Lance Olsen

Girl Imagined by Chance

for Andi, camera lucida

Everything exists to end in a photograph.

— Susan Sontag, “In Plato’s Cave”

However “lifelike” we strive to make it. ., Photography is a kind of primitive theater, a kind of Tableau Vivant, a figuration of the motionless and made-up face beneath which we see the dead.

— Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida

It is hard to tell where you leave off and the camera begins.

— 1976 Minolta Advertisement

this isn’t a bad place;

why not pretend

we wished for it?

— Jorie Graham, “Over and Over Stitch”

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

EXAMINE THE PHOTOGRAPH as closely as you like, only you will not be able to locate the child in it.

You will not be able to locate anything that will become important.

The couple’s move from the northeast to the northwest, say.

The log cabin and fifteen acres of lodgepole pine just outside the viewfinder that brought them here with the perhaps not completely unpredictable promise of a wired-down life.

A slightly more wired-down life.

Your parents’ long brawl with cancer that wrecked your father’s lungs sixteen years ago, your mother’s breasts five.

How, after her mother’s funeral (also cancer, also breast), the woman in the photograph simply turned and walked down the driveway toward the waiting car, slid in beside you, and drove out of her father’s abusive language.

Forever.

A butter-yellow Subaru.

Or, say, the iridescent mountain bluebird.

The frisky dry breeze.

The iridescent mountain bluebird immobilized in mid-flight in the frisky dry breeze behind the photographer, a thin-necked cattle rancher in a straw cowboy hat and sharp-toed boots from half a mile down the road who dropped by that morning to welcome you to this new place.

To welcome you to this new place and to check you out, needless to say.

To perform local reconnaissance.

The man who snapped the picture in question when you asked if he would be so kind.

How the sheen on the grass looked to you like someone had spilled white paint.

The electric stutter of the phone as the picture in question was being snapped.

How the scene splintered back into everydayness.

How her grandmother spoke to you on the other end of the line when you answered.

How her grandmother spoke to you on the other end of the line and the pickup truck.

The pickup truck and the hunters that ended it all: the things you can see, the things you cannot.

Her grandmother saying how far away you sounded, how worried she was she might never see her grandchildren.

If in fact she ever found herself in a position to possess grandchildren, naturally.

How you tell a story to yourself so many times you begin to think it may never have really happened. That it is just a good story you made up. Only then you realize you have told it so many times it must have happened or you would not be telling it so often.

How, listening to her grandmother, point-of-view began darting around inside your head like that mountain bluebird, seeing yourself seeing and being seen.

The July light.

Like a television commercial for bleach.

The way, no matter how hard you try, you are unable to locate a single thing here that ultimately matters.

That is what you think about as you stand in the guest bedroom later that afternoon, painting.

What will become the guest bedroom.

That is what you think about until Andrea, the woman in the photograph, says to you, apropos of nothing:

She won’t last forever.

Laughing as if what she said might have been a joke.

Standing next to you, also painting.

A gray drop cloth spattered with ultra-white globbets like an abstract expressionist canvas.

A gaseous brilliance to the afternoon light.

You dip your roller into the rectangular tin, raise it to the wall, contract and relax your arm muscles.

You are both wearing bandanas.

You blue, Andi red.

The problem was how several of your colleagues back east began sporting designer splints for their carpal tunnel syndrome.

Carpal tunnel syndrome and tendinitis.

Carpal tunnel syndrome, tendinitis, and ulnar nerve damage.

She called again? you ask, painting.

Twice in one day. Two times. On two separate occasions.

Her cordless is working, then.

Intermittently. It seemed she was speaking from inside a huge wok.

Digitalus.

The technology park back in Teaneck is called Digitalus.

This is not that.

The problem was the Day-Glo yellows and greens, mostly.

The battery’s going, you say.

Teaneck, New Jersey.

Which is what I tried to tell her, says Andi, only she couldn’t hear me, understandably enough. I’d say something, and then she’d say What? So then I’d say the thing I’d just said again, and then she’d say I can’t hear you. So then I’d shout You’re breaking up! Put in a new battery! and then she’d say What? What?

The Day-Glo yellows and greens decorated with happy faces, Apple logos, Matisse-red fish, and decals for frig bands like Frankly Ann and Avian Virus.

What happened? you ask.

She began calling me Anita and then she dropped the phone.

Anita?

A friend, presumably. A friend or relative. I believe I heard a clunk, a clunk or a thunk, and then she picked it up, the phone, and apparently turned it off, thinking she was turning it on, or turning it up.

The orderly application of paint appeals deeply to you.

The light foggy, like the wrong shutter speed.

You watch your right arm rise and fall, vertically, now horizontally, now diagonally, covering the scuffed peach surface with flawless white swathes as if you are applying overexposed sunshine.

You are documenting the work of Virginia Dentatia, the Italian artist who underwent thirty surgeries, all of them broadcast by closed-circuit television to auditoriums around the globe, in order to more closely approximate a Barbie doll.

The largest virtual performance museum on the web.

This is your job.

In some Native American dialect, Teaneck means something interesting, no doubt.

Her intent was not really to look like a Barbie doll.

Her intent was to prove that no female could actually endure the incarnation into a Barbie doll’s figure.

Five or six miles from where you grew up.

Seven or eight.

It is difficult to tell because every town in northern New Jersey looks pretty much like every other town in northern New Jersey.

Every town in northern New Jersey seeps into every other so that the only way you know you have actually moved from one town to another in northern New Jersey is by noticing that the new set of fast-food franchises does not appear in exactly the same order as the ones you passed ten minutes ago.

Virginia Dentatia succeeded.

The elongating, the enhancing, the emaciating broke her body.

Her remains hooked to various pieces of sparkling equipment in a special swollen-pink window-walled room in a Zürich hospital so art aficionados can fly in from around the world and admire her work.

In some Indian dialect or some Dutch dialect, presumably.

If you try, you can imagine Teaneck being a Dutch word.

The problem was how, adrift in digital ether, you started feeling like all the truly meaningful data were waiting for you on the other side of the next link, the next click of your mouse, the next blink of your screen.

You came to feel on a daily basis that you were always almost but never quite anywhere.

The future had arrived a decade ago, is the thing.

Their ages, too, it almost goes without saying.

The problem was how your bosses were twenty-something kids with attitudes.

Attitudes and purple lipstick.

You being middle-aged.

You being, in their eyes, officially a member of a different species.

The problem was how it was clear, watching them at their computers, they wanted to be alone and couldn’t live without other people.

This was what the future had turned out to look like.

The problem was how they began wearing overblown Seiko Message Watches so they could consult their schedules, Dow Jones averages, and e-mail just a little more frequently.

But you know what’s totally dope? one of them asked you once.

Auztin, your most immediate twenty-something boss.

You know what’s totally dope?

Twenty-something being a word that sounded hip maybe ten years ago but now sounds oddly dated, a future that became the past trying to be the present.

By the Snapple machine during your lunch break.

You peeling an orange.

Auztin snacking from a bag of Doritos.

Looking twelve in techno-sneakers that appeared almost impossible to put on, there were so many ties and clips and blinking things associated with them, jeans so loose he could have been smuggling small dogs inside them.

He wore an over-sized t-shirt that said: DON’T WORRY. BE STUPID.

What’s totally dope, Auztin repeated, is they can suggest what to order at restaurants.

Your watch can order for you, you said, deadpan, adopting the role of straightman.

It pays attention to your eating habits for thirty days after you fire it up and develops a profile based on its findings.

Why?

You go to a restaurant, okay, and look at the menu, okay, and can’t decide what to eat? So you start feeling nervous-anxious. You know: the waiter’s going to return like any second, and when he asks you what you want you’ll look like this big dork, and everyone else at the table will begin to fidget, and the waiter will give you that look waiters give on occasion that can melt steel. So what do you do?

You ask your watch, you said.

Right on. See, you push this little button here, okay… and out comes your top choices with the statistical probabilities of what will satisfy you most.

Your watch decides for you.

Auztin scrinched up his face.

Minuscule orange-yellow particles of cornchips clinging to the front of his t-shirt.

Raising his bag at you as though to ward off the living dead, he said:

It tells you what your decision would be, okay, if you simply took enough time to make it, which you don’t have, being in this restaurant with this group of totally antsy friends and a waiter who feels he’s being under-appreciated as an actor…

Back in your cubicle, you dialed Andi’s mobile phone.

Native American, Dutch, or English.

It is always possible as well that Teaneck is simply, say, the bastardization of a medieval English word that refers to the T in some road’s neck.

Without a local guidebook, it is impossible to know for sure.

Assuming, of course, the local guidebook itself is telling the truth, and not, for instance, simply the product of the author’s imagination, the author possibly being one of those people who believes no one will ever check his facts.

You caught Andi on the way to photograph an unimportant city council meeting.

For the next half hour you emphasized how you were almost forty. If you were going to make a significant change in your life, today was the day. Ten years more, and it would feel too late.

Ten years, and you would probably feel past the horizon of possibility.

You were both fairly young, you pointed out, at least by certain standards.

You were both fairly young and Andi had been talking about quitting the paper and going freelance ever since college and you could document Virginia Dentatia just as easily from a house on ten or twenty acres of wooded land somewhere out west as from an airtight office in northern New Jersey.

You possessed no animals.

To weigh you down.

No animals and no children.

You decided some time ago not to have children or animals.

Your old friends were free to visit whenever they liked and you were still young enough to make plenty of new ones.

You of course were also free to visit them, your old friends, but less and less, these things tending to unfurl over time and distance.

Though for fairly obvious reasons you never articulated this decision about children to Andi’s grandmother.

Nor would there be a problem with packing up and going, supposedly, packing up and starting afresh.

It even made a certain degree of sense.

It even seemed to make a certain degree of sense.

A long electromechanical silence effervesced on the other end of the line when you paused to take a breath.

Auztin’s upper lip, it struck you, protruded like the beak of a small bird.

You opened your mouth to push on, staring up at the fluorescent lights burring above your cubicle in your airtight office in northern New Jersey.

The black-and-red Barbara Kruger poster on your wall saying ENDANGERED SPECIES and showing a perhaps not completely unpredictable very frightened very fractured man’s face.

Man’s face or woman’s face, it not being as easy to distinguish between the two genders as one might initially assume.

Staring, and not knowing precisely what you were going to say next, but eager to find out, only then realizing Andi was speaking to you instead.

Had been speaking to you for nearly a minute, as close as you could figure it.

What? you said.

I said, she said, when do we leave?

What? you said, just to make sure.

I said, she said, you’re right. You’re absolutely right.

Overexposed sunshine or looking into the aperture of a slide projector.

That startling.

That white.

That is what you think about as you stand in the guest bedroom, painting.

What will become your guest bedroom.

How you sprawled on your bellies on the Persian rug in your living room in northern New Jersey, pint of peanut-butter-cup ice cream between you, thumbing through a U.S. atlas and Encyclopedia Britannica.

The way you did two years ago, the evening you asked Andi where she would like to go on a celebratory vacation because she was about to turn thirty five.

You thought she would name a nice hotel in Manhattan.

Nepal, she said.

Your mouth moving as if someone inside you were trying to speak.

Because, she explained, it sounded like the end of the world and the end of the world was where she wanted to be when she turned thirty five.

So you looked it up.

You looked it up and then you went.

You boarded a plane at J.F.K. and flew to L.A. You boarded another plane in L.A. and flew to Narita. You boarded another plane at Narita and flew to Bangkok. You boarded another plane in Bangkok and flew to Kathmandu.

The smoky terraced hills.

White mountain peaks like broken glass against the blue sky.

Your first afternoon there, a Nepalese man in front of you fainted in an alley. A young man. A man younger than you, in any case. He collapsed politely among tuk-tuks and rickshaws and pedestrians and hit his head on the packed-dirt street. Several store owners approached him. They nudged him with the toes of their sandals. One went back into his shop and returned with a bowl of unclean water and threw it on him and then stood back to see what would happen.

Then everyone simply shrugged and returned to work.

Vendors shouting at you to buy their rugs even as the young unconscious man remained unconscious at your feet.

Their rugs, clothes, bracelets, masks, fruit slices swarming with flies.

When you strolled up the same alley several hours later, the unconscious man was gone.

You never learned the end of his story.

Some narratives simply stopping rather than concluding, naturally.

Some becoming ski jumps rather than weddings or funerals.

Idaho was the last state to be discovered by white explorers.

It was ignored for half a century by everyone except a few fur hunters, missionaries, Indian tribes, and emigrants en route to more civilized patches of Oregon.

Only when gold was found in the Clearwater and Salmon River canyons did a kind of reverse migration ensue.

The stony fields down by the rivers in the Nepali interior where people squatted and shat, staring straight ahead, never stooping to the undignified practice of meeting the eyes of the person shitting next to them.

Nepali or Nepalese.

Either adjective is correct.

The shitting fields.

You had traveled elsewhere, needless to say.

You went to sleep in your seat on a 747, person X.

You woke on a rainy road in northern Norway, person Y.

In a sense you couldn’t stop traveling.

This is what you and Andi did.

You drove through Scotland, hiked through England, snorkeled in the Yucatan.

Someone stole Andi’s passport in Amsterdam.

In a train near Amsterdam.

Traveling being less expensive than one might expect.

Much less expensive, if one is willing to take certain chances.

Andi tucked her pocketbook (the passport in a large wallet inside) under the seat in front of her and a German tourist, a good-looking teenage girl with a backpack in the overhead, craned around the corner of her seat and smiled at you both and you smiled back.

You stirred from a nap as the train pulled into a station somewhere in the countryside.

When you opened your eyes the German girl was standing on the platform outside your window, waving at you and smiling.

You smiled and waved back.

The train rolled forward and next to you Andi announced her wallet was missing.

German or perhaps Scandinavian.

Northern European, in any case.

You could not stop traveling.

You traveled thousands of miles to discover that people in Reykjavik watched the same TV shows people watched in the States.

They ordered chips and salsa or pepperoni pizza in bars decorated with posters of Jim Morrison, Marilyn Monroe, and the young, slim, dashing version of Elvis.

But it felt like there was always somewhere else to go.

The sound haze of different languages on the streets of a foreign country.

It of course felt slightly desperate.

Desperate and thrilling.

You could only inhabit so many channels, so you had to choose which ones to start inhabiting right now.

To choose being to change.

An excess of lives.

A bus driver was dragged off his bus in the Nepali interior near Pokhara and stoned to death for running into and killing a cow the day before you arrived.

The only way to see being through fire.

You can get ten thousand dollars for a U.S. passport on the black market in Europe.

Ten thousand or twenty thousand.

You forget which.

But still.

The penalty for killing a man in Nepal was six years in prison.

The penalty for killing a cow was life.

Because, in the story you tell people again and again, you came to consciousness in a jungle-compound surrounded by twelve-foot-high hurricane fencing in Venezuela where your father helped set up a refinery for Mobil Oil Corporation.

Nothing compared to the shitting fields.

Not really.

Or, say, the way the malaria pills gave you vivid dreams the consistency of cartoon gel.

The fingerless lepers hanging onto your arm as you hustled down the alley-streets packed with bicycles, shrines, barbers shaving people’s heads beneath dead trees.

The medieval energy.

Only in 1938 did the first paved highway couple the northern part of Idaho with the southern.

Some of the shitters using umbrellas as partial screens.

Trekker prayer flags, they called the foreigners’ toilet paper fluttering along the sides of the trails in the foothills of the Himalaya.

The oil vapors presumably contributing to your father’s lung cancer.

The oil vapors, year after year, and the smoking.

Cigars, mostly, the last decade, if you remember correctly, but unfiltered cigarettes by the pack before that, puffing away in the family car with all the windows rolled up.

Lumps of wet and dry and drying human feces as far as the eye could see and in the open spaces trekkers’ blue sleeping bags airing in the sun and a colorful Indian bus like something from California in the sixties parked in the shallows of the river, people clambering over it, washing it like some semi-aquatic animal.

Reading, sprawled on the Persian rug in northern New Jersey, you became aware of a certain liquid pulse of anticipation.

It was this easy to make a decision.

It always had been.

It was this easy to alter everything you thought of as your life.

You had done it before.

The point being how, when you returned to the States from Venezuela and entered school and began recounting stories about your childhood during show-and-tell on Fridays, nobody believed you.

Show-and-tell being on Fridays, as a rule, in U.S. schools.

One ran over snakes for sport on the back roads in Venezuela.

The longer the snake, the more points.

During the rainy season, crabs would appear by the thousands, crunching beneath your tires as you drove along muddy back roads.

As your father drove along the muddy back roads, to be precise.

Crabs or frogs.

It is difficult to remember which.

The crabs or frogs, say, or the time you were digging in the sand on a beach at a resort hotel in Caracas and came across some sort of thumb-sized mucus-colored insect burrowing there, quilled with miniature black spikes, and you reached out to touch one of them and next thing you were in the hospital, what passed for the hospital, under mosquito netting, your swollen arm searing, bulbous as balloon art, your mother and father sitting nearby in aluminum folding chairs.

Your teachers, the point being, thought you were lying.

Or the room at the refinery lined with jars filled with tapeworms floating in formaldehyde.

Designed, you see, to teach the new American employees the lesson about how one should always cook food thoroughly and never pick up anything edible that happens to drop on the floor.

They took you to the principal’s office and made you call home to have your mother verify what you alleged.

Some of the tapeworms being twelve or fifteen feet long, you remember.

Remember or think you remember.

Remember perhaps being too strong a word.

You about to cry, it almost (but not quite) goes without saying, being so humiliated.

How on the back roads the cracking crab shells sounded like popcorn.

The cracking crab shells or the frog backbones.

The principal recounting what you had just recounted and then asking your mother to corroborate your recollections.

Which she did.

But this, of course, was not the point, really.

Is not the point, really.

The point is that they thought your childhood was a made-up story. They thought it was too strange to be true. This is the thing that gets you.

This is the thing that gets you, even today.

Pend Oreille, Clarkia, Elk River, Andi said as you oversaw the movers load boxes that were your house into the back of a truck four weeks later.

Bonners Ferry, Ketchum, Challis, you said as you arranged yourself behind the wheel of your metallic-flint Honda Trace and commenced driving west on 80 until uppercase cities became lowercase cities, cornfields widened into vast stubbly lakes, low green mounds billowed and blanched beige, and blunt coniferous mountains elevated into view like a glass shot in a Hollywood epic.

Coeur D’Alene, Andi said as you cruised across America.

Orofino, Pocatello, Riggins.

The River of No Return.

That is what you think about, the orderly application of paint appealing deeply to you.

How Moscow is the third-largest town in the panhandle, with a population of 20,000.

Give or take.

How it was settled in 1869 and originally called Paradise Valley, but renamed in 1875 by Almon Ashbury Lieuallen to pair its impending sense of cultural isolation with that of its Slavic double under Ivan the Terrible.

Assuming, it goes without saying, the tourist brochure in the Best Western is accurate.

Assuming such a thing can somehow be verified.

Moving was as easy as changing your mind.

Changing your mind was as easy as moving.

Fake Gothic buildings from the first half of the twentieth century mingle with bland industrial redbrick ones from the second half across the heavily green university campus on one of several hills comprising the town.

Quaint houses surround a tidy park in the old section that less than a hundred years ago was a fort and now exists in a golden fifties televisual nimbus.

From there, newer and larger and blander subdivisions spread out with treeless architectural unruliness.

Malls bookend Moscow to the east and the west and a featureless strip of fast-food restaurants, bunker motels, and floodlit gas stations ellipse down the highway toward the Washington-Idaho state line.

Paradise Valley or Hog Heaven, depending on which source you consult.

Because camas bulbs were abundant.

If you stand next to the concrete fountain on Main Street across from the turn-of-the-century hotel and face north, you can make out one end of town and the wheat fields of the Palouse undulating toward Moscow Mountain.

Camas bulbs being a comestible hogs adore, supposedly.

Palouse being another interesting word.

Native American, presumably.

Presumably, though not positively.

If you stand next to the fountain and face south, you can just make out the other end of town and imagine the wheat fields of the Palouse undulating toward the two-thousand-foot grade down into Lewiston and desert more than twenty miles off.

This fountain is where you and Andi, checking the local real estate guide and enjoying a swimming-pool-blue spring day, spotted the ad for the three-bedroom log cabin with loft, deck, unfinished basement, and small barn on fifteen wooded acres near Deary, population 600, twenty-five miles northeast of Moscow.

Andi mined a felt-tip pen from her purse and handed it to you.

You ovaled the ad in corpulent violet, returned the pen, and, real estate guide tucked under your arm like a European’s newspaper, struck out in search of a pay phone.

A week, and you were overseeing the movers.

The furry man with an indigo-green outline of a disproportionate naked woman tattooed on the inside of his forearm.

This man climbing from the cab, popping his neck, and surveying the gravel driveway he had just navigated in his jumbo rig.

Got yourself far fucking enough away from everything? he asked, right palm resting atop his head.

You and Andi exchanged glances.

You had, you told him.

You honestly had.

You paint the room that will become your office, too, and then the one off the loft that will become your bedroom.

One day you are one place.

One day you are another.

You unroll your Persian rug in the living room in front of the wood-burning stove that will be your only source of heat this winter.

It is this easy.

It always has been.

You unpack dishes, silverware, utensils, hang Andi’s mounted photographs, set up your computer, air out the house, scrub the kitchen floor, sweep the unfinished basement, wash the windows, unbox books and clothes, call a satellite company from town and set up an appointment to have a wireless internet connection installed.

It feels like you are waging a war against spoilage.

It feels like you are subduing space.

You take particular gratification in scouring the bathtub with chlorine cleanser and wiping down the toilet with undiluted lemon ammonia.

Andi dusts and polishes and vacuums the beige wall-to-wall carpet and disinfects the kitchen counter top.

One day you are one person.

One day you are another.

Next you move into the yard and shovel out the fire pit.

You purchase a gas grill, assemble it on the deck, and begin cooking salmon steaks and German sausages on a regular basis.

You haul two cords of split and unsplit tamarack scattered haphazardly around the raspberry patch into the half-size barn and stack it neatly in two rows.

Each row as tall as you.

Tamarack being another interesting word.

Five-foot eight, more or less.

You never heard the word before last week, and now it is part of you.

The previous owner erected several jerryrigged outbuildings from plywood boards. You take these down and make a trash pile out of them.

You dismantle a wobbling half-completed wood-plank fence, a rotting doghouse, a chicken pen, a free-standing gate that leads nowhere.

Mow the lawn atop the worn-out riding mower with a bad case of the flu that the previous owner left behind.

You plant a vegetable garden in a clearing on the south side of the house.

You have your driveway regraveled.

It is this easy changing what you think about.

The following Monday you begin sifting through one hundred eighty-seven e-mail messages that have clustered since you last checked.

What you do not think about.

In the evening, you recommence your work on Virginia Dentatia’s web site. Following her last operation to reduce the bone mass of her chest, her lungs can no longer fully expand. She spends hours a day connected to an oxygen tank. Her fans in various chat rooms are both outraged and exhilarated.

Andi commences looking for a job.

By the end of the week she has placed an ad in the local paper, received an offer to photograph a PR shoot for a band from Pullman, and established her own dark room in what was once the pantry in the basement.

One day you are you, supposedly.

One day you are not.

After dinner Friday, you pour two icy scotches, soak the trash pile in gasoline, turn on the garden hose, and strike a match.

Flames heave twenty feet into the darkening sky.

Red-orange spark-clouds like swarms of glittering bees.

Side by side, Andi and you watch the blaze escalate. The crackling grows so loud you become uneasy. Now, just like that, it peaks, the sound of air forced through a subway tunnel, setting small areas of nearby grass alight, the pile caving in on itself.

You spray the ancillary burns with the hose and pace around the crumbling neon-tangerine wreck, misting the ground.

Andi slips an arm around your waist when you rejoin her and rests her head against your chest.

Your new geography drifts toward congruity.

