cherry pie. She had her children with her. They weren’t eating anything, they were watching her eat. She was a fat woman, perhaps the fattest woman I’ve ever seen.”

Liberty raised her fingers to her throat. “You saved her from choking.” Willie saved people. There was nothing wrong with that. He covered, for a moment, their shadow with his own. And left them to the baffling light of days that should not have been.

“It wasn’t difficult,” Willie said. “She didn’t choke. Then she wanted to talk. She told me she was crazy about space. She had only completed the tenth grade, but she had some knowledge about galaxies and moons. She was raising her children to be astronauts. One kid wanted to be an aquanaut, which, she told me, had brought her to the brink of despair more than once. The kids sat there and didn’t say a word. She kept the kids around primarily to remain ambulatory. She didn’t believe in the soul, she told me, but she believed in immortality in an oscillating universe. She believed in bounce and re-expansion and the separation of mind from matter. Her mind, she told me, was not the mind of an obese woman. She assured me she knew how it would all end. She said if more people loved a vacuum, the world would be a happier place.”

Clem came into the garden with a turtle in his mouth. He placed it carefully in a bird bath and sat down to watch it. The turtle was shut tight as a tomb.

“Were there any other incidents?” Liberty asked.

He shook his head.

“You aren’t looking for these people, are you? You don’t try to find them?”

“Aren’t they coming to me?”

“They’ll start depending on you, Willie.”

“That would be a mistake, wouldn’t it.” He was still stroking the scratches on her arm. “Don’t you want to come inside?”

They went into a large, interior patio. Everywhere there was the faint, comforting sound of water. The water fell along a sluice cut in the marble floor and emptied into a long pool tiled in dark blue. One wall of the patio was a rocky grotto in which orchids bloomed. The water in the sluice sparkled like snakes, like barbed wire, like sunlight.

Liberty stepped up into the living room, onto thick, whitish carpeting. The walls were the same color as the carpet — a peculiar shade, like the glabrous skin of some animal.

“You always choose such decorous homes, Willie,” Liberty said.

“This isn’t decorous. This might be it, actually.”

“Might be what? It’s just another rich person’s house.”

“We could belong here. We could stay here.”

She saw the end of it, returning.

“There’s someone here already.” Liberty said. “What are you doing?” She was sure there was someone in the house.

“No, there’s no one. I was here all day yesterday and at night. There’s no one.”

The house had a cool, medicinal smell. There was a dark painting on the wall, which Liberty did not approach. She went instead into the kitchen and looked into the refrigerator. There were a dozen bottles of Taittinger, several sealed jars of bee pollen and a box of granola. She found a bowl in the cupboard and poured some granola into it. She uncorked a bottle of champagne and let it foam into the granola. In the wastebasket was a single, desiccated orchid.

“This is not real trash,” Liberty said. “The real trash is kept somewhere else.”

She put the bowl on the floor for Clem, then made another for herself. Clem lapped the champagne, then sneezed.

Willie laughed and picked up the bottle. He tipped back his head and let the champagne run down his throat. Liberty saw his strong throat working, swallowing. Champagne spilled and bubbled upon his chest.

“Champagne and granola,” Willie said. “Liberty’s porridge. You’re just like Goldilocks.”

“Goldilocks, the first housebreaker.”

“The blonde and appealing outsider. The bears come back. She jumps from a window and runs away. There’s something wrong with that story. That story doesn’t end.”

“Someone’s here,” Liberty said. “Why don’t you think someone’s here? How did you get in?”

“An aluminum jimmy. Don’t you want to see the other rooms?”

For a time, as a child, Liberty had desired a career as a chambermaid. She saw herself going from room to room, rooms silent and dim, terrible in their confusions, the causes of their disarray beyond her knowledge, their secrets both blatant and incomprehensible. And the child had cleaned them and brought order and even light. Room after room. Again and again. In an eternal, successful repetition. But she who was not a child had no order to confer, no pretense of design.

Besides, here there was order, even emptiness.

He had his hands on her hips, steering her. They went into a bedroom filled with gymnastic equipment, some free weights and a machine using stacked weights and a cam. Bolted close to the ceiling was a bar with inversion boots. Liberty felt that the person whose house this was lived a life of both hazard and comfort and never felt sorrow about anything.

In the bathroom by the sink there were hairbrushes, a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush. There were no hairs in the hairbrushes. Liberty glanced into the mirror. She was the outsider, the onlooker, the eavesdropper. Even the image reflected before her was something she felt she could not occupy. Behind her, she could see the edge of a bedroom wall, which was painted a dull red like cranberries, and an open closet door. There were three coats on hangers in the closet. They looked terrible, like apparitions. But they were just three coats.

Willie lay on the bed and Liberty felt that she should move toward him, smile or burst into tears, put her tongue in his mouth, cover him with her wounded body, perform the blind rituals of women. She turned toward him, but her eye caught instead a white sculpted head on a bureau. It had zippers for eyes, two rectangular drawers for a mouth. It was a jewel box, she supposed.

“What’s this, do you think?” Willie said. He had opened the drawer of a table and was holding what appeared to be a flashlight. It was black and cylindrical, with a checkered pattern on the handle. It had a lens, but looked oddly malignant, as though it had been manufactured not for the purposes of light at all.

“It almost looks like a weapon,” Liberty said, “but it’s so small.” She touched a button on it and wafers of light struck and fluttered across the red walls.

“Anything can be a weapon,” Willie said. “In the house I was in on that very pretty inlet, there was a water pistol filled with ammonia in every room. Fear. There’s so much fear.”

Liberty put the object on the table. She sat down beside Willie and put her head in his lap. He stroked her hair. She parted her lips and pressed them against the khaki cloth of his groin.

He desired what she was still not. The weight and warmth she touched had nothing to do with desire for her. Charlie had told her that he once got an erection from contemplating an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. He told her that the moment, which had not been fleeting, had appalled him.

“What?” Liberty said.

“You were right,” Willie said. “There is someone in this house.”

Liberty sat up quickly and turned. A tall, muscular woman stood looking at them. She wore a bikini with a wide leather belt around her narrow waist. Weights hung from the buckle of the belt. Her features were fine, even aristocratic, but her face was deeply pock-marked, and the pulse in her neck quivered and jumped. She was old. The long muscles in her thighs bunched as she moved around the bed toward the table and picked up the cylinder lying there.

“You don’t know how this works?” she said. She seemed amused. She held it downward in the palm of her hand. “You cock your hand like this, as though you were playing with a child and making shadow images of a duck on the wall.” She tilted her head, inches from Willie.

Liberty thought of Teddy with a quick dismay, as though she had misplaced him, as though he were in her charge in this house but that she had forgotten where. Little Dot was already gone. She had allowed her to be gone, like a part of herself, twice gone.

“Then just flick your hand toward your target …”—The lower end of the cylinder flew out and hammered Willie on the arm. He grunted and turned pale—“… catch it as it reaches its fullest extension and snap it back to striking position again.” She snapped the thing several times in the air. “Little cobra-like flicks, see.”

There were a dozen small bleeding lacerations on Willie’s arm.

A telephone rang somewhere in the house. “Well, answer it,” the woman said to Liberty.

Liberty walked from the room in the direction of the ringing. She couldn’t see the phone. She felt faint and believed she was going to fall before she reached the ringing. On the beach she saw Clem, amusing himself by rolling rocks about with his nose.

The phone was covered with a wicker basket stacked with books. The World Was My Garden was stamped on the spine of one of the books.

She pulled the phone from beneath the basket.

“Yes,” she said.

It was the police. The police were selling chances on a bass boat. The bass boat would benefit bad boys who the police were trying to rehabilitate by sending them to camp. Liberty had heard about the camp. The bad boys cleared brush, made trails and learned how to put their thoughts down on paper. They took apart four-cylinder engines and put them back together again. The bad boys liked doing all these things but what they really enjoyed doing was catching armadillos and cutting off their front feet for luck. The police didn’t tell her that but Liberty knew it as a fact.

“I don’t believe I’ll take a chance today,” Liberty said, speaking in such a way, she hoped, as to leave the future open.

3

Willie came into the room, followed by the old woman. She was tanned and balding. She was oiled up, her hair was short, gray, and grew in tufts. She squatted down and looked upward at them as though to view them better, gazing at them as though they were forlorn, barely sentient creatures in a hutch. Thick, crisscrossing bands of muscle moved in her legs. Her face was gaunt and cruelly scarred, and her breasts were as high and round as a girl’s.

Liberty covered the phone once again with the basket. She performed this simple task soundlessly. It calmed her somewhat.

“Who was it?” the woman asked.

“Actually, it was the police,” Liberty said.

“I hope you told them everything was under control.”

“They were just selling chances,” Liberty said. “On a boat.”

“A boat!” she exclaimed. “How interesting! A boat to sail away in.”

Clem had appeared at the glass door. The woman looked at him with delight and let him in.

“This,” she said, pointing her bare, slender foot at him, “is a disguise, correct?” She smiled at Clem.

“The disguise of a repressed idea,” Willie said. He was still pale. He held his arm behind his back as though it embarrassed him.

“I understand,” the woman said. “He probably knows too much to have an actual personality. I like him very much.” She unbuckled the weighted belt from around her waist and laid it on the floor. “What were you planning on taking?” she asked Willie.

“Nothing.”

She looked at Liberty. “Why don’t you sit down, dear.”

Liberty sat down.

“Is this your husband?”

Liberty nodded.

“I’ve marked him now, dear, you know. He’ll never forget me.”

“These marks,” Willie said, looking at his arm, “will last a week at the most.”

She turned her back on them and flexed her muscles.

“You’re really ripped,” Willie said. “Your definition is spectacular.”

“Why, thank you,” the woman said. “That’s true. I’m peaking today. I like to peak each year on my birthday. It takes about four months. I stick with a basic split system routine. Monday, chest and back; Tuesday, shoulders and biceps; Wednesdays, legs and triceps. I train each body part twice a week. At first I was consuming thirty-five hundred calories a day but I gradually decreased that to four hundred. I also lightened the weights on some of my lifts. For example, I’ve been doing only two hundred pounds in the squat recently.”

“Today is your birthday?” Liberty asked. She felt disturbingly like the woman’s birthday gift, delivered.

“Yes it is. I am seventy-five years of age today.” She hit a pose, one leg flexed, hands clasped, smiling. Then she bent over and picked Clem up in her arms. She held him for a moment, then put him down again.

“He really is extraordinary,” she said. “I can lift twice my body weight, but no more. Of course, he’s not twice my body weight. He weighs around one forty, I would imagine.” She picked Clem up again and walked around the room with him. She thrust her arms out straight and held him close against the wall for a moment. It was an unnerving sight.

“He’s very close to being the shade of the walls, isn’t he, and the shade of the walls is exactly the color of the inside of Rothko’s forearm. That’s the color he always wanted as the backdrop for his paintings, you know. Pale ivory with a slight, yellowish cast, the color of Cellutex.” She pursed her lips. “It was the crook of the arm where he slashed himself, severing the brachial artery on February twenty-fourth, 1970.”

She set Clem down and stroked the tip of his ear. “Well,” she said, “we all have our February twenty-fourth. Even this one.” She turned her eyes toward the luminous painting on the wall. “I’ve always thought it was criminal the way Rothko painted pictures. Each time he made a picture, he committed a crime against the belief in the unquenchability of the human spirit.” She stared at the painting and sucked in her stomach. Liberty stared at the painting. Willie stared. Liberty felt that they were all on the verge of gulping for air in its presence.

“You’ve come here to make me happy,” the woman said, turning to them, smiling.

“Excuse me?” Liberty said.

“You’ve come here to make me happy,” she said. “Just this morning I was out on the patio drinking my water and protein powder and I realized that I felt better than I had in weeks. It was my birthday in my seventy-fifty year and my energy was in the morning. I felt so good I exclaimed aloud, The Purst Furfect Day!”

Willie laughed.

“Yes,” she said. “You might not have come a moment too soon. I may be on the verge of a vessel occlusion.”

“Your abs are razor-sharp,” Willie said. “Fantastic.”

“Thank you,” she said. She made a circle with her arms over her head and extended her right leg. Her calf did not tremble. Her pitted face showed no strain.

“How long have you been building up your body?” Willie asked.

“Only since the age of sixty-five,” she said in a formal tone. “I must confess I have grown to enjoy my body very much. I despised it as a young woman, but I’m interested now in putting it in the proper condition to be received. It’s the way I conceive of the journey. Rather, the way I conceive of the journey is in the way the journey ends.”

Willie looked at her as though hypnotized. His color had returned, but he was sweating.

The woman crouched, then bounced on the balls of her feet. Her sleek and bulging body was quite monstrous. “I love doing hack and sissy squats,” she said. “I could do them all day.”

Willie cleared his throat.

“I know, I know,” she said, “you believe that physical beauty isn’t everything, even that true beauty isn’t physical at all. Jesus, for example, was supposed to be quite ugly — small, ill-favored and insignificant, perhaps even a leper, at least up until the fifth century. Infirmus, inglorious, even indecorus, some said. My husband insisted that he saw him in World War II and that he was far from being handsome.”

“Where is your husband today?” Willie asked.

“Dust,” she said.

Willie raised an imaginary glass. “To dust,” he said.

“How rude of me,” the woman said. “Let me get us something to toast with.” She went to the kitchen and returned with a fresh bottle of champagne and three glasses. She popped the cork expertly into her closed hand and filled the glasses. “To all the gloomy dead,” she said. They all three drank.

“My husband was in the Navy when he saw Jesus,” she said. “It was in March of 1944. His ship had been torpedoed and he and fourteen other men had been adrift off Luzon in the South China Sea on a hatch cover eight feet long and no more than two feet wide for three days. He saw terrible things, men drinking their own urine, men drinking their own blood, men going crazy and dying all around him, men talking to the waves, thinking the waves were soldiers in ponchos going toward the cookhouse. His best friend was on that hatch cover with them, his very best friend, a red-headed freckled boy by the name of Billy Oakley. Billy Oakley couldn’t hang on after the second day. He was almost blind from burning oil and he kept saying to my husband, ‘I’m going below for a cup of coffee.’ He could see this large chrome coffee urn in the water. My husband couldn’t stop him. He tried to hold him back, but Billy Oakley untied himself from the hatch cover, slipped over the side and sank like a rock in the South China Sea. Other men were seeing ships or women or islands with neon bar lights blinking. Shortly after Billy sank, my husband saw Jesus. He maintained that he was fat, had green eyes and bitten nails and that he was dancing. He danced with my husband. My husband said that he had never known such happiness.”

“To happiness,” Willie said, drinking.

“I must have that dog,” the woman said. “May I have him?”

“No,” Liberty said.

The woman took a bowl of carnival glass from a table, poured champagne in it and set it before Clem. Looking more closely, Liberty saw that it was not carnival glass but Tiffany. Clem lapped it up.

“You don’t really need this fabulous creature, I’m sure,” the woman said. “Are you sure I can’t have him?”

Willie didn’t say anything. Liberty shook her head.

The woman sighed. “He can have that bowl if he wants it,” she said.

“We should be leaving now,” Liberty said.

The woman came closer and looked into Liberty’s face. She had a deep, loamy smell, like shade. “Your eyes are very dark and deep. I suppose people are always trying to get messages across to you,” she said to Liberty.

“Liberty’s brown, earthbound eyes are famous,” Willie said. “Children, alcoholics, the mad and the isolated, all of them think those eyes are the dust to which they must return. Every day, Liberty must fight the tendency to return to the inorganic.”

“I knew a girl like that long ago,” the woman said. “She was very close to the homeostasis state. She had amazing control. I adored her, but she felt nothing for me, nothing at all. I was a student at the time, bicycling through Europe. I met her in Rome on the Ostian Way, at that place where the three fountains are, that place where St. Paul lost his head. I’m sure you’re familiar with that story. When Paul was decapitated, his head bounced three times and wherever it bounced, a fountain sprang up. Well, I met her there. She was a splendid girl.”

She smiled at Liberty, then turned to Willie. “My name is Poe. It’s a name my nursemaid gave me when I was a baby. For years it was thought that I was retarded when the fact was I was merely exceptionally ugly. Your names are …”

“Willie,” Willie said. “Willie and Liberty.”

“ ‘Po’, po’ thing,’ she would say to me. ‘Po’ lamb.’ Her name was Lola. She was devoted to me. I had pustular eruptions on my face since birth. You could put nickels in some of the holes on my forehead. I sometimes think Lola, who died sixty years ago, was the only person who ever loved me. I’ve had so many lovers and so little love. Of course, I’m dreadfully afraid of Lola now. It would break her heart, but fear of the dead is common to all the races of mankind. It can’t be helped. How long have you been breaking into houses?”

“For a long time,” Willie said.

“One always thinks there are dreadful secrets to be learned, but there aren’t really,” Poe said. She looked at Willie and Liberty happily. “Burglars on my birthday!” she exclaimed.

“We’re not burglars,” Liberty said.

“My father once entertained a burglar,” Poe said. “We lived in a quite elaborate house in Connecticut. My father came upon this man skulking about in the foyer in the middle of the night, and he invited him into the kitchen. He made him a cup of coffee and cut him two large pieces of cake. They chatted about this and that. The burglar was of the high-strung, fox-faced, bad-breathed sort. He told my father that he recited the Jesus prayer all the time he was committing a robbery. You know the prayer? ‘Have mercy on me, a sinner, have mercy on me …’ He said that it kept his courage up. After they ate the cake, father suggested that he go next door where his neighbor had a considerable collection of gold coins. The man went next door and was immediately ripped apart by the neighbor’s vicious, barkless dog, a dog my father knew perfectly well was in residence. My father had an engaging but somewhat incoherent personality.”

Poe bent backward and supported herself on one arm. She flexed the other.

“You’ve had no difficulties?” she asked. “People are committing themselves more and more these days to self-protection and self-defense. You haven’t come up against any attack dogs or booby traps? No shotguns? No housewives skilled in aikido?”

“You misunderstand what we’re doing,” Willie said.

“No, dear, you misunderstand what you’re doing, but you don’t have to seek further. You’re here now, dear.” She bounced erect and smiled. “I have a friend, a lady who’s eighty if she’s a day, who’s made two muggers do the chicken in the last year.”

“Do the chicken?” Liberty said faintly.

“The carotid chokeout,” Poe said.

Silence attended these last remarks.

“Don’t be so glum!” Poe cried. “This is a lovely moment, a perfect moment, but you’re quite right. One must not trust happiness too much. Dancing with Jesus, for example, simply ruined the rest of my husband’s life.”

“What did he die of?”

“He died of nothing in particular, dear,” Poe said. “His life wasn’t very satisfactory. That incident on the South China Sea was just one of those things — the dancing, the harmony, the bliss of illumination, all that was just an instant, followed by years of mental bewilderment and profound misery.” She moved gracefully over to Clem, picked him up in her arms and sat down with him in her lap. “My husband came from a wealthy family like my own, and after the war, he invested his money in lodgings by the sea all over the world. Africa, the Caribbean, England, California … He was a collector. He loved fragments. He was always collecting ceilings and cornices and chimney pieces, grilles and gates and portals. He’d buy a place and make it quite lovely, modernize it, stick in these peculiar mixtures of things, hire good help, put in a pool and such, and in each place he’d erect a large cross on the roof right beside a satellite dish. I’m sure you realize what he had in mind. Daily, he’d expect Jesus to return on a giant, screaming asteroid that would rend the waters, enabling the sea to give up her dead. We would be able to witness the resurrection on television, he was sure of it. He was waiting for Jesus and Billy Oakley. Well, you can imagine how tiring it all became. He tired of waiting, I suppose, and then he died.” She gave Clem a hug and adjusted his choke chain carefully, as though it were a string of pearls. “Memory is dust’s only enemy,” she said.

“Did you love him?” Liberty asked.

“No, I didn’t, dear,” Poe said. “It’s not that I was jealous of Jesus or Billy Oakley, but I just never admired the shape of my husband’s mind. He believed that life was an objective process revealing God and naturally he was frustrated and offended every day of his life. He also had a ghastly habit of shooting Reddi-Wip directly into his mouth. He would never place it on a piece or gingerbread or anything, he would just shake it and shoot it directly into his mouth.”

She gave Clem another hug. “What would this wonderful creature like to eat on my birthday?” she asked. “Tournedos? Duck? Veal?”

“He’s a vegetarian,” Willie said. “He doesn’t eat anything that used to have eyes.”

“Why that’s wonderful,” Poe said. “Do you know that the thought of the eye made Charles Darwin turn cold all over? Yes. Cold all over. He said so himself. Eyes weakened Darwin’s theories considerably. One can go only so far with reason, a little further possibly always, but ultimately only so far.”

She walked with Clem in her arms to the pool. “Life is remarkable, isn’t it? Everything can change in an instant. Imagine me finding you all here on my birthday. Possibilities endlessly arising, that’s life.”

She walked across the room and down the steps into the swimming pool. She stood up to her waist in the bright water, Clem floating in her arms. It was like some dreadful baptism.

“I like animals so very much,” Liberty heard her say. “They’re so unanxious. They don’t weep. They don’t hoard up their dead in cemeteries.”

“I’m sure she’d let us go,” Liberty whispered to Willie. “I’m sure she’d just let us walk right out of here.”

“She’s going to ask a favor,” Willie said. “At the proper moment. Even, perhaps, a shade before the proper moment.”

Liberty went out to the patio and said to Clem, “Come here. Come.”

Clem paddled toward her. He clambered up the steps and stood beside her without shaking the water from his coat. Water pooled against his eyes.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it, the things one acquires,” Poe said. “But you should give him up, dear, really you should. We have to give things up.” She did a half somersault and swam the length of the pool underwater, then vaulted up and out on one massive arm. Her arms exhibited vascular genius. Her veins were like objects that should be personally addressed.

“I hope you’re still not in any pain,” she said to Willie.

He was standing next to the stone from which orchids clung. The orchids were white and yellow and scarlet and had black, scattered features that seemed like faces. There were dried flecks of blood on Willie’s arm. The reptilian pattern of the weapon was clearly visible.

“No,” he said, “it doesn’t hurt now.”

“The stigmata of the thief,” Poe said happily. “I adore thieves. The world is divided, I think, between thieves and those who wait, wait for fate to step in, like my husband. In one of our homes — it was in Italy, on an island — we built an enormous fireplace with a glass back so that we could see the ocean through the flames, but it meant nothing to him, for he was waiting, you see. He could see nothing through the waiting.”

“We can’t wait,” Liberty said. “We can’t wait here.”

“Oh, my dear,” Poe said. “You don’t realize what your Willie has done, do you. He has found the day in which he will solve himself. Please excuse me for a moment. I must get a wrap or I’ll catch a chill.”

“Let’s go,” Liberty said to Willie after Poe had left.

“In a moment,” he said. “Just one moment.”

She remembered feeling once that anything was possible. The sky was bright and blue and she was walking fast and could go anywhere. But that had been a moment years ago, and since that moment she had felt that her life was like someone else’s garden she had wandered into, something she could care for or not, like one did another’s garden.

There was a knocking on the wooden door of the courtyard. When Willie did not move and Poe did not appear, Liberty went to the door herself. A man stood holding a long white box of flowers. “I’m the florist,” the man said. He had a beard and a small head, and behind one ear was a pink hibiscus. “I see you’re noticing this flower,” the man said. “What this flower is doing is distracting you from the smallness of my head.” He looked at Clem for a long moment, then slowly extended the long white box to Liberty. “I want to tell you something right up front,” he said. “I was an oil tanker pilot for fourteen years and I didn’t have a single incident until one morning I crashed into a bridge, the same bridge I’d cruised under a hundred times, I crashed into that bridge and I sent twenty-three people to their deaths. I want to tell you that right up front. I don’t want someone to tell you later that the man who delivered the flowers you are about to enjoy was the cause of an incident that caused the death of twenty-three innocent people.” He gave Clem a loose, apologetic smile. He had a wet small mouth within his beard, a mouth such as bearded people often have.

“They just floated down into the ocean on a Greyhound bus,” he said. “I don’t think any of them could believe it.”

Poe appeared and signed the bill the man presented with a flourish.

“Jimmy,” she said. “How are you, Jimmy?”

“I’m not so good,” Jimmy said. “I’ve got these bad tunes playing in my head today. I’ve got these mean melodies.”

“Let me give you a little extra today, Jimmy,” Poe said. “Perhaps for some girl, some pretty girl.”

Jimmy shook his head. “Don’t need a girl. What I want is my own vessel back. I want my vessel.”

He drove away, his truck leaving a puddle of oil behind.

“You and your dog elicit confessions, don’t you?” Poe said to Liberty. “Who do you yourself confide in?” She was wearing an outrageous snakeskin jacket that seemed to double the size of her massive shoulders. She stroked Clem’s paw with her foot. “He has lovely large feet,” she said. “Like Greta Garbo. How long have you had him?”

“Not long,” Liberty said, as though it were the truth. “What, dear?” Poe asked.

“It hasn’t been that long. There was a while before I had him.”

“I would like you and Willie to perform fellatio in front of me sometime, would you do that?”

“Certainly never,” Liberty said.

“Pardon me, that was possibly an uncouth request,” Poe said. “Let me tell you about a friend of mine. She got the most gruesome headaches, simply unbearable headaches. And they finally discovered that the cause of them was a dislocated jaw. The jaw would just pop in and out. So the physician said, Absolutely no oral sex. So my friend engaged in no more oral sex. And the headaches vanished, but of course she was miserable. She died a miserable woman, her head clear as a spring morning.”

Poe laughed, looking at Liberty. “You find me depressing, don’t you, dear, well I’ll tell you, I have found that one can learn the most from depressing people. Jung and Monet, for example, were both very depressing individuals to be around. I knew them both. I drank champagne with Jung on several occasions. We discussed the first thought of the One and Absolute Being. Monet had a lighter heart. He could look at anything. Anything! I knew him at Giverny. Still, he had his failings. He was very argumentative. He was always arguing with the gardeners. It was understandable. Their concerns were fertilizers, acidity, overburdening the soil and such. He had five gardeners. He was always screaming at them.”

“What did Jung think the first thought of the Absolute Being was?” Liberty asked.

“He believed His first thought was the consciousness of utter loneliness,” Poe said.

4

The sun was in the exact center of the sky. It was the time of day when things are poised and cast no shadow because they seem so familiar. It was the time of day when the noontide demons are out. On the beach, dragonflies landed on the sea grasses, their transparent wings beating, their square helmeted heads secretive and pitiless. Beyond the beach, the Gulf sparkled and heaved. No one commented upon it.

The three sat around a massive limestone table in the center of which were the roses in a vase. Poe sent white roses to herself every year on her birthday. They were tightly budded and long-stemmed. Each stem had a plastic rod twisted to it to keep it upright. Liberty remembered roses such as these in a room she had been in once. There was something that a nurse had dissolved in the water on the first day to keep the petals from discoloring and falling. In this way, their passage had been arrested.

Poe had slipped a cut-off T-shirt over Clem’s head and forelegs. “The Disguise in disguise,” she said. Clem looked discomfited. He lay beside Liberty, his nose beneath his paws.

It appeared that a considerable amount of time had passed in which Liberty had not been paying attention. Months and years. She guessed that she had been distracted. She stared at the tabletop before her. The fossilized remains of ancient sea creatures stared back. Worms — they were worms. Worms and mollusks and sea fans. She touched their delicate tracings, their white and twisted shadows, with her fingertips.

“You must tell me everything about yourself,” Poe said. “Do you love him, this Willie?”

Love is the great distractor, and she had been distracted. Liberty cleared her throat to speak but it was as though the turtle that Clem had found in the garden had miraculously entered her throat and lay there, heavy, still, tight as a tomb, in the slick passages behind her unruly tongue, a thing almost acceptable, but terrible too, and cold, cold as what can never be known is cold, and she could not speak around it.

“It must be arduous,” Poe mused. “But if love were easy, what would be the point?”

“She loves a child,” Willie said.

“It’s far too easy to love a child,” Poe said, looking at Liberty critically. “At the very least, is there something terribly wrong with it? Does it have an extra chromosome? Is it epileptic or drug-addicted? A mongoloid perhaps?”

“No. He’s a great child,” Willie said.

“There must be some risk, dear. As they say in the bodybuilding game, if it doesn’t hurt, you’re not doing it right. Is it your own child, dear?”

“No,” Willie said. “We don’t have any children of our own. We never will.”

“It’s not a tragedy you know. No sense in mooning and fussing about barrenness. The days are coming perhaps when we might say, Blessed are the barren!”

Willie pulled a rose from the vase. Tiny drops of moisture beaded its furled bud. The tips of the furl were already tinged with brown. He touched Liberty’s arm lightly with it.

“Jesus said that actually. He said more than his prayers, didn’t he.” Poe looked at Clem. “Does he say his prayers? You’ve seen those dogs, haven’t you? Well, perhaps they’re more common in Europe at those little street fairs. They count, they play dead, they say their prayers.”

“He doesn’t know a single trick,” Willie said.

Liberty pushed her fingers through Clem’s fur. She rubbed her foot up and down his spine.

“Let me tell you this little story,” Poe said. “I delivered a baby once. It was in an automobile graveyard in Alabama where I was looking for a bumper for my Studebaker. A cheerful and filthy child escorted me through the yard, reciting the history of his favorite wrecks. There was the VW van with the canvas sunroof through which a motocycle had hurtled, decapitating a passenger when the van failed to negotiate a curve. There was the Buick that had held six in a thunderstorm, all killed when a lightpole fell on them. There was the Olds 88 where the woman lingered for hours while they tried to carve the twisted metal away from her legs. The backseat was full of violets, which she had just purchased from a woman who had Parkinson’s disease and was selling her entire collection. The violets were still packed in the back as neat and unviolated as though they were growing peaceably on the forest floor, not a crumb of earth out of place. There was the Chevy in which the fourteen-year-old foul-shooting champion of the county had lost all feeling below his neck forever. The usual, but the little boy was thrilled by it. He had the widest eyebrows, wide as yours, Liberty. Well we came to this Studebaker, and I was pleased because the bumper was unblemished, but there in the backseat was a girl, crowning. She was a very young girl, pale and thin. Her stomach didn’t seem much larger than a cranshaw melon, but here was this baby coming out. She wasn’t moaning, but she looked terrified when she saw me, and the little boy, who wasn’t more than six or seven, said, ‘Oh Bobbie-Ann, when are you going to grow up!’ He was very angry. He had been such a good guide, you see, escorting this old lady through the junkyard, telling his wonderful stories, and then here was Bobbie-Ann, showing off again. Well, I delivered the baby. She was a very healthy, pretty baby. After she stopped wailing, I lingered for a moment and listened to the wind in the trees. They were whispering something that at the time made an enormous deal of sense. Never have I heard the susurrus of branches so clearly. There were mirrors everywhere on the jumbled cars … all the world seemed bright to me, yet falling, as though it had exploded. Bobbie-Ann didn’t say a word. She clutched the baby and stared at me, and the little boy had vanished. And then … I simply walked away, out of that graveyard of machines. I dreamed of that infant for some years. I traveled with her, into childhood, but I could take her only so far, or she, me, into her imagined life. I became quite adept at the process. I’m told I wasn’t exactly well during that period, but the things I could see! I could see her little shoes and dresses. I could see her pencil cases, I could see the light shining in her room at night and I could see her running in the grass … I kept everything. I was such a hoarder then. I kept the crusts I had cut from her bread, the skin from the hot dogs she favored. I kept the ringlets of her hair, the stuffed toys worn thin from her embrace. I was particularly good at visualizing her hands, at the little drawings she made for me, the houses with smoke pouring from the chimneys, the hearts and suns and so forth. We drove everywhere in my old Studebaker. We loved to drive fast, late at night, with the lights out. It was very beautiful, the speeding and laughing. She was fearless. I even went so far as to take her to the fair one night. We saw the world’s smallest horse, we ate blue sugar, she found a dime on the ground, her weight was guessed. Of course, we didn’t enter the exhibit that housed the two-headed calf. We didn’t see the collection of guillotines or the bedspread made from butterfly wings. Some things I wanted to keep from her. But a sailor gave her a rose, a rose much like one of these. He was a rather dangerous-looking sailor, but his gesture, I was confident, was innocent. We went on the bumper boats and the Ferris wheel. The wheel, which was all aglow with tiny lights, turned, and we were borne upward, and then the wheel stopped. You are familiar with the way the wheel stops? The moment when one can go no higher, the moment before the curving descent begins? I felt the coldness of the bar we clutched and the coldness of the stars above us, and then she left me … She left me there. I never saw her after that night, and I could never create another child in my mind. I had my menses punctually for three decades, a veritable tide table of the possible, once a month for one hundred hours, but then one day they left me as well.”

Liberty felt as though she were dreaming. She saw her hands on Clem’s coat as though dreaming them. But she moved her hands and the hands moved.

“I apologize for being so voluble, but you are my first visitors in many years,” Poe said. “It’s been almost as long since I’ve had a lover. My relationships with my lovers always went on too long. I always had difficulty extricating myself. My last lover drank a bottle of mercurochrome in front of me one evening. I had just said, ‘You don’t excite me anymore, Helen. One can’t be excited by the same individual indefinitely. People tend to be hypocritical about long relationships, and not to face the truth.’ She begged me to be hypocritical, then she swallowed mercurochrome. Nothing happened. We were both disappointed. Gesture had become the very heart of our affair. She had succeeded in poisoning her husband years before we met. It was arsenic. If you dug that man up this moment he’d be perfectly preserved. Like Napoleon. Helen was a theatrical woman, devoted to radical thought processes. For some, you know, the temptation is to play, to dream, to hang on to substitution forever.”

“I could understand Helen,” Willie said. “What became of her?”

“She disappeared, as many living people do,” Poe said.

“I could understand that too,” Willie said. “Living people disappear. It happens every day.”

Liberty closed her eyes. She had disappeared long ago, she knew, and so had Willie. But it was time to come back. It was time to come back or vanish. And yet what this was about was that it was too late to come back. The noontide demons were all illusion and error playing a game of outlaws and hermits, hiding behind the apparently real, the stubbornly real. The other couple appeared to her. There had been another couple, a horrible couple, tricked out to deceive, a man and a woman, then just a woman, through some accident.… Liberty opened her eyes and fixed her gaze outside, at the clear, vacant light there. The beach was still. Poe was saying,

“… and those who are left are usually so puzzled by it, the children, the lovers, the parents, the friends. They can’t believe it. I’ve never understood their confusion myself …” She looked at Liberty. “You’re admiring the light, dear? There is an extraordinary light here, isn’t there? It only reveals, never explains.”

“It’s just daylight,” Liberty said. “It falls on us all.” She hated the talk. Talking never explained anything, it was like the light, like one’s life.

“You can tell me anything,” Poe said. “Whatever you tell me will be the truth.”

“It’s not possible,” Liberty said slowly. “You are not a possibility.”

She saw the other couple again. She was aware of the mirrors, the loud music at the critical moment, the sweetness of the food.

“You don’t know what you want, do you dear?” Poe said. “Willie knows what he wants.”

“I don’t want anything,” Liberty said. She was close to tears.

Poe drew back. “And this animal,” she said, smiling at Clem, “who is always with you. Has he ever indicated what it is he wants? Would he care for my jacket, do you think?” She rose and took it off. The scales of the jacket caught the light and shook like oil. She lay it before them on the table. “I knew this snake. He was a companion of mine for many years. You mustn’t be alarmed. He died a natural death. He was enormous. An entire room here was devoted to his habitat and glassed off. He made such a lovely sound — the sound of a hundred castanets. When the little girl I was telling you about first saw him, she pressed her little hands against the glass and said, ‘Goodness.’ ”

“She spoke?” Willie wondered.

“That was the only time. ‘Goodness,’ she said.” Poe’s smile widened and she turned toward Liberty. “Why so glum, my dear! We should all be enjoying this rather sinister moment.”

“Liberty believes that freedom consists in being inaccessible,” Willie said.

“I’m not sure that’s true at all,” Poe said. “Perhaps your Liberty is trying to make an object of her life. It’s very difficult, you know, far more difficult than merely longing for what comes after — to try to make one’s life into an object for a sort of knowledge.”

Poe was pumped up, sharp, with not a single, blurred line. Her face was spectacularly, peacefully ugly.

“You’re a boy who likes to tell lies, aren’t you?” she went on. “Why is that? The truth is so much more frightening. I watched you here for a long time in this house. Oh, I didn’t watch you every moment, but I was here. You’re a boy who makes promises. You promise to make up everything. You’re the one who has dreams of serving the inconceivable.”

The day had a terrible sweet heat to it. Small black butterflies wobbled through the air.

“For a moment just then,” Poe exclaimed, “I was seeing us all from a great distance. The first time it happened to me I was with my husband, but it’s occurred dozens of time since then. My husband and I had just gotten into bed when I suddenly found myself suspended just beneath the ceiling, looking down on him in his pajamas, sipping his nightcap. My husband said afterward that he himself had seen nothing unusual. This from a man who had danced with Jesus! Well, perhaps he had seen nothing unusual. But I enjoy seeing my own body, as well as others, from a distance. I don’t dwell upon my head, but my body is good looking and I know it. Nevertheless, I’ve always felt that autoscopy was a rather vulgar practice.” She stretched her hand toward Clem, but he stepped backward, out of reach.

“He displaces space so effortlessly,” Poe said. “He’s so sure-footed. Has he ever broken anything?”

“He has never broken anything,” Liberty said softly. The feeling persisted that there was something in her throat, that there were stitches of coarse brown thread holding the flesh together there, keeping something in, not letting it spill out.

“And you are never lonely with him, are you dear. And yet it is our duty to be lonely, don’t you know? One must strive to be more and more perfectly lonely. The heart grows indifferent, but one must push upward continually, more and more alone, toward the surface, like a blind, wild seed.”

She took the rose from Willie and brushed it against the razored darkness of her breastbone.

“Tell me about your lovers, dear,” she said to Liberty.

“There’s only been Willie.”

“Only is such a step into darkness, dear. The house of darkness throws wide its doors to ‘only.’ Do you know what I would like very much? If you would give me a day of your past, some summer day when you were just beginning, somewhere in that time when there were moments for you.”

Liberty was silent.

“You don’t want anything, dear, but you go on. That’s because your life wants, it wants you to discover it.”

“It was in July,” Willie said, “in the year when we were fifteen.”

“This is wonderful,” Poe said. “It was July. Really, I couldn’t ask for more.”

“Liberty and Willie,” Willie said.

“Lovely,” Poe said.

“They vowed to be different.”

“Of course,” Poe said.

“And never to be at the mercy of events.”

“Give me the twisted shape of the day,” Poe said. “The form that dissembler love took that day. That green and sour, fabulous, tedious day. Slim twins, golden children, your lips blistered, sweat running from your hair …”

“They were capable of any crime,” Willie said.

“The young, bless them, they want so to be damned.”

“They loved dangerous games.”

“There was something final in that day that doomed you,” Poe said. “I can see you then. You had the full lips of anarchists. Ringless, reckless hands. Your love was romantic, in defiance of life.”

Outside, the sun was descendant and pressed fiercely against the window glass. Clem lay on the cool rim of its sprawl. On the water, light lasted the longest. It was a day that was never going to end was the way it had once seemed to Liberty. But now it was beginning to end. She saw an image before her of her father, the blank canvas before him, beyond the canvas, the brilliantly flowering tree. He raised the brush … There was a moment, and beyond that moment was where the dead began.

“Perhaps we should pray, dear, before you begin,” Poe said.

“What would we pray for?” Willie asked.

“The usual,” Poe said. “Understanding.”

5

The summer that Willie and Liberty were fifteen was the summer that someone was mutilating the pelicans. Someone was capturing the birds, slicing off half their bills with a saw, and releasing them

Liberty saw such pelicans once; flying heavily through the bright air, flying with their dreadful injuries home. Once, she saw one closer. This was years ago.

Under everything that summer — the summer that they were fifteen — under the heat and the fitful breezes, the slide of leaves against one another and the soft, whipping sound the water made as it was flung in an arc from the sprinkler, under everything was the voice that says, Are you ready?