The dry smoky afterburn of Oban.

You can sense the moment gaining intention and weight.

Over the dying fire’s sizzle and ticks, the phone stutters awake in the kitchen.

Andi hands you her drink and trots up the back stairs to answer. You stay behind, monitoring what is left of the blaze and thinking about Virginia Dentatia.

Some rumors say that the rumors that say she is breathing with difficulty are just rumors. Others point to the fact that this is July, everything reruns, and that Virginia Dentatia may be positioning herself for a higher media profile at a time when there’s nothing else to watch.

When Andi returns, you hand her her scotch and she takes it from you and refocuses her attention on the embers.

Every muscle in her face loose.

The cool night air smelling of damp clover and grass and smoke.

She just wants us to know she’s thinking about us, you say after a while.

Don’t imagine I don’t understand that, Andi says without missing a beat. I do. It’s a natural desire. Everyone knows that.

She feels unexpectedly disconnected from her remaining family, you say. Your father doesn’t talk to her. You don’t talk to your father. Her daughter died too young by decades.

These are all obvious points, Andi says. They bear repeating, of course, but they’re obvious points.

She has nothing to do besides think about how sad it all is.

I think she’s a really neat lady. Who doesn’t? To know her is to love her. She’s been through a lot. She’s generous. She’s strong. Kind. She’s nothing if not kind. Only I wish she’d… what?

Back off a little?

Give us just a bit more room, emotionally speaking. Give us some…. She did that grandkids thing again. She never used to do that grandkids thing. We move, and all of a sudden it’s grandkids, grandkids, grandkids.

She’s searching for sequence.

She has her own friends. Her weekly book club. Her video library.

She’s sensing the end of something, is all.

Go ahead. Make me feel bad.

You shouldn’t feel anything but good. I’m just saying… what? I don’t know what I’m just saying.

Andi deliberates, sipping her scotch.

The sky active with galactic smudges and communications satellites.

I bet she starts calling less frequently the second it dawns on her we’re checking in regularly, you say. That we haven’t, you know, cut off any consequential ties.

Who made you the adult tonight?

Your eyes meet and she withdraws her lips from the rim of her glass and you laugh.

Coyotes erupt into yabbering across Mica Mountain.

You do not think about the pickup truck and the hunters that will end all this.

There is no way to know about that part of the story yet.

Instead, you close your eyes and let the coyotes’ non-language swamp you.

Okay, okay, okay, Andi says. Clearly we’ll give it a try. What else can we do?

You put your arm around her neck, cradle her head in your elbow crook, give her an affectionate squeeze.

That’s the spirit, you say.

What can it hurt, right?

Absolutely.

I mean, what’s the worst that can possibly happen?

Exactly.

No. It’s a question. I’m asking you: What’s the worst that can possibly happen?

You sneak a peek at her.

She continues focusing on the remains of the fire.

Ice wheezes and pops in your glass.

You start feeling the spongy effects of the alcohol.

Now more coyotes, their yabbers sounding like Indians in Westerns made before 1960, high-pitched and juvenilely insane.

All across the valley other coyotes responding.

The wild noise proliferating lickety-split.

Coyotes run in Central Park now. There are documented photographs. In northeastern suburbs. In mall parking lots outside Boston.

But this is different.

Somehow this is different.

Now they fall one-hundred-percent silent and you are left standing there with the impression they never really made a sound in the first place.

Like the aural equivalent of alexia.

Alexia being yet another interesting term.

Like looking at a page of print so long all the black scratches pale into shocking white glare.

Word blindness, the dictionary says. Loss of the ability to read.

Like the aural equivalent of developing a photograph in a chemical solution.

Only in reverse.

Now things start breaking.

The riding mower, for instance.

You climb aboard. You chug ten yards. It kerchunks to a halt.

You hoist yourself off and open the hood as if you have a good chance of figuring out what is wrong inside and discover everything has been haphazardly fastened together with colorful electrical wire and large rusty paper clips.

In the kitchen you find the refrigerator defrosting by itself.

You call the repair people and they tell you it will cost fifty dollars for them to drive out from Moscow to have a look, seventy dollars an hour plus parts after that.

You call Andi who is photographing a softball game in Troy.

Forget it, she says on her cellphone. Wait for me to get home and just forget it.

Which is what you do, watching television.

Watching television helps.

Game shows.

Sitcoms.

The Travel Channel.

You are yourself.

You are not yourself.

Yourself perhaps being too strong a word.

When Andi returns you are waiting in the driveway.

You slide into the car beside her and head into town to purchase a new mower and refrigerator.

The sales people say they will come out tomorrow to drop them off and haul away your departed appliances.

So you step into the shower that evening to relax. You bring a Glenlivet and boom box into the bathroom and put on Miles Davis and light three votive candles.

Three green votive candles.

Humming, eyes closed, you lather your hair and lean into the spray and realize there’s no hot water.

One minute it is working.

One minute it is not working.

You smack the side of the stall.

Something breaks, fine: it is bad luck.

Two things break: it is coincidence.

But three things?

Three things break and there is no precedent for how to feel.

Soap fizzing in your ears, towel around your waist, you descend into the basement. The hot-water heater is sealed and you have no idea how to open it. You tap here, thump there, flip fuses on and off at the fuse box because you have seen people do this on the Home Improvement Channel.

Towel around your waist, caked foam itching, you ascend to the bathroom, take a cold shower, and, tired, shivering, mount the stairs to the bedroom.

Andi is reading a biography of Diane Arbus.

That was some shower, she says without looking up.

Wordless, you crawl in beside her, hoist the quilt, roll on your side, try to fall asleep.

All you can do is blame the previous owner for his negligence and add up how much everything will cost you.

You find yourself anticipating what will break next.

You wonder about the durability of the kitchen range, the age of the roof, the support beams for the porch, the structural integrity of the foundation, the sturdiness of the wiring.

It feels like someone has opened a faucet of epinephrine in your chest.

When you are done wondering, your brain will not shut off, no matter how you try to coax it, so you wonder some more.

You do not have to pee but you get up to pee anyway.

Attempt to pee.

To disrupt the monotony.

You stand over the toilet in the bathroom and attempt to pee but nothing comes out so you return to bed.

This condition is called bashful bladder by doctors.

You lie on your back and watch the light move through various shades.

Carbon.

Ash.

The harder you try to think about something else, the more insistent your mind becomes about sniffing through the residue of the last eighteen hours.

Opal.

Lilac.

The point being that they thought your childhood was a lie, something you made up to impress people.

And this is the thing that gets you.

This is the thing that gets you, even now.

The sky through the wood-slatted blinds seeping toward dawn, you finally spiral into an unpleasant agitated half-sleep.

How in the Ukraine you and Andi from your rented Fiat saw an interesting outcrop behind an off-limits sign and barbed-wire fence on the side of an arid road.

Just as you crawled through the fence to have a look, four Russian soldiers drove up in a battered Jeep and one of them in a single gesture leaped out and began yelling at you.

You assumed he was arresting you.

You imagined he was about to hit you.

At the St. Petersburg railway station you saw a soldier clipping an old man behind the knees with a billy club.

The old man would fall, painstakingly rise, and the soldier would clip him again, he would fall, painstakingly rise, and the soldier would clip him again.

Over and over.

Over and over again.

Until you noticed this soldier was not pointing at the off-limits sign behind you.

He was pointing at your light blue windbreaker.

It occurred to you he was trying to tell you you had put it on inside-out that morning.

Some narratives becoming switchbacks or Gestalt images in which background and foreground swap without warning.

Two seconds, and the phone stutters awake.

It is just past four on your digital clock.

Behind the blinds, outside your open windows, magpies screech in the yard like irradiated monsters in Japanese science-fiction films from your youth.

What seems like two seconds.

Andi breaches from beneath the quilt and grabs the receiver.

Two seconds or four hours.

You cannot make out the particulars of the conversation because you have rolled onto your stomach and are bracing your pillow over your head, but when she hangs up you wait long enough for her to sink back under the quilt, snuggle against you, and exhale comfortably, then you make the announcement that this cannot go on.

She thought the time zones went the other way, Andi explains somewhere above you and to the right.

This has to stop, you say into the mattress.

She wants to feel part of our lives. She says it seems like we’re speaking to her from Jupiter. She can actually detect an electronic lag between our words and hers.

You have to take care of this, Andi.

She worries she’ll never be able to enjoy her grandchildren growing up.

She’s your family, technically. It’s technically, therefore, your responsibility.

I should tell her… what? What should I tell her?

You waiting, cheek pressed against the sheet.

They thought you were making it up. You cannot get over this. How you had to stop telling the truth and start telling lies because the truth seemed so contrived and lies so much more credible.

Okay, okay, okay, Andi says. Okay.

Truth perhaps being too strong a word.

Good, you tell your mattress. That’s good.

Which is where your story begins to begin.

Where the camera commences its work.

Overexposed sunshine, looking into the aperture of a slide projector, or the high beams of a pickup truck in morning fog.

That white.

That utterly vacuous.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

EXAMINE THE PHOTOGRAPH as closely as you like, and ultimately it reveals whatever you want it to reveal.

Her eyes, for instance.

Her eyes could plausibly signify genuine happiness.

But they could also signify the customary happiness of posing before any camera anywhere.

They could signify a private joke.

A private joke or a communal joke.

An almost imperceptible modesty before the act of being photographed or an awkwardness at finding herself on the wrong side of the viewfinder.

Depending on the light source, this photo could have been snapped in the morning, in the afternoon, or at dusk.

Under certain manufactured conditions, it could also be a night shot.

A sunny day, a cloudy day, or a partly cloudy or mostly rainy day.

Reading a photograph, you think, reading this photograph, all comes down to choice.

Choice within certain parameters.

Choice within a certain wide playing field of choices.

This obviously could not be the photograph of an airplane.

This obviously could not be the photograph of an airplane except to the extent that an airplane could have been passing overhead at the moment it was snapped — in which case in a certain sense it obviously could be the photograph of an airplane.

While in all likelihood the photo was taken in Idaho, it is equally possible that it was taken in British Columbia, Finland, or Utah.

In a city park, natural woods, someone’s overgrown backyard.

Outdoors or on an indoor set.

Today or last year.

Last year or half a decade ago.

The point being there is no context to privilege one reading over another.

Vision turning out to be all about the boundaries of vision.

Is the photographer trying to hide something by framing the subject the way he or she did, by employing black-and-white instead of color film, by drawing attention away from the subject’s body to her face?

Or is he or she simply following the conventions of portraiture, though not especially well?

Is it innocence or artifice that accounts for the overexposure and fuzziness?

And what is that in her hands?

A flower, a tissue, a chemical blur?

The intimate detail of how your eyeballs move.

Andi slips out of bed two hours later.

You hear her trying to be quiet at close range, rummaging through the closet, sifting through the bottom drawer of the armoire.

She closes the bedroom door behind her and clumps downstairs.

Lying there, you remember for no reason how your father once took you ice fishing in upstate New York.

Upstate New York or southern Vermont.

You forget which.

Just you and Magritte and your father and his cigars, just the men in the family, just his smoke filling the cab of the rented Chevy pickup as you crept across the pancake landscape white as a dream at dawn.

Magritte being your dog.

Your dog being a golden retriever.

Your golden retriever having acquired stomach parasites in Venezuela.

You have not recalled this in years.

You hear the shower hiss on briefly, then tunk off.

It sneaks up on you Andi drew a blank about the hot-water heater.

The three of you standing in the middle of the empty lake, Magritte, you, and your father, hunkering against the fierce wind, you and your father reminiscent of over-sized puffer fish in your bulky orange parkas.

A thin fishing pole in your gloved hands.

A stick of dynamite with a long fuse in your father’s.

Magritte sometimes raising his head in your living room, apropos of nothing, and vomiting finger-nail-sized white bugs on your sagebrush wall-to-wall.

You come awake again to the sound of your car crunching down the gravel driveway and you lie there listening, feeling culpable.

Your father extracting the cigar from his lips and using its tip to kiss the fuse.

His body a break against the wind.

You resolve to wash all the laundry in the house today.

Men’s men.

Men’s men’s men.

That is what you and your father and Magritte were trying to be.

Wash all the laundry and have dinner waiting when Andi returns, at which time you will tell her to forget about all this grandkid stuff.

Your father reaching back and hurling the stick like a famous baseball pitcher his baseball in order to blow open a hole in the ice through which to fish.

This grandkid stuff and this Grannam stuff.

Because it stands to reason that all the bad stuff will pass.

You being unable to name a single famous baseball pitcher, it occurs to you, lying there, listening to your car gain distance.

The little red dowel bouncing on the white dreaminess maybe thirty feet out.

The wind whipping so hard you suspected your eardrums might implode.

Give it time, you will tell Andi, when she returns, be patient, and it will pass, all the bad stuff will recede into the past.

Things are one way, then they are another.

This seems like an obvious statement.

This seems like an obvious statement, only it is not.

Your sudden awareness of the big reddish-brown indistinctness bounding by you on your right and your father beginning to shout.

This is what you will never forget.

That quick awareness.

Upstate New York, southern Vermont, or Maine.

Maine or Pennsylvania.

Specific location sometimes not being central to a given narrative.

Magritte retrieving, in any case.

You half-dream yourself downstairs, composing a bowl of granola, vanilla yogurt, and banana slices.

You half-dream your father abruptly shouting — first to get back here, get the hell back here, then to stay away, stay the hell away.

It is that easy to change.

Pouring yourself a glass of organic kiwi-and-strawberry juice.

Abruptly yelling and now abruptly grabbing your parka hood and starting to run in the opposite direction from retrieving Magritte, Magritte no longer retrieving, needless to say, but in fact returning from retrieval.

Taking a few minutes to arrange everything pleasingly on a brown turtle-shell plastic tray.

Your legs buckling.

Your father dragging you across the dream.

The wind in your ears like a waterfall.

The last thing you see over your shoulder being Magritte.

Traveling, traveling.

You grinding some coffee beans and scooping the residue into a filter, putting on your sunglasses, heading out to the swing on the front porch in your white terry cloth robe, feeling like an actor in a commercial for healthy living.

The last thing you see over your shoulder being Magritte ducking under the cab of the rented pickup, gray in the icy wind.

A different pickup.

Not the one central to your current story, that is.

Magritte’s tail wagging like mad.

On the swing, you taking out your stylus and PalmPilot from the pocket of your white terry cloth robe and, feeling culpable, trying to think of something to write.

What you are remembering this second, say.

The orange-black fireball.

The orange-black fireball and you being airborne.

In the act of pitching forward.

Your father and you being airborne.

The sound of a steam whistle in your head.

You wiping your mouth with a sand-colored napkin and noticing how the sun striates through the trees like a lush painting by a sentimental Italian.

The last thing you see over your shoulder being the orange-black fireball followed by a huge black-blue hole in the whiteness.

A sentimental Italian or a sentimental Frenchman.

The last thing you hear being the sound of lakewater sloshing out.

Heavy aquatic gurgling.

The storm inside your ears.

Now you boot up the computer in your office.

Sipping coffee, you sort through twenty-three e-mails, almost all of them from Auztin, his tone especially sardonic today.

Some messages are cc’s from your boss’s boss, Zach.

Zach accentuates his irony by bracketing all key words in his memos with quotation marks.

If it’s not “too much trouble” for you, could you please “think” of a “new strategy” for the Williamson “project.”

The voice in his messages is not recognizably anthropoidal.

You work on a site for an artist who chews broken glass with what is left of her demolished teeth.

And for another who has himself shot with small-caliber handguns by his ex-girlfriend.

The visitor to Virtual Digitalus makes his or her way down a long darkly-lit hall with 3-D photographs of the various performers floating around him or her like rotating sugar cubes.

Touch one, and jump to the performer’s exhibition.

You see someone on the street, Diane Arbus once said, and essentially what you notice about them is the flaw.

The visitor will see the artist performing in miniature on three sides of the sugar cube. He or she will see the artist’s name on the fourth. The top of each cube will bear a blinking eye.

If the visitor looks closely at the pupil, he or she will see a beating heart inside.

You would assume Diane Arbus did anything for a living other than being a fashion photographer.

But that is what she did, be a fashion photographer.

For a living, she took photos of perfect people.

More rumors about Virginia Dentatia appear in the chat rooms.

None is good.

The famous photographer understanding, conceivably, that freaks are just like us, only more so.

At noon you take out two paper-wrapped salmon steaks, lay them on an earthenware plate, and set the plate on the counter top.

Now you wander the house, eating an apple for lunch, impressed the phone has not rung once today.

One of the things I felt I suffered from as a kid, Diane Arbus once said, was that I never felt adversity. And the sense of being immune was, ludicrous as it seems, a painful one.

The people with your new riding mower in the back of their rig drive up almost the same minute as the people with your new refrigerator in the back of theirs.

You answer the door, still in your white terry cloth robe, and show them where the machines should go.

As they are unloading, the water-heater man drives up in a dusty flat-gray van unmarked except for a bumper sticker on the front that says, red letters on white, FIGHT CRIME: SHOOT BACK.

An hour later, and they are all gone.

An hour later, and you throw all the dirty clothes you can find into the washer and initiate a cycle, then meander back to your office where you work until three, when you decide to putter in the garden.

So you change into a pair of torn jeans, white t-shirt, faded black-and-white Keds, and bandana, and step through the back door into a cool dry summer day.

Thinning lettuce sprouts and weeding around the baby potato plants suffuses your head with gauzy pleasure.

No water.

No ocean anywhere.

A photograph is a secret about a secret, Diane Arbus once said.

You watch your right thumb and middle finger pincer and pluck, freeing pale thready roots with which you fashion diminutive heaps, and your mind starts sweeping leisurely across web site ideas to an image of Andi on the day you first met her almost seventeen years ago, raising her camera to do a shoot for a story on your company (then a graphic design firm), and now someone is talking to you.

You squint up into the sun’s custard-colored incandescence and make out the silhouette of Jack Pederson, your neighbor from down the road.

His ATV hunkering in your driveway fifty feet behind him like a large dumb pet.

Jack dressed in the same cowboy hat and sharp-toed boots he wore the day he took your photo.

Your and Andi’s photo.

Jack is seventy-two yet refuses to give up ranching.

His father homesteaded the land on which he runs cattle and he is over a foot taller than you but he is still — you search for the right word—lanky.

He is telling you about how he can remember when he was a boy the Indians used to cross this area on horseback, migrating north in the summer and south in the winter.

When you ask him a question, he frames his reply in a maximum of two short sentences as if every word costs him ten dollars.

His skin is foliage brown and reminiscent of dried eel.

He aims his comments over your shoulder, at the lodgepoles behind you, or sometimes at his pet ATV.

He is telling you about how difficult calving can be in February and how, if you are not careful, the cows birth directly onto bare patches of ice, the wet newborns freeze down, and the coyotes sidle in during the night.

A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know.

I went to St. Louis once to visit my son, he says over your shoulder.

Your son lives in St. Louis?

My daughter moved to Spokane. My son moved to St. Louis. He works for the phone company.

What did you think?

I was pretty scared at first. But it’s okay. There’s over a million people there, only you don’t see them all at once.

It takes you a second to pick up something enlivening in his eyes and then going out again.

He touches his cowboy hat with his first two fingers like John Wayne, though you fail to make out the complexion of this gesture.

It seems to exist anywhere on a continuum between honestly polite to richly ironic.

Then he turns and walks toward his ATV.

You go back into your house and transfer the laundry from the washer to the dryer and then you walk down the driveway to the mailbox, enjoying the warm breeze.

Your friends back east cannot place where you have moved.

Many apparently believe Idaho exists somewhere in the midwest near other states that begin with the letter I by some alphabetical decree.

Sometimes on the phone they ask, joking, how things are in Montana, implying that on the other side of the Hudson all states must be pretty much the same state.

Sometimes they ask what sort of neighbor Theodore Kaczynski really is.

Like Andi’s grandmother, they worry about you. They doubt the logic of your decision. They cannot imagine how you spend your time, how you can possibly fill your days, because they cannot imagine how they could spend their time, possibly fill their days, if they were in the same situation.

Andi and you are learning to take this in stride.

You even find a certain amount of good sense in the reading they give your life: ten years ago, ten months ago, you would have given it the same reading.

Yet you also understand they will not visit and that over time they will forget you, filing you away with other friends about whom they have nothing but good feelings who have broken suburban faith and wandered off into the wilderness that begins just beyond the western palisades of the George Washington Bridge.

Even now, as you walk up your driveway, sorting through magazines, shoppers, and bills, you notice their letters have begun shrinking, tapering into two- and three-line postcards that tell you less and less.

Less and less and less.

You extract the laundry from the dryer, fold it, and tuck or hang it away in its proper drawer or closet.

Outside, at nearly three-thousand feet, the late afternoon sun is brutal.

At nearly three-thousand feet and well above the forty-fifth parallel, you can actually sense the UV rays frizzling inside your cells.

You can actually sense your skin aging faster than the skin of people who live at sea level.

Like the skin of celebrities in Aspen and Telluride.

Only less famous.

You light the grill on your deck overlooking the gully through which Bear Creek runs.

By this point in the year the water makes weak trickling noises as it passes over cannonball-sized rocks.

In the early spring, after the melt, Jack says, it will sound like a perpetually heavy rain.

On the other side of the gully, almost lost in the woods, is an old cemetery plot belonging to the family that lived on this parcel in the twenties and thirties before their cabin burned down and they moved back to Michigan.

Michigan or Minnesota.

It could have been either.

The plot has the rough dimensions of your garden, perhaps fifteen by fifteen. It is surrounded by a droopy barbed-wire fence and overgrown with huckleberry and thistles. The tombstones are jumbled, weathered, tilting at disconcerting angles.

Most are almost impossible to read, though you and Andi have found birth dates as early as 1856 and death dates as late as 1938.

You scrape charred meat and ancient fish scales off the bars of the grill with a spatula and back in the kitchen free a can of beer from the six-pack in your shiny white refrigerator with a brisk twisting motion, pop the top, wander through the house, drinking.

The shitting fields, obviously, and the leeches.

How, after a rain, leeches would appear everywhere in Nepal. In puddles. On leaves. Sprinkled across boulders. One-inch-long black shell-less snails that could stand up on their back ends like little boneless prairie dogs and suck so much of your blood you could weaken before you noticed.

The way you hiked among the foothills of the Annapurna Range.

The way Machhapuchhare jagged up twenty-one-thousand feet on your right like a huge snowy fin and the terraced farmland staircased down to the river on your left and something would itch your ankle and you would roll up your pants to scratch it and discover your socks speckled with dark pink patches.

Or the way, say, you heard stories about boa constrictors attacking VW Beetles and eating small sleeping children in thatched huts in Venezuela.

Your teachers thinking you were lying.

You about to cry, you being so humiliated.

In the kitchen, you turn on two electric burners on top of the stove. In the loft, you crank the volume on the television. You hear the satellite dish whir into position out back.

I have never taken a picture I’ve intended, Diane Arbus once said. I really believe there are things nobody would see if I didn’t photograph them.

Listening to the news channel, you open the cabinet above the counter and take out a bag of spaghetti and jar of garlic-and-basil sauce. Someone is either having an affair with a congressman or not having an affair with a congressman, depending on whom you decide to believe. You pour some of the sauce into one pot and fill another with water and place them both on the burners, the right set on low, the left on high. The Royal Family either tried to have Diana killed or did not try to have her killed, depending on whom you decide to believe. You take down two earthenware plates, two bowls, two mugs, and you make yourself a salad of lettuce, spinach, and diced cabbage, none of which is from your garden but will be within two weeks, then you stand in the middle of the kitchen, occasionally taking swigs from your beer, staring straight ahead and thinking about a synonym for pale lemon, the color of the feverish light saturating the room.

The same color as the stains in the sheet your mother took out of the washer after she had inadvertently scooped up a poisonous snake black as fear with the dirty laundry and it had struck repeatedly as it drowned.

Done with the beer, you crack in half a fistful of spaghetti, drop the two stiff bundles into the boiling water, pour yourself a Dalwhinnie as the water froths, drop three ice cubes in another glass and slip it into the freezer, then step out onto the deck again with the salmon steaks on a plate in your left hand and the scotch in a cold glass in your right.

You lay the two radiant pink slabs on the grill and close the lid.

Now you consult your watch, balance the scotch on the railing, close your eyes, and concentrate on the gentle fluid motion of the creek until it becomes the only thing you hear.

How, sitting in the restroom in Szeged in flat southern Hungary, you discovered there was no more toilet paper and so you reached into the pockets of your pants and wiped your ass with hundred-forint bills because forints were worth so little and they were all you had.

How in Kathmandu you kneeled to pet a brown puppy curled up against a wall in Durbar Square and realized it was dead.

At the base of the porch, you unzip your fly and, looking into branches netting above you, pee in a long and formidable arc.

That is where Andi finds you.

She comes around the corner of the house, camera case and tripod over her shoulder, stops in midstride, and slackens into laughter.

You laugh too, happy to see her, and raise your left hand, indicating that she should hold off a second.

You finish, shake yourself dry, zip up, and trot over to kiss her.

She hugs you and her dense café-au-lait hair smells of some fragrant shampoo or leave-in conditioner.

While she heads down into the basement to drop off her equipment, you flip the salmon and move into the kitchen to stir the spaghetti sauce and prepare her scotch so it is waiting for her when she returns.

Now you step out on the deck with her and ask her about her day.

In flickering chips of summer light, she tells you about her shoot at the mill in Troy, how it turns out to be the case that every logger maintains a beard while everyone in logging management is clean-shaven.

She comments on the breaking news story she heard on the radio on her way home that the government is planning to make the Hanford nuclear site near Richland, Washington, into a national theme park.

Offhandedly, almost as an aside on her path to more interesting narrative terrain, she tells you:

I called Grannam this morning.

You didn’t need to do that, you say too quickly. Look. All we have to do is learn to be a little more… what’s the word?… tolerant. We have to learn to be a little more tolerant. She’ll get used to us being gone.

You put down your scotch and start lifting the salmon off the grill with the spatula.

I told her I was pregnant, Andi says.

You stop lifting.

Your eyes pivot toward her even though your body idles.

I told her I went to the doc as soon as I missed my period, she says.

You resume lifting. You lower the salmon steaks onto the earthenware plate so that they overlap slightly, then you squat, turn off the grill and the gas tank under the grill, stand, pick up the plate in your right hand and the scotch in your left, and head toward the back door. Andi opens it for you.

Thanks, you say. I’m pretty sure I’ve got this grilling business down. Seven minutes on the first side, the one with scales, flip, peel off the scales with the spatula, five minutes on the second, then an additional two on the first.

You turn off the burners on top of the kitchen stove, pour the spaghetti into a colander already in the sink, walk back and stir the sauce.

Studying your moving hand, you say:

Could you do the water?

Andi replaces you at the sink and turns on the faucet. The pump in the basement fumbles awake. Andi opens the cabinet above the counter and takes out two glasses and one at a time holds them under the faucet. She puts them alongside the salads on the brown turtle-shell plastic trays you have prepared.

You’re making me nervous, she says, taking up a position by the refrigerator.

So the government takes a place that manufactured plutonium for bombs after World War II and decides to make it into a national theme park?

Like Williamsburg, she says, only bigger. Disney is involved, I think. Disney or Bertelsmann.

They have garbage in those storage tanks they don’t even know what it is anymore, it’s so mixed up.

You spatula the salmon steaks onto the earthenware plates on the trays, then add the spaghetti, then garnish the spaghetti with the bright red garlic-and-basil sauce.

You lift one tray, Andi the other, and head out to the deck and down the stairs to the spacious wooden chairs by the empty fire pit.

Balancing your tray on the flat wide armrest, you shake out a napkin and place it in your lap, then retrieve the tray and set it across your thighs.

Andi follows suit.

Six-hundred square miles of waste facilities designed to last a hundred years, tops, housing we don’t even know what, you say. Is the salmon okay?

The salmon is perfect.

Not too dry?

It couldn’t be moister.

Because I hate it when it’s too dry. All I can think about when it’s over-cooked is carcinogenic residue.

They’re not calling it a, quote, national theme park, unquote. They’re calling it a, quote, historical sanctuary and health resort, unquote. People sit in uranium mines in Montana for their aching joints. If you prefer to avoid direct exposure, you can rent radiation gear and a respirator.

People will sightsee. This will become their idea of a vacation.

Maybe they’re really visiting in order to view our culture’s gains and losses.

Two-headed cows in Chernobyl. A little forget-me-not at the gift shop on your way out.

You eat in silence, paying close attention to your food, until Andi says:

You told me to take care of it, so I took care of it. At the time it struck me as a good idea.

I didn’t do anything for dessert, you say.

That’s fine.

Extra calories, I thought, and suddenly wham: tomorrow morning we’re up three pounds.

Good thinking.

There’s some fruit in the fridge, if you’d like something else. Watermelon. Cantaloupe. I think we have some blueberry sorbet, too. I could check. Blueberry or mango. I’m not sure which. One of the indecently colored ones.

She’s eighty-nine.

And coffee, of course. We have coffee.

She can’t travel. There’s no way she’d be able to come out to visit or anything.

Decaf. Mocha java.

I’m okay, thanks. The ball will be in our court.

You arrange everything for maximum equilibrium on your tray, delicately tease your napkin out from under it, ball it, adjust it on the oily plate, stand.

Close your eyes.

Open them.

Nothing changes.

Everything changes and everything remains the same.

I think I have to watch some TV right now, you say, aiming for the deck.

Clicking randomly through channels, you listen to Andi wash dishes downstairs.

Water sibilates.

A pot clanks against another pot.

Silverware clinks and jingles like a bowl of spare change.

The pump in the basement clacks on, hums for the length of a Nike commercial, clacks off.

The refrigerator opens with a sucking sound. Something rattles. The refrigerator thumps shut, reminding you of an airlock on a Hollywood spaceship.

They thought your childhood was too weird to be true.

That is the thing that gets you.

They thought it was too otherworldly not to be made up.

That is the thing that hurts, even now.

Some brands of bottled water are contaminated with pollutants that can cause mild hallucinations, disorientation, and memory loss or are not contaminated with pollutants that can cause mild hallucinations, disorientation, and memory loss, depending on whom you decide to believe.

A sense of well-being gradually descends upon you.

Well-being perhaps being too strong a word.

An American record company kept a badly burned Buddy Holly alive in a London hospital years after his plane crash so he could ghost-write music for the early Beatles or did not keep him alive, depending on whom you decide to believe.

You feel increasingly… something… though you cannot put your finger on the precise emotion.

A radical Muslim tried to kill the Pope by planting radioactive pellets under his mattress or did not try to kill him, depending on whom you decide to believe.

Soft, perhaps, like the barely audible hum on an amplifier past midnight.

She won’t last forever, Andi says, taking a seat beside you on the futon.

I feel… giddy, you say, looking straight ahead, surprised by your word choice. Like that moment the jumbo jet you’re in lifts off the tarmac and you can literally see the fuselage swaying back and forth in front of you.

She puts an arm around your shoulders and squeezes.

Fuselage torque, I believe it’s called, you say.

She’s eighty-nine. She can’t travel. There’s no reason in the world for her to suspect anything. She’s just heard what she always thought she was going to hear one day.

You ponder this, then say, as if it were your own idea:

All we’re doing is fulfilling her dream, is your point.

My point is no harm, no foul.

You sneak a peek at her and then look back at the Mitsubishi wide-screen television and hold out the remote like a raygun to turn down the volume.

She gets what she wants, you say in the new stillness, beginning to incorporate this information into your field of perception, and we get what we want. No one’s hurt. Nothing bad happens to anyone.

Everyone’s simply more hopeful than before.

You ponder this as well, then turn to her and say:

One can almost think of this as the dictionary definition of a white lie.

Plus, well… plus it can’t exactly be unsaid once it’s said, can it?

It would devastate her, you say.

It would be ten times worse than never having said it in the first place.

You ponder this, too.

So we’re committed, basically, you say after a while.

The Olympic skier halfway down the jump, says Andi.

Because there’s nothing else we can do, really, is there?

Nothing at all, Andi says, reaching for the remote. No.

Or, say, the way your mother called one morning to let you know your father had coughed up a clot of blood during the night.

The way you stood at the picture window watching Andi pruning shrubs in your front yard in northern New Jersey, listening to your mother explain, her voice agitated.

Andi in jean cut-offs and an old t-shirt.

A blank old t-shirt that said nothing.

The turnpike tinging the sky brown-yellow like the skies in old photographs.

The way, when she noticed you watching, she stood and smiled, first wiping something from her left cheek with her gloved right hand, then arching in a luxurious stretch.

Nothing is ever the same as they said it was, Diane Arbus once said.

The glistening entrails of a small bird in a handkerchief.

That red, you imagined, standing there.

That white.

Andi smiling into the cloudy sunshine, eyes shut, enjoying the faultless day.

Enjoying the apparently faultless day.

Now opening her eyes again and beginning to walk toward you framed in the window, into the process of aging.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

THE REAL IS EXACTLY LIKE THE UNREAL, only more aesthetically disappointing.

Take this ultrasound.

What purports to be this ultrasound.

It is precisely what it purports to be.

You know this because you locate it on an obstetrics web site, download it, and, besides changing its format from jpeg to photographic negative, you leave it exactly as you found it: gray and grainy, poorly cropped, interpretively indeterminate.

It is precisely what it purports to be, assuming the obstetrics web site is an obstetrics web site and not, say, an artist’s web site masquerading as an obstetrics web site.

You can never really be sure, of course.

To the untrained eye, to your eye, it is impossible to tell whether the subject is a boy or a girl, what its state of health might be, why it has unfurled from fetal curl into sea-turtle crawl.

It is so imperfect as to seem deliberately staged.

An observation which puts you in mind of a story you once read on another web site, which may or may not have been accurate:

Years after he became a superstar, Joe Cocker fell on hard times and returned to his rough neighborhood in Sheffield to regroup. One evening he went down to the corner pub to have himself a pint. No sooner had he raised the drink to his lips than someone at the other end of the bar told him to knock off with the Joe Cocker act.

I’m not doing a Joe Cocker act, Joe Cocker said. I’m Joe Cocker.

Bollocks, mate, said the man at the other end of the bar. Lay off. It’s fucking pathetic.

It’s not bollocks. You’re looking at Joe Cocker hisself.

If you’re Joe fucking Cocker, another patron joined in, then sing us a bit of the blues. Go on. Sing us “Delta Lady” or whatsit.

I don’t sing anymore, Joe Cocker said.

Sod off, you sorry fuck, the first patron said.

I won’t sod off, replied Joe Cocker. I’m him. I swear blind. I just gave up with the music bit a while.

Shall we show ’im some real Joe Cocker, then? asked the second patron.

Right, said the first. Let’s.

And so they dragged him into the alley behind the pub and beat him senseless for looking so much like himself.

Yet in that small translation from jpeg to negative the ultrasound becomes something more than an ultrasound.

Change its context and you change the codes you employ to read it.

Change the codes you employ to read it and you change its essence.

Essence perhaps being too strong a word.

Even though its surface details have not altered, the ultrasound becomes modified in complicated if difficult-to-articulate ways.

Gray and grainy, say, becomes interestingly textured. Poorly cropped becomes richly suggestive. Interpretively indeterminate becomes abundant with meaning.

In that instant of translation, simple documentation eases toward composition.

One must always tell what one sees, Charles Péguy once said. But above all, which is more difficult, one must always see what one sees.

For more than a decade after you were married, Andi and you discussed the prospect of children diligently and on a fairly regular basis.

You took the matter seriously.

You did not joke around about it any.

Have them, you decided, and you are doing nothing more nor less than making a bid to perpetuate your own genes.

Have them, and you are attempting to produce another human being over whom by default you have earned the right to exert blanket control for five to thirteen years, moderate control for five to eight more, and minimal if frequently surreptitious and psychologically damaging control for decades to come.

Do not have them, and you are making a bid to perpetuate your own selfishness, denying a certain sort of citizenly responsibility.

Do not have them, and you are evincing a puerile repudiation of maturation.

And yet you could not shake the feeling that children are not so much children as a breed of defective adults.

They do everything adults do, that is, except they do it much worse.

Being as they are, for instance, noisy, messy, and egomaniacal.

Noisy, messy, egomaniacal, and cruel, combative, recalcitrant, näive, needy, histrionic, uninformed, opinionated, untruthful, insecure, moody, amoral, and physically and emotionally destructive.

Neither you nor Andi ever especially liked being around them, either.

You never knew what to say or how to behave in their presence.

Plus, Andi whispered, turning to you one night in the middle of a northern New Jersey movie theater in the middle of a lightweight spoof about the wacky adorable things kids do, I don’t want something alien growing inside me.

You glanced over at her, mouth stuffed with artificially butter-flavored carbohydrates and fiber, to see if she was pulling your leg.

She was not.

Swallowing, you whispered:

Fair enough. But experts on Oprah say that motherhood is all about nurturing and joy.

I don’t want something forming inside me that literally makes me sick, day after day. Sciatica. Vomiting. The unstoppable need to urinate.

She helped herself to a handful of your popcorn.

Constipation, she added. Varicose veins.

The young couple behind you shushed you.

Andi turned in her seat and shushed them back.

You’ve been thinking a lot about this, you whispered supportively.

Dreaming its own dreams beneath your heart. The very idea frightens me.

You watched children the size of Army tanks abusing their parents’ house on the screen. Audience members in your neighborhood chortled knowingly. Something the size of a great oak fell and smashed in Dolby sound.

We could always adopt, you whispered after a while.

In certain circumstances, I have no problem with adoption. Infertility, say. Age concerns. But for us adoption would spell bad faith. Simple cowardice in the face of the unfaceable.

I don’t understand, if I’m being really honest here, you whispered, how parents do it. Have you ever noticed that hollow, wasted, terrified look in their eyes two weeks after their babies arrive?

Like they finally understood the lifelong consequences of what they’ve just done?

One week they’re thirty, the next fifty.

Look how their skin turns gray overnight.

Their shoulders sag. They lose the ability to focus. They suffer from symptoms of sleep deprivation. They become irritable and self-absorbed and easily distracted.

They lose the ability to use an adult vocabulary and syntax and start worrying about how they’re going to pay for everything.

And then they begin talking in public about the color of their baby’s stool: semi-solid with light swirly hazelnut hues throughout, and so forth.

And then their child’s backing out of the driveway on the road to college and they’re standing on the front doorstep, wondering where the last eighteen years of their lives have gone, yet at the same time crushed by an overwhelming sense of loss they refuse to admit exists, saying every minute was worth it.

The young couple behind you hurrumphed and rose to move to a different section of the theater.

You noticed the woman was pregnant.

And labor, Andi said, no longer whispering. Don’t forget labor. They say birthing feels as if you grabbed your upper lip in your fist and yanked your facial flesh over your skull. In terms of pain magnitude, it’s the equivalent of losing a limb while you’re fully conscious.

Excuse me, the usher susurrated, kneeling beside you, pimply pale face floating in darkness, but I’m going to have to ask you to keep it down. People are trying to watch the movie.

It’s okay, Andi told him. We’re done.

She stood and without hesitation walked up the aisle toward the exit.

You looked at her vanishing, looked at the usher, handed him what was left of your popcorn, and hurried to catch up.

One morning not long afterwards you drove Andi to the hospital.

One afternoon not long afterwards you waited by her bedside as she swam through anesthetic.

A box of cherry chocolates and a dozen roses in your lap.

Cherry chocolates and chocolate-covered marzipans.

Then you drove her home.

Chocolate-covered marzipans being her favorite.

An unassuming half-inch incision at the base of her belly button.

It was this easy to make a decision.

It was this easy to change.

It always had been.

Neither of you mentioned children again, except sometimes on New Year’s Eve, appraising where you had traveled and where you were still planning to travel over a glass of champagne in the bathtub.

In order to congratulate yourself.

It was not for everyone, you agreed.

Now you are A.

Now you are B.

But you did not miss them.

You seldom even thought about them.

As you slid through your thirties, your friends began birthing around you.

It felt like mortars dropping in closer and closer to your home.

You gradually came to understand what being a minority feels like.

On occasion Andi wondered aloud what was wrong with her, biologically speaking, because she did not respond to children, did not long for them, found them nine times out of ten unpleasant ectoplasmic correlatives to black holes, absorbing the light from everything that had the misfortune to fall into their gravitational fields.

Being a minority feels like being wrapped in Saran Wrap.

Sometimes when you invited friends over for dinner, they would show up carrying their children in elaborately designed pseudo-Indian backpacks with bags full of toys and video cartridges at their sides.

Being a minority feels like forgetting cornerstone phrases of a foreign language you have rehearsed over and over in your mind as soon as the person in the customs booth begins asking you questions.

The children uninvited, it nearly goes without saying.

Sometimes you would spend the rest of the evening attempting to have a single meaningful conversation as your friends fluttered like finches around their offspring.

Leg cramps.

Leg cramps and skin problems.

Sometimes, particularly as the children began to enlarge, Andi and you got down on the carpet and played with them, she warily, you more or less content though never fully engaged, because you felt this was what was expected of you.

Got down on the carpet or took them to arcades, amusement parks, and other locales you needed a child by your side in order to enter.

Leg cramps, skin problems, and high blood pressure.

Exhausted, you were always happy to return them to their owners by sundown.

Leg cramps, skin problems, high blood pressure, and hemorrhoids.

Watching their owners reach for them, sincerely delighted expressions sprawling across their faces, it always struck you with great force how unqualified every person in the world was to raise another human being.

Now it strikes you how very little you know about the actual process.

What it entails.

What it is like.

It strikes you as you look out the window at Andi ambling up the driveway after slipping into the mailbox a padded envelope for Grannam which contains the fuzzy photo of her taken in a city park, in the woods, or in someone’s overgrown backyard with the word Expecting! scrawled across the back.

You never really paid it much attention.

Why would you?

You never really asked your friends what it felt like because you were simply never that curious.

It stands to reason.

The whole thing should come as no real surprise.

Still, to pull it off, you explain to Andi as she ambles through the front door, pinkish heat patching her cheeks, you are going to have to undertake some solid research.

This will not be as easy as it at first appears, you say.

This will not be a breeze.

Andi reflects a moment and agrees.

She stands there, apparently startled by the sudden earnestness in your voice, agreeing.

Next day she detours into Moscow on her way to Pullman for a shoot and launches a hunt at the university library.

You stay at home and run multiple computer searches on various engines during breaks from work.

Initially you come across adult sites featuring photos of pregnant women presumably absorbed in imaginative if depressing acts, then lengthy debates on Medicaid coverage for expectant moms, teen hotlines and chat spaces, programs for housing knocked-up kids, family planning clinics, the benefits of vitamin B and folic acid, some kinky prosthetics available solely in northern Europe, homepages highlighting proud mothers-to-be or lately delivered grimacing babies, and instructions on how to become pregnant, how not to become pregnant, how to become unpregnant, what exactly pregnancy is.

Now you are floating through a digital Milky Way of pertinent data.

One photo demonstrating that at eight weeks an embryo appears to be a diaphanous half-inch-long tadpole suspended in black-liquid void.

If you have morning sickness, you learn, you should try eating crackers.

If you smoke, so does your baby.

Andi almost two decades ago, raising her camera for the first time in your presence.

One must always see what one sees, Charles Péguy once said, and Paul Valéry once said To see is to forget the name of the thing one sees.

You may develop cravings, naturally.

You may develop aversions to foods you usually adore.

If your breasts are large, you may be more comfortable wearing a bra at night as well as during the day.

Andi raising her camera for the first time in your presence and then, after the shoot, you perhaps not unpredictably making a point of waiting around so you could start up a conversation with her.

Talking with the woman who would become your wife but was not your wife then.

Her eyes.

Her eyes, brown and bright as the candy in her hospital room years later, being the part of her you remember best.

You, of course, knowing only one of these facts at the time.

That she was not your wife, that is.

Her brown eyes and the way her hand self-consciously reached for her jaw, as if she had a toothache, not knowing what else to do without her camera.

Limb buds emerging like white anemones.

Limb buds emerging like white anemones, her eyes, her hand reaching up, and how she smiled into the cloudy sunshine, walking toward you, enjoying the faultless day.

Enjoying the apparently faultless day.

Never douche during pregnancy, it almost goes without saying, unless your doctor tells you to.

Brain and spinal cord no more than a barely decipherable flatworm.

If you drink alcoholic beverages, so does your baby.

If you use drugs or medications, so does your baby.

And so you asked her if she would like to catch a bite to eat after the shoot and she said after a not unpredictable second’s pause Why not?

Never believe the myth that bed rest helps improve blood flow to your uterus while reducing physical stress.

Current studies, needless to say, showing the opposite.

Current studies showing that such rest for most women can actually produce serious side effects, including depression, headache, muscle loss, weight loss, and difficulty walking.

She said Why not? and a week later she took your photo from behind, naked.

Duck, she said, walking into the bathroom while you shaved.

Duck and cover.

And you saw in the flash the red pinprick pulse of the fetal heart, though you would not recognize what it was you had seen for almost seventeen years.

More than a decade and a half.

Almost half your life.

Clicking.

The subtextual message of the information you uncover is twofold.

On the one hand, everything will turn out fine in the end. Ignore the bad times and remember the good. Your baby and you will live happily ever after.

On the other hand, appalling, deplorable, ghoulish things might happen to you and your child if you are not careful.

If you are careful.

If you are careful or if you are not careful, some babies are born without faces, for example.

Without brains.

Without compassion.

So remain vigilant.

Do not take any shortcuts and hurry home fast as you can.

Remain vigilant, but understand that sometimes remaining vigilant will not be enough.

Sometimes the forest will burst into flames around you.

All you can do is drink six to eight glasses of liquid every day, try pullover tops and skirts or pants with elastic waists, and remember that special creams are available for soothing and softening your dry scaly skin.

Hot baths will make you dizzy, the area around your nipples will darken, the total amount of blood in your body will increase.

Now you are you.

Now you are you and more than you.

Do not cut down on salt, contrary to what you might think.

Contrary to what your intuition tells you.

You to the second power.

The embryo of an advanced form more or less retraces its evolutionary path as it develops, echoing stages of lower ancestral forms: before it becomes a mammal in the uterus, it becomes a fish, an amphibian, a reptile.

Within your child’s brain resides the brain of an insect.

An amoeba.

A virus.

If amoebae and viruses can be said to have brains, obviously.

Traveling, traveling.

The English, Andi reports over breakfast one day, refer to fetuses as little strangers and to pregnant women as preggers or hairy preggers.

To cheat the starter for them means to become pregnant out of wedlock, while on is a euphemism for the menstrual cycle, and hence not becoming pregnant, as in No, I’m not pregnant, thank god, I just came on.

Synonyms for the phrase to make pregnant include put in the club, put up the duff, and stork used as a transitive verb.

As in:

He storked her.

Australians say you are up the flue or clucky when they mean you are pregnant.

In African American slang, a woman can be fat, in pig, or poisoned.

One can always have a bun in the oven or an egg in the nest, be on the hill, up the creek, caught, or gotten with child.

One can always be heavy, great, carrying, anticipating a blessed event, or simply in a delicate condition.

You explain to Andi you are dizzy with details.

It feels, you say, glass of organic kiwi-and-strawberry juice in your hand, like the first ten minutes in the Kathmandu airport. Everything is fresh and interesting and overwhelming. You do not understand the language. You cannot figure which way to walk. Everyone wants to carry your suitcases.

How do people do this? you ask. How do they make it turn out all right in the end?

Organic kiwi-and-strawberry or organic pineapple-and-banana juice.

Which one is unimportant, to be honest.