Willie’s mother had two gardens. She had her greens garden, but she had her flowers too. The flowers took up almost a quarter acre of their land and were Doris’s pride and joy as well as being the cause of her only moral transgression. She devoted a great deal of time to her flowers and did not want people to know exactly how much, for it was a considerable amount. She would often slip from the house before dawn, just as the stars were fading, to weed, to pick and pinch and dust for insects. Her head would be clear, her movements stealthy, and her heart would pound with excitement at her secret labors. Next to the flower beds, Doris had a little grove of flourishing fruit trees. When she had first planted them she had stone mulched them, and all her friends thought she was stone mulching them still, but the fact was, she wasn’t. Doris was only pretending to stone mulch her fruit trees. Any time one of her friends bought a young tree and commenced to stone mulch it, it would sicken and just about die, which confirmed everyone’s belief that Doris had a gift with things because she was so Christian. What Doris was actually doing was caring for her trees the usual way but rolling stones back around the trunk when her friends came to call.

There was a yard girl who worked for Doris three times a week but the flower garden was not part of her duties. The yard girl, a tall beautiful black girl named Mercury, did not know much about plants but she was strong and dependable and a tireless raker. Actually, she did know some things and these she shared with Liberty. She knew that poinsettia sap could take the hair off your legs. She knew that epsom salts would green up a sick palm and that a woman’s pee could force a jacaranda to bloom. But what Mercury enjoyed far more than plant care was raking the long winding driveway of crushed shells to make, over and over, longer and more numerous lines with the rake tines through the fine shells.

Mercury thought Willie and Liberty were brother and sister, though Liberty was always telling her she was just visiting.

“You sure been visiting for some while,” Mercury said. “Years, like.” She believed Willie to be the best looking white boy she’d ever seen. “That boy is some arresting in his looks,” she’d say, using the word arresting like a dollar she had to spend. “And he must be loaded with hormones too. I like watching his hair grow.” They would giggle together, girl and girl. In the mornings she would come to work, singing, on a pink bicycle.

Doris had a bird bath in her garden. It was a child’s plastic wading pool set in the ground and rimmed with coral rocks, its waters kept fresh by a circulating pump hidden behind some tuberous lilies. It was here, at the edge of the wading pool, where Liberty saw the pelican. She saw it, looking out the window of her room, a window through which light streamed in moteless rays. A pelican, miles from the sea, come to Pelican Estates.

The bird was full-sized although its head was still streaked with the downy yellow of the nestling, and it rested on the damp grass beside the pool, its head drawn back between the cleft of its folded wings. When it finally moved, it did so with a lunge, as though to capture the solace of the water unaware. Liberty saw the malformed, purpled pouch. Her eyes escorted her there, and there abandoned her.

She walked from her room, down the hall, leaving the coolness of the house for the quiet, breathtaking heat of the outside. She could hear the water lapping at the sides of the little blue pool. The heat had a whisper to it that summer, even the rain when it came had the whisper, like the stirring of flies. The pelican had come to drink and it could not drink. It seemed to her that she had closed her eyes, and when she had opened them again, the bird had vanished.

Liberty felt the pulling within her that was the knowledge she had — the something different from her which was the same, but further, pulling.

Mercury came up the driveway on her bicycle, her long black legs turning, the line the wheels’ wobble made following her lightly in the dust.

“Hey!” Mercury bawled.

“Hey.”

“I got a question for you, if you please.” She leaned the bike against a tree and walked over to Liberty. “This sure is a pretty garden, I wish I were accountable for it. Okay, then,” she said, “my question is, if a person is unconscious like from the sipping and he’s lying in his bed and you say something to him, can he hear it?”

“I don’t think so,” Liberty said.

“It’s not gonna all come back later to him? He’s not going to be visited by the total recall?”

“He was really unconscious?”

“My Chester was hardly breathing like,” Mercury said. “Dead drunk out.” She mopped her throat and forehead with a man’s big white handkerchief.

“No, then.”

“I said some things, oh! I had me a time. I worked myself up so I about could have killed him. He was lying there all defenseless and kind of cunning really, but I could have liked to drop an iron on him.”

“Oh, why!” Liberty said.

“I shouldn’t say why to a nice little white girl like yourself.”

“That’s all right,” Liberty said. She felt queasy and took tiny sips of the hot, heavy air, swallowing, trying to calm herself.

“Lipstick on his underwears,” Mercury said promptly. “My Chester’s an infidel.”

The girls stood there, mulling.

“An infidel is an unbeliever,” Liberty said, still distraught.

“Chester don’t believe in much, it’s true,” Mercury said, “and maybe that’s his biggest problem, he don’t have any standards, although he do have nice clothes. He gotten suits, all different colors. But you know the only reason I didn’t drop the iron on him and murder him on the spot? After I took his clothes off and seen the lipstick on his underwears? I seen the electric chair. Right in the corner of my eye. It was a little tiny thing about the size of a postage stamp and it was red but otherwise it looked just the way you know it looks, and the sight of that electric chair deterred me from my actions on the spot, just the way they say.” She nodded somberly and daubed at herself once more with the handkerchief. “This is some cruel weather, isn’t it,” she said.

Pressed in the corner of Liberty’s eye was the bird she had seen, the dreadful poor and feathered thing.

“There was a pelican over there just before you came,” Liberty said, pointing at the little pool. The pump whirred secretively, behind the fleshy, drooping lilies. “Somebody had hurt it.” She tossed her head in dismay.

“Uhh,” Mercury said. “You seen one of them. I heard about them. Some fisherman doing it, correct? This heat makes people mean. Days like this, they’re false days. It’s best to let them go right on by.”

“I went over to it thinking I could help it, but it flew off. I had some idea about fixing it somehow.”

“Naw,” Mercury said. “You try to fix a wild, hurt thing like that and what happens is, the same thing happens. You take them home and keep them warm and feed them things and you look at them and they look at you and in three days they die. You wouldn’t happen to have some ice for the ice tea I bought, would you?”

They went inside the house, to the kitchen. Liberty cracked apart the ice from the trays and dropped them into Mercury’s jar.

“Do you like that soft, mushy ice they give you sometimes in a cup that gets all colored up with what you’re drinking?” Mercury asked.

“No,” Liberty said. The coldness of the house made the bones around her eyes ache.

“Neither do I,” Mercury said. “So,” she said, “I’d best get started. I don’t want the lady to see too many of them dead leaves.” Mercury had put too much fertilizer around the trees near the swimming pool and the leaves were dropping. They floated, green and gold, on the surface of the pool and cluttered the trap. “I should have rinsed down into the roots more,” Mercury said.

“They’ll come back.”

“Sure they will!” Mercury agreed. She unfolded her long self from the chair she’d been sitting on and went outside. Heat clawed its way into the kitchen before the door swung shut. The heat had a force and a sound to it that summer, a smell and even a language to it — a dry and erratic click like a foreign tribe speaking, the sound of parched leaves and hot air stirring and clicking, the sound an animal’s untrimmed nails would make tapping and clicking on some polished floor.

Liberty went down the hall to Willie’s room. The bed was neatly made, the sheets pulled tight without a crease. Above it was the only decoration in the room, a poster of the planet Saturn and its mysterious rings. Willie had bought it the year before when their class had visited a planetarium. Liberty remembered how trapped she had felt there, in the darkness, beneath the expanding dome. The days had hurried by in the planetarium. Celestial bodies rose, moved toward the west, set. The heavens turned round and round. Sunrises followed one another more and more rapidly. Liberty had clenched the armrests, feeling she was going to be spun away. Then the sky had become dense black. In the place of stars, question marks appeared. “This,” a voice had said, “is the Universe as we know it.”

Liberty lay on the bed and looked at the poster. Saturn was cold and gloomy and peaceful. For a moment or two she lay composed, her mind blank. Then she thought, this is the way Willie feels alone here, everything quiet and still and far away, and then she wasn’t peaceful anymore for her mind had started to run, trying to capture what it was that Willie felt when he was feeling nothing. It wasn’t her own voice she heard but just the mind’s running in a rapid cold and clotted circle like Saturn’s rings.

She was fifteen and she was going to have a baby, she was going to have a baby, she was going to have a baby.

They hadn’t done it all the time. There was the first time, but then they grew cautious and there were other times but not always. There were good days and bad days, safe and dangerous ones, even as Mercury had attested, false days and true. But now there were just days that multiplied.

Liberty got up and smoothed the sheets tight again. She sniffed the pillowcase, which smelled of Willie, a soft palmy smell like a lake, then went back to her own room where she took off her clothes and put on her bathing suit. The suit was a faded one from the summer before that had lost its shape and begun to nubble. She felt childish and obscure in it and for a while picked abstractly at the beaded material, rolling the balls in her fingers and dropping them into the wastebasket on top of the calendar that she — sick of seeing the numbered days — had discarded there that morning. The calendar was one from church — there were several scattered throughout the house — and above the days that month was the Red Sea being parted, a picture that Liberty had come to dislike intensely. It was a quite ordinary interpretation. The blessed marched between towering but submissive walls of water behind which the creatures of the sea gazed forth, in wonder, with troubled, babylike faces, innocent and isolated.

She walked around her room. It was a pretty room, cheerful. The one window was filled with the view of the garden and it caught her eye once more, like a nail catching the sleeve of a blouse, but the garden was empty except for the massed colors of its flowers trembling in the heat. She was the only one at home. Calvin and Doris and Willie, too, were down at the church with other volunteers, painting the nave. She had been with them, but the fumes from the paint had made her sick. Honey, get away from that can and put your head way back, a lady had said. She was one of Doris’s friends. Her hair was in a bun and she had a dagger of dried paint on her cheek. Liberty had put her head way back and had seen the single fan in the vertex of the church, its paddles beating in a blur, whirling silently far above her, like a bat. And that had comforted her a little, for it was a familiar thing and something she had thought long ago for a time to be a bat before she knew it was a fan.

She had felt sick and she had come home. She would be all right. Everyone would be all right, she thought. Her life would be different. Very different, that was all. And that was fine. That’s what life was, the whole purpose of it was not to be left behind. And she and Willie and the baby would all three just go ahead and not be left behind, and it would be different, which was fine. She would be happy and stoical about it. Could one be happy and stoical at once?

Sweat crawled through her hair. She went out to the swimming pool.

“Ah,” Mercury said, “I been waiting on you for some company here.” She had tied herself up top and bottom in two big handkerchiefs, the knots riding like rabbit ears on her bony hips. The two girls went to the edge of the pool and fell flat out in.

“This water warm as buns,” Mercury screamed. They paddled around, Mercury kicking the water like a can before she stepped back out. “This is not the refeshment I imagined at all,” she fretted. “How’s it doing you?”

“It’s doing me all right,” Liberty said.

Mercury drew on her clothes, shook the corn rows of her hair. Liberty lay floating on her back, watching her through her spread out feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mercury said, “hold on, day after tomorrow.”

“Bye then,” Liberty said.

“Bye.”

Liberty swam back and forth the length of the pool, first rapidly, then doggedly. Then she swam leisurely, as though she had all the time in the world, back and forth.

They had all come home by early suppertime, spattered with paint in an earthly camouflage of divine works. Liberty begged off supper by saying she still felt too hot to eat. She wrapped herself in a towel and sat on the canvas of the diving board, watching Willie and his parents moving about in the kitchen and settling around the table, bowing their heads momentarily in prayer over the fruit cup. The table was covered with layers of old clean cloths, for Doris and Calvin did not believe in throwing things away. When a person dropped his arm on that table, it would just about bounce off the padding.

Their motions seemed slow and insubstantial to her, as though they had been interchanged with wavering holographs and as she watched, a shiver moved slowly like a hand with outstretched fingers up her skull. Everything would not be all right, not all right at all. She had lived in this house like a child, like a daughter, for years. And now, wrapped in her towel, watching, she felt like a thief, but what was it she had stolen? She felt like a thief in a large coat, a coat with many pockets. But what was it that was missing from others, exactly, that she had so artlessly taken? Oh, but of course it was their love, and their trust, misplaced. In her. She strained forward a little, watching them eat. They seemed a circle, but there was her place, not set, but her place, empty. They were her family. Doris and Calvin were like Lucile and Lamon, but of course they were not, and Willie was like a twin to her, but he was not. He was not her brother, he was her lover, her first and only lover …

She didn’t belong to any of them anymore. She belonged to something else. She watched them, her mind turning slowly, falling. Willie was thin, as thin as she, they were both tall and skinny, as though the life they led that others did not see or know was wearing them away, the real life feeding on the merely visible one, the real life being secretive and inward and hidden. Their real life was exhilarating and artful and treacherous. It was invisible, but it was growing, growing away from them, and they could not be left behind, they would not be. They would have to follow it, leave with it. They would be driven out, they would not be fine, they would be led now by this life that others could see, and what kind of life was that?

Liberty’s mind turned and turned, hearing herself again, her own voice saying Don’t give yourself away, don’t give yourself away. The night sounds of insects were beginning, gently pulling in the dark.

Willie walked from the house toward her. He was not wearing swimming trunks but black trousers and a T-shirt that was very white. She pulled the towel more tightly around her shoulders. He was her first and last and only lover, she thought, and felt a thrill of sadness.

“I’ve got a job starting tomorrow,” Willie said. “Roofing. Tar and gravel. It’s going to be miserable.” He seemed pleased with himself. “In this heat it’s going to be murder. I’ll be working with four boys from Blossum.”

Blossum was the black part of town. Mercury lived there, all the blacks did. Blossum had a sewer winding through it that once had been a creek. The blacks didn’t want to make a fuss about it. The town was proud of the fine way they got along with their blacks, they were good blacks. On occasion, someone would get upset over there and kill some people, but they were usually his own people. They were his to kill was more or less the opinion when something like this happened. The boys who made good in Blossum played professional basketball. Some of the investments they made went right back onto the streets there. Anything you wanted you could find in Blossum. If you knew what you wanted, you could find it there. You could buy a machine gun or a child. And it had some of the finest gospel singing in the state. “Bread of Heaven,” sung almost every Wednesday night at The Church of the God of Prophecy on Marigold Street, had long been known to cause even the merciless to weep.

“I’ve got to tell you something,” Liberty said.

Don’t give yourself away the voice still said to her. Don’t give yourself away, which meant everything and nothing in a comforting and hopeless way. Liberty said the other words, the words that were not the real words, without even thinking she was about to.

“I saw a pelican in the garden today, one of the maimed ones, one that’s had part of its bill sawed off. It was so close … it was … I can’t get it out of my mind.”

“Birds are thoughts,” Willie said.

“Oh,” Liberty exclaimed, hurt. “Don’t be so indifferent. ‘Birds are thoughts.’ They’re not thoughts.”

“Why, sure they are,” Willie said. “You didn’t think that birds were all they were.”

His words, his presence, so familiar and yet so distant, had a peculiar effect on her. She thought that perhaps she had been the one stolen, after all.

“It was a real thing,” she said sadly.

“That’s a very old notion, you can’t blame it on me,” Willie said. “There’s a second part too which follows logically enough. If birds are thoughts, the mind is a birdcage.” He shook his head and made twittering sounds. Then he said, “You shouldn’t see such birds, Liberty. Poor Liberty.”

“Why would people do anything like that, why would they … I know you don’t know, it’s just I can’t imagine how they could do something like that, and do it over and over again.”

“They hate,” Willie said. “They’re good haters. They want to finish up things before they’re finished up.”

“Do you ever think about the future?” Liberty asked.

“How can you think about it?”

“Imagine it then.”

“Did you ever kiss a picture?” Willie asked. “Like a photograph or something in a magazine?”

“I guess,” Liberty said.

“The future’s like that. You’d be crazy to think it was real.”

“That’s not all craziness,” Liberty said. “I mean, it’s more deliberate. You let yourself go a little.” She was embarrassed about the photograph. She couldn’t even remember doing it exactly. But it was the sort of thing she might do.

“I’m ready for something though,” Willie said. “I’m ready.”

The summer night pulled and whined around them with its sounds and Liberty looked at him, thinking, why he knows this, he knows what there is next for us.

“I’m going to have a baby,” she said.

He said nothing. She fixed her eyes on his shirt, white as an egg in the darkness. Nothing. She pushed the towel from her shoulders and slipped into the water. It was cooler now, and dark. Her own voice said you’ve given yourself away … She let her head slide back and let the water hold her. Her body, floating, felt draped as though over a stone, and she felt peaceful, as those, she imagined, about to be sacrificed, felt peaceful. She floated, looking upward, a little breathless as though she had climbed many, many steps, and the terrible but peaceful image came to her of her beating heart being seized from her breast, being plucked like a carp from a pond, wriggling and rising into the night, becoming a star.

In the house, Doris and Calvin were listening to hymns on the record player. Calvin was dozing. Somewhere, in his dream, a toilet was overflowing. Money, he thought. Half awake, he rattled his newspaper.

And He walks with me,

And He talks with me,

And He tells me I am his own …

“I’ve always worried about this hymn,” Doris said. “It sounds so flirtatious.”

“Good night,” Liberty called to them from the hall.

“Good night,” Calvin said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “Good night.”

Doris blew her a kiss on her fingertips.

Willie was waiting for her in her bedroom. She opened the door and he said in the dark, “We’re so happy. We’ll never be this happy again.” She turned the light on because she didn’t want to hear the words he was saying in the dark. The light fell between them. “We’ll never be this happy again,” Willie said, “that’s what you don’t understand.”

“I don’t.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I don’t want to.”

Liberty took off her bathing suit and got into bed, raising the sheets to her throat. Willie went to her bureau, pulled a red scarf from the drawer and draped it over the little lampshade by her bed.

“Just the light,” she said. “I don’t like that rosy light.”

“It’s pretty,” Willie said.

“It’s lurid,” Liberty said fretfully. “Oh, I don’t care about the light,” she said. She pushed the pillow up behind her back and studied the hem of the white sheet. A hole in it had been mended with a circle of bright cloth.

“Are you frightened?” Willie asked.

“No.”

“Remember the planetarium, how frightened you were?”

“You said it was all done with machines.”

“You can’t remember the way you were, always frightened.”

“I’m not frightened now.”

“You’re not making this up?” Willie said. “You’re not just trying to make yourself up in another way?”

Liberty shook her head. “It’s a baby.”

“What’s it feel like?”

“Like me, but a moving away from me too. It’s nice.”

“It’s got gills still, and a tail.”

“Not anymore.”

“I’ve heard you can feel their fingernails scratching inside you.”

“No, no, not yet.”

“Like this,” Willie said. He slowly moved his hand toward her face and drew a long nail lightly down her cheek.

“Don’t,” Liberty said.

He put his hands to his own face and drew the nails heavily down. She saw red lines obediently follow the gesture across his skin.

“Your nails are too long,” she said. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

He picked a paper punch from her desk and made a perfect moon in his thumbnail, then moved it, punching circles in the nails of each hand.

“That’s gruesome,” Liberty said.

“It doesn’t hurt.” He gathered the cuttings in his palm and closed his hand over them.

“You know what the worst thing is?” he asked. “The worst thing is to lead another’s life.”

“You mean the baby? The baby’s not going to be leading my life.”

“There’ll be three of us,” Willie said. “Before, there’s just been one of us, you and me.”

“We can do anything still.”

“You’re making plans. You’re making agreements. You make too many agreements with the world, Liberty. Something’s trying to murder you and you’re helping it choose the time and the place.”

“It’s not a murderer,” she said. “What are you saying? I’m not going to hurt this baby, it’s what’s happened to us now.”

“Happened to us,” he said. He shook the full moons of his nails into the wastebasket. That’s filling up, Liberty thought, filling up quite sensibly. “I want myself and you,” Willie was saying. “Not children. I don’t want this circular stuff.”

“Circular stuff,” Liberty said. “Circular stuff.” She was astonished.

“You want to become your own mother, instead of your own self.”

“I certainly don’t want to become my mother,” Liberty said. She tried to smile. His words were a net of abstraction, falling, settling. “You’re just scared is all,” she said miserably.

“We can’t just let things happen,” he said. “I’m not scared.” He wandered around the room, touching things, books and jars, with his strange fingers. He sat down beside her on the bed and pulled the sheet from her breasts, ran his hands across her ribs and belly. “We’re so beautiful,” he said.

“Ugh,” Liberty said, “those hands. You’re not as beautiful as you used to be.”

“Look at us, we’re beautiful. Haven’t we made up everything perfectly so far?”

“Well,” she said, “I guess not, no. There were a few things we didn’t learn when we should have, I guess.”

“You can’t learn everything.”

“Sure you can. You can share with anything too, love anything. And that’s what you’ve got to learn.”

“You can’t learn love, you can’t learn death.”