Next day you experience psychosomatic morning sickness.

The sensation is both exhilarating and disconcerting.

If you think hard enough about it, your breasts hurt.

You want to use the word boobs to refer to them.

My boobs are humongous, you want to say. Humongous and achy.

Andi cancels a PR shoot for a Mexican restaurant in Moscow and stays home to look after you. She brings you a plateful of crackers and sits in a rocking chair beside your bed, reading to you from her library books.

When you are taking an iron supplement to stave off anemia, she reports, your bowel movements will become darker and harder than usual.

Should I know this? you ask, palpating your nipples.

Playing classical music may lead to more complex brain development in fetuses.

Then again, it may not.

By the fifth month, your fetus will begin to turn head over heels in your uterus like a weightless scuba diver.

Your nipples will begin to drip small amounts of clear or yellowish fluid called colostrum as a sign your body is preparing for breast feeding.

Should I know this? you ask again, palpating.

Leg cramps.

Leg cramps and hemorrhoids perhaps being the worst.

Colostrum can dry into a crust and should be washed off with warm water since soap and alcohol dry the skin and contribute to making your breasts sore.

Leg cramps, hemorrhoids, or swelling of the face.

Wear a cotton or absorbent pad in your bra.

Unless severe headaches, blurred vision, flashes of light, sharp abdominal pain, relentless vomiting, the appearance of blood vessels protruding from the rectum, or the sudden escape of fluid from the vagina are the worst.

From beneath the light sheets, you explain to Andi that you are horrified.

Horrified and intrigued.

It is not an either-or distinction.

You feel like you are picking your way through a zone of trespass, yet cannot stop inching forward.

This is the special knowledge most fecund people possess, isn’t it, you say.

The esoterica of parenthood.

Andi rises from the rocker and puts John Coltrane on the stereo, peels out of her kneeless jeans and extra-large blue pin-striped button-down cotton shirt, disappears into the bathroom, reappears with a handtowel, and crawls under the sheets with you.

She hands you the towel and you reach over and rub her nipples.

Mmmmm, she says. That’s nice.

I’m glad, you say.

All this talk of generation. It’s like a… it’s like an intravenous.

A life shot. Yes.

You roll each nipple between your thumb and forefinger, stretch each to the side, massage her breasts with a delicacy you have never wholly investigated before.

You use your mouth.

Your mouth and your tongue.

Eyes closed, you speculate on what your whiskers must feel like on her skin from her point of view.

The frequencies in the room recollate.

Gravidity, Andi is saying somewhere above you. Fetation…

You massaging, contemplating these radiant words.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

THE UNREAL IS EXACTLY LIKE THE REAL, only more sincere.

Take this shot that purports to be of a very pregnant Andi taken by a very pregnant Andi.

A self-portrait, presumably.

In point of fact, she finds it in a book at the university library and brings it home for you to work on.

The original is luscious with color.

Color and density.

If you touched it, you imagine, it might stick to your fingers.

It portrays most of a blond woman’s head, the lower part of her face buried in elbow crook, eyes shut, asleep, the large swath of crimson sheets on which she lies.

That white.

That red.

Her hair fanning out behind her, forming a curve that echoes the curve of her spine, which echoes the curves of her visible shoulder, wrist, elbow, breast, buttocks, shocking belly.

You take it back to your office and scan it into Adobe Photoshop.

Throw it from color into grayscale.

Crop out the woman’s head, most of her hair, airbrush away the rest, zoom in and re-crop to highlight that belly, resize the whole into the dimensions of a conventional snapshot, save the file, transfer it to a Zip disk.

You ask University Photographic Services to translate it into a negative which you drop off at the local one-hour service shop on your way to a local café.

After a cup of coffee, you return to pick up the finished five-by-seven.

Sitting behind the wheel of your Trace in the parking lot, air conditioner exhaling continuously, you study the results.

Watchful not to smudge the glossy skin, you cant it this way and that, admiring the subtle commerce of light and dark, its exultation of feminine flexures, its well-proportioned human warmth.

Photography is the reality, Susan Sontag once wrote. The real object is often experienced as a letdown.

Sunrises, that is, look corny to us nowadays.

Weddings sappy.

Car crashes lack emphasis.

All because of chemical compounds.

All because of chemical compounds and photosensitive surfaces.

We learn to see ourselves photographically: to regard oneself as attractive is, precisely, to judge that one would look good in a photograph.

All because a Frenchman, Joseph Niépce, spread bitumen across a metal plate one day in 1827 and then exposed the plate to the view out his window for nearly eight hours: an amalgam of ill-defined geometric shapes reminiscent of a proto-cubist painting by Cézanne (who would not be born for another dozen years) that suggest nothing so much as the heavy walls of a prison.

Thereby generating a one-of-a-kind image which was precisely what the public did not want.

The public, it turned out, wanted reproducible shots instead.

William Talbot obliged them in 1835 by making negatives which could then be transformed into positives.

Millions of silver salt crystals breaking down in light.

Over and over.

Over and over and over again.

Every camera a dark chamber.

Every camera a mouth.

Talbot patented the new and improved version in 1841 under the name calotype.

From the Greek for beautiful mark, beautiful outline, beautiful form.

You do not know any Greek.

But still.

Within five years, a German photographer had invented a technique for retouching the negative, making the beautiful mark more beautiful than the original.

The first impulse after imagining the photograph, naturally, was to imagine a way to make it deceive.

To make it deceive more completely.

Afterward, the popularity of the camera soared.

You buy a chain saw and study the safety guide.

At the northern edge of your property, you locate a small stand of dead lodgepole pines and go to work felling them for an additional three cords of winter wood.

The gaudy drone reminding you of a bantam single-engine plane.

It speaks to you about power and freedom.

Power, freedom, and self-sufficiency.

The act refuses to allow you to contemplate anything but its own existence: the angle of the bar, the tension of the chain, your forefinger on the throttle.

No water.

No ocean anywhere.

The opulent vibration sweeping through your hands and into your arms and across your cortex.

The first tree stirring so diffidently you almost miss the motion.

Lifting off your bar, cracking into momentum, slamming down in a dull thump and dust billow.

Andi standing behind you the whole time.

Andi standing behind you the whole time holding your shirt tails in case she needs to pull you away from disaster.

She erupting into a series of celebratory shouts of which you become aware only after you have shut off your saw and your ears stop humming and your chest stops humming and your brain rises out of the sonic haze.

You flip up your visor, pivot, and, vigilant about the saw’s trajectory, bow at the waist, packed with satisfaction and accomplishment.

Deer stray from the woods at twilight to graze in your garden.

Their coats blend with the leafage so well they appear to be shadows drifting through ashy light.

For a week or two, clapping your hands is sufficient to scatter them. Then clapping your hands and stomping. Then clapping your hands and stomping and shouting.

In the end, however, you clap and stomp and shout while walking towards them.

Menacingly.

You walk toward them menacingly and yet they show no fear.

You approach so near that when you reach out your hand you actually touch one.

Yards away they seem fragile and delicately boned.

Palming this doe, though, you feel unmediated animal strength, the shudder of muscles down her half-barrel flank as she huffs and bolts.

Her shock shocks you.

Then the only thing remaining of her is a certain fullness to the air.

An after-scent of hide and dried leaves.

That night they return while you sleep and rip off carrot tops, leaving wilted clumps splayed uneaten on the ground.

They finish most of the lettuce and the pea vines and stamp down potato plants.

A pointillist constellation of sharp forked hoofprints every which way.

You drive into town next day and buy eight eight-foot posts and a roll of mesh.

It takes you all afternoon to sink them, most of the evening to hammer up the fencing.

Flashlight in hand, you crawl among the rows, what is left of the rows, removing the damaged vegetables, patting down the soil.

Near midnight, you set up the sprinkler and let it run.

Just out of range of your beam, you hear deer picking their meticulous way through the undergrowth.

Lingering.

The first ten minutes in Kathmandu airport or how smoke from your father’s cigarettes flooded the Land Rover as you drove over thousands of crabs.

Crabs or the backbones of frogs.

It was a long time ago.

The windows rolled up.

Even after the rains.

Even on nice afternoons.

Even on nice afternoons he would roll up the windows and open the air vent, which only had the effect of circulating the cigarette smoke through the cabin more efficiently.

One elbow pressed against the closed window.

One hand on the steering wheel.

Cigarette dangling from his lips like a movie star from the forties.

You cannot remember him being happier than during those particular moments.

The cells in his lungs already beginning to go awry on a molecular level, presumably.

Minute genetic damage already beginning to accumulate.

Like dawn gathering bluely across the Finnish countryside in December.

That subtle.

That haunting.

Andi wanders from room to room in the summer house, white light fogging the air, exposing her large dangling breasts to sunshine and oxygen.

It stops raining.

It stops raining and the sky adopts a glassy blue, day after day.

Millions of silver salt crystals breaking down into black silver.

Leaves clitter on bushes like paper.

Duststorms pursue cars on the gravel roads. Patinas collect on top of your refrigerator and stove. Dust stings your eyes, stings the back of your throat. It makes your sinuses drain without warning.

You do not know any chemistry, either.

But still.

Sunsets become breathtaking north-to-south expanses of oranges, yellows, pinks.

You start letting your hair grow.

It seems like a good idea.

It seems like a good idea and soon it covers your ears and feathers your lower neck.

Scratch-resistant coating, emulsion, base.

The stuff of black-and-white film, the thickness of your fingernail.

Andi finds a steady line of customers: gawky brides, beefy grooms, gleeful chefs.

You begin bumping into people in Moscow much like yourself: programmers, artists, academics from somewhere else.

Several invite you to dinner.

You invite a few to your house.

You discover that they, too, want to be the last people to arrive in this state.

They want to be the ones to lock the gate behind them.

You limb the felled trees and chain saw them into seventeen-inch logs, buy a maul and wedge, split the largest pieces, stack them in the barn.

Virginia Dentatia slips into a coma.

Far inside her web site, you embed a video feed so viewers can witness a close-up of her wasting face, translucent pale-green oxygen mask over nose and mouth.

Close-up: Andi’s toes wriggling on the edge of the shiny wooden coffee table, each digit with a mind of its own.

Pan back to include her tanned calves.

Her shiny whitish kneecaps.

Her muscular thighs disappearing beneath her shiny black silk robe.

Pan back farther to include you sitting on the carpet, her across from you on the couch.

You are eating breakfast.

Both of you are eating breakfast and recounting your dreams from the night before.

Andi has taken to keeping a journal of the best ones.

She is writing as you speak.

A beach, you say between bites. A silver-white beach of the over-zealous imagination.

And on the beach?

A resort. A resort which exudes plushness. All the paths are lined with fake Easter Island heads. All the waiters are black and extremely polite. I’m sorry, of course, but they are — both black and polite.

You take another spoonful of banana slices, vanilla yogurt, and granola.

You and I are sitting on a veranda, sipping Piña Coladas. Below us, on the white beach, good-looking people with good-looking bodies are sunning on a good-looking day. Every once in a while a swim-suited man with a thirty-eight-inch waist and twenty-one-inch inseam moseys among the sunners, carrying a small red plastic pail and shovel.

For playing in the sand?

It would seem so. But the man isn’t the same man. There are many of him. They are all carrying the same red plastic pails.

What are they doing?

Heading in the same direction, minding their own business. Businesses. They’re all on the same mission, ambulating from the lefthand corner of your view to the right.

What happens?

That’s it, unfortunately. I remember the dream dissolving just like that: on a certain note of ambiguity, a whiff of uneasiness pervading the otherwise pleasant scene.

That’s good, Andi says, jotting. That’s very good. But I can top it.

You sip your organic kiwi-and-strawberry juice, wipe your mouth, lean back on your palms.

It’s the peace of the countryside, she begins. It’s open windows and a chaste breeze. I’m reclining in the bathtub, our bathtub, I’m fairly sure, when I understand, out of the blue, apropos of nothing, what Death’s name is.

I didn’t know Death had a name.

It’s Anita, as luck would have it. Nothing fancy. Just Anita.

You have to admire Death’s simplicity.

Reclining in the bathtub, I hear the doorbell ring. I’ve been reading, though I forget what — something embarrassingly trashy yet engaging — so I’m understandably annoyed. I stand. Towel off. Slip on a robe. This robe in fact, I seem to remember. As I approach the front door, I can see through the wispy curtains a cute little Girl Scout with a tray of the kind hotdog vendors at ballparks use. It’s fastened around her neck by means of leather straps. In the tray are boxes of chocolate fudge cookies. She’s so cute she looks like a child actor.

Anita.

She’s trying to lure me outside with one of my favorite foods. But something in me turns to… what? Something in me turns to goo. Without thinking, I reach for the doorknob. I feel its cool aluminum presence in my palm. I begin to rotate my wrist joint. It’s all I can do…

Just then someone knocks at the front door.

The real front door.

The dreamless one.

Someone knocks that instant.

Andi’s sentence snags on the noise. She stops writing and peers at you over the top of her journal.

You return her stalled look.

The someone who just knocked on your front door clumps over to the window on the porch, pauses, clumps back to the door and knocks again. The someone clumps down the stairs and around the side of the house and back up the stairs and opens the screen door and steps right up to the inside door and knocks.

Andi and you sit perfectly still.

You hear individual drops of rain ploick off the gutter.

The screen door whacks shut.

The someone clumps across the porch and down the stairs.

A minute later, and you hear Jack Pederson’s ATV catch in your driveway.

You hear gravel chewing slowly beneath tires.

Andi retracts her neck.

Now she begins to laugh.

Andi begins to laugh.

She topples onto her side, hands tucked between her legs, thick dark hair obscuring her face, laughing and laughing.

The scene fading out.

You call Benn and Branda after dinner.

From New Jersey.

Benn was your first roommate at Rutgers and you have stayed in touch with him ever since, on and off, more off than on, though you admit to Andi that, all things being equal, if you ran into him on the street for the first time tomorrow it would never cross your mind to strike up a friendship with him.

When you knew him, he was a funny freshman who studied philosophy and took Nietzsche seriously and played guitar. Folk guitar. After college he worked as a street singer in Manhattan.

Then he met Branda, a wellness therapist from Arizona with a wide jaw who talked about crystals and the silver threads of love connecting humans in the same matter-of-fact inflections some people discuss how to use a wrench.

They married, moved to Paramus, and had a pallid-skinned red-haired girl named Bonita.

Paramus being another interesting word.

Paramus and wellness therapist.

Benn took a job with IBM in the PR department.

Branda led yoga classes.

Overnight, they rescripted their lives.

They had a pallid-skinned red-haired child and rewrote themselves.

They bought comfortable middle-age clothes and adopted the roles of loving middle-class parents.

Your friends are themselves.

Your friends are people you have never met before.

Andi mans the wall phone.

You sit at the kitchen table, cordless in hand.

Benn answers on the fourth ring.

After some small talk about your new life in Idaho, you ask him what it was like being pregnant.

A muffled exchange, and Branda joins the conversation on another line.

You know how people always talk about how magic it is? she asks without prelude. Hey, she says, the idea spreading through her. You guys aren’t…

We are, Andi says without skipping a beat.

You shoot her a look that contains surprise, discomfort, and genuine admiration.

Oh wow, Branda says.

You guys, says Benn on the other line.

Somewhere in the staticky background, Bonita enters the room and lets out what sounds like an Apache attack call.

So when’s the due date? Branda asks.

Listen, says Benn. I’m going to be honest with you guys here, okay? We were starting to worry about you. I mean, don’t get me wrong or anything. It would’ve been great if you decided not to do this. Only we kept imagining, you know, like all the things you’d be missing out on.

You’re going to make the best parents, says Branda.

You are, Benn agrees. Seriously.

This is so… I don’t know how to say it. This is just so incredible. Start from the beginning and tell us every single detail.

Andi starts making things up on the spot, telling them about how you two sat down one night and started talking and couldn’t believe it had taken you this many years to grow up and the doctor set the date for April and it is incredible, absolutely wild.

Except then you realize that neither Branda nor Benn is listening.

Palms more or less over mouthpieces, they are explaining to Bonita how it is already past her bedtime and how she should be running along to brush her teeth.

Can she show mommy and daddy what a good little girl she is and do that?

She cannot, it turns out.

She wants a soda and she wants it now.

She can’t have a soda because it’s bedtime, sweetie.

She’s thirsty and she wants a soda.

It’s bedtime, sweetie, and sodas contain white sugar and white sugar does horrible things to your mind and body, especially if you drink it this late in the evening.

Hello? Andi says, tentatively.

Their palms drop from the mouthpieces almost simultaneously.

Do you need some time out? Branda asks.

I don’t think so, you answer before you understand they are still talking to Bonita.

Hello? Andi repeats.

Bonnie. Come give daddy a huggly. Then it’s off to bed, okay?

You hear what you take to be bottles or cans clattering in an open refrigerator and then the refrigerator door thumps shut and a high-pitched squeal commences that makes the Apache attack call seem somehow self-effacing.

Bonita is accusing Branda of deliberately catching her first three fingers in the door.

Mommy didn’t see you behind her, sweetie, Branda says, voice high-frequency with guilt.

Mommy’s very sorry, Benn says. She didn’t see her princess standing there. Come give daddy a huggly. Seriously. He’ll kiss your booboo and make it better.

Hello? Andi says.

Through choking hiccups Bonita continues to accuse her mother of attempted infanticide.

In response Branda begins giving her things. Here are some Tootsie Rolls. Here is a fistful of LifeSavers. Have some ice cream. Have several gallons of Dr. Pepper, Mountain Dew, and Jolt. If you stop crying right now you’ll get something called a Wubby-Tubby Doll first thing in the morning and permission to stay up till next Tuesday.

Maybe this isn’t a good time, you suggest.

No way, Benn says, back again, unflappable as a Presbyterian on Sunday morning. It’s a perfect time. We wouldn’t miss it for the world. Gosh, this is so excellent. Only… don’t do that, okay?

Excuse me?

Bonnie. She’s picking up a… don’t do that, sweetie, okay?

Everything feels realer than real, Branda says out of nowhere. Like everything in your field of vision was just taken out of a packing crate.

Everything sparkles at the edges, says Benn.

I don’t know how to say it, but afterwards you, you know… you can’t imagine that you ever thought about anything else.

Honey, would you maybe do something? She’s… don’t do that, okay? Please. Seriously. It… Don’t do that.

What? you ask.

Branda is speaking in vocal gradations that imply none of what is actually going on is actually going on.

Then a glass breaks.

The squeal that you thought nothing could be louder than escalates into something approaching puling whale noises.

It’s true, Benn says. Think of what you might never have experienced if you stayed in that other dimension. Come here, sweetie. That’s what it’s like. It’s like stepping through a looking glass into this more vivid world. Come here, sweetie. Everything becomes significant. Everything becomes… Come here, sweetie.

We wouldn’t change a thing, Branda says, her voice so clear and calm it seems like she is murmuring inside your head.

You know what it’s like? It’s like, um… it’s like everything turns fluid. Everything takes on a special kind of… Your whole world, um… your whole world kind of…

One line goes dead, then the other.

The phone conversation is happening.

The phone conversation is done.

Andi and you study each other, she standing by the counter, you sitting at the kitchen table, trying to read each other’s wide-eyed expressions.

Within seventy-two hours, your eastcoast friends begin calling to congratulate you.

To congratulate you and to offer advice.

Word gets around that fast.

If you decide to use a midwife, they advise, you should make sure to ask her what her basic philosophy of childbirth is and what standard emergency equipment she carries.

Nor can one ever really say too much in favor of fruits, apparently.

Fruits, journals, and personal poetry.

Then again, maybe not.

While no one would deny that dads play an extremely important role during your baby’s development, the chief bond for the first two years will remain between mother and child.

Nor is it ever too late to become a vegan.

A vegan or a Unitarian.

Video rigs in childbed need not be as intrusive as they sound, you can and should establish a college fund for your child before he or she is out of the hospital, and it will not take as many weeks as you might think before you can reengage in sexual intercourse.

Circumcision.

Colic babies, sleepy babies, hungry babies, grumpy babies.

Circumcision is a serious question, it almost (but not quite) goes without saying.

Every year 1.2 million American boys lose their foreskin.

Circumcision and the manifold easy and enjoyable exercises available to get you and your uterus back into shape.

Sickly babies, angry babies, excited babies, sensitive babies.

No one would deny that.

Woozy with data, you and Andi promise each person you will weigh what he or she says with care.

You thank them for thinking of you.

You thank them for thinking of you and you tell them how much their thoughts and love mean to you.

Then you invite them to Idaho.

You invite each and every last one to Idaho, confident in the knowledge that they will never show up, and, at the end of the week, you pour yourselves Aberlours and sit by the fire pit out back and stare into the combustion like you might an engaging television program and take turns wondering aloud how this ever could have escalated so quickly.

What you have done.

What you have not done.

What you must do.

What you must do after that.

And after that.

And after that.

And after that.

And, in October, the first very large check from Grannam arrives.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

SURPRISINGLY ENOUGH, everything in this photograph is in focus.

The masked nurse, the tiles on the wall, the slats on the venetian blinds, the monitor, the creases in the medical sheets, the precise inverted reflections in the mirrored lamp, even the delivering doctor’s almost-cropped-out nose and mouth, the latter slightly parted or parting — with wonder? pride? — in the half-second delay before voicing the first words the baby in the foreground will hear in its extrauterine world.

Everything is in focus, it almost (but not quite) goes without saying, except the baby’s face and body.

Everything except your wife, that is.

Everything except what matters most in this picture you unearthed in a scrapbook at the bottom of a box of memorabilia left behind by Andi’s mother.

The woman who on her deathbed told her daughter that if she, the dying woman, had had her own children rather than adopting, things presumably would not have been such a disappointment for her.

She actually said that.

To her daughter.

To the person in this photograph.

Somehow the photographer’s attention drifted, his or her eye becoming more interested in the environment than in the thing itself: in the patterns created by the squares and lines of the tiles and blinds, perhaps, or, perhaps, the nurse’s thoughtful gaze.

It is difficult to tell for sure.

It was a long time ago.

You rotate it, cock it this way and that.

It is the real unreality of the shot that strikes you.

On the one hand, the photographic subject is always here, current, locked in a chemical field.

On the other, the photographic subject’s very immediacy serves to remind you just how absent he or she or it will always remain.

Photographs are never about the present tense, in other words.

This being a common misperception.

Their sole place is the past.

This has happened, they say.

This was done, this gained, this lost.

You scan the delivery room and understand that chances are it no longer exists.

Or it does exist, only in some radically altered version of itself.

Is the doctor still a doctor, or has he perhaps retired, moved out of state, divorced, remarried after his own wife died (by cancer, perhaps), raised a new family, forgotten that he was ever part of this photograph?

And the photographer?

Who gained entrance to the delivery room to snap this picture?

Andi’s father, maybe.

But, then again, maybe not: there is reason to assume the wrong details have fallen into focus for that to be the case.

Whoever took it, in any event, was one of the first four or five people to set eyes upon your wife.

You will always hold it against him.

Him or her.

The smudge at the photographic heart is the person who will become Andi, except you will never be able to know her, not as she exists here.

She will never be able to know herself.

This is an image of the person who Andi can never become.

The person she can study from the outside but never really remember.

Remember or comprehend.

In one nearly inaudible snick once upon a time, your wife moved from sharp-edged kinesis into a blurry stasis.

Her image touches you here, tonight, alone in your office, the same way rays do from a star on the other side of the galaxy that burned itself out eons before the first ameba became the first two amebae.

Someone else besides you perhaps having already said this and said it better than you.

Amebas.

Amoebae.

Each, at any rate, an interesting word in its own right.

The sky lowers, grays, thickens into an upside-down topographical map.

Misty drizzle washes over the state and you can hear the soil around your house breathing.

You buy an ax.

You buy an ax, sliver a piece of firewood into kindling, build a teepee from it around a wad of crumpled newspaper in the belly of your stove.

You will keep this fire burning, Jack Pederson tells you when he drops by for coffee one morning, through early May.

Seven months.

One for every day of the week.

You change from cotton to flannel sheets.

May or June.

You crawl back and forth in the garden with Andi, easing out the last carrots, rooting for clumps of potatoes.

May, June, or July, feasibly.

The days no longer feeling like days, in any case.

The earth’s shift and overcast sky producing the impression of constant dawn from seven in the morning till four in the afternoon.

The days on fastforward, over before they have begun.

You tie back your hair in a short ponytail.

Each time you check, a little less flesh clings to Virginia Dentatia’s face. Her eyes have sunk into shadows behind her translucent pale-green oxygen mask, her high cheekbones risen into angular prominence.

Every morning you take out your PalmPilot and try to write something.

What you remember.

What you seem to remember.

What you see around you.

It is always more difficult than you think.

Hunting season cracks alive. Paramilitary drivers with painted faces and camouflage gear speed along gravel roads in flat-green pickups while their paramilitary buddies with painted faces and camouflage gear kneel in the beds scanning through the scopes of their high-powered rifles. Gunfire is constant.

A civil war in central Europe.

You stay inside your house until the testosterone in the air outside lessens.

The language on your monitor pulling things into clarity.

Local newscasts carrying stories about men mistaking other men for deer and shooting them, shooting themselves and their pets, having old-West showdowns in national forests over six-packs of beer.

Guns misfire.

Men freeze to death, step off cliffs, are crushed by falling trees.

The language works like a focal ring.

Every sentence a photograph.

Andi spends her evenings in the basement, superimposing one image over another, sampling effects created by black-and-white film, comparing those to ones created by color.

Searching for her visual voice, she tells you.

It will evince itself in the next roll she develops, she says, the next shot she snaps.

All she has to do is wait.

All she has to do is look through the lens at the right time.

How hard can that be?

You develop a web site for a performance artist who has not left his apartment for twenty-eight years.

You and Andi gather with new friends in Moscow for Thanksgiving and discuss how Idaho is beginning to push out of the nineteenth century just as the rest of the country is beginning to push into the twenty-first.

Exiting their house, you find yourself surrounded by snowflakes.

Dust motes eddying in a church.

You learn if you already have other children the younger ones will worry about their mother’s non-existence during the birthing process and the older ones become anxious about their place in her affection when the new baby arrives.

You learn the adult eyeball measures about one inch in diameter and of its total surface area only the anterior one-sixth is exposed.

You learn the most expensive photograph was sold for $400,000.

It shows Georgia O’Keeffe’s hands.

The first blizzard hits in early December.

Snow slants horizontally and then you cannot see your driveway from your front window anymore.

The world blares into whiteness broken by the bluish ghosts of trees, the last shadowy deer of the season making their way to lower elevations, crows with wingspans wide as your outstretched arms flapping through the storm.

Andi wanders from room to room, opal light suffusing the air, reciting a litany of possible names for your child under her breath.

Whatever you choose, she says, you do not want one everybody else is choosing.

This much is clear.

This much stands to reason.

You do not want one that sounds like a famous person’s, for example.

A movie star’s or rock idol’s.

No matter how tenuous that movie star’s or rock idol’s career might be, how long he or she might have been deceased, his or her presence will always pulse within your child.

Names from great novels are quotations that tell more about your education than your baby’s personality.

In 1898, you learn, the most popular names for boys were John, William, George, James, and Joseph.

You learn for girls they were Mary, Anna, Helen, Margaret, and Ruth.

In that order.

In that order, according to one source.

Names from well-known songs are trite as a cowboy ballad at three a.m., given time.

Given, say, a decade or two.

Bestow upon your child a relative’s name and run the risk of alienating your remaining relatives.

Biblical or mythological names seem deliberately weighted these days and, therefore, obviously put undue expectations upon your offspring as they struggle to grow into them.

Into them or out of them.

Names that are not really names but rather designations of emotional states, atmospheric conditions, flora or fauna, or obscure colors connote psychedelic days gone by.

In 1958 they were Michael, David, Robert, John, and James.

For girls Mary, Linda, Susan, Patricia, and Karen.

Andi feels those that try too hard to be original, either by referring to an object never usually employed in such a role (Laptop 680), or forming a new one from parts of the parents’ names (Davinda), or adopting some wacky spelling (Jairry, Jynnie, Joahnii), are doomed to sound silly, not poetic, by the time your child enters high school.

Giving a boy what could be interpreted as a girl’s name is pure plain mean.

As is giving your child a name that could, under the right circumstances, be translated into a bad pun or utilized for purposes of playground ridicule.

If your last name is Shields, as a case in point, under no condition call your daughter Maxi.

In 1998, they were Michael, Jacob, Matthew, Nicholas, and Joshua.

Kaitlyn, Emily, Sarah, Hannah, and Ashley.

You enjoy knowing these things.

You cannot articulate why, exactly, but you do.

Assuming, naturally, that the Social Security Administration is telling the truth.

Assuming they are getting their facts right.

Assuming you could somehow verify such a thing, which in point of fact you cannot.

Dead presidents.

Public servants.

Military leaders.

The real danger, however, being the plain-Jane name.

The real danger being the plain-Jane name, no matter how you attempt to disguise it, since a plain-Jane name always spells the lack of imagination on your part.

The fire dead in the engine.

The arrival of dead letters, one after another after another, into your mailbox.

I’ve got an idea, Andi says as you two shuffle-slide down your driveway on your new cross-country skis.

Neither of you has done this before.

You consequently feel awkward attempting to balance on two-inch-wide strips of treated plastic.

You feel out of sync with your bodies.

Poling forward three feet and sitting in a foot and a half of powder.

Standing, dusting yourself off, poling forward three feet, sitting.

Andi finds it easier to maintain equilibrium than you and shuffle-slides over to offer you her hand, loses balance, sits.

An idea? you say as you assist her to her feet and pat caked snow from your buttocks.

For our daughter’s name. Yes.

You work your way ten yards down the driveway.

It’s going to be a girl, then?

If that’s okay with you. I’m open to suggestions. This point should be taken for granted. If you’d rather, we could have a boy. A boy would be nice. There’s something strong and enduring about a boy.

Either a boy or a girl is good with me. As long as it’s healthy, as they say. Repeatedly.

And happy.

I’d hate to think that at some point in life it would become healthy yet unhappy.

A happy and healthy daughter.

You turn off the driveway onto what in milder seasons is a deer trail and strike into the forest.

Snow pellets spitball around you.

You travel single file, Andi following in the tracks you lay down.

Time loosening.

You discover how hard it is to push forward in fresh powder. It is like walking across the shallow end of a swimming pool.

Ahead, you catch a glimpse of a fox’s bushy black tail.

Vanishing.

It occurs to you history has not arrived here yet.

How you only think that snow is white, but how in reality it is innumerable shades of blue, gray, and pink.

The iron-colored clouds having moved closer to earth.

A muffled pause charging the afternoon.

With blue eyes, you say over your shoulder.

What?

I don’t know why, but I’ve always pictured little girls with blue eyes. Blue eyes and blond hair, it almost but not quite goes without saying. The shade that used to be referred to as dirty blond but is now referred to as honey or auburn blond.

Like her father.

I believe so. Yes.

Blond hair, blue eyes. I like it — in a classic sort of way. What about Genia, with a G that sounds like a J?

Genia with a G that sounds like a J…

You cover five more yards, considering.

As in photogenic? you ask.

I absolutely don’t want it to sound too weird or forced. If you think it sounds too weird or forced, just say the word and we can change it. But to me it sounds… what? To me it sounds more interestingly uncommon than weird or forced.

You take a gentle downhill and fall three yards into the descent.

Lying there puts you in mind of Zeno and his paradoxes.

Achilles running after the tortoise, drifting through an infinite number of halfway points — smaller and smaller, true, but always present, and therefore always almost there, but never quite.

You enjoy remembering this fact, lying there.

Your daughter remains always just out of reach.

Pleasingly out of reach, in one sense.

But out of reach nonetheless.

Andi gracefully misses you and then falls five feet farther down the trail. You both lie on your backs, skis pointing straight up, enjoying snow pellets pecking your cheeks, then melting, just like that, presto.

Andi opens her mouth and closes her eyes.

You listen to yourselves respiring, surprised at how warm you remain out here.

Your body teaches you a little more every day.

There’s a small genie in it, too, you point out after a while.

And, says Andi, the tiniest hint of genesis.

Huh, you say. Sure. And genes, too, of course. Don’t forget genes. Nothing overstated, mind you. Nothing overdone.

You think about this some more and then say:

I love it.

You can be honest, says Andi. If you don’t love it, you won’t hurt my feelings or anything. Just say the word. If you don’t love it, we can think of something else. It’s as easy as that.

Genia, you say, smiling up into the snowfall. Genia…

You experiment with the name, pressing your tongue against your forward pallet, letting it slip away and catch again behind your teeth, then retract and open the back of your throat slightly.

Sense your lips part for the final ah.

It still feels good the next morning.

It still feels good as you begin to reconceptualize your world with your daughter in it.

You do not simply write, needless to say.

You write and then you rewrite.

Often each line six or eight times, as difficult as that might at first be to believe.

Changing words. Changing punctuation. Changing order.

Traveling.

In order to get it right, presumably.

The language pulling things into clarity on your monitor.

The most expensive photograph having been sold for $400,000, and the longest negative on record measuring twenty-one feet.

Produced in 1992, it shows thirty-five hundred people gathered at a concert in Austin, Texas.

When you walk into the kitchen, you see your daughter sitting in her highchair, short plump arms wagging.

Bouncing in her bungee swing in the doorway.

You hear her agitating toward consciousness in the middle of the night.

For the first six weeks, you learn, she will not need much more than blankets, diapers, and water bottles.

That is it.

That is all.

Initially she will sleep in a crib in your room upstairs.

As she becomes older, you will move her into the loft, and then down into your guest bedroom.

What was once your guest bedroom.

Its walls covered with fresh light.

She coalesces in your imagination: a pink foot, a soft almost bald scalp.

Snapshots.

You see her head cradled in Andi’s elbow, eyes the color of Bahamian seawater.

Smell her barely sour breath.

Andi unbuttoning her shirt.

Visualizing Andi unbuttoning her shirt.

Extracting her left breast for your invisible daughter.

A week before Christmas, the second very large check from Grannam arrives.

Now:

This is Andi, Andi says.

Who? says Grannam.

Andi mans the wall phone.

You sit at the kitchen table, portable in hand.

You have not heard Grannam this disoriented before.

She has good days and she has bad days, but over the last six or seven months she has had more bad days than good days.

Andi, Andi repeats, voice bright and artificial.

And me, you add, equally contrived. How are you doing?

Sweethearts, she says. Is it Sunday?

It’s Tuesday, says Andi.

You call on Sunday.

Andi gives you a worried look.

You give Andi a worried look back.

We wanted to thank you for the check you sent, you say, picking up the ball. It’s such a generous gift. Thank you.

It’s for your daughter.

We know, Grannam, Andi says. It’s the most wonderful thing.

I want you to be happy.

We are happy, you say. We’re outrageously happy.

Did you see the thing on the news? A tiger attacked a little Korean girl in a park. She was playing with her friends.

A mountain lion, you say.

In Colorado, I think. We live in Idaho.

How are you feeling, sweetheart? she asks Andi.

I’m good, says Andi. Big as a water buffalo, but good.

Don’t let her fool you, you say proudly. She’s a trooper. You should see her. She has to sleep a certain way. She has to sit a certain way. She has to eat certain foods and not others.

I walk like a flat-footed rodeo star, Andi says.

When I carried your mother, says Grannam, all I wanted was potato salad.

Banana-nut ice cream, says Andi. For me it’s banana-nut ice cream.

Grannam laughs.

That’s nice, she says.

We can feel Genia kicking, you say. I put my hand on Andi’s belly and I can feel strong tiny feet beneath the skin.

Her back hurts.

Gen’s?

She needs an operation. They tell her it’s her own fault for playing too much golf.

Millie, Andi says, figuring it out. Millie. That’s a shame.

They didn’t give me the right medicines. All the pills get mixed up. Then they charge me like you wouldn’t believe. The doctor wears a diamond earring in each ear. I think he’s a fairy.

Lots of guys wear earrings in both ears these days, Andi says. That just means they like to wear earrings.

The doctors say I have rocks in my ears.

I bet doing your exercises would help, you say.

What?

You could make a note and hang it on your refrigerator, suggests Andi. That’s what I do sometimes.

We wanted to thank you, you say after a pause. But you shouldn’t be doing that… you shouldn’t be sending us checks.

We appreciate it, says Andi. We really do. Only we know you have your own bills to worry about.

I want her to know she has a great-grandmother who loves her, says Grannam.

She’ll know, you say. The money, though… you don’t need to do that.

I want to.

We know you do, says Andi with affection. Only we’re fine. She’ll completely know how neat a Grannam she has.

They’ve got her in the hospital.

Millie?

The little Korean girl. Are you seeing a doctor out there?

Don’t worry about us. We’re okay.

On the movie last night there was one of those people with wings.

With wings?

On the TV. You know.

Angels?

One fell out of heaven. It was an accident. Robert Duvall bumped into him. He landed in a cornfield. I think it was that man with the antennae. You know. The spaceman.

The spaceman?

Nooky-nooky.

Robin Williams. Nanoo Nanoo, I think it was.

He breaks both legs and a wing. It was Iowa. Iowa or Kansas. A farmer finds him. That fairy in the movie with Helen Hunt and the fat man who played the writer.

Greg Kinnear?

Greg Kinnear isn’t fat, you say.

Jack Nicholson is fat, Andi explains. Greg Kinnear co-starred as the gay guy.

They say he’s supposed to be having an affair with Julie Andrews, Grannam says.

Greg Kinnear?

Jack Nicholson. Only he’s not her type. She’s too sophisticated for him. Greg Kinnear brings Robin Williams home and locks him in the basement because he’s planning to charge people to see him. Only then he discovers Robin Williams makes winning lottery tickets when he dreams. He gets sicker and sicker. The sicker he gets, the more he dreams. The more he dreams, the richer Greg Kinnear gets. I laughed and laughed, but it made me think too much.

What happened?

Robin Williams makes a plane fall on his house.

He doesn’t.

Everyone dies. Greg Kinnear, Robin Williams, Greg Kinnear’s family. All the passengers. One of them was that schwartze with the eyes who used to be the policeman in Los Angeles.

Eddie Murphy?

His comeback, the TV Guide said. He was on the screen thirty seconds, screaming. Some comeback.

They showed that on TV?

The pet cat, too. In the last scene the pet cat is trapped in the burning house, his tiny face pressed against a window. It’s time for lunch. It must be so cold where you are.

It isn’t bad, you say. They showed a cat burn to death on TV?

I think it was Robin Williams. Maybe it was somebody else. Everybody in the movies looks like everybody else in the movies these days.

You must be hungry, says Andi. We’ll let you get off. But no more checks, okay?

Movie stars used to look different. Who looked like Bette Davis? Now they all look the same, like they were made yesterday on an assembly line. I love you, dears.

We love you, too. But no more checks, okay?

I’m so proud of you two, Grannam says, clicking her off button before you can reply.

Do you know what rug fibers contain? Andi asks from under the quilt.

At just past four.

At just past four in the morning, according to your digital clock.

She nudges you with her cold toes.

Outside it is felt-tip-pen black.

I don’t, you say into the mattress.

Rug fibers contain everything your shoes have touched.

She inhales and exhales, contemplating.

Pesticides. Fertilizers.

I’m really, really tired here, you say.

Mouse droppings laced with let’s say just for argument’s sake the hanta virus.

She pauses, inhaling and exhaling, then continues:

The contents of mercury thermometers cause nerve and lung damage.

You should understand that my mouth is moving but my brain’s still sleeping, you say.

Say you drive into Moscow and take a stroll up Main Street, she says, and you absentmindedly step in a puddle which someone has at some point spit into. Where does the spit end up?

You do not say anything.

Andi nudges you with her cold toes.

Say hello to infection, she says. Which is to say nothing of airborne toxins. Microscopic mica chips. The particulate matter released from the Hanford site thirty years ago and stirred up again as you mow your yard.

We’ll vacuum, you offer.

Mite waste.

You do not answer.

Andi nudges you with her cold toes.

Say it, she says.

Say what?

That we’ll vacuum and scrub. With ammonia. Ammonia and steam. Say we’ll vacuum and scrub with ammonia and steam.

We will, you say.

You wait, inhaling and exhaling, then say:

Okay?

You wait some more and then say:

Okay?

Good, she says after a while, settling back into her nest. That’s good.

You purchase child-proof locks for the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen.

For the cabinets and drawers in the bathroom, studio, and laundry nook, too.

Then you purchase plastic covers for empty electrical outlets.

A gate for the top of the stairs leading down to Andi’s studio and for the bottom of the stairs leading up to the loft and your bedroom.

You raise dangerous items out of your child’s reach.

Take off your shoes on the porch before entering.

The longest negative on record measuring twenty-one feet, and George Eastman patenting his roll-film Kodak in the 1890s: take one hundred shots, send the camera back to the company, developers there open it, extract the old film and replace it with new, then send it back to you.

The world becomes fresher, every detail increasingly interesting.

You shop for a crib with a slat spacing no more than two-and-three-eighths inches wide and a corner-post protrusion of not more than one-eighth of an inch.

Make sure all the small parts are firmly attached and able to withstand twenty pounds of force, threaded bolt ends are either inaccessible or covered by an acorn nut, and all open holes are too tiny for a child’s finger to become caught in.

Andi and you get down on the floor and crawl through your house, paying attention.

Tie your lamp cords off the floor.

Shorten the pull cords from your venetian blinds.

Check to see if there are rooms into which a child could lock herself.

You notice yourselves slowly becoming cognizant of the contents of wastepaper baskets.

You begin to feel more confident.

You begin to feel more confident and you fold and put away your tablecloth.

Everything is perilous, you understand, but two people can make a difference.

Two people can make a certain degree of difference.

You pop off the rubber tips on your door stops, think twice, then unscrew the door stops themselves.

Everything is perilous, but some things are less perilous than others.

You join an internet support group for new parents and encounter reports from anguished moms and dads about children who have suffered heart-stopping catastrophes.

Your friends from Moscow drop by for dinner regularly but either fail to notice these adjustments or fail to mention them.

The snow turns back into rain.

One child becomes vegetative after drinking a bottle of his own baby oil.

The snow turns back into rain and you put away your skis.

One child drowns after the water from the leaking aquarium above her head collects on her mattress.

Your ponytail reaches your lower cervical vertebra.

The air turns moist and pine sweet.

The local news carries stories about the annual recovery of bodies from cars that skidded off winter roads, went over embankments, disappeared in snowdrifts like overturned turtles.

You pack a bag with a bathrobe, two night gowns that open in front for easy breast feeding, slippers, two nursing bras, underpants, sanitary pads, toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, hair brush, and a loose-fitting dress for Andi to wear home.

You keep the bag in the closet by the front door.

Grannam sends you a pink baby sweater with a large white furry bunny across it and cute pink matching cotton cap.

Tucked into the cap is a third very large check.

As you stand in the living room, examining these presents, the phone rings.

Shaking her head, Andi wanders into the kitchen to answer.

You try the cotton cap on your fist, contemplating your guilt.

You find yourself wondering how this thing has gotten so far and what it would take to call it off.

Using the cap as a puppet, you imagine phoning Grannam and explaining everything to her but have to shut your eyes at what you hear inside your head in reply.

When she wanders back, Andi is clearly agitated.

What? you ask.

Andi standing in the doorway, being clearly agitated.

Then she says:

Kysha and Thom.

Kysha and Thom? you say.

More old friends from Teaneck.

More old friends from Teaneck who are flying out next weekend.

For a visit, naturally.

Did you just see that statue? tourists ask each other tirelessly.

Did you just see that mosque?

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

EVERYTHING IN THIS PHOTOGRAPH is in focus, yet it makes no difference.

It stands to reason the subject is your wife.

But, then again, maybe not.

The answer is less clear than you might at first assume.

You unearth it in the same scrapbook at the bottom of the same box of memorabilia left behind for Andi by her mother.

The shot arrives sans comments: no marginalia, no caption, no date, no scrawled note on the back to place the person on the front in space and time.

You find it within an ambiguous formation of other photographs.

Next to it, for instance, is taped a portrait of Andi’s mother in maybe her early twenties, youthful face aware of making itself into an attractive mask.

Above, a group of people Andi says she has never seen before.

Smiling and squinting into flash-glare.

Sitting around a table at a fancy restaurant.

A fancy restaurant or, conceivably, a wedding banquet.

On the opposite page are four photos of babies who may or may not be the same baby.

Examining them, you realize just how interchangeable newborns are.

This is the case both in the sense that their distinguishing features are still unformed and that they do not find their photographic existence within a series of unique shots, interesting angles, or singular attributes.

They find their photographic existence within a generalized image-repertoire.

They do not exist as themselves, in other words.

They exist within a catalog of stock baby images.

They become themselves only to the extent that they join their stereotypes.

The viewer gains a sense of distinctiveness and pleasure by means of images that contain neither.

None of which happens to be as interesting as the question: What is making this particular baby, whoever it happens to be, smile?

Most childless adults would argue the answer is in the object of her gaze.

His or her gaze.

Most adults with children know better.

Most adults with children understand that this baby probably is not looking at anything whatsoever.

In all likelihood it is exhibiting a reflex reaction.

To a flish of unrecognizable sound, for instance.

She or he.

Successful peristalsis is another possibility.

This being difficult to ascertain without more information.

For argument’s sake, however, say it is a photograph of your wife.

What do you have to lose?

Say it is Andi and say Andi is smiling.

Smiling perhaps being too strong a word.

But still.

What effect do such assumptions have on how you read this shot?

How you might read this shot, the circumstances being what they are.

The circumstances seeming to be what they are.

Thinking is digestion.

For one, you notice Andi’s past happiness exists in direct proportion to her present melancholy.

If it is Andi.

If it is your wife.

Examining this snapshot, that is, you can think of nothing beyond how Andi’s disappointment in the world will grow, how it will travel like a spaceship of shadow-emotion through the succeeding decades.

From this photograph, Andi has nowhere else to go.

This is as good as it will get.

You did not say Thinking is digestion.

Someone else said Thinking is digestion, originally.

Originally perhaps also being too strong a word.

What you know now that she could not have known then is how she would blossom into awareness inside a white home with black trim on a leafy suburban street across from a hilly green park with a rose garden at its omphalos.

How she would learn certain important facts about her environment very quickly.

How every home involves a primary trope of disguise, for instance.

How under certain circumstances what you do not say is almost always more important than what you do say.

A short squat father in a blue sports coat and gray slacks.

An obstetrician-gynecologist.

OB-GYN, they call it.

They being used here as a very indefinite pronoun.

The kind of man, as an illustration, who actually could ask his daughter’s surprised first date in junior high when his daughter appeared dressed to the nines at the top of the staircase:

So why would you want to go out with a dumb jock like her?

Thinking he was making a joke, of course.

Not meaning any harm.

Or, alternatively, the kind of man who actually could wait for his daughter, following her first piano recital in college, to make sure she could see him throw out the cassette he had just made of her playing.

Thinking, one assumes, he had a really great sense of humor.

Subtle, urbane, refined.

The same man who must have stood in close proximity to the scene captured by this photograph.

His personality retroactively shading it like the physicist’s the outcome of his experiment.

The man who made your wife’s personality fold into itself.

Before she was eight.

The short squat man in the blue sports coat and gray slacks who along with the woman who made her face into an attractive mask told his daughter that the little girl’s real parents did not want her so they bought her instead.

The little girl imagining herself picked off a shelf in a petshop.

The only thing you remember this man for nowadays is the influence he exerted over your wife’s life.

Continues to exert.

Even though your wife has never looked back, needless to say.

Even though it was a very long time ago.