“Sure you can,” Liberty said. It was as though words were a bridge and the bridge had abruptly broken and she was falling. She touched Willie’s shoulder — the sensation was that real — to keep herself from falling.

“You’re the one who’s scared,” Willie said. “You shouldn’t be scared.” She clung to his white shirt, which was falling with her in her eyes. “If I died, would you follow me?” Willie asked.

“How could I follow you. I wouldn’t know you.” She was falling, there was no sense to it. “I don’t know any dead people,” she said. It seemed to her a failing, even somewhat disrespectful.

“We’ve used each other up here,” Willie said.

“No,” Liberty said faintly.

When they had been younger still, Willie’s mother had told them about death, and she made it sound so exciting they had wondered aloud if it was as much fun to keep on living. And Doris had said, Why of course it was. You had to get the living over with first. The important thing was to let God use you up every day. It you struggled against Him and didn’t allow Him to use you up, then the next day couldn’t be used up either, nor the day after that and you’d always be left with less than a whole life to get rid of.

“You still think it’s an amazing thing to be able to die,” Liberty said. “There are things that are a lot harder, almost everything.” She tore the scarf from the shade, but his face appeared the same to her, bony and known, a hungry face which seemed to crave nothing.

“I’m free,” he said, “and you’re free, but now, not later. I’ve always wanted it this way, and haven’t you really? And Mama’s God won’t have a single part to play in this, that God she thinks she knows so well.” He lay down beside her, cupping her face in his hands. His breath was sweet. “I’ve never believed in anything,” he said, “except you and me.”

They talked each other through that night so that in the morning they were slick, brand-new twins at last, sliding out of the same dark and purling womb of incoherent happiness. They talked their way out of that night right into the dawn where the world pulled back in golden halves like a peach does from a pit, disclosing the pit’s dark and ragged heart.

“You know what I’ve had all these years?” Willie said. “Your Daddy’s pills. He gave them to my Daddy when he was working on his teeth, for the pain, but you know Daddy, he wouldn’t reduce by a twinge the discomfort he felt was his to bear, and you know too that things never strike him as being suspicious, only people, and so he kept them. Mama moved them around so much she’d forgotten where they were by the time I had them. There are a lot of them, but there’s still probably not enough. And they’re old, so they’re not as strong either.”

“We want them strong,” Liberty said.

He showed them to her. There were black capsules with slim red bands. There were pink capsules full of scarlet grains. There were plump pills that looked like matrons in pancake make-up, and there were skinny, reckless ones that looked fast as race cars. A silent instrumental orchestra of pills, each containing its own dreams and intentions. A circus of pills, each containing its bears and tigers, its glittering globes and toothful acrobats. There were Miltowns and Equanils, Serax and Tranxene. All the pills had real names and then they had other names, like everything else. The other names, the names they had in Blossum, were Christmas Trees and Bluebirds, Rainbows and Green Dragons. The other names, like everything’s other name, suggested more light, more air, something furious and beautiful.

The new day brought a sky that was a cloudless ashen blue and soon the air began to click once more with the heat, with the clicking secretive language of heat.

Willie went off early to Blossum. Liberty tried to talk to the baby. The baby, she thought, knew nothing, but understood a lot, but the baby wasn’t listening to her. The baby wasn’t going to have anything more to do with her. The baby had picked the wrong person all right! Liberty tried to explain things to the baby as Willie had been explaining things to her, but this did not intrigue the baby. Liberty thought that the love she had for the baby was natural and instinctive and that the love she had for Willie was more intentional. Deliberate love was supposed to be more profound because it committed the soul, even though to Liberty such commitment had the rotting color of eternity tinging its boundlessness. And that was where they were headed, right into those rotting, blue and black colors. She tried to tell the baby that, personally, she felt that the other love, which she had wholly for the baby, was what was going to see them through, but the baby wouldn’t listen. What the baby understood was that it had climbed into the wrong spaceship.

Willie came back at noon, hazed with tar and grime. In a bakery sack, he had more pills. “Interaction,” he said. “Our hearts will burst upon command.” She reached in and making spittle with her tongue, she swallowed one. “Not yet,” Willie said. “We’ll lie down together in the shade. I have champagne.”

“We need ice,” she said, “and cups.”

He laughed and kissed her on the mouth and laughed again. His lips were hot and dry. She walked past the swimming pool, which lay still, grasshopper green on the lawn, and toward a patch of shifting shade cast by fig and pepper trees. She was wearing a skirt she had last worn to a dance and a yellow blouse. She folded her hands on her stomach. It was so still she could hear a phone ringing, the choked rattle of its call, and somewhere, a door slamming shut. Willie brought ice in a silver bowl, a bowl Doris used to float flowers in, two dark and sweating bottles of champagne and glasses from a set that Calvin had received with fill-ups from the gas station.

“I brought your favorite glass,” he said.

“The Invisible Girl,” she said. “Sister to the Human Torch and wife of Mr. Fantastic.” I had a favorite glass, she thought, and here it is. The Invisible Girl could be seen. She wore a silver jumpsuit and her lip was curled.

They drank champagne. He scattered the pills in the lap of her skirt where they gleamed like candies. There were so many there — she put one in her mouth and it had a greasy, purpling taste. Another had a flavor of metal, as though she’d pressed her tongue against a chain. She thought of the coat that had many pockets, but it was an imaginary coat.

“You’re a natural thief,” she said.

“We’re both thieves,” Willie said, “stealing God’s day.”

Soon all the pills were gone. She saw him swallowing and she swallowed, but there was nothing left. Her head was pounding. She said, “Sssshh, I’m trying to remember everything.” Snow, she thought, I want to remember snow. But she had never seen snow. Beaches, she thought. Water falling upon water. She thought of the little glittering pool in the garden, then thought of a well, filled with the bones of luckless creatures. But beneath everything, deep down, the freshness, she felt it, the freshness, the sweetness there. She stretched out in the shade. Willie held her, but she didn’t want him to for the first time. The Invisible Girl, she thought, wife to Mr. Fantastic. They were dying, she thought. She smiled and said to Willie, “I know better than this.” Her eyes were burning and through them she saw the raked driveway winding to the blacktop road. It was just the road that wound past other houses into town, but it seemed strange. The trees seemed taller alongside the ditches, their green and gold leaves trembling from the heat of her burning eyes. She started to walk down the road but there was a dog guarding it.

She was all alone, and she stopped.

Mercury found them. She had come back to talk to Liberty about her Chester, for she liked to talk to Liberty, she liked the way Liberty listened. She saw them there, sleeping hard, leaves lying on their faces. Mercury giggled and touched Willie’s hair, the long, soft hair of a white boy. But when she turned to Liberty, she saw green foam around her mouth like you’d see on a horse, and when she touched her she felt cold. She managed to slap and shake Willie awake. He vomited with his eyes open, becoming unarresting forever more in Mercury’s mind.

The sheriff’s men were called and Liberty would think later that she could remember them, the colors of green and gold weaving in the heat, the leaves’ sick colors blending into the deputies’ shirts. And she thought later she could remember them asking her questions. People always asked the dying questions, Liberty thought, and the dying probably lied and didn’t even know it. Having the same words available as they’d had all their lives and no new ones probably made lying pretty much inevitable. The click of the heat had become their questions, which had then become a clatter, like utensils being stirred about, being rattled in a pan. Her throat was opened, like a window, she thought, being flung open wide, although they said she could not remember such a thing. But she did remember. She was alone with them in a white room, the men in green and gold, and the days passed. Once, she heard one musing …

I surely wish I could catch that boy that keeps robbing them banks. That boy just seems to float through them drive-in windows, waves a paper bag he’s got wrapped around his hand and the ladies just start heaving the money out. Four banks in a week and a half. That boy could steal the stink off shit and not smell.

The other said Shut your mouth, Hicks. There’s a sick girl in here.

Hicks said She’s in a coma. She won’t take no offense.

She was brought back, then almost lost to septicemia, but her poisoned blood was taken from her drop by drop and she was brought back again. Mistakes were made, but in the end, infection simplified her. It unadorned her. There would be no more babies for Liberty. Liberty’s babies all went to live in that world where mistakes aren’t made.

There was one floor on a wing of the hospital where certain people went for a while and Liberty went there. It was called Five North. Willie was not allowed to visit her, but he sent her things. No one else came. Willie sent her perfume once and once he sent her a game where there were numbered black and white plastic pieces sliding in a frame. There was one empty space. Each piece had a number, but the numbers were all mixed up. The person who was playing the game was supposed to use that empty space to make order.

On Five North there was a lady who came once a day to talk to Liberty. Her name was Miss Tweedie. Miss Tweedie enjoyed working with people on this wing because they were so polite. Being back in the world seemed to hypnotize them.

You look upon your nondeath as a threatening danger to you, Miss Tweedie said. She had bitten nails, which must have been a drawback professionally, but she had a birthmark on her jaw that could be interpreted by the ill at their leisure. Liberty almost expected her to point to it and say What does this represent to you?, but she never did. Liberty did not look at Miss Tweedie’s face much. Instead, she watched the gnawed, scrubbed nails lying in the woman’s lap, sometimes on the coverlet, sometimes daubing in the air. Love can sometimes be a curse, Miss Tweedie said, even a sickness.

There was a common room on Five North where people could gather for coffee in the morning. On Sundays, there were cookies with the coffee and a Bible was placed out. On the day Liberty was going to be released, a woman in the common room screamed out His children are far from safety and they are crushed in the gate! She poured scalding coffee over her arms with joy. A man shouted Amen, Amen, we’re Job’s children we’re all of us Job’s children! The people stirred and flung themselves back and forth like fish in the waters of a shrinking pond. Some shouted and wept. Liberty pressed herself against the wall and played the plastic game, hearing the others but not watching them. Her fingers quickly moved the plastic pieces back and forth, up and down. Her fingers flew across the moving pieces. The woman who had burnt herself with such happiness was led away, and the room grew calm again, and stilled. There was no outside to the room, that is, the outside could not be seen. The room was wallpapered to appear like a long, wide view of trees — a young forest of slender trees with the glint of a river winding deep within the dimensions of it. It was a glade, Liberty thought, or a copse. She could look at it for a long time. The colors were green and gold like the deputies’ uniforms. She thought she could remember the deputy who was a philosopher, or was that the other one? The one who was writing something down, his big hand cupped as though he were writing on the palm. She is a felon, he was writing, who attempted to break into the house of death …

Once a day, Miss Tweedie came to see Liberty. Miss Melanie Tweedie had been employed to help her. You almost died, dear, and at times you feel you did die. That’s a very common feeling, it’s been well documented. In times of war when a man survives and the buddy right next to him does not. That’s where most of our documentation comes from. Or from multiple car crashes or tornadoes. The word buddy sounded strange on Miss Tweedie’s lips. But in your case, dear, no one died. That little thing, bless it, wasn’t anything you must think died.

Liberty sat on a bed in a seersucker bathrobe and stared at the nubs of the cloth. She counted the nubs on one sleeve and then the other. The numbers never came out the same. The nubs of the seersucker gave the appearance of something missing. You are preceiving your life, which you really look upon as your nondeath, as a spectator Miss Tweedie said. Oh, it’s possible to know so much today.

There was, of course, a doctor. He told Liberty that there was a chemical substance similar to morphine produced naturally in the brain when death was near, when the other systems began to fail. Everything, the doctor said, can be explained eventually. The doctor’s son had won a jingle contest sponsored by a cereal company and the whole family was going to Hollywood for a week. Doctors can’t afford to take things too seriously, the doctor said. Miss Tweedie was short and the doctor tall. They came to her each day like the hands of a clock.

Then on that day Liberty was to be released, it was Willie who came to her. Miss Tweedie helped her pack her things in a brown paper grocery bag. The bag had a hurricane-tracking map on it, for it was the season. The sky was gray with big hot rain clouds massing. It was the fall now. Willie had been outside and she had been inside all this time and no one thought it was unusual.

She stood outside the hospital with him, looking backward at the windows of Five North. There were holes for windows there, but there was no glass. There were louvers, and behind the louvers, concrete block.

“Where have you been?” she asked him.

“I haven’t been home,” Willie said. “They won’t let us live there anymore. I’ve been living in Blossum in a trailer.”

“Are we going there?” she asked. She shaded her eyes with her hand against the stolid light. She felt that she had a job to do, that she had just been hired for this job. She had to live out each day, one after another, until her days were gone.

He shook his head. “We’ll go outside town.” He wore jeans, a jacket without a shirt and a beautiful and incongruous pair of wing tips from a thrift shop. She knew they were a dead man’s shoes.

“I still trust you,” Liberty said.

“We missed, didn’t we.”

“Part of us didn’t,” she said.

“My father gave us money. It will last us a while.”

Liberty remembered Beg-A-Loan. She remembered a drawer in Doris’s kitchen filled with clean dishtowels, the smell of her embrace like fresh biscuits. Everything had been in order there, loving and illusionary. “Are your mother and father all right?” She tugged at her hair, a habit she had picked up in Five North. Broken strands of it fell through her fingers.

“No,” Willie said, “they’re not all right.”

“They’ve shut the door, have they?” she said, pulling her hair.

“Old-fashioned banishment,” he said. “The result of too much Bible study.”

“My parents don’t even know anything about this, I guess.”

“I don’t think so,” Willie said. He took an envelope out of his pants pocket. “We have to get a car. I know where we’re going to live.”

“All right.”

A school bus went by with younger children on it.

There was money in the envelope and a tape. “They sent us this too,” Willie said. “I haven’t listened to it.”

“I can imagine,” Liberty said.

“Hurt and sadness,” Willie said. “Fear and panic. Regret.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“We could go over to Tape Ape and listen to it.”

Across the street from the hospital was a record store called Tape Ape. Beside it was a florist, then a bakery, then a bar. Liberty and Willie had often gone into the record store after school and played records in the cubicles there. She had forgotten about it. They had gone there all the time. A lot of the kids from school did. She tried to remember if she had any friends at school, if she had ever done anything with these friends, like listen to a record in a booth at Tape Ape, wondering whether to buy it or not. She thought she probably hadn’t. She had gone there with Willie. She held the bag with her things in it against her stomach. She couldn’t get the thought out of her mind that she had been hired for the job of accomplishing this day and the day after. The thought picked away across her mind like a buzzard on a highway, its ragged wings raised, its frightful head daintily moving. Across the street in the bakery, cardboard cakes filled the window in tiers. There were birthday cakes and wedding cakes, samples of what could be done.

Liberty looped the tape out with her fingers, then bit it in two. She wound the tape round and round her finger and dropped the plastic casing into the street.

“We don’t want this song,” she said. “We don’t want this to be our sad song.” But she knew that it was, that even unheard it would be their song.

Willie watched her somberly. He was large and young and almost grown, and in his youngness he seemed larger than a man. He frowned a little, full of what seemed manly reserve and self-control. Or perhaps he simply felt nothing. The girl with him had a fallow look. She appeared a little irresponsible, her hair was wild, her face drawn, although she did not look close to tears. Her heart, big as a baby’s head, beat on. It was going to beat on.

They stood, two suicides, blinking at one another in the day’s ashy light.

6

Down the beach came a rider on a gray and golden horse. The rider passed.

“You poor children,” Poe sighed. “You’ve given up lust, love, even life in order to remain together.”

“She’s forgiven me,” Willie said. “She didn’t mention that.”

“Forgiveness,” Poe said. She shrugged, dismissing it, then pushed herself away from the table and stood up. Her arms swung wide from her powerfully sloping shoulders. “Love,” she said. “It hounds us every day of our lives, baying at us with its hound voice. It follows us and runs before us and beside us, it doesn’t leave us in peace for a minute, but at the hour of our greatest need, our death, it lies curled meek as rags in some dark corner.” She sighed. “Well, that’s a sad, sad story and now that you’ve told it, there’s nothing left for you but to stay here, with me. It happened a long time ago, but that was when you entered your life, dear. And that entrance allowed you to go so far and no farther. You won’t go any farther.”

Willie’s eyes were blank. He seemed to accept this.

Liberty reached down and pushed Clem’s legs out of the T-shirt. She worked it over his head and dropped it on the rug. It had a chemical smell, a burnt smell, like hurt earth, hurt air. She pressed her wet eyes against his coat.

“He’s such a comfort, isn’t he,” Poe said. “Are you familiar with the works of Melville? There was a man who knew a great deal about whiteness, its quality of absence, ‘its dumb blankness, full of meaning’ ….”

Liberty stroked Clem’s coat and glanced at Willie. His eyes were half-shut now. The eyes are drawers, she thought, smoothly sliding drawers that open and close, filled with things that are put in, taken out.

“I could teach you a great deal,” Poe said to her. “You are always endowing nothing with attributes. You know so little of life. You’ve known only a man who has betrayed you and an unborn baby. You have him still, of course,” she said, nodding at Clem, “but that’s not something you can know. That’s his whole purpose, after all.”

“We’re leaving,” Liberty said.

“You think your life is more than just the story of it?” Poe asked.

It was nonsense the woman was speaking. She was just an old, rich, crazy woman.

“I’m tired,” Willie said. “We have to stay a while.”

Liberty saw him and he did not look tired. He looked as though something had been released in him. He was forgetting her, had forgotten her. She looked at her hands. It had something to do with hands she was sure. She had simply taken his hand and they had left. She had known how to do it. But she could not remember. The other couple had been in chairs and they had been in chairs. They were eating dinner or had just eaten dinner and moved to other chairs. The man had a round, protruding stomach that made him look off balance when he moved. He had stopped smoking or had been on medication that was the wrong medication. The man was a developer — effusive, a manipulator, cruel. The woman cooked. It had been a dinner invitation. The woman wore tight jeans and a bright red shirt and had a lined, childish face. Where had Willie found these people? Where had they been then? It was not a place she could quite remember. They were not near water, but there had been water against one wall. An aquarium filled with fish, the water a sapphire blue. It had been in a town on their endless travels, in the South. Outside the door was pasture with nothing grazing in it. How had this couple known Willie? People liked Willie, they were drawn to him. He had a calmness, he seemed quite selfless. He had the charisma of one to whom one thing was equal to any other. The evening had ended badly, in confusion. It wasn’t quite clear how it had ended.

Poe was gazing at her. “It must have been terrible for you,” she said, “to come back, to make that long journey back and find him …” She hesitated.

Willie stirred in his chair. “Wanting,” he said.

“Wanting.” Poe nodded. “Yes, wanting something still. Wanting something very close to me. Always.” Poe cocked her ragged face primly. She seemed to have shaken out her body, which was now as smooth as a bullet.

“Don’t picture me,” Willie said.

“I picture you perfectly, more than you had ever hoped. You’re a boy in love with lustral death. You can empty yourself again and again in me. It will never be enough. You’re inside now. For years you’ve tried to cling to the outside, but it wouldn’t have you, would it? I’ve brought you inside now.”

“I found you,” Willie said. “It was me who found you.”

“That’s just your pride saying that, dear. I know, I know, I’m not beyond pride myself. Today my body looks quite glorious, but by tomorrow, well, by tomorrow it will have lost its edge, and then the process must begin again.”

There had seemed something staged about the evening with the other couple, as though they had done it before. But how could they have done it before? They had settled down after dinner as though waiting for something to play itself out. The man with his hard, horrible little stomach. He had rested his hand on it as he spoke. Willie had seemed apathetic. It was as though he had lost interest and they were trying to interest him, particularly the woman.

Liberty stood up. “Let’s leave,” she said. “We’re leaving.” Her legs felt numb. She was exhausted. Yet the talk of the lost baby had released something — the broken waters of memory. The waters breaking should have meant a deliverance, but there had been no deliverance. And now it seemed as though there would just be the waters, breaking.

“Stay, dear,” Poe said, “stay with your Willie. See how beautiful he is. He has the look of those hermits portrayed in the frescoes of the monasteries of Athos. He is old, your Willie, he was born old, and has always been more ingenuous than you thought. He has their face, the ones who have always believed in the last temptations, the last miracles. Centuries ago he could have been a static. He could have been an anchorite in those rock abbeys of Turkey, in Cappadocia, living in that fantastic landscape of stone, carving from rock his table and bed. You made him struggle to live in the world and he never wanted the world. It held no astonishments for him. You had come back and you were always bringing him back. He didn’t want love, he wanted mortifications. And all you could give him was love.”