Because the only feeling you experience tonight — rotating this photograph, canting it this way and that in your office — the only feeling you experience tonight is the long slow beat of loss.

Kysha was the first person on staff at Digitalus to wear a silver stud through her tongue.

This is Kysha.

This is who she is.

You cannot help being impressed.

Impressed and — in complex, if easy to articulate, ways — envious.

Kysha does not change by changing.

She cuts her hair disturbingly short, spikes it, and colors it differently on a weekly basis.

Burgundy, peacock blue, moss green with canary highlights.

She wears baggy black things.

She wears baggy black things and listens to frig bands and Frank Sinatra and makes references to magazines and movies you have never heard of.

Every other word she pronounces sounds bookended with quotation marks.

As if she is reading one of Zach’s office memos out loud.

All of which, you realized when you met her husband, represents the opposite of who Kysha is.

Her husband, Thom, being clean-shaven and wearing tan khakis and light blue shirts and slicked-back hair and turtle-shell glasses.

He looks as if he does other people’s finances for a living.

Which, in point of fact, is what he does.

Kysha and Thom live in River Edge, a tree-dense suburb of shady streets and chemically luxurious lawns. They are happily married. They have two kids. They drive a Ford Explorer.

A Ford Explorer or a Nissan Pathfinder.

Most SUV’s appearing to be the same SUV, only in different colors.

It took you almost a year to figure out why Kysha strikes such an ironic, hip pose.

She strikes such an ironic, hip pose because she is so unironic and unhip.

She strikes such an ironic, hip pose because she longs for the antithesis of irony and hipness.

Kysha being the kind of person who wears one identity at home and another at work, the one she wears at work saying back off, not because she would wither you with an arched eyebrow if you did not back off, but because she might blush.

If you stepped up behind her in the hall and said boo, she is the kind of person who would leap to the side and duck in a single gesture, thereby hurting her shoulder against the wall.

Andi has a theory about her.

Andi’s theory maintains Kysha secretly reads romance novels before going to bed every night.

You tend to think Andi has a point.

Now something is wrong.

Now Kysha and Thom are on their way to Seattle for a working vacation.

They have decided to fly into Spokane one afternoon, rent a car, and drive to Coeur D’Alene in the northern panhandle to meet you and Andi for dinner.

To see, as Kysha tells you over the phone, what kind of memories one can collect in a place where nothing happens.

You wanting to hug her when she says something like that.

When she says something like that, you wanting to put your arms around her and tell her everything is going to be okay, really.

You fail to tell them Andi will not be accompanying you until you show up alone in the lobby of the resort hotel where they are staying.

The one with a marina on the lake.

Andi is having a rough final trimester, you explain. She is nauseated around the clock. Her lower back aches. You could go on and on, but you will not.

The point being, these maladies notwithstanding, Andi planned to join you right up until the minute you were both supposed to dress this afternoon, then she suggested you drive up without her.

You say.

She sends Kysha and Thom her love and hopes they understand.

They do.

They display precisely the appropriate amount of concern stirred in with discretion.

You continue to elaborate on Andi’s symptoms as you escort them out of the resort and pause near the front entrance to look at the wide dark-blue lake surrounded by low-pined mountains.

There are worse things than living in a museum, you tell them, looking.

Not living in a museum, for instance.

You point out that Coeur D’Alene has the largest floating golf course geen in the northwest.

Northwest or world.

You cannot remember which.

The air is frosty.

Because of poor local mining and farming practices, the lake is also one of the most polluted in the United States.

Nitrates.

Nitrates or nitrites.

The three of you meditate upon this and then cross the street to stroll along a row of one- and two-story brick shops that only appear in tourist towns trying to look like they are not tourist towns until you arrive at a restaurant on whose roof sits a shiny vintage car from the fifties.

After you take your seats and order drinks, you guide the conversation toward their lives.

You ask Kysha how things are going at work and she catches you up on all the office gossip which strikes you as tangibly less engaging at this distance than it was at close range.

You ask Thom about finances and learn that he is distantly involved with the plans to turn the Hanford site into a national theme park.

Ground has already been broken, he says.

The investment opportunities are staggering.

You concentrate on adjusting your facial muscles into interest until your huge cajun hamburgers and string fries arrive.

Then you redirect the conversation again, this time toward the topic of children.

Your friends are in rare form.

Kysha attains a tone so imbued with irony and hipness that it is impossible to determine whether she is honestly being ironic and hip or whether her heavy irony and hipness is so ironic and hip that it somehow cancels out its own irony and hipness.

Thom plays the double-take stooge.

You find yourself laughing less at Kysha’s actual pronouncements than at the tone of her delivery and Thom’s reaction to what she says.

She points out that the biggest problem with having small children is not being able to plan their colds at least three weeks in advance.

Thom freezes, cajun hamburger midway to mouth, and gawks at her like a conked-on-the-head klutz in a slapstick routine.

Kysha begins referring to her children as rug rats and Thom smacks himself on the forehead with the base of his palm in disbelief.

It is a shtik, grownup horseplay, the stuff that bonds them at a profound level.

Neither of them would know what to do without the other half of the act.

After dessert and coffee, you return to the resort and walk along the floating wooden docks to supervise the spectacular sunset over the lake.

The color blue one-hundred-percent lacking from the sky.

Everything tangerine, saffron, steak-center pink.

Not living in a museum, or living in a museum but not knowing you are living in a museum, for instance.

Somehow, though, Kysha does not notice or pretends not to notice, as if nature were an annoying special effect designed to interrupt good conversations.

She talking about how horrorstricken she is that through some inadvertent comment she will end up putting one or both of her children in therapy for the rest of their lives.

If she is too lenient, she says, they may come to resent her spinelessness, children craving nothing if not boundaries.

If she is too strict, they may come to resent her authoritarianism, children craving nothing if not a sense of freedom.

Far out on the lake, a jet-skier in a wetsuit whirs in a large imaginary infinity sign.

His engine sounding like your chain saw, it occurs to you.

Nearer shore, a pontoon plane builds speed for take-off. A fan of whitewater swells behind it. Thom and you stop to watch, leaning on the wooden railing next to a flowerpot of nasturtiums.

The slightly anal fragrance of film.

What if the critics are right, Kysha wonders beside you, her tone easing into something you have never heard from her before, something suddenly taut and authentic, and the self-esteem movement is not only goofy but hazardous?

How so? you ask, watching the plane gaining speed.

What if inflated self-esteem — the kind that comes not from actual achievement but from teachers and parents drumming into kids how great they are — triggers narcissism instead of self-worth?

What if the result of the self-esteem movement isn’t a child who applauds him or herself healthfully, but one who stews with hostility and aggression against the world for lying to him or her repeatedly?

Thom stands close to Kysha and massages the space between her shoulder blades with his open palm.

The pontoon plane lifts off and banks sharply to the west, striving for altitude. Scattered tourist-applause clacks and pops around you. You smell the sweet-sour scent of wine on the evening air.

We’re doing the best we can, honey, Thom says in a low comforting voice. Who could ask more?

What will they remember? says Kysha.

Thom glances at you behind her back. He looks embarrassed. You act like you momentarily cannot hear them because you are so engaged with the jet-skier.

Kysha forgets you and Thom are there.

Will they remember what I remember, she says, or will they remember what I’ve forgotten and then turn around years later and accuse me of forgetting, claiming it was one of the most important instants in their lives?

You can’t think like that, honey, says Thom.

A denied request, say. A discussion I wasn’t even privy to.

They love you, says Thom. That’s a straightforward truth.

All of a sudden I’m an ogre. Even if I don’t remember having been an ogre… or maybe even having believed I was being the opposite of what an ogre is.

It’s okay, says Thom, massaging.

What if they think I should have driven them to school every day instead of letting them walk, but that if I drove them in the first place they’d think I was being overprotective? Or what if they think I was mean instead of generous making them take piano lessons, but if I didn’t make them take piano lessons they’d think I was deliberately thwarting their creative expression and self-exploration?

You’re doing a great job, honey.

If behind the scenes they think I suck as a mother even though they tell me they think I’m fantastic to my face so I die thinking one thing but they die thinking another?

Kysha… honey.

I’m just asking. It’s just an interesting question. I’d just like to know, is all.

Everyone falls silent, weighing her tone for meaning.

Kysha’s back muscles, you notice, have forced her to stand at attention.

The sun burns redly like a very old star.

A cool fresh breeze sweeps in from the north.

Wittgenstein.

Wittgenstein or perhaps a famous actor.

Someone, in any case, said Thinking is digestion.

Someone besides you, that is.

This used to be a logging town, you say, a fact pertinent to nothing, wondering why people think, what thinking is good for, precisely, until the jet-skier gives up on infinity and brings his craft around toward shore.

You pull into your driveway sometime after midnight.

Andi is already asleep, the cabin soundless.

You enter through the back door and turn on the small fluorescent light over the kitchen sink.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, you free a can of beer from the six-pack in the refrigerator, and, wandering through the darkened house, drink.

You sit on the living room couch.

You rise.

You walk out onto the front porch.

You rotate, walk back in, mount the stairs to the bedroom off the loft, and stand perfectly still, enjoying listening to your wife breathe.

In your office, you download your email.

Lean back, take a swig of beer, close your eyes.

Open them.

Omphalos, it hardly needs to be said, being another interesting word.

More Greek you do not know.

The opalescent glow from your screen making everything in the room harshly bright like a photo taken with a camera with a faulty shutter.

The third message down announces Virginia Dentatia’s death.

You halt just before swallowing.

Beer fizzing in your ears.

Her family and several dealers present.

She regaining consciousness long enough to articulate her last wish: the Web camera be placed in her coffin with her body and allowed to continue recording her translations for the benefit of her followers.

Taking in this fact, trying to take in this fact, you feel yourself enter the hazy hours.

Newborns being sixty-six percent water, it occurring to you.

Sixty-six percent water and sixteen percent proteins.

The sensation of entering the hazy hours reminding you of when your body first understands it has the flu.

A certain swelling behind your eyes.

An alien tenderness in the mucus membranes at the back of your throat.

In your twenties, the risk of Down’s syndrome is one in two thousand.

In your forties, one in forty.

All that appears on the video feed now is her empty pillow, which retains an indentation in the shape of her head.

The more you change, the more you become yourself.

The sensation of entering the hazy hours feels not unlike how wearing ear plugs feels.

Yourselves.

Albinism occurring once in every twenty thousand births, cystic fibrosis once in every one thousand, cleft lips once in every seven hundred.

One hundred for every day of the week.

Standing there on the dock in Coeur D’Alene, you thought Kysha might commence crying.

Instead, she commenced laughing.

Out of the blue.

Like what she had just said was a big joke.

Assuming that the statistics at the Family Planning web site are accurate, of course.

Assuming they are not just trying to scare people into remaining barren.

Then her irony and hipness snapped back into place like a visor coming down over a knight’s features.

Andi saying quietly behind you:

It’s showtime, lover.

You start and pivot in your chair.

The skin beneath her eyes is puffy and brownish-purple, her hair flatter on one side of her head than the other.

She is naked, palm resting on stomach.

The only thing she wears being a sleepy squinty smile that bears no relationship to the infant’s smile in the photograph.

Now? you ask.

Isn’t it always the gangly moments? she says, quietly. The ones when you least expect it, thereby in a way expecting it nonetheless?

You consider, examining your hands.

Okay, you say, when you raise your head.

When you raise your head you say:

Okay. Sure. I’ll get the car.

The pines and the gravel road arrive in your jerky high beams in a way suggesting a horror film motif.

Andi reaches over and pops the latest Radiohead cassette into the deck.

She in a baggy gray sweatshirt, jogging pants, and untied sneakers.

Some women, she says, don’t even realize they’re in the first stage of labor, mistaking it for gas.

You propose starting a special bank account for Grannam’s checks, which until now have been sitting under a polished quartz paperweight on top of your dresser.

Babies give meaning to the future, Andi responds.

The aquamarine digital clock on your dashboard says 4:44.

In white letters, Andi’s sweatshirt says: TV: A LITTLE GOES A LONG WAY.

You think about the magic of numbers.

Four four four, you say under your breath.

Pulling onto the highway, you accelerate.

A flow of clear fluid from your vagina indicates the breaking of the membrane or bag of waters that surrounded the baby during pregnancy, says Andi.

Four four four, you say aloud.

Andi ejects the latest Radiohead cassette and replaces it with the latest Poe cassette even though you have only listened to two songs.

She sings along for a while and then explains:

There is no pain. It just feels like a gush of warm liquid.

Except for your Honda, the highway is vacant.

Orange-yellow farm lights dotting the plowed hills.

Andi ejects the latest Poe cassette and replaces it with the latest Weezer cassette.

As the baby comes down the birth canal, you feel as if you have to move your bowels, Andi says.

You descend the steep winding hill into Troy and roll along Main Street.

A dog sleeping under the back bumper of a pickup.

Andi ejects the latest Weezer cassette and replaces it with the latest Avian Virus cassette.

Magritte’s ghost.

You roll by the lumber mill on the left.

You mention you did not know you owned this particular album.

Andi says she bought it last week on an act of impulse buying.

You speeding along the highway again.

Houses bunching together like wildebeests at watering holes in Kenya.

An episiotomy being a small cut made between your vagina and anus to allow more room for the delivery, says Andi.

This is the secret language of the tribe, you say.

A golf course soughs by on your right.

A supermarket open twenty-four hours a day, into whose parking lot you pull.

Engine idling, Andi hops out and the sliding entrance doors phish open.

The light in the parking lot an unnatural greenish-yellow.

A good photograph is knowing where to stand, Ansel Adams once wrote.

A good photograph is knowing where to stand, Ansel Adams once wrote, and Annie Leibovitz once wrote When I say I want to photograph someone, what it really means is that I’d like to know them.

Engine idling, you decide to quit your job.

The idea is not in your head, then it is.

What does that sentence mean?

Andi sliding in beside you, bag in hand.

Immediately after delivery, she says, settling back into her seat, your baby is held with his or her head lowered to assist in the drainage of amniotic fluid, mucus, and blood.

Fast-food franchises.

A gas station.

Apartment complexes.

A small bulb syringe may be used to suction the mouth and nose.

Then again, it may not.

I’m going to quit my job, you say.

Andi glances over at you and then back out the windshield.

You veer into the parking lot at Gritman Medical Center and locate an empty space beneath an oak.

An oak or a maple.

In this light, it is difficult to tell which.

People rewrite your identity on your skin.

The aquamarine digital clock on your dashboard says 5:25.

The cord is then clamped, Andi says, the baby dried, drops to prevent infection put into his or her eyes, and warmth insured with blankets, lamps, or a heated bassinet.

Five two five, you say aloud, shutting off the engine, shutting off the lights.

Andi lets out a sigh that is difficult to interpret.

You try to mimic the sound in a show of support.

You sit side by side, facing forward.

It is this easy to change skins.

Andi opens the bag and takes out the first pint of peanut-butter-cup ice cream and a plastic spoon and passes them to you.

The second pint of peanut-butter-cup ice cream and plastic spoon is hers.

She crumples the bag and shoves it under the seat.

Removes the lid.

Dawn gradually granites the atmosphere.

You remove your lid.

The light around you turns livid.

The color of a dirty towel.

Eating, you appraise your surroundings.

Cars slide into the parking lot. People get out. Doors thump shut. People enter the hospital. People exit the hospital.

All at a rate much higher than you might expect for this time of day.

People fingering car keys as they move.

Catching sight of you behind the wheel yet continuing on their way.

You watch them, feeling deep appreciation for such gestures of politeness.

Over and over.

Over and over and over again.

Perhaps an hour later, perhaps an hour and a half, you reach down and lay the depleted ice-cream container on the floor by your feet, start the engine, and begin your longish drive home.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

INSTINCT PUSHES YOU to look through a photo to its referent.

Without practice, without a deliberate act of will, you mistake photography for, say, a porthole onto history or psychology.

Rather than the chemical process it is.

The chemical process or the digital one.

Light-sensitive salts or 0’s and 1’s.

Once you become aware of this, it is almost impossible to forget.

Once you become aware of this, it becomes the thing you think about when you try not to think about it.

Like trying not to think about the breath you are taking this very second.

This very second and then this very second.

Thinking while not thinking.

Thinking as digestion.

Yet even the purported referent of a photo is never really its referent.

Look past the compounds or codes and you discover a kind of imitation of an imitation: a stencil of lightwaves reflected off the world.

Never the original, that is.

Never the thing itself.

Not in the sense, in any case, a skyscraper is a thing in itself.

A skyscraper or a statue.

A skyscraper, a statue, or your hand.

This being the sort of recognition that sometimes makes you want to sit down and cry.

Cry or shout.

The way thinking about Zeno makes you want to sit down and cry or shout.

Zeno and his arrow.

Shoot one into the air, the philosopher says.

Good.

Then imagine its trajectory as a series of freeze-frames.

Photographs.

Eakins’ pole vaulter, for example, or Muybridge’s cantering horses.

Zeno used a different metaphor, presumably, but nonetheless.

What do you see?

You see the arrow stopped, you see the arrow stopped, you see the arrow stopped again.

It stands to reason, therefore, concludes Zeno, that everything is at rest for any interval during which it is at a place equal to itself.

Take your time, he says.

Take as much time as you like.

Therefore the arrow is not really moving, is it?

The arrow being frozen for a split second here, a split second a little farther along, a split second a little farther after that.

These are not easy ideas, it almost (but not quite) goes without saying.

Movement being an illusion.

Movement being an illusion and, therefore, change being an illusion.

These are not easy ideas at all.

Life not amounting to a film, in other words, but a queue of photographs.

A queue of lifeless stills.

You simply send an email to Teaneck and now you do not have your job anymore and when you try to remember your wife through this shot you recall less of her than if you thought about her with your eyes closed.

You find it stuck to your refrigerator door with a pizza-shaped magnet one morning.

In a way, it occurs to you, standing there in your jockey briefs, turning the print in your hands, first this way and then that, jobless, photography is the opposite of memory.

We try to reclaim the past by means of its reproduction and yet photography cancels reclamation by force.

Somebody already said that, of course.

Somebody besides you.

Unfortunately, you cannot remember whom.

Photography feels like knowledge, somebody besides you once said, while in point of fact it floods your vision with the ineffectual optical noise of anti-knowledge.

A photograph presenting its information all at once.

Where your ideas stop and the ideas of others begin being the issue.

Study a photograph long enough and soon you will have no memories left at all.

The point being somebody already said that.

Somebody already said many of these things, no doubt.

Somebody besides you.

Jobless, you ask yourself: Do I recognize Andi here, or do I only imagine I recognize her?

Examine this photograph sufficiently and you can convince yourself that that wide mouth, those fleshy cheeks, and that contemplative gaze are embryonically hers.

You reinvent your wife in your imagination by extrapolating from these fragments.

That is how powerful photography is.

Doing so, your sense of her alters in infinitesimal ways.

Examine this photograph sufficiently and you can convince yourself that this must be someone you have never met or met on only a handful of occasions.

Your wife’s cousin Karla, perhaps.

Perhaps a complete stranger.

Unlike movies, say, you can linger over a photograph as long as you like.

You have never seen this person in the flesh or you live with her every day.

Have lived with her every day for a decade and a half.

It is not Andi, but it is no one else.

It is Andi, but merely to the extent that history and psychology are precisely those chambers from which you have been excluded.

Study her eyes, hold the image close to your nose, and the first thing you understand is that through photography you will never gain entrance.

Faces in photographs are put on, is the phrase they use.

Poses are struck.

Even caught in an ostensibly spontaneous instant, they remain impenetrable.

At least with respect to the questions that carry any significant weight.

At least with respect to the questions that matter.

This particular photograph strengthens your supposition that a household with children is twice as likely to own a camera as a household without children.

It speaks about the need of families to document themselves, their love and care for each other, their deep-structure sense of continuity and connectedness.

Photo albums work to certify communal experiences at the same time they foil these experiences.

They transform experience into a quest for the photogenic.

If you cannot take a picture of it, in other words, forget it.

Maybe it was Susan Sontag who said that, though quite possibly it might have been Roland Barthes.

Roland Barthes or Jean Baudrillard.

Jean Baudrillard, Walter Benjamin, or C. S. Peirce.

But still.

Raising children, marrying, copulating, celebrating, mourning — everything becomes an excuse for accumulating a couple of good shots.

A couple of good shots that serve to organize your life.

If you are frightened, shoot.

If you are in love, shoot.

If you are disoriented, excited, bored, depressed, stimulated, jobless, amused, or only mildly interested, take that picture.

Seeing is believing, they say.

Seeing is believing, unless perhaps it is not.

Perhaps seeing is not believing at all.

Perhaps this is what photography is really all about.

Which is why you chose not to bring a camera to Nepal, presumably.

You did not bring a camera to Budapest, Berlin, or Brussels, either.

Scotland, England, or Ireland.

Tallinn, the capital of Estonia.

Beautiful medieval heart surrounded by gray mile after gray mile of crumbling Soviet block-flats.

All the gray way to the gray horizon.

That far.

You did not want to think of your day as a series of potential frames.

Your parents brought a camera to Venezuela, a then state-of-the-art Polaroid, but only three shots from those years survive, none of which you recognize as your experience.

A house on a barren lot you swear you have never seen before.

A beach that is not the beach you found the large mucus-colored insect quilled with miniature black spikes burrowing into.

About which your teachers back in the States thought you were lying.

Examine this one sufficiently and you begin to wonder: Is this girl’s look actually a private contemplative expression, or a slack-faced daydreamy one?

Does it conceal thought or might it conceal the lack of thought?

Is it about a kind of meditative intelligence, the nascency of a particular aesthetic and emotional detachment from the world around her, or is it about some gentle, easily overlooked intellectual deficiency?

Does it invite these sorts of queries, or is that look more concerned with plain equilibrium, a new perspective on the bathroom in which she finds herself, the tight maternal pressure on her palms, her wrists, her forearms?

Now Andi joins you, naked and disheveled.

She kisses you on the back of the neck and stands on tiptoes to peek over your shoulder at the snapshot in your hands.

When you ask her about it, she laughs and touches her Adam’s apple.

That’s Nadine, she says.

Nadine?

Jared’s daughter. Nadine. Nadie.

What did you hang a picture of Nadie on our refrigerator for?

They’re coming to dinner Friday. I just thought it might be a nice touch.

You raise and lower your shoulders in an ambiguous gesture.

The first deer of the season catches your attention out the rainy kitchen window behind Andi.

You nod and she turns to see what you have seen.

Standing there side by side, wordless, you admire the tea-colored animal fastidiously picking its way through the lodgepoles and fresh green undergrowth near the cemetery.

Traveling.

You begin to live off your savings and Genia is born, for all intents and purposes, almost two weeks early.

On the first of April, naturally.

The delivery goes without a hitch.

This is what you write on your PalmPilot.

This is what you tell your friends.

Seven pounds, three ounces.

What is left of your savings and Andi’s small salary.

Genia arrives purplish-red as if she’s been bobbing in a hot tub for days, wrinkled as a cold scrotum, slathered in cream cheese.

Her head almost as big as the rest of her body.

Lopsided as a winter squash.

Andi and you design an announcement on your computer that highlights the color pink, cartoonish flowers and balloons, and the photo of Andi served up like a fish at some European market in the birthing room.

You send nearly forty copies to your friends back east.

Some parents save the placenta as a keepsake, Andi says.

Some parents save the placenta as a keepsake and some parents bury it and plant fruit trees over it or smoosh it on paper to make bio-print art.

You practice baby talk for hours on end.

In 1851 there were fifty-two photographers in Britain.

In 1861, more than twenty-five hundred.

Assuming, of course, the book Andi read is accurate.

Assuming there could be some way to know.

Each time you phone, Grannam asks you to put Genia on the line.

Andi holds the mouthpiece in your direction and you perform.

Some people store blood from the umbilical cord to yield stem cells for future medical procedures.