Liberty stared at her.

“Your Willie’s heart’s a tomb, but it was big enough for the both of you. That’s all he could ever do, you see, was to make it big enough for both of you.”

“She’s going to ask the favor of us now,” Willie said.

Liberty thought of children at a birthday party, some secret token wrapped on the table before them. She had no idea what the favor was, but Willie seemed to know. It was too much to know.

“Why, yes,” Poe said. “I would like to give you this house. This house is yours.”

It was an abhorrent idea, preposterous. Liberty was conscious of them all breathing in the room. She was finding it hard to breathe.

“You would like us to kill you,” Willie said, “for you want to die now.”

“Willie!” Liberty cried.

Poe smiled. She arched her back lazily. “Each year, I peak on my birthday. Then the day passes. Such a tiresome process. I wish to have my body killed because my body is killing me. Self-defense,” she said merrily.

The planes of Willie’s face had taken on the last hard light of the room and his face looked crystalline, intractable. His face lacked expression. It indicated nothing. Looking at his beloved face was like looking into a pit. Then he stood and walked away from her, back through the house to where Poe had found them.

The big room filled with silence and for a moment Liberty simply stood there.

“I’ve lived my life, you see,” Poe said. “He can deal with that. You mustn’t blame him. Few of us know how to love.”

Liberty went to the glass doors and pushed them open. She and Clem stepped outside. The air was buoyant and dark. The splintered walk boards angled up the dune.

Liberty began to pick her way up the boards.

“ ‘You are saved, you are saved,’ ” Poe called after her. “ ‘What has cast such a shadow upon you!’ ”

Liberty walked away, turning toward the Pass, which lay flat and vaguely brighter ahead, walking with her head down, watching her feet moving along. She was not stopping, she was moving along, but soon she would go back, she thought, because it was not finished, how could it be finished? She thought of Little Dot, her small sneakers, one of which said LEFT, the other, RIGHT. She thought of Teddy, who could make traveling noises. He made the sound of truck wheels slapping through rain. He made the sound of parachutes snapping thickly open.

The beach was still. She walked, trying to focus only on the beach now. There was a dark shape in the distance, like a palm log, appearing darker, more vegetative than she knew it was. Beside it was a smaller thing in motion, slowly moving, weaving around it, a cat, its head gravely misshapen from long ago battles, its head both shrunken and swollen at once, as though it had been chewed upon for years in some larger thing’s mouth, at the mouth’s own convenience. It limped around the dead heron, which it had not yet touched. Liberty threw a shell at it and it hobbled over the dunes back toward the trees.

Hours ago, the heron had flown with its last strength away from her and now it lay on its side, one wing spread artlessly, its beak open. Liberty stroked its still feathers. She moved her fingers across its back, felt the welts and twistings of the tangled line.

It’s all right, Liberty said to it. See how easy it is now, she said. She knew she should not be talking to dead things. It was not something she should allow herself to do, and yet it had seemed natural to her for a long time. No one would admit how natural it was to speak with the dead.

She raised the heron’s head and looked into its eyes, which were strangely divided, even in death, one eye, it seemed, belonging to a creature still flying hard, hoping for the best, the other knowing there was another world but it was in the one just taken away. She lay down and spread the heron’s wing, moving it so it fell across her stomach. Cold seeped into her back. The bird’s dead soft wing covered her. I was a suicide, she said to it, and this is my dog. We move like ghosts, my dog and I. We are seen, addressed, even desired, but we are as ghosts. She talked to that which lightly covered her, and looked at the night through which a full moon steadily rose.

One of life’s hopeful mysteries was supposed to be that everything that happens keeps on being a beginning, but what kind of hopeful mystery was that?

Ghosts can speak most readily with the dead, she assured it. They know no boundaries. They wander but are not free. They long for lives that never were and live outside them, close as they can, outside them. It’s easy there in many ways.

The feathers of the bird’s wing stirred in the breeze, then settled. She said to it, I must tell you I have always been frightened of birds.

Something was pounding, beating at the edges of her mind. She was with Willie, trying to tell Willie something. It was about the bread, the bread she did not want to leave behind because she feared the birds would find it. The birds would come and eat it and then they would not be able to fly over the dark waters they must cross. They would avoid the waters and then the waters would become more frightening than the birds.…

She was with Willie. She had always been with Willie. This was not so long ago.

“Come in, come in,” Howard said. “Chrissie has built this meal from the ground up. Believe me, this is going to be one of the meals of your life.”

The house had been built in the fifties. It was all angles and hidden ducts in turquoise and gray. The lights resembled torpedoes. A Southwestern look had been imposed upon it. Cactus. Kachina dolls. Bent willow. Roadrunner appliques on the throw pillows. And the aquarium.

“Chrissie’s pride and joy over there,” Howard said.

“None of them are rare or anything, but they’re good fish,” Chrissie said earnestly.

“You’re not browsers, I hope,” Howard said. “No place for browsers here tonight. This is supper! The Big S.”

Drinks were mixed. The bar was behind a rotating bookcase that Howard exposed with a flourish. We all have to go sometime, a cartoon above the bottles said. Try the first door on your right.

“The fifties were a gleefully secretive time,” Howard said. “It wasn’t all just raba-raba-ding-dong.”

“I’m sorry I had to ask you to leave your dog in the truck,” Chrissie said in a small voice. “It’s just that my little doggie isn’t feeling well.”

“He’s fine out there,” Liberty said. “It’s all right.”

“He seems like a very nice dog,” Chrissie said. “Big.”

“So,” Howard said, “you’re traveling. No obligations, no commitments. Footloose and fancy-free.”

Chrissie had put out little bowls of nuts, of olives. She was spreading cheese on crackers. “This is the nicest cheese,” she said to Liberty. She smiled shyly. Her teeth were not good. They were all drinking. Music was being piped in from somewhere. There was the sound too of something like a toilet running.

“Living up to your names,” Howard went on. “Try living up to our names — Howard and Chrissie — it’s difficult.”

Willie was looking at a display of Indian baskets on a shelf. “You’ve got some nice things here,” he said. “Man in the maze, lightning bolts, spider webs.”

“It’s still a relatively easy thing to cheat an Indian,” Howard said.

“Apache, Pima, Hopi.” Willie shook his head. “These are old. The makers of these are long dead.” He picked up a conical basket that was woven in a design of diminishing concentric rings. At the bottom was a single dot. “These are valuable.”

“He’s casing the joint, honey,” Howard said.

Chrissie looked a little alarmed. She prepared more crackers with cheese.

“I’m just holding them for a friend actually,” Howard said. “I don’t know shit from Indians. They all mean something, but it’s simple beyond belief. See that one hanging? The one with all the crisscrosses? Indian thought she was copying the Milky Way.”

“A lot of the designs are based on the patterns wind makes on sand,” Willie said. “Designs made by no visible agency.”

Howard looked into his glass. “Let me freshen our drinks,” he said.

“It was wonderful of you to stop when our car broke down,” Chrissie said. “It was just genius what you did.”

“It was a jump start,” Willie said.

“But no one was stopping and when you stopped, I thought—‘I am going to be raped!’ ” Chrissie widened her eyes. Howard looked at her.

“Giving you a great meal is the least we can do,” he said. “I can give you a job too.”

“Howard’s in development,” Chrissie said.

“No thanks,” Willie said.

“We like meeting new people,” Chrissie said. She looked at Willie and smiled. She uncrossed her legs. “Howard’s paved over a good deal of Arizona,” she said absently.

“That was then,” he said. “This is Louisiana.”

“Howard enjoys a challenge. Wetlands are a challenge to Howard.”

“A swamp don’t generally stand much of a chance around me,” Howard said. “Concrete is honest. It’s a lot more honest than a swamp.”

Chrissie leaned forward, her knees almost touching Liberty’s own. “Is this your first marriage?” she asked. “Howard’s been married twice.” She seemed to find this amusing. She squeezed Liberty’s arm.

A spotted puppy staggered in from the kitchen. Liberty scooped it up and put it in her lap. The puppy was listless. Its heart pounded wetly beneath loose skin.

“I don’t think she should have been spayed so soon,” Howard said. “I don’t think she’s going to make it. What did the vet say?”

“I just took her over to the school,” Chrissie said. “A friend of mine did it. No charge.”

“No charge,” Howard said. He rolled his eyes.

Chrissie picked the puppy up. It gave a small yip, then fell silent. “I just have a few tiny things to do in the kitchen before we eat,” she said.

Liberty walked over to the baskets. She picked up a flat-backed breast-shaped basket. It was a rich earthen color, tightly coiled with a zigzag pattern. A Hopi woman, if she was a virgin, would not finish off a basket. The grasses would flow out from the last stitch of the coil. The flowing gate. A married woman who could have children would cut the strands a little closer. Open gate. The barren woman would tie off the grasses, stitch it tightly shut. Closed gate.

“She’s casing the joint, honey,” Howard called out cheerfully.

Liberty returned to her chair and looked at the aquarium, at the fish moving languidly back and forth.

Willie and Howard were talking about the Southwest. Howard was speaking animatedly about the saguaro. “They’re like condos,” he said. “All kinds of shit live in them.” Howard was clearly fond of the saguaro.

Willie seemed to be enjoying himself. It was as though he had entered a satisfactory game, one still wide open to choice and interpretation. Liberty constructed a yawn, wondering vaguely why she had chosen to do so. She finished her drink, noting that her ice cube harbored a hair. They ate dinner. Howard uncorked several bottles of wine.

“I’m a woman among women and a man among men,” Chrissie said to Liberty, “but sometimes I like to be a woman among men.”

“Chrissie’s a great little homebody,” Howard said. “You gotta take back a loaf of Chrissie’s bread. She makes all her own bread, our Chrissie does.”

In the candlelight, Chrissie smiled with abandon. Liberty drank bemusedly. After they ate, they returned to the living room, clutching their glasses.

“Toot time,” Howard said. “Want some toot?”

“No,” Willie said.

“You’re right,” Howard said. “Toot’s passé.”

Willie stretched his legs out. He rubbed the back of his neck with his fingers.

“You want a massage?” Howard asked. “Chrissie gives great massage. Guys don’t even get erections when she does them. It’s real pure stuff.”

“Howard,” Chrissie said shyly, “… really …”

“She’s a penitent at heart,” Howard said. “Our Chrissie’s got a zeal for penance.”

“Howard’s got an appetite for life. It’s like a real hunger,” Chrissie said.

“Mutual admiration time,” Howard said.

Willie looked around, his legs outstretched. He smiled at Liberty.

“How about a little tour of the house?” Chrissie said. “It’s such a nice house. I love my little house.”

“House tour time,” Howard said. He giggled, then blew his nose.

Chrissie stood up and put her hand on Willie’s shoulder. They all walked through the kitchen, where the spotted puppy lay panting on a pillow in the corner. Howard carried a wine bottle, brandishing it, pouring erratically. The rooms were in disarray. More baskets. Cardboard boxes and drawn drapes. Television sets ran soundlessly. Liberty watched as James Cagney had a headache in White Heat.

“What do you think of them adding color to the classics?” Howard asked her.

Jimmy Cagney clutched his head, he spun around, sagged to the floor, crawled to cover.

“In this case, it makes the fire brighter,” Liberty said.

“That’s some fire at the end of this all right,” Howard said. “A big, bright fire. Say, play the question game with old Howard.”

“I don’t know the question game,” Liberty said. She was deeply repulsed by Howard.

“Sure you do. I say, ‘I am in torment’ and then you say, ‘What kind of torment?’ then I say ‘There is a river of fire bubbling above our backs, as high as the sky, and another such river beneath our feet and we are in between these fires. We are back to back and cannot see one another’s faces. But occasionally we are given a little rest,’ and then you say, ‘What kind of rest?’ and then I say …” Howard rested his tongue on his upper lip.

Liberty heard Willie’s voice behind her, some distance from her, and Chrissie laughing, saying, “Isn’t that a howl!”

“We four have a lot in common,” Howard said to Liberty. “We could become very close. You’re unhappy, I’m unhappy.” He watched her expectantly, raising his eyebrows. Chrissie laughed again.

“You know how to play the question game,” Howard urged Liberty. “Don’t try to fool old Howard.” He took a step forward and bumped his hard distended stomach against Liberty’s hip. “You say, ‘What kind of rest?’ and I say, ‘For a very brief moment, we see each other’s faces.’ ”

“Honey,” Chrissie called, “I’m showing Willie the little man. He thinks it’s a howl.”

“I see you,” Howard said to Liberty. “Howard knows.”

“Honey,” Chrissie was calling, “I think he looks particularly arch tonight.”

“You should be touched by the question game,” Howard said to Liberty. “Your compassion should be aroused.” He turned and practically lunged toward Chrissie. “What is this ‘particularly arch’ shit,” he said. “Since when has it been the ‘little man’?”

Chrissie and Willie were looking at a skeleton painted in gay colors in a balsa wood box a foot high. They were the same bright colors as the fish in the aquarium — vermillion and green and blue. The pelvis was a chalky, scaly white. The skeleton came complete with an hourglass and a scythe, and a scroll at its feet said Heute Nacht, vielleicht?

They were all looking at it now.

“Keeps you alert, I imagine,” Willie said. “Keeps you awake and vigilant at night.”

“Sure does,” Howard said.

“You know, when I die, I want to be buried by lions,” Chrissie said. “I’ve always wanted that, ever since I was little.” She smiled at Liberty.

“It never occurred to me to want that actually,” Liberty said.

“They could do it, you know,” Chrissie said. “They got these big claws.” She curled her fingers and pawed at the air.

“Our Chrissie is certainly being saucy tonight,” Howard said.

Chrissie turned to Willie. “We don’t sleep much. Sleep is disgusting, don’t you think?”

“Got to keep our eye on one another,” Howard said.

“Where’s the goal in sleep? If you’re goal oriented, you’re not fond of sleep,” Chrissie said dreamily.

“Is house tour time over?” Howard asked. “Is it fish training time?”

“They’re coming along,” Chrissie said. “It’s not easy for them but they are coming along.”

“You’re training your fish,” Willie said. He looked relaxed. It was just a night at the theater for Willie.

“Fish give me the willies,” Howard said. “Bet you get that stuff all the time — you give me the willies, Willie—.” Howard laughed, leaving his mouth ajar.

“I’ve established little goals for them,” Chrissie said. “They like it.”

“She dumps ’em out on the rug for a while each night,” Howard said. “Wants to have that kind of fish.”

“Each night, a little longer on the rug,” Chrissie said happily.

Liberty was disturbed by this prospect.

“She doesn’t really leave ’em out longer each night,” Howard said, “she just thinks she does.”

“Maybe not tonight,” Willie said.

Chrissie’s smile faded but she rallied quickly. “Well, I’m glad you got a chance to see our little man at least. We got him in Mexico.”

“Jesus, Chrissie,” Howard said. “What does it say? Is that in Spanish? Jesus.”

Chrissie’s lip trembled. “We could have gotten him in Mexico, anyway.” She said to Liberty, “I like your shoes.”

Liberty looked at her feet. There was nothing going on with her shoes. They were sandals, actually, broken and repaired with staples.

“Don’t go yet,” Chrissie said. “Please stay a little while.”

“You’re a little stupid, Chrissie, you know that?” Howard said.

“It isn’t what you think,” Chrissie said to Liberty. “Howard loves me deeply. There’s something in me, see, that Howard would love anywhere.”

“Tell us,” Willie said.

Liberty was afraid.

“Story telling time,” Howard said. “It’s take your places time.”

“I have to let the dog out of the truck,” Liberty said. “He’s been there all night. He needs a run.” She went hurriedly back through the house, past the dirty dinner dishes stacked haphazardly, the guttering candles. She felt a little calmer in the room where they had sat earlier. She could see the truck outside, and Clem’s head in the cab, big as a medicine ball.

Chrissie had scampered after her. She was holding a loaf of bread in a plastic bag. “You’ve got to take some bread. It’s hard to get good bread in stores. This is the old Pullman loaf recipe. I make all kinds but this is my favorite. It makes excellent toast,” she said formally.

Howard rushed in, seemingly contrite. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, “a heedless display of my bad nerves. Or it’s this shitty wine. Let’s have a decent drink. We’ll have a nightcap. You can’t go now and miss story telling time. It means a lot to our Chrissie.” He fussed about, making drinks. Liberty stood awkwardly, holding the bread. It felt waxy, somewhat heavy. Howard pushed a glass at her and she shook her head. “Your hubby,” he said somewhat mysteriously, “is a cool cookie.” He appeared disarmed by this insight.

Willie flicked a switch on a copper-plated console recessed in a wall. There was music. Strings. A mawkish movement in progress. Willie’s gesture was too smoothly casual to be insolent.

“Aren’t those little toggle switches nice?” Chrissie said. “They’re so much nicer than knobs.”

“Yeah, put on some music. Mi casa su casa, or whatever the hell it is they say,” Howard said.

Willie accepted a drink. Liberty sighed. It was cold out and they just had the truck and nowhere to go exactly. They could stay a while, she supposed.

Chrissie had, at some point, tied an apron around her waist. There were tiny blue flowers on a white background and the pockets were edged in lace.

“You’ll like this story,” she assured Liberty. “I know you will, it’s a love story. Now, Howard,” she said coyly, “you just let me tell it now.”

It seemed to be a story about love. There were a lot of details involved. Disappointments. Misunderstandings. Matters of no importance. Lust. Monotony. The landscape this was all played against was a little blurry. Squalid places sometimes that produced a sense of freedom. Other places. The weather … There didn’t seem to be a sense of weather. Not much sickness. Trials. Days. Days of it.

“It got so I could have killed the bitch,” Howard said good-naturedly. “My little Chrissie.”

“We were just like almost everybody, but I took it upon myself to change.”

“She abducted herself,” Howard said.

“It took a while, but inside and out I changed completely.”

“Down to the color and curl of her snuffy,” Howard said.

“Howard, don’t make it ugly. I’m telling.”

Howard pouted.

“So inwardly was I transformed, I became unrecognizable,” Chrissie crooned.

“The weight loss helped,” Howard said. “And the face lift. To say nothing of the tucks both tummy and eye.”

“Howard, Howard,” Chrissie said. She paused, thoughtful.

“You assumed a new identity and became dead to your old world,” Willie said. His tone was optimistic.

“Yeah, help her along. She needs help,” Howard said.

“My return was met with neither joy nor sorrow. It wasn’t even met with surprise.”

“That’s because you were so successful,” Willie said.

“Sometimes I think I’ve done it,” Chrissie said. “Sometimes I’m not so sure.”

“She wants to be all the other bitches there have been for me. Well I’ll tell you, sweetheart, you can’t.” Howard tipped toward her, caught himself, worked his way back into the chair.

“He makes it all sound like sex,” Chrissie protested.

“You got mushy edges, Chrissie, you know that?” Howard said.

“I’m not talking sex!” Chrissie wailed.

“We all want our lost nature restored,” Willie said.

Liberty wished that he would not participate in Howard and Chrissie’s evening quite so keenly.

“If we could just take a sleep cure, like,” Chrissie pondered. “I really need a little more sleep than I get. I’m kind of afraid of sleep.”

“Afraid I’m going to get her,” Howard said without much interest.

“Shapes,” Chrissie said earnestly, “it’s all shapes.”

Willie agreed.

Liberty thought that this was becoming dangerous.

“Chrissie,” Howard said, “we got guests tonight. Liven it up, will ya.”

“Don’t push me Howard.”

“Some simple pleasures are just a bit too simple, Chrissie, you know,” Howard said.

“You were telling the story of the avenger’s return,” Willie said in the same kindly, oddly optimistic tone. “But you’ve got to go beyond that. You have a new power.”

Chrissie looked at him gratefully. But she was troubled. “I want to start over,” she said.

“Our Chrissie can really ball up a story,” Howard said.

“Howard is older than Chrissie, you might have noticed,” Chrissie began. “When she was a child, just a child, she was molested by this man Howard. She was where she was, he took her away, he put her back. It was a matter of moments.”

“Seduced,” Harold said. “Not molest, seduce, Miss Malaprop. Jesus, our Chrissie gets younger every year. What’s your driver’s license say, huh? What’s your driver’s license say?”

Sentimental music swirled and swelled around them.

“She was just a child, he stole her innocence,” Chrissie said doggedly.

“I would suggest just gliding over this part if I were you,” Howard said, “this part never having worked for you particularly well in the past.”