Others put a dried hank of it in a pouch to wear around their necks.

To wear around their necks or to wear around their wrists.

The mysteries of the tribe.

Grannam calls to let you know she received your cute announcement and that Genia is a dead ringer for Andi as an infant.

Is she a sleeper or a crier? Grannam asks.

A sleeper, answers Andi. She does nothing but eat, sleep, and wet on no particular schedule.

That’s you exactly, sweetheart. Your mother didn’t know what to do.

You pick up the other phone.

We’ve counted, you say. For every twenty-four hours, she sleeps nineteen. Nineteen or twenty. When she’s really perky, she wakes for maybe half an hour, then it’s lights out again.

Sometimes we think about waking her just so we can play with her, Andi says.

She thought you were sick, says Grannam.

My mother? asks Andi.

I don’t do my exercises, Grannam says. Isn’t that terrible?

You should, Andi replies, effortlessly adjusting to the conversation’s realignment. They’ll make you feel better.

You refused to do number two. I told her you were just too much of a lady. Has the cord dropped?

Saturday, you say.

The water jets in the jacuzzi are too hard. I think my skin’s going to fall off. This is what they call medicine.

Did you make a note and hang it on your refrigerator?

What?

That’s what I do sometimes to remind myself of things.

What?

A note. Did you hang. A note. On your fridge?

When are you coming to visit me?

Soon, you say. Andi’s still recuperating.

When you were young, we didn’t think twice about putting you in the backseat of the car and just taking off. Now everything’s special baby seats and Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.

We promise we’ll visit as soon as we can, Andi says.

You pull away from the phone and make a few whimpers and nasal blats.

Who thought of such things when you were young? Grannam asks.

You bring the phone up to your mouth and say:

We’ll talk to you Sunday.

I love you, dears, says Grannam.

We love you, too, Andi says.

Come visit me, says Grannam, replacing her phone in its cradle before you can think of a response.

The photograph being all about the peripateia, you see.

All about the pregnant moment.

Your sexual relationship does not suffer because you are suddenly preoccupied with your new child.

Instead, you discover a mail-order business in South Carolina that deals in exotic adult videos and captivating mechanical equipment.

You do not turn into sole financial provider.

Instead, you feel your money running down.

Like gas in your Honda’s engine.

Like air from a punctured tire.

Andi does not gradually develop negative attitudes about marriage.

You do not miss bonding on a regular basis with your male buddies over cheap beer and sports talk.

Sports talk, fishing talk, gun-show talk.

Andi does not come to resent you as a means of sublimating her own inability to bond on a regular basis with her female chums over wine and shared secrets.

Instead, more very large checks arrive.

Corpulent stuffed animals.

Rattles, plastic bibs, poufy sweatshirts, books manic with things that pop up and pop down and whistle and clack.

You stop monitoring your email every day.

Instead, Kysha and Thom start a college fund on Gen’s behalf.

You thank them, designate them godparents, then commence manufacturing more photographs of your daughter.

You stop surfing the Web every day.

You deposit the checks into the special bank account, untouched, and feel like you are doing something shady.

You have your wireless internet connection disconnected, Andi sells her cellular, you clear out the closet in your guest bedroom and use it to store the presents, then twice a month drive what you have accumulated to the Salvation Army, hand it over, and put it out of your mind.

Try to put it out of your mind.

Everything arriving on your film and your retina upside down.

Andi hand-coloring her photographs.

Scribbling on them with a black magic marker, running them through a copying machine in town, tinting them sepia.

She scans them into the computer and stretches them, solarizes them, inverts them, blurs them, transforms them into pointillist fantasia, surrealist melts.

She learns that Alfred Stieglitz waited three hours in a New York blizzard on February 22, 1893, to capture the right moment with his camera.

That Phyllis Diller once said: My photographs do me an injustice. They look just like me.

That, forty minutes after birth, babies can begin to imitate the facial expressions of people around them.

How?

You remember this.

For some reason you remember this.

I can’t find my voice, Andi announces. I try this. I try that. But all I hear are other people talking in my head.

You are digging up weeds when she says this, pruning back huckleberry bushes, righting thin weathered gravestones in the cemetery.

You wear your blue bandana, Andi a wide-brimmed straw hat she bought for fifty cents at GoodWill that makes her look like a peasant in a nineteenth-century French painting.

Maybe your subconscious is working things out behind your back, you suggest.

That’s not how it feels. It feels like everyone is talking except me.

Maybe this is what people mean when they say: These things take time. What do they call it? Letting go. Maybe you need to learn to let go.

No, Andi says, clipping around the base of a recently straightened stone. No. Only people without children believe life is about incontinence. People with children know it’s really about discovering how to maintain control without looking like you’re maintaining control.

You stop and look over at her.

Do they?

Letting go is the child abductor opening his car door near a playground and holding out a bag of butterscotch candies.

You return to weeding.

You’ve been reading up on this, you say.

The rate of death as a result of firearms among American children fifteen years and younger is twelve times higher than it is in twenty-five other developed countries. Or twenty-five times higher than in twelve. I forget which. But.

You look up again. Andi continues clipping.

Is that true?

Ten times as many children die at the hands of their parents as die at school.

You’re making this up.

On the contrary, she says, maintaining the same posture she might if she had just commented about the first magpies of the year returning, roosting in the trees, screeching like angry osteoporotic scholars across the yard.

On the contrary.

Knowing what you know now, knowing what you think you know, it stands to reason the fleshy arm roughly bifurcating the photograph belongs to Trudy, Jared’s wife.

Twenty-one months before you and Andi thumbed through your U.S. atlas and Encyclopedia Britannica in New Jersey, the small mole that you can detect just above and to the left of Trudy’s right elbow commenced changing form and texture.

By the time Jared noticed and pointed this out, the melanoma had spread to the skin on the back of Trudy’s neck.

By the time Nadie was two, Jared was a single parent.

This is how you will always recall him:

Pushing Nadine, ensconced in the upper basket of a shopping cart, through Safeway, rounding the same corner at the same instant you and Andi did.

His facial muscles derelict, his gaze unfocused as the photograph of his daughter on your refrigerator door.

Your shopping carts clanking.

Nadie beginning to cry, Jared to apologize.

Fifteen minutes, and you were sitting across from each other in a café specializing in unusual varieties of bagel, Nadie rocking in Andi’s arms, listening to how Jared was a professor of music theory at the university.

A professor of music theory who composed electronic scores and possessed a mind like an outboard motor.

Remixed ticks that are really bouncing ping-pong balls.

A chain-saw quartet.

Which is why he is visiting you tonight, ostensibly, Jared almost finished with a new piece and in need of an audience.

He shows up at your front door at six-thirty on the dot with Nadie perched on his right arm and a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé and cassette of his latest enterprise extended in his left, ready with a funny opener about geeks bearing gifts.

You make small talk about his drive out as the four of you move through the house, stopping in the kitchen long enough to sort out drinks — Johnnie Walker for you and Andi, water for Jared, a nod no from Nadie who will not utter a peep — and onto the deck overlooking the gully.

Bear Creek whooshing like leaves rustling in heavy wind.

It is already almost dark.

Billions of pinpoint water particles suspended in air.

You light the grill, reciting narratives about the progress of the virtual performance museum on which you lead him to believe you are still working.

You tell Jared about the man in San Francisco who invented his own language, wrote its dictionary and grammar and pronunciation guide, and now puts on plays in it that are incomprehensible-if-mellifluous gibberish to everybody but himself and one eccentric linguist from Los Angeles who studies him.

You tell Jared about how the Vatican created a patron saint of the internet, Isidore of Seville, a sixth-century monk who composed an early database in the form of a twenty-volume encyclopedia.

Everyone laughs, including Nadie.

The damp atmosphere sweet with pine sap and humus.

You do not know why you begin lying to him. You did not think about it beforehand. Only there you are all of a sudden, lying.

Soon Andi and Jared fall into their own conversation about the state of her photography and you slip into the kitchen for hamburger patties.

You prospect in the refrigerator for the ground beef, rip the plastic wrap off the Styrofoam bed, take an earthenware plate out of the cabinet above the counter, tear off a fistful of brownish-pink meat, and start molding it into the perfect fast-food puck you associate with childhood felicity.

Sculpting, you move to the window, angling so as to avoid detection, and peek through the slats in the venetian blinds.

You imagine, sculpting, that you raise a camera and squint through the viewfinder.

The shot is either there or it is not.

It is either there or you lower your camera and keep walking.

It is that simple, really.

You have it or you do not.

If you had been paying more attention, you would have discerned it in Nadie’s features that day in Safeway: the lazy mouth muscles, the continuously puzzled eyes, the ears barely too conspicuous on her head of thin tangled black hair.

She will not say anything because she cannot say anything.

It will take her years and years to grow into a three-year-old’s consciousness, and even then she will fall short in many ways.

How in a foreign country you always exist in a haze of language you do not understand.

Hoping no one is talking to you.

Hoping no one is paying you any attention.

This is Nadie.

Jared offers her a sip from his glass of water and she shrinks back into his chest as if she’s being threatened by a baseball bat. Jared takes this in stride and sips from the glass himself. He runs his free hand up and down her arm as if trying to warm her.

Sculpting, you wonder what it means when someone opens his or her wallet, produces a photo, and announces: This is my wife.

I don’t know what it is, Jared says to Andi. She’s been like this all week.

Maybe she just needs a change of scene, says Andi. Here, holding out her arms. Let me try.

Jared passes his daughter over. You are genuinely impressed by the gesture. Nadie stiffens in midlift, ready to bay, then goes malleable as a sleepy cat when Andi gives her a little squeeze, settles her into her lap, kisses the top of her head.

Andi runs the tip of her finger around Nadie’s mouth and Nadie smiles impishly.

Tell me about your symphony, says Andi.

You should run a day care center, Jared says. Look at you. You’re a natural. The symphony? The symphony is a symphony. Except there aren’t any musical notes in it. Everything’s done with a speech program.

You type in what you want the computer to say?

I collect childhood jingles and slogans. When I’m a hundred and twenty and can’t remember my own social security number, I’ll still be able to recall what Quaker Oats wants me to buy.

A hundred and twenty?

The number of years I need to live to ensure I’ll be able to look after Nadie for the long natural life she deserves.

He tilts his head back, closes his eyes, intones:

I’d like to teach the world to sing…

It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature, Andi responds empathetically.

Two, you add from the screen door, voice filled with sadness. Two. Two mints in one.

These are the verbal constructs that shaped our psychic evolution, Jared says, opening his eyes and smiling at you. The ones that make us who we are, connect us to who we were.

You lay the six meat pucks on the grill and close the lid and tell him about how Saint Clare is the patron of sore eyes and television.

You consult your watch, raising it close to your face to compensate for the encroaching night, and balance your scotch on the railing.

… a whole bunch of them, Jared is explaining when you refocus on the conversation again, typed them into my computer, and recorded the resulting multivocal recitation. I took that into the studio and started twidgling. A little reverb here. A little track overlay there.

I can’t wait to hear it, Andi says, clapping together Nadie’s small palms.

Nadie lets out a joyous screak.

You glance at Andi, surprised at the pleasure she is taking in this activity.

A day care center, Jared says. It’s totally obvious.

One burger or two? you ask.

Two, says Jared. Nadie will probably just have a couple of bites of mine. Anyway, so. If it’s not too personal or anything, have you guys ever thought about having kids? You’d be such great parents. Creative. Intelligent. Loving…

One for me, says Andi, then to Nadie: Can you make a steeple with your fingers?

Arms around Nadie’s waist for support, Andi makes a church with a steeple and then turns it inside out to display all the people wiggling inside.

Nadie believes she has just seen a vision.

You spatula the burgers back onto the earthenware plate and lead everyone into the kitchen where Andi earlier assembled three trays, each which holds a frilly beige place mat, a matching napkin, and no-nonsense eating utensils.

Beside them lie a plastic bag full of Wonder Bread buns, another of O’Boise’s potato chips, a dish gleaming with pickle slices, another gleaming with tomato slices, bottles of catsup, mustard, and runny relish.

Nadie still in her arms, Andi flips on the lights.

Everyone squints, acclimatizing.

Nadie looks like she just woke up from a nap.

Andi moves to the refrigerator to extract a large glass bowl of green salad and a bottle of oil-and-vinegar dressing.

Sorry about the informality, she says, arranging. The day sort of got away from us.

I wouldn’t have it any other way, says Jared. This all feels totally like it should feel. After the day care center, you should open a diner. It’s a no-brainer.

Jared authors his plate, concocting a classic American burger with everything on it and taking a second one and leaving it bunless and cutting it into tiny meat cubes.

A small portion of salad and a huge portion of potato chips.

He sits on the couch in the living room by the rustic wooden coffee table with a green antique oil lamp on it.

You hold Nadie while Andi puts together her plate. Nadie, you note, smells faintly of oily hair and child skin. For some reason her hands are wet and gummy. She seems to respond neither positively nor negatively to you, but bides her time in your arms, weighing her situation.

Seriously, Jared calls from the other room. Have you?

Have we? you ask.

Thought about kids. You’d be so good. You look like a sitcom.

How, in Kathmandu, you bent down in the crowded street to pet what you took to be a sleeping puppy, only it was not sleeping, it was dead.

How the old Finnish woman in Karelia explained there used to be trolls in the woods surrounding her town, but when electricity was introduced the lights killed them.

I have a theory, says Andi, assembling her burger. In ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent of all cases, yours clearly being the exception that proves the rule, nothing you do or fail to do will make the least bit of difference with respect to the kind of adult your child becomes. Not in temperament. Not in character. Not in personality or intelligence. Did you get enough salad?

I’m treating myself, says Jared. Only cholesterol, salt, and sugar. The salad’s for Nadie. You’re joking, right?

The only real contribution parents make to their kids is the bag of genes they bestow.

Okay. I get it. You’re joking. You’re saying love and affection don’t make a difference.

Sure they do. But not in the form of parents.

You bring Nadie back into the living room and place her on the couch next to her father, size up whether or not her being on the couch with those tacky hands and food is a good idea.

Andi joins you with her tray.

You return to the kitchen and bring back a box of matches and light the oil lamp, then put the box of matches back in the kitchen, turn off the overhead light there, and take a seat on the chair at the opposite end of the coffee table from the one at which Andi has taken a seat.

You all settle in and begin eating, valuing the lamp light.

A gentle rain starts outside.

Mouth full, Andi continues:

Peer groups.

This is nice, Jared says. This is really nice. Okay. I get it. For a second there I thought you were being serious.

Peer groups are another story. Everyone is influenced by peer groups. Who doesn’t want to be liked by everyone else?

Jared fists a handful of potato chips into his mouth and crunches, letting Andi’s information sink in.

He forks up one of the meat cubes and offers it to Nadie who parts her lips and raises her chin to the ceiling. Jared sets the cube on her tongue and she clamps down and begins smacking perfunctorily, her eyes already forgetting what is going on in her mouth.

Anyway, so, Jared says. You’re saying what, exactly?

I’m just saying really good parents sometimes have really awful kids. That’s what I’m saying.

Jeffrey Dahmer, you submit between bites. Ted Bundy.

And I’m saying sometimes you have the most dysfunctional parents in the world, Andi says, only you turn out fine in the end. A little therapy here, a little free will there, and the past becomes what it actually is: last week.

Jared masticates.

So we’re sort of talking about you and your father here, aren’t we, he says, chewing.

That’s exactly what we’re talking about here, says Andi. He’s one of the best arguments I know for not having kids. The more I think about him, the less desire I feel, kid-wise.

But look at you. You’re a born winner. You’re the total champ.

What’s to raising kids? he must have said to himself at some point. Anyone can do it. And then one day we found ourselves like th…

Just as Andi begins pronouncing the word this, Nadie nips her tongue.

Time-space brakes.

Nadie recoils in surprise.

You all attend her uneasily as she shuts her eyes and retracts her head between her shoulder blades like a bullfrog.

You all wait for her neurons to take in the damage report.

Her face turns blackish-red in the greenish flame’s glow and she opens her mostly full mouth and a wail jams the living room so piercing that you cannot imagine it emanates from this little girl.

The house itself passes through a worm hole and emerges into a zone where everything moves much faster than it does in the one you are familiar with.

Jared is up, pacing across the Persian rug with Nadie in his arms, patting her on the back, and saying There there, there there, there there.

Andi has fallen into step beside him.

She is apologizing to Nadie in an unnaturally nurturant voice for Nadie’s owie and running a palm over Nadie’s head and asking if there is anything, anything at all, she can do.

You put your burger down on your plate and half stand and then sit again and watch Nadie’s shrieks escalate through various registers of disbelief and misery into a self-reinforcing feedback loop.

Now, almost as quickly as it detonated, this tectonic shift is behind her.

Behind all of you.

Just like that.

She is back on the couch next to her father, gurgling and sniffling contentedly, a bowl of peanut-butter-cup ice cream balancing in her lap.

A spoon has become an airplane buzzing around her hangar face.

Andi has removed her left sock, tugged it over her right hand, and engendered a makeshift puppet that is chattering in a voice that sounds like Yoda on speed.

Knocked out by this change in the evening’s curve and intensity, you wonder how you could ever handle a real juvenile crisis.

Be a parent half a month, and your nerves would turn to oatmeal.

Be a parent half a month, and you would begin sitting in front of the television eight hours a day.

Now Andi is proposing that you listen to Jared’s new symphony.

Everyone is agreeing.

Everyone but Nadie, naturally.

A few minutes, and an indistinct digital voice spills over the lip of the loft, then another on top of it.

Soon your house is hording with sheet upon sheet of them.

The effect is a freakish and beautiful sonic waterfall.

You close your eyes and attempt picking out individual lines, but the outcome is too fluid and intricate for that.

You are moved by how much such sound can move you.

You are moved by how much such sound can move you and by how little one needs in order to live.

In time, you open your eyes.

Nadie has found her way into her father’s lap, struck a primate curl, and fallen profoundly asleep. Her mouth droops open. Her chin and cheeks are moist with grease and chocolate sauce and spittle. Her greasy fists, wobbling in the lamp’s green flame, are balled beneath her jaw.

Andi, you notice, is regarding her too.

You notice her before she notices you noticing and now your eyes meet.

In the vaguely sad smile that hovers at the edges of your wife’s lips, you spot the position you will never be able to assume together.

The home you will not be able to inhabit.

You hold each other’s glance a few seconds.

Something inside you feels premonitious.

Then Andi breaks off and you see her eyes slide back toward Jared and his daughter and you wait a second and now your eyes follow.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

INSTINCT USUALLY PUSHES YOU to look through a photo to its referent.

But what do you do with this one found tucked loosely in the back of your mother-in-law’s album, the alleged referent inexplicable?

Someone has penned in pale greenish ink across the back Andrea, 12 mths, only when you show it to your wife and ask her what it means she is at a loss.

She does not remember ever having worn a bandage over her left eye.

She does not remember what appears to be the cabinet behind her, the room she once ostensibly occupied, the rocker she ostensibly sat in.

You ask her to concentrate.

Visibly shaken, she does.

She eventually points out with some relief that the baby’s hair is not brown, like hers, but blond. You offer the well-known fact that babies are often born with lighter hair that darkens over time. This is consistent with other photographs of her snapped during her first year.

She points out with somewhat less relief that the baby seems to be more than twelve months old. You offer that Grannam has underscored repeatedly what a large baby Andi was, how quick she was to develop.

Stumped, Andi thinks, then points out more tentatively that this is not her house in the background.

Perhaps it is the house of her parents’ friends, you say.

The house of her parents’ friends or a vacation retreat.

Even, imaginably, some corner in a local church, school, or synagogue.

It is not beyond the realm of possibility.

It is not out of the question.

Or perhaps it is some niche in her house that does not look like some niche in her house because it was redecorated before Andi was old enough to remember the redecoration.

Stranger things have happened.

It almost but not quite goes without saying that stranger things have happened.

And what is that on the child’s forehead near the bandage?

A shadow?

Bruise?

What is the child doing?

In your mind, it seems equally feasible that she (if it is a she) is dozing, considering her foot, bracing herself for… what?

Why is this room devoid of toy chests and cabinets and light stands?

Paintings and storybooks and dolls?

The colorful signatures of childhood?

Every person photographed becomes the semiotic register of a certain profession, a certain social class, a certain historical period, a certain kind of life: but what does this child become the semiotic register of?

What does she stand for?

Maybe it was Ralph Eugene Meatyard who pointed this out, though quite possibly it might have been M. Richard Kirstel instead.

Meatyard seems unlikely, the more you think about it.

Meatyard or Kirstel.

Somebody besides you, at any rate.

There is no doubt about that.

Every person photographed becomes a kind of casualty, an object to be exploited by lightwaves: but what sort of casualty does this child become?

Andi sleeps poorly for the next two weeks.

She squids around beneath the quilt. You hear her get up, shuffle onto the loft, stomp downstairs. You hear the refrigerator rattle open and thuck shut. Water gushing in the sink. You hear her shuffle up the stairs. You feel her twist back beneath the quilt, huff, and, minutes later, tumble into a bayou of bad dreams she cannot seem to recall when you nudge her awake.

She takes down the photograph of Nadine on the fridge and sticks up this one in its place.

You turn on fewer lights and turn them off more frequently, stop your garbage pickup service and begin using a dumpster in town, and you often catch her pausing before this photograph, deep in thought.

Sometimes you join her.

Sometimes you stand beside her in your underwear in the kitchen, looking.

The more you examine it, the less you see its presumed referent.

You come to appreciate the series of multi-tonal cubist squares, rectangles, triangles, quadrangles that comprise the cabinet to the left with its black blocks, for instance, the wall to the right with its luscious even gray, the baseboard several shades lighter, the trilateral swath of dark rug that converses with the black scalene between the cabinet and the pictorial edge, the one stained on the wooden floor, the wooden floor itself — all foregrounding the bright white vertical and horizontal thrusts of the rocking chair, all juxtaposed against the organic curves, ovoids, and cylinders that constitute the child, yet all reiterated in that unsolvable blank patch across her unreadable face.

You think about the possible suspects responsible for snapping this shot and are forced to concede that any artistic qualities it might possess have arisen wholly by chance, that its sense of symmetry and shadow-play, its exploration of line, form, and light, are accidents.

This is the essence of the photographic enterprise.

This is what defines the photographic instant, more times than not.

Early in the nineteenth century the unexpected entered art history.

M. Richard Kirstel or Barbara Kruger.

Barbara Kruger or Victor Burgin.

Victor Burgin being another reasonable possibility.

When you share this insight with Andi, she reminds you that the only photograph taken of Vincent van Gogh as an adult records the back of his hatted head.

The back of his hatted head and the face of the man he is talking to, Emile Bernard, a minor artist no one besides a handful of specialists remembers anymore.

They are sitting at an outdoor table in Asnières in 1887.

If you scrutinize the left-hand corner of the famous shot capturing Lenin reading in a Zürich café, you can barely make out James and Nora Joyce squabbling with a taxi cab driver over the fee.

The world arriving through the boundary of a rectangle.

Look closely at the one aiming to document an early display of paleolithic horse fossils at the Museum of Natural History and you will notice two men conferring in the background.

One of these, you will be able to tell only if you are ready for it, is Edgar Allan Poe in a top hat.

World perhaps being too strong a word.

Every photograph is by its very nature surreal.

Every photograph generates a strange replicated reality by embracing coincidence.

A hundredth of a second caught precisely, randomly, rendered eternal.

The continual colonization of time and space.

Maybe it was Hart Crane who said that. He had a soft spot for cameras, you seem to recall. But it’s equally possible it was André Breton.

André Breton or Guy Davenport.

They were always saying such outlandish things.

Come visit me, Grannam says with greater and greater frequency.

Her voice sounding frayed.

Conspicuously distant, like she is speaking in the general direction of a receiver lying on a table across the room.

It is difficult to determine whether the problem is the cordless or something more alarming.