“He can’t touch you,” Willie said. “He’s a voice in your head.”

Chrissie smoothed her apron. “He can’t touch me,” she said. “He thinks he knows me but he doesn’t know me.” She seemed to be speaking to the apron.

“She’s playing with her own head tonight,” Howard said.

Chrissie raised her eyes and nodded at Willie happily. “I’m falsely known but that’s my power. I’m the other one he thinks I’m not. I’m both myself and the other person.”

“The other person was better built actually,” Howard said. “She wasn’t so stupid.”

“Words,” Willie said. “Shapes. You want to leave them behind. You want to climb clear of your wrong beginnings. You want another life.”

“I want to win,” Chrissie said.

“You won,” Willie said. “Everything is valid tonight.”

“I’m victorious,” Chrissie said. “I won. I didn’t lose.”

“We are all contestants,” Howard said, “but we are not all winning contestants. Our Chrissie will never be a winning contestant.”

Chrissie looked vexed. Then she put her hand in her apron pocket, took out a gun, leveled it at Howard and fired. A fan of blood struck the aquarium glass. Howard fell from his chair onto his back. Liberty’s ears were ringing. She was standing, she thought. Willie was standing. They were all standing except Howard, who lay unmoving on the floor. His eyes and mouth were open.

“I don’t like temptations,” Chrissie said. “I don’t respond well to temptations.”

“You can deal with them in several ways,” Willie said. “This, perhaps, wasn’t one of the better ones.”

“They come at you … they don’t quit …” Chrissie tossed her head. “If they’d just quit sometimes.”

Willie had his arms around Liberty’s shoulders and was moving them backward toward the door.

“You’ve got to be strong,” Willie said.

Chrissie looked discouraged.

Howard lay on the floor in what seemed a parody of death, but he was dead.

“You two have done this before,” Willie said reasonably.

“Yes, yes,” Chrissie said. “But this isn’t good, you know.”

Willie was sympathetic.

“We’ve lost a lot of ground here,” Chrissie said. She was speaking carefully again, covering her bad teeth.

“Well …” Willie said.

“Yeah, well … see you.” Chrissie scratched her head. She looked at her fingernails, then at Howard.

Willie and Liberty were in the truck, traveling fast on a raised, graveled road winding through marsh. Drowned trees fled from the twisting headlight beams.

Liberty was crying. “You weren’t in control of that. Something happened there. You were encouraging them, directing them, but you weren’t in control.”

“But you were the one who got us out of there. You were wonderful. It was you.”

She couldn’t remember.

“The two of us together,” he said, “but mostly you. It was an accident and you calmly dealt with the accident. You were extraordinary.”

“I couldn’t have,” she said. “I did nothing. We should have done something.”

“Sometimes there’s nothing you can do.”

“You made that happen. You could tell that girl was sick. She was disturbed, both of them, why did we stay there?”

“They do something like that weekly. There was the feeling of cozy ritual.”

“But that man’s dead. She shot him.”

“Maybe,” Willie said.

“He’s dead.” She wanted this to be something that Willie realized, that was the truth.

“She’ll get a good night’s sleep for a change. When she wakes up in the morning, she’ll feel she did the right thing.”

Fog hung in gauzy patches along the road. The truck whipped through it. Willie had bewitched those people, Liberty thought absently. She couldn’t quite picture Howard anymore, or the house, the woman alone in it.

“You kill things,” she said quietly.

For an instant he looked stricken. “I’ll make up for it,” he said. “Never the other, but this. I’ll make up for this.”

“How can you?”

“I will.”

Liberty pushed her knuckles against her mouth. “Stop,” she said.

He pulled the truck off the road and she stumbled out, Clem leaping after her. The darkness rustled. She knelt on the gravel, clutching weeds, opening her mouth, wanting to throw up, but nothing happened. She crouched there until it came to seem a little artificial to her, this posture, this waiting. It couldn’t have happened, she thought. It was a game the other couple had played, with music and mirrors and words. If they went back there now, those frightful people would open the door, they would be standing there. But she knew that this was not what would happen. Howard would not be standing there. Howard would be dead. Willie had attained something there, somehow.

She was losing her mind, she thought. Going back to the truck she saw with dismay the loaf of bread lying on the floor and she began talking to Willie about the bread and how they must not leave it for the birds to find for that was the important thing now, that the waters should be crossed, that they should not become too frightful to be crossed. She was losing her mind, her mind that didn’t want to be tied down to her confusions, her terrors and mistakes. But Willie understood. He knew her, he assured her, he understood. But she couldn’t remember what they had done with the bread. The bread, after all, hadn’t been the point. He put his arm around her. The night had passed for Willie. He was looking down the road, his arm around her, his Liberty.

This had not been so long ago, after almost everything else but before the saving. Saving people had been relatively recent. Opportunities that were parts of a promise Willie couldn’t keep. Neither of them were very good about keeping promises. She had promised the baby that it would not be alone. Beneath the bird’s wing, she was cold. She ran her fingers across the feathers, the thready insubstantial body. The bewitcher Willie had been bewitched. He had never had a penchant for the saving. It was the details of final things to which he’d always been drawn. And in the end it was all the same to Willie — a matter of details. He was impersonal about it. He had put their new beginnings behind him now.

She pressed the heron’s wing back against its body, gathered its ungainly parts together and carried it to the trees where she dug a hole with her hands and buried it. There comes that time for everything, she said to it, when you have to put the beginning behind you.

There was a ragged line of brown foam on the harder sand of the beach just before the cut that wound between the two Keys. The water of the Pass rocked swiftly past. Liberty stepped into the water, and it was deep at once. She swam a dozen strokes, then counted in tens but stopped counting and just flailed ahead. The water was warm and heavy, trembling with phosphorescence, which struck her in jellylike clots. The current was sweeping her away from land. She saw it gliding by. Then they were in slack water, further from shore, but it was calm. She stopped to rest and Clem’s leg bumped hard against her own. He circled her. She heard him breathing through shut jaws. She pushed off again, her eyes and throat burning. After a while she dove downward and felt the bottom, a person’s height beneath her, then drifted up and swam hard toward the shore. Minutes later, her hands hit the sloping sand shelf. On the beach, Clem shook himself, the water flying from his coat like little lights, quickly extinguished.

Inside the house, the phone was ringing.

“Liberty!” her mother said. “Liberty, I have the most amazing news. Your sister called and came over. Yes! She got in touch with me! She tracked me down, can you imagine!”

Liberty didn’t know what to say. “Is she there, Mother?” she finally asked.

“I was wondering, Liberty, do you still have that lazy Susan I sent one year on your birthday, the one with the little dishes?”

“I can’t remember receiving that.”

“Well, I’d like it back, dear.”

“Have you seen Brouilly? Did she really call?”

“Brouilly?” her mother said. “Oh, I’m afraid I have a little confession to make, dear. I named you both Liberty. I suppose that’s not done much, but I did it. Yes, she was over here. She just left, but she’ll be back. Goodness, she turned out well. A beautiful girl, she makes me very proud. Liberty, I’ve been going through some of your things. Gracious, dear, what a lot of junk! I’ve thrown away big bags of it. Big bags. All those tests you used to take in school. The questions you answered, Liberty, honestly. Listen to this. ‘Mr. Jones and Mrs. Jones both have the ability to roll their tongues. They have a daughter, Marie, who can’t roll her tongue. Mr. Smith has the ability to roll his tongue. Mrs. Smith does not. They have a son, John, who does have the ability to roll his tongue. Mr. Jones and Mrs. Smith die.’ ” She paused. “Really, Liberty, I find this type of thing quite shocking, I find this hard to believe. ‘Mrs. Jones and Mr. Smith get married and have a son who does not have the ability to roll his tongue …’ ”

Liberty heard the sound of crumpling paper.

“This is what I’m faced with,” her mother said, “disposing of this kind of thing.”

“It was probably a question about genotypes, Mother. You were supposed to list them or something.”

“You did, you did,” her mother said impatiently. “There’s something sick about that question, Liberty. I don’t want to remember you that way.”

“How do you want to remember me, Mother?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said sulkily. “I suppose as a little tiny baby with all your life before you. You were so helpless as a little tiny baby. You were just the dearest, simplest thing. If I gave you beets, your poopie would come out red, if I gave you string beans, your poopie would come out green … And then one day you weren’t a baby anymore. It happened just like that!”

More paper was crushed. It sounded like flames crackling, quite close, coming closer still.

“Do you know how many children your sister has? Four! She has four, two girls and two boys. That’s enough, I told her. More than that, you get mixed-up. And it’s more than likely that one of them will turn out funny. One of them already is a little strange, I think.”

“Where did sister go, Mother?”

“Oh, she’ll be right back. She went with Daddy. The children are playing in the pecan grove. I can see them from here.”

“It’s nighttime.”

“You’re so literal, Liberty. I’m quite aware it’s nighttime. But we have big lights strung in the trees, dear, to discourage thieves. The lights are there to let them know we know what they’re up to. There have always been lights in the pecan grove. I didn’t think this up yesterday. Honey,” she said, “aren’t you happy for me?”

“I love you, Mother.”

“Thank you, dear, but you’re as different from your sister as a rainy day is from a sunny one. It’s astonishing that you both came out of the same womb.”

“But I guess we did,” Liberty said.

“Honestly, dear, I’m the one who knows that! You know what Daddy used to say? Daddy used to say he’d just like to crawl up in my womb and live there. Only come out when he felt like it.”

Liberty was silent. The house was silent. In the moonstruck yard, the banyan directed a new pink-nosed root around its humped and twisting elders into a slender, mold-filled crack.

“Have I offended you, again?” her mother said. “When did you get to be such a prude! I’m not allowed to make references to my husband of many, many years and your own father?”

“I’m just a little tired, I guess,” Liberty said. “All this news has tired me.”

“News is tiring,” her mother agreed. “They executed someone last night at the prison and reading about that really wore me out. This man had done everything heinous there was to do — kidnapped, murdered, raped, dismembered, everything. Then for his last meal, he orders all this food. He orders lobster and chicken-fried steak and dirty rice and french fries and peanut butter cups, and then he doesn’t eat it. Not only doesn’t he eat it, he refuses to eat it. Isn’t that the last straw! Good riddance to that one, I say.”

“What does sister look like?”

“You should call her ‘Liberty,’ dear. After all, that’s her name.”

“That’s difficult for me to do, Mother. Just at this moment.”

“That’s such a peculiar question, anyway, what does it matter what she looks like? What’s important is the lost has been found. The burden of my indiscretion has been lifted. I’ve felt remorse about this for years, it wasn’t just when I told you about it. You know how sometimes some little thing will just keep nagging at you? Well, that’s the way the abandonment of my child was with me all these years. And it took its toll, let me tell you. Recently, I had taken up spitting. I let all my hobbies go and just went around expectorating all the time. That was my body’s way of censuring me for my past. But now that she’s back, I feel that there’s a tall glass in me filled with clear, cool water.”

“I’m very glad for you, Mother,” Liberty said.

“I realize that I’ve encouraged some misconceptions, and we should probably straighten them out slowly. I’ve been lavishing all my attention on you for years, and now I have to spread it out a little more evenly. Did we ever frost a cake together?”

“I don’t think so,” Liberty said.

“Well, I was going to use that as an analogy, but I guess I can’t.” Lucille paused. “Darn,” she said. “You know, I get this voice on the telephone at times when I’m dialing you. His name is Mr. Bobby. He doesn’t live with you or anything, does he? Are you taking in roomers? No? Well, you must know him somehow or else why would I be getting him on the phone all the time? Mr. Bobby makes the most wonderful use of metaphors, doesn’t he? I live in such a prosaic world with your father. Life with your father is life in a starved universe, but Mr. Bobby sees everything in terms of something else. I have a feeling he’s blind. The blind are a certain kind of people, just like the deaf and the sick and the dead, and Mr. Bobby has that certain something. Don’t you agree? Are you sure we never frosted a cake together? I don’t know how you can be so sure …”

Liberty had shut her eyes and was rubbing them gently. Small faces howled soundlessly behind her lids. They loomed out of the darkness, then fell back, into it.

“What are you going to do now?” her mother asked.

Liberty’s eyes flew open. All of the windows of the house were raised and the leaves of the banyan, large as men’s hands in the moonlight, were pressed against the screens. For an instant, she felt as if she and her mother had been carrying on some other conversation.

“Mother,” Liberty said, “what if I came up to see you again, would that be all right?” She wanted her mother to be well, to be free. Tears filled her eyes.

“Why would you do that! Don’t come up here! Can’t you leave me alone!”

Liberty heard her father saying, “Oh stop, Lucile. Can’t you stop … please, please, please stop.”

“When I stop that will be that,” her mother said. “I’ll stop like a clock.”

“Please, please, please,…” her father said.

“Are you there?” her mother said.

“Yes,” Liberty said. “I am. Yes.”

“A taxi brought her here, a blue taxi. It seemed so natural to me, that blue taxi coming up to the house. And my first instinct when she got out was to get in and be taken back to where she had come from. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Liberty said. “You could have gotten in. I’m glad you didn’t get in.”

“I let it leave. It left empty. It was a lovely color, a robin’s egg blue. I pray it won’t come back, but I’ve been expecting it for so long, I’m afraid I’ll imagine it now coming back. I may not be calling you for a while. I have to work some things out with myself and with Liberty, but I must do it in solitude.”

“She loves you, Mother.”

“Yes, she loves me. I can feel it. She loves me without even knowing me. Just like Mr. Bobby. Mr. Bobby loves me too, and I’ve never told him word one about myself. You don’t talk to Mr. Bobby, you know. No, you’re quiet as a little bunny in a meadow. You listen. Have you ever heard him on the Seven Sorrows? I think he’s better on the Sorrows than he is on the Sins. The Sins are a little old-fashioned, don’t you think? They’ve been around too long. Mr. Bobby doesn’t pay much attention to them, he says they’re so easily replaced by their opposite, that all it takes is a little dignity and self-reliance and self-control, but the Sorrows! They’re more modern, and Mr. Bobby warms right up to the Sorrows. I’m working on Regret now, trying to turn it into Rejoice. Your father, of course, goes on his merry way, oblivious to my efforts, which he thinks can be maintained twenty-four hours a day without a bit of stratagem. Don’t I sound better to you?”

“You sound a little better now, Mother.”

“It’s hard rejoicing all by yourself. You have Willie. You have that big animal, whatever he is. You’re not alone.”

“Daddy …”

“Liberty, you have this habit, this most annoying habit of persisting in the belief that life with your father is conducted to the tinkle of spoons on ice cream plates, that our only worries are fire ant mounds on the croquet court.”

“Could I speak with Daddy for just a moment?”

“Do you know why your father married me? He married me for my headlights. He couldn’t get enough of them.”

“Headlights?”

“My shakers, my knockers. That was the level he was working on.” She did not sound displeased. “You’ve always thought Daddy had sense. The man’s never had a grain of sense.”

Liberty stretched out on the sofa and pushed a cushion behind her head. Beneath the cushion on a scrap of paper was a doodle. This was the doodle of the determined worm crawling over a razor blade.

“Now I hope you’ll take care of yourself,” her mother said. “I’m not going to call anymore. I have to sort this all out. I’m afraid you’re the cause of my depression, dear. I probably shouldn’t even think of you for a while. When you think of me, I wish you’d think of me with this look of ineffable joy on my face because that’s the look I’m working on. I’m hoping that that look will percolate down to become the real me. I will become a sorrowless woman, who knows, maybe even the sorrowless woman, and then we’ll talk again.”

Without hanging up the receiver, Liberty put the phone beneath the cushion. She felt a certain diminishment. She looked at herself — breasts, belly, legs — in amazement. Still there. Although she felt that large portions of her had been carried off like so many mouthfuls. She could have been born in a dish.

Clem stood in the room with his eyes shut, dozing like a horse. Yes, she felt herself reduced, small, growing smaller. With a little more effort on the part of others and a bit of inattention on her own, she would be the size to climb upon her white dog’s back and ride away, ride madly away, in full career through the rest of life without stopping.

Everyone has their form of transport. She supposed the point was not to use it, not to use it as long as possible. Keep sending the taxi of robin’s egg blue away.

The phone emitted a frantic, muffled signal. She pushed the cushion to the floor and replaced the receiver. There was a moment of silence as though the thing were catching an outraged breath, and then it rang.

“Who is this!” a woman’s voice demanded when Liberty answered. In the background were shrieks, groans and laughter. “I was dialing Mr. Bobby. They haven’t stopped Mr. Bobby have they? Has someone murdered him! Why is it always the good who are cut down, why …”

It was Sally’s voice that Liberty recognized.

“Sally,” she said. “What’s the matter, Sally?”

“Liberty, is that you? I was just about to call you. I was calling Mr. Bobby for a little pick-me-up. They’ve eliminated the human intercessor, and now you don’t even have to ask for anything specific. The tapes just run on, and you’re able to tap in where fate will have you tap.”

“What’s all that noise?” There were wails followed by loud percussion.

“This is the night of the party at the Gator. It’s just the ol’ Gator bawling. It’s JJ’s homecoming party, remember I said? You’ve got to come over here right away.”

“I can’t Sally. I just can’t tonight.”

“Duane was in here with Teddy. They were looking for you. I think Duane wanted you to keep the little boy for a while or something. Give him to you? I was barbecuing the chicken wings, I couldn’t really follow it.”

“Give him to me? Duane can’t give me Teddy.”

“He was giving things away. He gave away his watch. He’s wild because his lady left him, I think.”

“Where are they now?”

“I don’t see them here now but the place is jammed. The Gator’s jumping like the old days.” She laughed. “Things will be out of control any minute.”

“Maybe they went home. I’ve got to call them.”

“I’ll hang up,” Sally said.

No one at Duane’s house answered the phone. Liberty let it ring. She paced back and forth, trailing the long cord of it. On the sofa, the paper doodle lay. There was the worm, proceeding zealously over the razor blade, with faith and will, increasingly in pieces. She paced, passing a mirror. She was sunburnt, her hair was tangled. She thought she looked alarming. She left the phone still ringing, tugged off her bathing suit and put on clean clothes. She pulled a brush through her hair. You can’t think straight when your head’s in tangles, Willie’s mother had said, long ago.

Willie had gone and entered someone’s life now. He had entered someone’s life because he couldn’t find his own anymore. He would have lived in her life, she realized, had she not lost hers as well. He had to live somewhere. They had lost their lives beneath the damaged trees years ago. She could still see the dappled light of that morning. It was the way she had seen everything since, stained and scattered.

She went outside and stood with Clem beneath the coolness of the banyan, feeling the sweat dry on her throat. In Duane’s house, the phone rang tirelessly. Far away on a connection that had been made, people were speaking, linked through other lines.

I read how he died, someone said. It said, ‘He yawned and then he died.’

The street was quiet, dark with trees. In the sky, a small plane droned overhead, its lights twinkling merrily, heading inland, away from the blankness of the Gulf. Sally’s old Volvo, one headlight out, turned a corner toward them.

“I thought I saw the oddest thing, but it was just your dog,” she called. “I came to get you. I figured if they weren’t here, they must be there, and I just missed seeing them. It seems like the whole town’s in the Gator tonight.” She pushed the door open for Liberty. “Look at the T-shirts JJ had made. Aren’t they great!” Sally’s T-shirt said SHIT HAPPENS. “He had a couple hundred made.”

“JJ has a lot of style,” Liberty said.

“He does. I could never fall for another guy. I was worrying about being autonomous, but I realize I’m really autonomous because I take care of him. It’s going to be a twenty-five-hour-day job which is great by me. I had too much idle time before. I was on the verge of being bored. Mr. Bobby says it is hip to serve. Mr. Bobby says just about everything on those tapes. You get to pick and choose. I’ve learned I’m the nursey type. See these hands …”—she held up her large hands, rimmed red with barbecue sauce—“… these hands are nurse’s hands.”

Clem had pushed his way into the backseat. Liberty sat in the front and shut the door.

“That dog makes me almost remember something,” Sally said. “It’s the funniest feeling. Could I brush his coat sometime?”

“He’s not shedding,” Liberty said. “He won’t leave hair in your car.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Sally said. “This old car, who cares. I’d just like to brush out his coat sometime.”

“All right,” Liberty said.

“Just brush it and brush it.” Sally sounded puzzled. She put the Volvo in gear and they creaked off.

7

The Gator Bar was on the bay. In the near distance were mangrove islands white with cormorant droppings. The bar was small and dark and its parking lot was vast and dark. There were a number of yard boys’ trucks there, parked at carefree angles, battered big Dodges with rainbow decals, heaped with dead branches and yellowing fronds. In the bar, on a long stage at the rear, they were having a bathing suit contest. Scrawny yard boys strutted in tiny trunks. The place reeked of beer, barbecue, Sevin, and yard boy sweat. Two women crowded in behind Liberty and Sally, looked around in a pantomime of horror, and left.

“It’s just the way JJ likes it,” Sally yelled, “crowded and crazy.”

Next to the bar, in a little enclosure like a child’s playpen, JJ sat in a wheelchair surrounded by well-wishers. He was drinking beer with a straw.

Clem sat with his tail swept tightly around him so that it wouldn’t get stepped on. Two men and a woman sitting on nearby stools stared at him. The woman wore a white jumpsuit. From her earlobes hung the little hands of Barbie dolls, around her throat was a Ken head on a chain.

“I’m going to buy that dog a drink,” one of the men announced.

The other man snickered. “That year I was working in Corpus as an orderly?” he said. “I come out of the hospital one night, and in the parking lot was a dog like that lying beside a Trans Am and chewing on a human finger.”

“Dog like this one here?” the other man said.

He nodded. “Might have weighed a little less.”

The woman raised the Ken head and tapped it against her teeth. Ken’s mouth was set in a tiny smile. “A human finger,” she marveled. “Where would that have come from?”

“It could have come from anywheres,” the man from Corpus said.

“Maybe bit off in a fight or something,” the other man said. “Poor bastard comes running in with it wrapped in a handkerchief and he drops the sonofabitch.”

“Teddy and that crazy daddy of his were sitting right over there,” Sally said to Liberty. “He still had that little smudged egg.”

Liberty looked at an empty table filled with bottles and glasses. Standing behind it, leaning against a wall, was Poe.

Sally was saying cheerfully, “I’ll go see if I can find where they’re at.” She moved off toward JJ. People were touching him here and there for luck.

The bar smelled warm and fertile. Liberty had not expected to see Poe again. She supposed that she had expected this preposterous person to restore Willie to her in some way and be consumed in the effort. But it was Willie who was not here. The floor was slippery. “Hey, baby,” someone said. She walked toward the table, people’s faces bobbing like dark balloons. She was close to the tall, coarse-faced man before she saw quite clearly that it was not Poe. She looked away, down at the table where a cigarette floated in a glass of wine.

“You think that dog’s gonna go to heaven?” the tall man said. His voice was high pitched and excited, but his face was impassive.

“Was there a little boy at this table?” Liberty asked.

“Little boys aren’t allowed in bars. What did you used to be? I used to be a rattlesnake preacher.” He moved closer. “When I say that to most people, they say, ‘Ever get bit by a snake?’ and I say, ‘Did I ever get bit, I sure did!’ I had a rattlesnake in a box behind the pulpit, and I always said if the Lord told me it was all right to hold it, why there it would be handy. I grabbed a hold of that snake a couple of times when I was feeling real good, and that snake was just as tame as could be and I’d just wave it around for a few minutes and then put it back in the box. But the people were always after me to do it again, they’re just like children, you know, those people, always asking me things like Will there be sex in heaven? and Is it true all angels are male? and Will there be pets in heaven? I swear that was the most frequently asked question of my career — will my dawg get to heaven, will my kitty be with me in paradise … If I told them once, I must have told them a hundred times, their damn dogs and kitties were not going to make it there, but it was just like they were deaf in that regard when it come to their pets, some old mean cat or the like. Now, there was this character I worked with, he was my beater, see, he’d get the crowds in, beat ’em up out of the bushes as it were, and people just followed him in and it was unbelievable because he was the meanest little man I’ve ever met. He would steal little children’s pets and sell them to the vivisectionists for drinking money. I swear to you that this is true, and yet they would just follow that mean little man right up to me. Now, I got a good heart, but it got so after a while I just didn’t care much. I found I just couldn’t relate to dumb suckers. My congregation everywhere I went was so literal-minded. There was this one woman I recall who’d been to Yellowstone Park and never gotten over it. She thought Heaven was going to look like Yellowstone Park! Well, anyway, these people were always after me to take out the snake, and one day I didn’t feel much like doing it, but I did, I reached into that box without no desire or conviction and, of course, I got bit and almost died. I was dead for eleven minutes and was brought back to life only by heroic measures. When I get to this part, most people say, What was it like those eleven minutes? and I say: I SAW DEATH COMING TOWARD ME AND I COULDN’T LOOK. WHEN I LOOKED AGAIN I SAW DEATH GOING AWAY. HE HAD HAIRY HEELS.” The eleven-minute man drew back after saying this. “I left preaching directly after that. I just couldn’t stand that pet-in-paradise business no more.”

“I was looking for a little boy with dark hair,” Liberty said.

“I used to be a little boy with dark hair myself,” the eleven-minute man said. “The world’s no place for them. You don’t act like a girl who’s curious, but I can see that’s just an act. You got the look of someone who’s real curious, someone who might fall for the old Death’s-a-bright-shining-net-vibrating-with-cold-energy malarkey, but I’m telling you, and I’m a man who knows, Death’s just an old hairy-heeled fart.”

His dry breath hammered against her, his words like nails fixing her face in place so he could stare at it.

“What did you say you used to be?” he asked.

“I just used to be myself,” Liberty said.

“You look half-starved,” he said abruptly. “You should eat some of this free chicken.”

The littered table, she now saw, was covered with small white bones.

A disheveled figure shambled toward them, glissading across the floor for the last few feet. “O dog of my dreams,” the figure said to Clem. “Scat, scat,” the figure said to the eleven-minute man.

“Charlie,” Liberty said.

“Recreant …,” Charlie said to the man’s departing back, “… toady, ca-ca head, pygmy.” He gazed sorrowfully down at the table of little bones and empty glasses. “It used to be so nice here,” Charlie said. “There were mountains and wildflowers and tubs of chocolate ice cream. Easter chicks and bunnies were hopping around. Everything.” His mockly mournful face turned toward Liberty and brightened. It was like a fist flowering into a hand. He bent forward and kissed her cheek. “Uummmmuh,” he said.

Her eyes watered from the light and smoke of the bar.

“Why can’t I cheer you up,” Charlie said. “It’s all I want to do.”

A couple tucked in at a table beside them. The man took a fifth of rum out of a paper bag and poured it over ice in two tall glasses. He put the bottle between them. It stood there like an old and not altogether trustworthy friend.

“Well, darling,” the man said, “how was your day?”

“Oh, my day,” the woman said musically. “I defrosted the fridge.” She took a long swallow of rum and said, “That kid at the end of the street did the same thing to me tonight as I was driving here.”

“What thing was that, darling?” the man said, looking at her intently.

“I knew I’d find you because I’ve been looking,” Charlie said to Liberty.

“He dashes through that empty lot just after the curve and runs right up to the edge of the road and then he stops,” the woman said.

The man slowly shook his head.

“He doesn’t look at the car, so you think he doesn’t see the car, but it’s a game with him, see, the little brat. The first two times he did it, I braked and swerved and my heart was pounding, believe me, but this time, I neither braked nor swerved. I didn’t even give him the satisfaction of a glance. I just sped right on by.”

The man nodded. “How old is this terrible child, darling?”

“Oh, he’s little, four or five, a little brat a couple of feet high.”

Charlie was busily pushing the bones to one side of the table with the heel of his hand.

“Remains,” he muttered. “Man, I hate remains.” His hands shook as he pushed the mess around. A waitress appeared out of the gloom and put the things on a tray. “More beer?” she bawled at Charlie.

“Beer only, beer only. I’m coming off it, coming down, going to do it,” he said. He gave Liberty a big shaky smile and kissed her cheek again. “I haven’t had a drink since we were on the phone and you heard the glass drop. What a sound huh, doll? The end of the world as Charlie knows it. You heard that sound.” He shuddered.

The sound Liberty was hearing now was more like the sound of a bird, a bird warbling, a prolonged and plaintive trilling in the distance. The bar was dark. Turning ceiling lights swung erratically through it. Two filthy yard boys streaked with dust ambled by and stared at her with large white eyes. The feeling was that of being in a cave or a mine, going deeper, into the ever darker, and the improbable bird in the distance with its strange song didn’t exist to lead any of them out but to inform them when the song stopped that the air had run out.

Then she realized it was JJ in his wheelchair making the sound. It was something, she guessed, he had learned how to do when he couldn’t do something he wanted to.

Her thoughts drifted toward Willie, but they couldn’t find him, anywhere.

“Everything is going to be fantastic,” Charlie was saying, “you’ll see. Even my Shakespeare is coming back. Whole scenes have been bellying up to me. Yeah! You and Reverdy and the dog and me. We’ll each take parts, we’ll be a troupe. The kid can play all the messengers. You can play the ghost, man, how’s that,” he said to Clem.

At the table beside them, the woman said loudly, “You don’t love me.”

“Now, now,” the man said, “we haven’t had too much to drink already, have we?”

“You don’t love me. You never buy me flowers. You don’t wear a wedding ring and you don’t kiss my pussy.”

“I wear no jewelry at all, sweetness. I don’t like jewelry.”

“You don’t wear a wedding ring, you don’t kiss my pussy and you never buy me flowers,” the woman said. She raised three fingers stiffly in the air.

“Why do I take you out for a little treat,” the man screamed. “I could take my secretary out for a little treat.”

“Your secretary,” the woman moaned. “That Susan person!”

“She could accuse me of the same things,” the man said.

Large tears fell from the woman’s eyes. The man placed the bottle of rum back in the paper bag and put it in his pocket. He escorted her, sobbing, out.

“I know that lady,” Charlie said. “Her name is Beatrice. The only other Beatrice I ever knew was the largest lobster in Louisiana. Not a crayfish, mind, a lobster. Guy showed her at carnivals. Somebody poisoned her one summer and he went half mad with grief. Guy’s name was Jimmy Daisy. You never saw a sadder man after his Beatrice died.” Charlie pulled on his beer. “Poor ol’ Jimmy Daisy,” he said. “Drink up, doll.” He tapped her sweating bottle with his own.

“Have you seen Teddy and Duane? They were here.” Liberty picked at the label on the bottle with her fingers. “Teddy shouldn’t be here.”

“Why, Duane and I have been looking everywhere for you, Liberty. Duane and me and Reverdy looking everywhere, high and low. We’ve been to your house half a dozen times and been driving all around. Willie’s gone, right? Gone gone? Stay gone?”

She didn’t answer him. “Sally said that Duane was giving everything he had away?”

“There are just a few odds and ends left. He gave the kid a car and let him choose it himself, which I thought was nice. It’s the one with the fancy hubs and the screaming eagle painted on the air scoop. He gave the Shelby to the postman. Little flat-footed guy is standing there in his pith helmet rummaging through his pouch and Duane gives him a fifteen-thousand-dollar car. Everything in the house Duane dragged out and gave away. What a sight.” Charlie took a crumpled pack of Chesterfields from his pocket. He pulled a cigarette out, straightened it and lit it. When he inhaled, thin lines of smoke dribbled from holes in the paper.

“The bugs of Room 303,” Charlie said. “People think the bugs are in Charlie’s mind, but they are not in Charlie’s mind.”

“What exactly happened?”

“The particulars in cases of love lost are clouded,” Charlie said, “as we all know.”

“Janiella left.”

“She sure did, and left a mean note behind too. There are suspicions about the pool repairman. Duane’s sworn off human intercourse after tonight. Tonight, he drinks. Tomorrow he’s going to hitchhike into a desert.”

A skinny boy with a plate full of barbecue sat down at their table. He pressed his hands together, pointed them at the plate, muttered a grace and dug in.

“The desert,” Charlie said. “Picture it. Gulches, canyons, playas, oddities of erosion, mud palisades and Duane. Awesome stillness. Desolate grandeur. And that maniac.”

“I’ll take care of Teddy,” Liberty said.

The boy was folding the chicken into his mouth and banging his teeth noisily down upon the bones.

“The kid had no doubts,” Charlie said. “We discussed it at length. No desert for him. He wants to go to the North Pole first. He has already collected some facts on the North Pole. He says the polar bears there carry their babies around between their toes. You and me and Reverdy,” Charlie sang, “heading north. And you too, sport,” he said to Clem. “Never have I failed to include you in my master plan.”

“You want some more beer?” the waitress asked.

“No, no, no,” Charlie exclaimed. “My sweetie here and me, we’re about to start our life together.” He smiled his wild smile and put his hand lightly on Liberty’s back. “We begin,” he said. “The memories of our past existences will be but glints of light, twinges of regret, passing shadows of brief disturbances that will be gone before they can be grasped.”

“There’s Duane at the bar,” Liberty said. She stood up.

Charlie cupped his hands around his mouth. “Yo, Duane!” he called. The men at the bar remained hunched and unmoving. “Such embittered individuals,” Charlie said. “Armageddon and faithless women. Camouflage and survival. Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

They pressed through the crowd toward Duane. He sat on a stool gazing into a brown drink, his face blank as an acolyte’s.

“Where’s Teddy?” she asked.

“I just lit up my lip a minute ago,” Duane said. He pushed his lower lip out and pointed. “Thought I had a cigarette. Didn’t have a cigarette. Lit up my goddamn lip.” He looked at Liberty, then at Charlie. “There’s a woman here,” he said.

“Yeah, man,” Charlie said. “Correct.”

Duane tilted toward his drink, then tilted back. “You ain’t believing a thing this woman tells you, are you? You can’t trust a woman. They don’t stay around.”

“Life is subtraction,” Charlie said. He ordered beer.

“You know what I’m gonna miss most? My big block 428. What a monster.” He shook his head mournfully. “I thought that machine was gonna be with me for the duration.”

“Where’s Teddy?” Liberty said. She touched his arm, which was as hard as a piece of wood beneath his checked shirt.

“You gonna take care of my boy?” Duane asked. “My boy, my son?”

“Yes.”

Duane looked at her shyly. “I’m abandoning my boy.”

“Don’t be so lucid, man,” Charlie said. He drank the beer quickly.

“I’m not a scrutable man,” Duane said. “Even so, I can explain myself if I want to. I got my reasons, my theories, like with hunting. You ever hear my theory as to why hunting is so great? Well, I’ll tell you it. It’s not just that you can stop some big sucker that thinks it can go anywheres it wants to go. It’s in the gear and the preparation and the knowledge of your terrain and prey and stuff, but the great part is after you’ve shot the thing and you’re looking at it and it’s dead, but not real dead you know, and it’s watching you. That’s when you have this incredible feeling. You feel a little bad. You feel a little sad and regretful and that’s the best part.” Duane pounded the bar. “That’s the best part, that little bit of guilt! Too late to do dick about it. Then that guilt just fades away.”

“One thing you got to learn to do in the desert is to keep your mouth shut,” Charlie said. “Very important.”

“Who’s telling Duane to keep his mouth shut! Don’t get me hostile. See these eyes here …” Duane jabbed his finger at his own face. “These eyes are the enemies of all joy and hope tonight.”

“I’m just saying, man, that in the desert you’ve got to learn to reduce your water needs. Lack of water is what makes the desert desert.” Charlie panted with enthusiasm.

Duane peered at him. “You got stuff floating around you, man.”

“Merely the nimbus that hovers around the redeemed,” Charlie said. “My life begins tonight.”

“No, seriously, man, what is that stuff?”

Charlie looked over his shoulder. Duane kept staring. Then he blinked and shrugged.

“Where is Teddy now, Duane?” Liberty persisted.

“I took him over to your house. We must of just missed you. The kid’s got his own car now. He can go anywhere, just has to learn to drive. ‘Escape’ I told him. Escape was my advice. My boy,” Duane mused. “Fruit of my loins.” He tugged at his lip.

A black man pushed his way up to the bar. He was holding a baby wrapped in a blue blanket. The baby’s fingers patted the air. The man sat several stools away, just where the bar began to curve, so that he faced them. He took a cloth from his pocket and ceremoniously wiped the counter, then propped the baby up on a slant board that had been concealed in the folds of the blanket.

“Oh, God,” Charlie said, “the guy with the blind baby. That’ll empty the joint.”

The light slid around the black man’s round, merry face, giving a pinkish cast to his hair. The baby was no more than a few weeks old.

“How can they know that baby’s blind?” Liberty said. “It’s such a young baby.”

“Man’s been telling everybody it’s blind,” Duane said glumly. “Man says something’s detached in its head. I mean, who even wants to think about it. I don’t know why they even serve that guy.”

“They serve him because he mean,” Charlie said.

“The hell with that,” Duane snarled. “I’m mean. Tonight I’m the meanest.”

The black man looked at them and nodded formally.

“Shit,” Duane muttered. He slid off the stool and stumbled toward the door.

“Hello there,” the black man said.

“Hello, yes!” Charlie said joyously.

The man moved closer to them, sliding the baby down the bar. Occupants of the space between them ambled away. He stopped a few feet from Liberty and looked down at Clem, who lay with his chin on her foot.

“Good evening,” he said to Clem. “How you been?”

The bartender placed a martini beside the baby. A sliver of lemon shimmered in the oil on its surface. The man ate the lemon, swallowed half the martini and placed his little finger in what was left. Then he rubbed the finger on the baby’s gums.

Charlie gazed at the drink longingly. “You’re going to make that child alcohol dependent,” he said.

“Oh, this child has many problems. This child was born in a pool hall when its whore-momma’s head was punctured by a pool cue. This child was born premature and has some other tiny baby’s kidneys. This child is blind.” He smiled at Charlie and winked, then unwrapped the blanket and placed the baby’s toes against his lips and kissed them. “This child will know nothing but darkness forever and ever,” he said.

Liberty knew that the man’s voice was Mr. Bobby’s voice, crooning and impatient, shifting and winding. A warm voice that assured freedom from pain, trouble and anxiety. A voice you could hear in a warm bath with wrist veins agape if it came to that. A voice open to wide interpretation. Somebody else’s voice.

“Blindness isn’t considered to be a severe handicap,” Charlie said.

“Is that a fact,” Mr. Bobby said. He tilted his head coquettishly.

“Heavens no,” Charlie said. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“I buy the drinks,” Mr. Bobby said. He opened a wallet that was filled with credit cards. He fanned the cards out before him. Each had a different signature. “People send these in to me. They just don’t want to be accountable no more. Somebody sent this baby in to me. Wrapped in newspaper. Ain’t people something?” He ordered a double stinger on the rocks. “You are familiar with the story in the Bible where Jesus heals the blind man? Where he causes the blind man to see?”

“A very pretty story,” Charlie said. “I love miracles. Dish up the miracles I always say. There are never enough miracles in a day for my taste.”

“Now, I don’t believe that’s a pretty story at all. Whatever became of the blind man? Do we ever hear of the blind man again? No, we do not. We don’t, no, because the blind man went into a depression from which he never recovered. We are speaking here of irreversible melancholy. Giving sight to those who have never seen is no gift because nothing is as they imagined it. To have nothing be the way you imagined it, now that’s a shame.”

“But that happens all the time,” Charlie said cheerfully. “We have a friend, this lady and I, he says, ‘The things that we see are a very crude version of what is.’ ” He looked at Liberty and winked.

He was speaking about Willie. Her mind was trying to shut Willie out, she realized. Her heart was pounding.

“We all have that friend,” the man said smoothly. “A friend like that gives no satisfaction.” He smiled and his smile was like a scissors opening. “I prefer a silent friend, like this one here.” He fixed his open smile downward on Clem, then closed it. He said to Liberty, “This dog walks in your sleep, do you know that? He goes visiting. My little baby hears him all the time.”

“Dog’s a dream, man,” Charlie said.

“Now a black dog would be something else again. Some people think a black dog’s bad luck but that ain’t so, necessarily. It’s black dogs that help the dying soul make its crossing, so in a way they’re bad luck, but they’re cherished too and are forgiven everything.”

Willie was his own black dog. She had cherished him too long.

Mr. Bobby sipped his shiny green drink. “You look brand-new tonight, darling,” he said to Liberty. “You look like you done some traveling. Now my little baby’s brand new too, but even so it’s a shade too late for me to prove a little pet idea of mine. My little idea — actually, you could call it more of a belief — is that if you took a newborn thing and you deprived it from birth of all external impressions, light and sound and touch and heat and cold and whatever, taste and such, and at the same time managed to keep it alive, such an individual would not be able to perform the most insignificant action.”

“That’s grotesque,” Charlie said.

The man pushed his face close to the infant and soundlessly opened and closed his mouth. Liberty feared that he was going to start throwing his voice into the baby as though it were a ventriloquist’s doll. It was a very pretty baby with long, dark lashes.

“Are you Mr. Bobby?” she asked.

“We got one of my constituents here,” he said.

“No,” she said. “We don’t.”

“It’s just the grief business, darling. It’s a good business. You ever hear me on Identity? I-den-titty. It’s a personal favorite of mine.” He smiled faintly. “I would like that animal. What are you accepting for him?”

“He’s not for sale,” Liberty said.

“I didn’t ask if he was for sale.”

The baby gave a squeal.

“The last time I saw that animal he was in a small clearing in the middle of a jungle. That there was a clearing in such a rank and tangled wilderness was inexplicable.”

“He has never been in a jungle,” Charlie said.

“He has his journeys to make,” Mr. Bobby said irritably, “you may not.” He paused, staring at Clem. “Time before that, he was witnessing tortures. They’ve become so commonplace these days that an unbiased observer has ceased to become a luxury and is now a necessity. Someone to keep them on the up and up. I had an animal myself once, but the most interesting thing about it was that its blood was artificial. Perfluorocarbons ran through its veins.”

“What kind of dude was this?” Charlie demanded. “He sounds like an icebox or a can of Raid.”

“It was a biological curiosity, I’m not saying it was a spiritual curiosity.”

“Perfluorocarbons,” Charlie said.

“It resembled mother’s milk. Course it wasn’t mother’s milk at all.” Mr. Bobby finished his drink. “This is some night, isn’t it? This is my night off.” He dandled the baby and whispered, “You ain’t ever, ever going to see.”

“I’m sure advances will be made,” Charlie said.

“I thought we already cleared that misconception up. No reason the blind should see. You blinder than this. No reason you should see either.” Swiftly he plucked the baby from the slant board and lowered it down to Clem. The baby’s feet scrabbled against Clem’s skull. “You want this, don’t you, honey,” Mr. Bobby sang as the baby made little fretful cries. “I can’t believe,” he said, “that you people are questioning the right this child has to this animal.”

“You’re upset,” Charlie said. “I can understand that.”

“Don’t you humor me, you redneck son of a bitch,” Mr. Bobby said.

“We’d better be moving along,” Charlie said, “much as we would love to linger here.”

“That be fine, that be fine, but you just leave that box right here.”

“You’re living in a world of unreal objects, man,” Charlie said.

“This blood right here,” Mr. Bobby said, nodding at Clem. “This baby food, he be Box.”

“His name’s Clem,” Charlie said. “He doesn’t stay here.”

“I’m the one who’s naming. I name this and I name that.”

“But as all we who wish otherwise well know,” Charlie said, “naming something doesn’t make it yours.”

“For example,” Mr. Bobby said, “I name you a Man in Deep Trouble.”

“Nah,” Charlie said.

“Oh, yes. I name your past hopeless, your present an excrescence and your future dismal. No, my boy, the future ain’t gonna lift her skirts for you.” He shook a cigarette from a pack and offered it to Charlie.

“Why, thanks,” Charlie said.

“I done passed my judgment,” Mr. Bobby said.

“Oh, come on, man,” Charlie said.

Mr. Bobby lit the cigarette from a bright little package of matches. “You’re just a little flame,” he said, “and when it’s over for you, you just add your little flame to the big flame. It’s not that you feed the big flame, oh my, no, the big flame don’t need feeding, it’s just that your little light ain’t separate no more. Isn’t that nice?” He blew the match out.

“Bye, now,” Charlie said.

“Good-bye,” Mr. Bobby said. He waved the baby’s closed fist at them.

Charlie and Liberty walked out the door with Clem. Liberty could not believe that Mr. Bobby was not following them, waving the baby like a gun. Outside, the bay was smelling poorly and wheezing against the seawall. A yard boy with large, bare feet stood in a phone booth. “Ahh, honey,” he was saying into the receiver. His eyes were fixed, rather glassily, on his remarkable feet.

“What an episode, what an episode,” Charlie said. “That guy’s been coming in regular the last few nights. He’s alarming, but he never really does anything, you know. Brings that poor little baby in.” He shook his head. “Can’t choose our fans though, right?” he said to Clem. He took a deep breath. “So this is the world as seen when sober! What’s that awful smell? Is it that unfortunate body of water? I never knew it smelled like that. Why, that’s odious. Closest smell to that is skinned nutrias in the bayou when I was a little boy.”

Liberty stroked Clem’s head. “I think that was Mr. Bobby,” she said. “The voice who gives advice over the telephone. The presence on the other side of lonely silence.”

“You know his name? You are acquainted with some strange cases.”

“I know, I know,” she said softly. “There’s something wrong with me.”

“No, doll, no. You just have to open up.”

“You never got Mr. Bobby sometime when you were trying to call me? People have.”

“I got a woman once who said ‘what number,’ and I thought I had dialed the bookie so I put ten on Beach-Nut in the eighth. Horse came in, too, a real long shot, but I never got a cent.” He hugged her. “Forget him,” he said. “He’s just someone with a new con.”

“People call him,” Liberty said. “People need him.”

“That guy! People are weak vessels all right.”

A playful breeze pushed against them from the bay. It raised their shirts and their hair.

“Feel that spanking breeze,” Charlie said. “And look at that moon. I point out the moon in all its phases a lot. Can you get used to that? It takes my mind off real estate.”

There was a big red moon, full as a blood-filled tick, hanging overhead.

“Nice moon,” he said. “Nice moon.”

It was clear to Liberty that it was a somewhat alarming-looking moon.

“That moon influences only the feckless and the confused, actually,” Charlie said. “Doesn’t have a thing to do with us.”

“Please just drive me home so I can find Teddy,” Liberty said. When she found him, she thought, she would take him out of the hated house and up into the tree, the untouched tree, nothing cut or broken there. But even as she imagined the ascent into the rustling darkness, she knew they could not stay there, be there. Mustn’t climb the tree, or be a part of the shadows, mustn’t put one’s shape into the wrong, waiting, cradling, carriage …

“We’re on our way, but what’s this ‘home’? Our home’s not built yet, but I see it as languorously asymmetrical. Lots of galleries. No greasy windows for us. And there’ll be a garden, of course. Bright and beautiful and not too big, but big enough for a touch of the gloomy, which will add to its charms. But that’s a long way off still. We travel first. Tonight we all camp out in the car, eat Jelly Nellys, tickle and sing. Travel. There’s nothing like it. This becomes that. I love travel.”

Men and women thronged out of the Gator. Two half-naked yard boys with Mohawk haircuts flung themselves into a truck from which ladders hung haphazardly. These yard boys loved plants but they loved to get drunk too. Plants liked to be danced around and talked to, but they deeply disapproved of idle drunkenness. The yard boys would have some explaining to do in the morning! They would have more to worry about than butt rot, slugs, snails, orangedogs and pickle worms. Their plants would be furious. The orchids were the real problem, they were so moody and neurotic. Real hysterics, orchids … The yard boys looked at Clem sheepishly.

Mr. Bobby stood at the door, holding the baby over his head like a waiter holding a tray.

“I don’t know why that man is so vexed at me,” Charlie said. “I’m a bitty bit black. Those Cajun kings had lots of wives.”

The parking lot was as full as the bar had been. More cars and motorcycles were arriving by the moment to replace those that screeched forth into the moon-fixed night. A cement truck lumbered up, its mixer turning, the driver leaping out, hitching up his trousers, giving a tug to his nuts, ready to go and make a few toasts to JJ and perserverance. He went around the truck to help his lady down, a fat woman with a pretty face who leaned against the huge bumper while she put on her high-heeled shoes. They both patted the truck as they left, as though it were a sweet-tempered Clydesdale horse, and high-stepped nimbly into the bar, avoiding the beer cans, lost lace hankies, the little puddles of vomit and engine oil.

“Oh, how that goopy loves to turn,” Charlie said as they passed the somberly rotating thing. “Doesn’t want to settle down yet … Look, you can see the flukes of my Caddy from here.”

Liberty could, indeed, see a conspicuous car. All licentious thrust, sweep and hunker, from a distance the Cadillac looked as though it had wings. Their headlights swinging like things in orbit, cars moved around the parking lot’s peripheries. Closer, the sight of Charlie’s car seemed to come in hard, lopsided glimpses as though she had begun to blink. The hump of trunk. Raised runnels of the roof. Wide whitewalls. A man standing. It was Duane standing. Tilted toward the Cadillac, his head bowed meditatively.

“Hey, Duane, hey man, what are you doing?” Charlie said. “Man, you are pissing on my car!”

Industrious as an ant, Duane continued to empty himself. He hummed a little, snarled, shook his head, dealing with various faithless, unreliable, cheating phantoms in his mind. Oh, he had them where he wanted them now … they weren’t going to get out of this … He had them in his mind. They weren’t going nowhere. The piss raced puddling down the fender, winked like any mirage, and then vanished into the marl. He grunted and stumbled sideways as Charlie pushed him.

“This is my car!” Charlie yelled. Duane lurched backward, zipping up, fumbling with his shirt, as Charlie swatted irritably at him.

Duane looked confused, then his face turned empty and he propelled himself forward, striking Charlie’s body flatly with his own, his arms not windmilling out but folded cocked, close to his sides. Liberty heard a soft sound.

When Duane drew back, Charlie stared at him.

“Oh, shit,” Duane said.

Charlie looked preoccupied.

“I stabbed you, man,” Duane said.

Charlie moved his hand slowly in front of his stomach, not touching it. He buttoned his jacket up. He touched his jaw, throat, chest, thoughtfully.

“Ahh, shit,” Duane said. He wiped the blade of the knife on his knee and a rusty streak appeared on his faded jeans. Charlie watched this and a smile flickered uncertainly across his face. Then he frowned.

Liberty pulled at the car door, which was locked.

“I knew I shouldn’t be carrying this shit around,” Duane said. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s a big mistake for a guy like me to carry a knife around as a matter of course. This is hardly a knife, it’s just a fish knife, you know. I ain’t never stabbed anybody before, you got to believe that. You might think I have, but I haven’t. I wouldn’t hurt you, man. I forgot this was your car. This is a new car of yours, right? I just forgot to recognize it. I thought it was some smartass’s car.”

Duane chattered away.

“Where are the keys, Charlie,” Liberty said.

“I was some drunk but now I’m sober. Wow,” Duane said, “this can really sober you up.”

“It’s not locked, doll, the door’s just jammed. Go around and slide over and you can open it from the inside.”

Liberty quickly did this.

“You can get out, but you can’t get in,” Charlie said. “A token of our times. Move over now, doll, I’ll drive. I know where to go.” He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and continued to stare at Duane as he eased himself into the seat. Duane tossed the knife underhand onto the floor mat at Charlie’s feet, then raised his hands in an odd gesture of surrender and innocence. Charlie pulled the door shut, coughed, winced, and started the motor. It caught, rattled, then died. He started it again.

“That engine’s tired,” Duane said. “What’s it got on it? One hundred fifteen? One hundred twenty-five? You got blowby, man. The state should pay you for the oil you’re going to be laying on the road.”

Charlie sat very straight, sweating, his jacket buttoned up. He eased the big car forward.

“You should have that looked at,” Duane called.

“Feculent little bastard,” Charlie said. “Get me a beer, Liberty. Ol’ Charlie needs a beer. There’s a cooler in the back.”

The backseat was full of things. Blankets and pillows and books, a lantern, cartons taped shut, a red ice chest tipped on top of everything. Everything had been prepared for a trip. A change of venue, Liberty thought. The words pressed gibbering through her mind. She later would think that nothing seemed to be missing there. Nothing unusual. Her hands moved around the bottles and picked up shards of ice. She ran them across Charlie’s lips.

“You can’t drink anything,” she said, her voice trembling. “You’ve been stabbed. You mustn’t drink.”

He sucked on a piece of ice.

“Imagine me trying to quit drinking today,” Charlie said.

“Where are you cut? Is it deep?”

“I don’t know anything about the human body. Kidneys, pancreas, liver, intestines, who knows where all that stuff is … It’s just a scratch. ‘ ’Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but ’tis enough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow and you will find me a grave man …’ Mercutio. Romeo and Juliet. Isn’t that something? My head’s clear as a bell.”

They moved with majestic slowness down the highway, passing a motel which had a pink neon flamingo with a curved neck rising from the roof. The flamingo’s pink stomach said NO VACANCY. Outside a lighting store where all the lamps were lit, two bums slept on flattened cardboard.

“We’re driving too slow,” Liberty said. “Let me do the gas.” The hospital was miles away.

The Cadillac slowed further. “I’m looking for something,” Charlie said. He looked at her and smiled, his eyes blurred and dark. “Now, be calm,” he said. “My daddy always said, Be calm. He said it when we were all sitting around in the trailer while a hurricane was picking up pieces of Bayou Teche and setting them down in Bayou Louise. The whole affair put our trailer in the treetops, broke my momma’s jaw and almost drowned me, but my drunk daddy didn’t get a scratch.”

“Don’t talk,” she said, putting her arm around his hunched shoulders.

“This isn’t the desert. Or maybe it is. Could be my desert, my desolate outside, my never-never … Here it is, this is what I was looking for. I knew it was here.”

It was an unmanned car wash, twinkling and flashing with beckoning lights in the pale night. Charlie turned in, eased the car around a corner, deftly locked the front wheels into a set of tracks, and turned off the engine.

“What are you doing?” Liberty cried. “There isn’t time for this …”

The tunnel was a dripping spectacle ahead.

“I’ve just got to get that guy’s piss off my car, doll. Dog’d understand that. Piss on what’s yours cannot be tolerated. You know, in King Lear, three dogs are named. Their names are Tray, Blanche and Sweetheart. This is true.” He reached slowly for his wallet, pulled out a bill and lay it on the tongue of a squat machine. The tongue tugged the bill backward between thin lips. “Five bucks, but it’s worth it,” Charlie said. “This place does a thorough job.”

The big car inched forward. Liberty sat rigidly, not looking back because she would then see what wasn’t there. Clem was not in the car.

She tried to place him behind her, tried to fix, hold, imagine him there, but she could not. She could only imagine a prom cummerbund of red widening, hidden beneath Charlie’s coat — blood welling slowly from a gash, like something living, once imprisoned, not yet aware it was no longer enslaved to running the same dark, concealed circuits.

“Out of the vague, lazy web of life into the chute, hey doll,” Charlie said.

Water pounded against the car and its windows darkened. A ball of colored rags humped up the Cadillac’s hood and floated heavily against the windshield, writhing there for an instant before it slipped upward and disappeared. There was a whooshing roar and pummel, and a spray of warm water fell upon her bare knee. She twisted the triangular vent-window shut.

Soap blew at them in rattling beads.

“I’ve got everything right here with me,” Charlie said. “I really moved out today. It’s funny, I didn’t leave a paper clip behind, I swept that room clean, I wiped it down with an old wet shirt. Everything’s whole and just behind me. Files are complete, photographs in order, every cap has got a bottle, every sock a mate, all the pencils are sharpened. Nothing is broken, everything’s full, books in their jackets. It’s all here, it all works except for me. Oh, doll, I’m sorry, I feel weak as puppy water. It was a bad sign, a cancerous impulse, trying to start over, change my life, clean everything up. I’ve always been a clean person, though. My body’s clean, almost hairless except for my head. I could have been a clean old man with a little raked yard, oil cloth on the table always wiped, a small, well-groomed pullet as a pet. What do you think? The gift is inexplicable, isn’t it … I mean, what are you supposed to do with the damned thing …” Brushes churned against the glass. Charlie coughed. “I think the little bastard killed me,” he said.

An instant passed. Water hung suspended on the glass, there was a throbbing sound, draining.

“What’s the time, gotta know the time,” Charlie said. “I’m allergic to something in a watch, can’t wear one on my wrist, never know the time …” He turned the dial on the radio. I SEEN THE ROCKS AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE, someone screamed through static, I SEEN … Liberty turned it off. “There’s a clock in the dash,” she said. “It’s eleven-thirty.” She put her arms around him. She slipped one arm behind his back and pressed the other lightly around his waist. She tried to make a basket of her arms.

“The clock’s always said that,” Charlie said, “but maybe it’s close enough. What is this? It’s supposed to be an intense, intolerable effluence, but it just looks dark and wet out there … baby, I’m dead.” The clock did not move. For anyone but them, it could have been the day before yesterday or the day after tomorrow. “Baby,” Charlie said, “get me my bottle.”

She slid carefully away from him, knelt on the seat and looked behind her. A yellowish light filled the tunnel and the round black bristles of the scrubbing brushes slid back on gleaming joints against the wall. What had it been, with which she had shared her silence and which was now gone from her? Her task had once been to accomplish each day, but now there was no such task. She had been let go.

“We’ve been left, haven’t we,” Charlie said.

She picked up the bottle of gin, which was wedged between the cooler and the door, then slid over, onto the backs of things there. “Move over,” she said. “I’ll drive when we get out of here.”

“Oh, doll, you know, after we get out of here …” Charlie shrugged but shifted himself across the broad seat. He grasped the bottle she handed him by the neck. “Here’s to my love,” he said and drank. “All chance for reparations lost.” She held him as she had before, feeling now the dampness of his jacket. “You think there’s any justice in it?” he asked. “I was poking his girlfriend. I did want to daddy his boy.”

“No,” she said, “no justice in it.”

“He didn’t know any of that and stabbed me anyway. People like that have instincts. When we’re all gone, people like that will be starting all over, snug in caves, toasting roaches.” He took another swallow and shuddered. “Things come and go,” he said vaguely.

Funnels of dry air pushed against the car, and a long, black roller descended from the ceiling, touching the grille, pushing softly but firmly toward them. They would be out soon, the chocks would fall away. She was behind the wheel, but tipped toward him, holding. Sweat dripped from his face onto hers. The car grew dark again as the rolling tread passed over them, as some heavy, tattered material slid past fender and door.

“It’s going to say ThankYouThankYouThankYou soon,” Charlie said, “then, ExitExitExit. I’ve been here before. That kid and I had great plans for us, Liberty. You know that egg, the egg he’s been carrying around for a week, had to for a week, and the week’s going to be up, and I told him, ‘You’ve been great with that egg, God couldn’t have been nicer to that egg, but what are you going to do with it now? That egg doesn’t have a life of its own, it was meant for something else. It’s not going to end well for that egg,’ I said, but he just laughed. He laughs at what I say now, he’s a great kid. I told him the first time God carried an egg around for seven days he ended up dropping it.”

They were almost out. Charlie closed his eyes.

“Don’t close your eyes.”

“I don’t understand what’s going to happen next. I’m going to be dead.”

“You’re not. A scratch.”

“You won’t be a widow. That’s the only blessing. You know you’re never really conscious of it until it’s your turn and then you think, what do they do with all of us? The streets, why aren’t they clogged with hearses, why don’t we see what we’re seeing? If I come back, will you be frightened of me?”

“No.”

“You don’t come back. You can only stay longer, maybe. You could have stayed here longer yourself. You could have been a middle-aged lady, intense but friendly, like middle-aged ladies are, with a collection of glass balls that you shake and there’s snow. We could sit, you and I, of an evening, turning and watching. This could have been ours.”

“We’re here, still here.” She could not see the moon, but it had lit up everything.

“You think … this is splendid, this is mine, mine alone, mine … and all it is is death.”

His eyes were open.

“But who knows,” he said, “maybe I’ll be all right, after all. I see the kid out there. Everybody’s out there. Dog’s waiting … That’s one hopeless egg, but there’s a game in it still. Look at that kid, he’s playing catch with it.”

“By himself?”

“Himself alone.”

She looked, tried to see what he was seeing, drew away from him to touch the wheel, reach for the key.

JOY WILLIAMS

Joy Williams is the author of four novels, three short story collections, and a history of the Florida Keys. She has received the Rea Award for the short story and the Strauss Living Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Her most recent novel, The Quick and the Dead, was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize.

Content

Joy Williams
Breaking and Entering

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