Have you changed your batteries recently? you ask her on the other line.

What?

Your phone. Have you changed the batteries in your phone?

I can’t hear you, sweetheart.

The batteries. Did you replace. The batteries?

You’re breaking up, dear.

Soon, Andi assures her. We’ll be visiting soon.

Gen can’t wait to meet her great-grandmother, you add.

What?

Genia. Wants. To meet you.

Grannam replies with a fractaled phrase that sounds something like oughter… ope… oon.

Hello? Andi says.

We can’t hear you, you say.

Hello? says Andi, louder. Hello? HELLO?

You’ve got! To change! Your batteries!

Hello? HELLO? HELLO?… Hello…?

In the center of the modest hygienic mall on the western edge of town rises a modest brown-brick fountain.

Every Wednesday Andi and you sit on the benches projecting from its sides and take notes on ambient children.

This sparkling place reminding you of your own childhood after your return from Venezuela.

Malls had just begun to be roofed over then, to move from the outside to the inside, to thrill in their hermetically sealed interiority without climate, temporality, a sense of being anywhere in particular.

You came to consciousness in a jungle-compound, but you grew up among Radio Shacks and Sam Goodies and cheap restaurants that still connoted urban diners instead of suburban franchises.

When times were bad, people felt compelled to wander such fluorescence.

When times were bad or when times were good.

Increasingly suspicious of the natural, which to them seemed increasingly unnatural, they flocked to the unnatural, which to them seemed increasingly natural.

Now they demand an elevated quality of recycled air, the high-frequency whine of security apparatuses at work, the sensation of muffled enclosure, outdoor food courts that are really indoor food courts, safety, skating rinks, muzak, safety.

Not so much to buy anything as to exist in the perpetual condition of ready-to-buyness.

The species being nothing if not adaptable.

Nothing if not durable.

The mysteries of the tribe.

Water trickling at your backs like a leaky bathtub faucet, Andi and you are attentive not to catch the children’s glances, not to draw consideration from their parents.

It is easy, once you get the hang of it.

Andi opens the white paper bag of chocolate-covered marzipans you bought on your way in, extracts a glistening dark-brown nugget, sniffs, and nibbles at it like a squirrel at a nut.

Androgynous elderly couples in jogging suits walking laps.

Teens lounging in orange-and-green-haired clusters at plastic café tables, eating carbs and cholesterol and appraising passersby with arch detachment.

If the history of the cosmos from the Big Bang to the present were a 100-meter-long line, someone once pointed out, then all of human history would occupy less than the width of a single human hair at the very, very end.

Discomposed moms and pops carrying, leading, following, dragging, and pushing their tots towards an hour or two of distraction in this well-lit district.

Durable perhaps being too strong a word.

Some children being handheld.

Some leashed.

Some borne like sacks of beets on their parents’ backs.

Some stumble-running in a perpetual graceless fall forward until their toes catch and down they spraddle, diving for home plate.

The sun putting out more energy in one second than humankind has put out since the beginning of time.

Note the moment of impact, Andi says offhandedly, nibbling squirrel-like. The puzzled stutter between the bonk and the evaluation of the bonk…

You dip into the white bag, quarrying for a large specimen.

A vole-faced boy in black shorts and white socks and red sneakers and a navy-blue Seattle Seahawks t-shirt.

The calculation of the pain’s weight, the surreptitious consideration of the environment, the cerebration of the risks versus benefits of raising Cain.

The sun supposedly putting out more energy in one second than humankind has put out since the beginning of time.

These are wonderful, you comment about the candies.

So moist you don’t want to speak because you’re afraid you’ll waste several molecules of taste.

The face flushes a microsecond before the mouth opens.

The mouth opens a microsecond before the eyes fill with tears.

The eyes fill with tears a microsecond before the vocalization.

Andi snaps the last umber-and-beige halfmoon of marzipan between her lips, sucks her thumb clean, and opens her journal.

She composes in loopish schoolgirl cursive.

The twos are terrible, she says after a minute, true, but so are the threes, the fours, and the fives.

Every so often one child biting another child for no reason.

Some screaming for their television sets every moment they are here and then screaming to stay put because they realize they are just about to return home.

When they fall, their faces become sloppy expressionist renderings by Edvard Munch.

Then their sisters or brothers execute one of several responses.

Either they join in as an act of filial solidarity or they stare down at their siblings as if staring down at a less-advanced species in distress or, seeing their sibling done in, they pester, noogie, pinch, hairpull, and weegie them, lightly at first, in exploratory tauntings, then harder, till mom or dad finally believes the evidence of his or her senses and moves forward to break up the rapidly escalating ground war.

Some attempting to insert crayons up their nostrils.

If you ever do that again, their parents shout.

Adaptable perhaps being an overstatement.

Wait till your dad finds out. Your mom. Your uncle. Your aunt.

You can shriek from now till doomsday. You’re not getting the X. The Y. The Z.

You’re not getting the T.

Durable and adaptable both.

Don’t touch. Stand up. Sit down. Be good. Be quiet. Stay still. Walk faster. Slow down. Grow up.

For their own good, of course.

Some chubby-cheeked children in rabbit suits simply sitting on the floor, legs spread, tall ears drooping, weeping.

For their own good, it almost (but not quite) goes without saying.

When babies turn one, they begin to look where grownups point, suddenly grasping the fact that at least two minds inhabit the world and can share the same intention.

How?

You can’t choose your parents, you announce.

You can’t choose your parents and you can’t choose your children.

Some rocking back and forth in their mothers’ arms in existential despair.

No bike. No sled. No ball. No doll. No hope.

Some surveying their frame of reference in numbed out-of-control stupefaction, then slipping asleep fast as they can.

Among them, you make out Gen.

You make out a flickering like the red-eye-reducing flash mode and now you make out your daughter waddle-walking in a frilly pink tutu, blue eyes wide with information, honey-blond hair a-tangle, her fist in mommy’s.

Not honey-blond: platinum.

Not platinum: ash.

Usually you cannot choose your children.

As a rule of thumb, in other words.

She is cradled in your arms, spine straight as anticipation itself, pointing at this thing, this thing, this thing, this thing, this thing.

She wants to know what every object in the universe is called, and she wants to know it in the next sixty seconds.

When she yawns, it is with a comfortable carelessness that adults forgot so long ago they now believe they never possessed it in the first place.

When she smiles, it is always a jolt to her, to you, to everyone, how outrageously beautiful she is.

You see her in a series of snapshots.

Muybridge moments.

At four, giddy on the downward slope of a playground slide.

At seven, tottering lipsticked before a bedroom mirror in Andi’s one pair of very high pumps.

At thirteen, halting in her tennis-shoe tracks in the kitchen when you tell her to be home by ten and she gives you The Look, a half-lidded once-over that takes children more than a decade to master.

Zeno and his arrow.

Changing and not changing.

The snapshot splutters into filmic motion.

Aw, dad, her flickering figure says, crackling a cheekful of gum, eyes rolled up in mock supplication to the ceiling. Nobody’s home by ten anymore.

You are, little lady, says dad.

She bops her forehead with her pipsqueak palm, exasperated, disgusted, repelled by your entire race of doddering begetters, then pirouettes on the balls of her feet and aims for the back door.

She bops her forehead, and you realize all children die by the time they are twelve.

Everything close becomes far.

Midnight, dad calls out behind her with what authority she has left him. Midnight! Midnight! Midnight!

Freeze frame.

Freeze heart.

Freeze everything.

The world for children is either very fun or very frightening, Andi reports beside you.

The fountain trickling.

The kids falling.

Falling and wailing, falling and bouncing, falling and rising and running along like nothing happened in their ceaseless Brownian waltz.

The best of the best or the worst of the worst, you say.

Childhood is nothing if not a province of extremes. There’s no middle ground. No emotional DMZ. It’s all about leaping without looking, figuring out what every button does.

It’s hot or it’s cold.

It’s… hey, isn’t that Jared over there?

Where?

Over there. By the inflatable dinosaurs. Nadie on his shoulders.

You wave a marzipan over your head. Jared is wearing large earphones like shelled sea creatures and holding a boom mike. A cumbersome reel-to-reel tape recorder hangs at his side. He catches sight of you and veers from the toy emporium, grin breaking across his features.

He reaches up, takes one of Nadie’s perplexed hands, and flaps it in greeting.

Nadie unsuccessfully surveys her surroundings for significance.

Ten feet away, Jared begins speaking:

Look at you. He slips the earphones down around his neck. You’re naturals. The congenital mall dwellers. You should open up your diner here.

Candy? Andi offers.

Jared holds up his palm like a traffic cop.

No way. My doctor, who will probably someday be implicated in the unspeakable acts under the Khmer Rouge, is convinced my bad cholesterol has become worse.

I’m sorry, says Andi, closing her journal and standing.

Dr. Kompong. Dr. Doomdoom. Call him what you like. It’s just a matter of time. Survivors will begin coming forward. Anyway, so. When you’re young, you think the only thing you think about is your body. Testosterone and estrus. Zits and pubic dandruff. When you’re older, you get to discover what thinking about your body is really all about. Do I have heartburn or is that the first sear of stomach cancer? Is that a sore neck from working out or is it my carotid artery about to blow?

Andi offers Nadie a chocolate-covered marzipan. She accepts it as she might a slimy wad of pond scum. The second it touches her palm, she drops it and it splats on the floor and her eyes spread apart and she is already focusing somewhere beyond the three of you.

Jared squats bulkily and, bracing her on his shoulders with one hand, puts down his boom mike, a fuzzy gray egg at the end of a six-foot aluminum pole, scoops up the sugary clot with the other, then grabs the boom mike and bulkily rises.

With a conjurer’s flourish, he slips the mess into his jeans pocket and continues talking, absentmindedly wiping his hand on one pant leg.

With his audio paraphernalia, he looks like a crank researching paranormal phenomena.

Pedestrians execute wide arcs around him, fearing he might without warning turn and begin to interview them.

A new piece? you say, also rising.

You tap his tape recorder.

Dream Skin, I’m calling it, he explains. Have you ever thought about what it means to own an album?

An album?

Nadie matter-of-factly reaches down and yanks Jared’s right ear.

Yeowch, he says, flinching. Nadie laughs. You, um… right. You mind if we stroll a little? We’re like sharks here. We’ve got to keep moving or we die.

You pull away from the fountain and fall in with the other consumers revolving through the mall.

Everyone unconsciously stays to the right except teenagers with numerous rings through their eyebrows and parents tearing after runaway toddlers.

You pass a store with life-size cardboard cutouts of Batman, Luke Skywalker, and Monica Lewinsky on her knees out front, then a Christian gift shop featuring all sorts of Bibles in its repertoire: real leather, fake leather, white with gold letters and rhinestones, gold with red letters and plastic rubies, pocketsize, tablesize, Spanish, Korean, one with a built-in music chip, one that is not really a Bible at all but a hollowed-out box that looks like a Bible inside of which is a video of the highlights from the Bible acted by Sally Struthers.

Sally Struthers and someone from Sex and the City whose name you cannot remember.

To own an album really means to have the right to monopolize the music on it, Jared explains as you move.

You get to pick when to listen to it, you say, where, how many times.

The illusion is that you, the customer, controls the commodity, right? Only… and here’s the really cool part… with each playing comes a kind of lack, a shortage, see?

Because the thing that sounds like it’s there isn’t really there? says Andi.

No band, you say. No star.

A young well-groomed woman in a celery-green dress stands behind a folding table on which fizzes a frying pan atop a Bunsen burner.

What is cooking in the frying pan is unidentifiable: whitish-yellow cubes that smell like curry and cat food. On either side of the frying pan are small cardboard signs with names of various sexually transmitted diseases neatly magic-markered on them.

Look at you, Jared says. You guys should be professors. I know it. Exactly: where’s the live band? Where’s the thing in-itself?

Gonorrhea.

Herpes.

Pudendal ulcers.

Which, not to put too fine a point on it, means that every time you play an album the commodity holds something back from you, right, which reinforces the notion that you’ll never be in touch with the original… which, of course, makes you want to buy another album, because maybe that one will get you closer to the thing you can’t ever be close to… which, of course, makes you buy the video, then the action-figure dolls, then the coffee mugs and key chains you’re embarrassed about buying the next day but be that as it may.

Wow, you say. And here I thought I just liked the music.

The world thereby transforms into a narrative about nearing the thing you can never reach, the thing that’s always-already retreating.

Always-already retreating? says Andi.

So what I want to do is collect all these samples from America’s soul and burn them onto a CD in such a way that the listener can really control them: their speed, their sequence, their volume, their mix, whatever. Create-A-Chorale, like.

The illusion of the illusion of the control they can’t ever actually possess, you mean.

I’m not kidding. Your students would adore you. Adulation isn’t too strong a word for what they’d feel in your presence. Isn’t adulation a great word? I think I like the second syllable best. Exactly: the illusion of the illusion. Thereby totally revealing their complicity in the process of…

He stops in mid-utterance as you pass by a store whose entrance is a bank of televisions tuned to the same local news channel.

On the screens is the image of the faithful lining up before the plate-glass window set into the wall of Anya Sanchez’s bedroom in her house near Wenatchee, Washington.

Anya, a reporter who looks full like a Bulgarian weightlifter in a brown suit is saying, fell into her swimming pool when she was three and suffered brain damage. Twelve years later she lies semicomatose, green eyes partially open and glossy, maple-sugar hair reaching below her waist, on a mattress messy with crucifixes, censers, rosaries, votive candles, and prayer shawls.

Believers tell stories about the day stigmata appeared on Anya’s hands and forehead, oil began dripping down the walls around her, the little bald boy with leukemia went into spontaneous remission after touching her feet.

Her parents, Marissa and Juan, charge visitors ten dollars for a two-minute look. Even so, the waiting list is three years long. To make Anya available to a wider audience, they have decided to hold a mass in her honor at a nearby high-school gym for the reduced fee of three dollars and thirty-three cents per person, or nine dollars and ninety-nine cents per family.

This is extraordinary, Jared says, watching. I mean, I can feel my lungs contracting in my ribcage. It’s like…

He reflects.

Nadie, you notice, is entranced by the flittering light on the screens, the sweet marionette on the mattress.

It’s like the Disneyland of the spiritual world, Jared says.

You let him absorb this insight, then cough into your fist and say:

Um, listen. Can I… can I ask you kind of a personal question?

Mia cabeza es suya cabeza, he answers without turning away from the television bulwark. Shoot.

Okay. Well. If it’s not too personal or anything… how do you, you know, do it?

You snag his attention fleetingly: his eyes sweep toward yours but, unable to stop attending the televised spectacle, sweep back to Anya beneath the cluttered golden silk sheets again.

Do what? he asks.

Raise a child. I’m just curious, is all. I mean, we’re standing here in this mall, okay, with all these kids shouting and playing and giggling and beating on each other, and the only thing I can think, over and over, is: how can somebody do such a thing? How can someone get it even approximately right?

Shouldn’t all these children become serial killers some day? Andi asks.

The image of Anya fades into a commercial for a sports utility vehicle that looks gruesomely military and can apparently climb ninety-degrees straight up an Arizona mesa.

You see Jared mouth the words: Like a rock.

When he faces you he says:

It’s not that hard. Seriously.

Seriously? says Andi, nonplussed.

I mean… look around you.

Oh, come on.

No. Look. Pretty much anyone can do it. Hell. Pretty much anyone is doing it. This is the same conversation we had over dinner. It’s like… what’s it like? It’s like para-sailing, okay, to give you a picture. You’re standing on the back of this speedboat in your harness thinking No way am I ever going to do this thing, it’s crazy, and then your feet kick out from under you and you’re shooting higher and higher and the speedboat below you is the size of like a surfboard, the size of your foot, and you start realizing it’s totally not as bad as it seems at sea level.

No way, Andi says.

Way, Jared says.

You’ve been para-sailing? you ask.

Never. But you do it because, well. You do it because you find yourself doing it. You worry less than you think you might worry. If you worried as much as you worry you should worry you’d become like so paralyzed with terror that you wouldn’t be able to budge and your child would go hungry. But biology prevents such things from occurring by making you just start… doing stuff. Which probably sounds uncomfortably mystical, but really isn’t, except to some people born between, say, 1949 and 1961. It’s just that through trial and error you start learning these… guidelines.

Guidelines?

You lean into it. You follow through.

Kind of like golf.

Golf has rules. Parenting has guidelines.

So it’s more like water-skiing?

Exactly, yeah, except without the skis. See, the thing is, the guidelines are really simple to understand once you know them, but really hard to figure out in the first place. To give you a picture: when little Ernie is being a pain in the butt, instead of yelling at him, okay, which your whole body is telling you to do, all you need to do is ask yourself: Why is little Ernie squirming around and not sitting still? And all you do is fix the situation for little Ernie so he doesn’t feel like being such a royal pain in the butt.

Come on, Andi says.

Here’s another. This is one nobody seems to get in the beginning: always talk with kids at their own height. Stoop, kneel, sit… whatever it takes to be on an eye-to-eye level with them. Otherwise they feel like grownups are looming over them like the monsters kids always suspect we are.

You’re brilliant, says Andi.

You know the idiot baby-talk stuff?

The high-pitched voice? The exaggerated facial expressions?

Shoot yourself before you employ them. I’m serious. Take yourself out into a field and just fire away. I mean, how would you feel if some freak loomed over you and began talking like Betty Boop?

You’re a genius, Andi says.

And patience. Patience is totally the key. Patience and adjusting your height. Kids can’t think fast. They can’t talk fast. You need to give them time for the electrical impulses to move through them. It just makes sense.

He’s a genius, Andi tells you.

And, whatever you do, don’t fake it.

Don’t fake it?

If you don’t have a clue what your kid is trying to say?

Yeah?

Don’t do that annoying thing some grownups do and pretend you understand, while standing there daydreaming about something else. God, I hate that. You can see it happening a mile away. Kids hate being out of control. It scares the crap out of them. And not being able to say what they want is a form of being out of control. So you need to remain calm. Be honest. Reassure them. Ask follow-up questions so they understand you care.

How do you know all this?

You totally pick it up. I swear. It’s just what the species is manufactured to do.

You study him.

Andi studies him.

You’re amazing, you say at last.

I’m not. Really. Ninety-nine parents out of a hundred will tell you exactly the same thing. It’s just… Look at that, he says, checking his watch. Shame on me. I’ve gotta run.

You sure you don’t want a marzipan? asks Andi.

Dr. Pingpong would kill me. He’d torture me first, of course. Then he’d kill me. Watch the headlines. One of these days his name will be on the front page of every newspaper in the northwest.

Hey, collect lots of great sounds, you say, jobless.

You all hug.

Andi reaches up and strokes Nadie’s hair, though Nadie’s too engrossed in the palisade of cathode ray tubes to notice.

You pat her perfunctorily on the left knee.

Now you pull away and fall in with the other consumers revolving through the mall, passing a store that sells nothing but Christmas ornaments, a pet shop with a sign advertising medicinal leeches, a food bar that carries thirty-seven kinds of popcorn including coconut, lime, and cream soda.

Near the east exit, you pause and turn around.

You can barely make out Jared through the crowd.

He has slipped his large sea-creature earphones back in place and, Nadie palming his head like a basketball a wink before she goes for the set shot, he’s aiming his boom mike at the rows and rows of televisions, braced to receive the incoming noise of revelation.

The phone stutters awake in the kitchen.

You and Andi exchange glances that acknowledge you cannot avoid this decision any longer.

So you sit alone on the porch in a sunset lens flare and listen to Andi swap small talk with Grannam for nearly thirty minutes.

Andi describes how the summer heat wilts the lettuce leaves in the garden within a quarter of an hour of watering them.

How as you turned onto your driveway two nights ago you saw the furry reddish-black rump of a bear cub disappear into vegetation.

Saw or thought you saw.

Things happen so quickly.

Changing and not changing.

You enjoy closing your eyes and then opening them again, listening.

From the air, it occurs to you, logging roads cut through a forest look like termite drillings through wood.

Andi recites the story about how when you bought this place the former owner could not find the keys to the front and back doors because he had never used them.

You recall the bored stare of young single mothers on trains in Thailand who have played with their babies long enough.

How the sleeping puppy was not sleeping.

How if you look at something dead long enough it starts seeming alive.

Now you hear Andi say you will fly out with Gen to visit over Labor Day weekend.

You feel the last dangerous wavelengths whisper across your skin.

It strikes you that all photography can do is miss seizing existence in many interesting ways.

Existence being the one shot you will never be able to take.

You push back your redwood chair, lift yourself out of it, stroll into the house, past Andi who is still busy talking on the phone, into your office.

You click on the portable phone and immediately hear how Grannam sounds happier than she has sounded in months.

You squeeze your eyes shut, open them again, join in on the celebration.

It takes her quite a while to digest this new state.

She seems to delight in mishearing what her granddaughter is saying, then in hearing her granddaughter reiterate and reconfirm the news.

Standing in the shadowy room, listening to Grannam’s shaky voice explain how she will take Gen to Van Saun Park to see the geese, the cineplexes with stadium seating to see every film ever made, an elaborate trigonometry involving gratification, culpability, and tenderness arranges itself inside you.

The windows in your house are open wide as they will go.

As you listen to the conversation, the blinds begin clattering almost inaudibly behind you.

The first cool breeze of night breathing through the screens.

Outside, insects commence clicking like marbles in a bag.

Later, you try to nuzzle back into Andi in bed and discover she is gone.

You extend your arm into soft webby darkness, lower it, and pat pillow.

So you lie there, letting consciousness soak through you, stretching your toes, flexing your buttocks, until, slowly, you swing your feet out onto the floor, sit up, put your face in your hands, sidling awake.

You locate Andi in the kitchen, lights glaring.

She is studying that photograph on the fridge.

Sipping a cup of herbal tea and studying that photograph on the fridge.

Her profile puts you in mind of Mary Leakey when, one afternoon in 1978, she noticed something amazing on her return hike to camp after a day’s work on the Laetoli plain.

In the nearly four-million-year-old hardened volcanic ash beneath her, Mary made out the impression of a human heel.

She knelt and, using the dental pick and brush from her backpack, began scraping.

Three hours later, when she stood again, the study of anthropology had altered forever: she had begun unearthing an eighty-nine-foot-long south-north trail of crisp footprints that had lasted seven hundred times longer than recorded history.

They had been made by three hominids, two larger and one smaller, a family unit, who had crossed that stretch of the planet at the alpha of humankind.

About halfway along their forward progress, one of them, the smallest, paused and turned left briefly before continuing north.

He or she, you believe, was the first artist.

What are you looking at? you ask.

Oh, hi, Andi says. I hope I didn’t wake you or anything.

You put an arm around her and squeeze, vigilant not to disturb her tea.

Things have taken on a sort of inevitability, haven’t they, she says.

Each time I look up, the momentum seems to have increased a little.

How did this happen?

You both stand there, trying to remember.

You know what Kysha told me she did when she visited L.A.? asks Andi.

Was I aware Kysha visited L.A.?

It was a working vacation with Thom. She was terrified of earthquakes, so she slept in her jogging suit. For a fast getaway. That’s me all over.

You examine the photograph together.

The child, the chair, and the eyepatch are white ghosts.

What does it mean to be so white?

What does it mean to ask what does it mean to be so white?

You know what Thom told Kysha about Hanford? asks Andi.

We have to do something, you know, you say. That much is pretty obvious.

The ants there are radioactive.

We have to… what?

They burrowed or furrowed or whatever ants do into contaminated soil. Millions of them. It’s all very hush-hush.

You’re kidding.

Not simply your run-of-the-mill ants, either. The kind with wings. Winged ants, I think they’re called. That fly. Thom’s sense is they’re likely to make African killer bees look pretty much like harmless butterflies.

Andi lets her last point hang in this middle-of-the-night space.

You make a conscious effort to continue studying the photograph for clues, your mind running on, running on, following that trio of footprints all the way to the umber horizon.

Over your coffee break next morning, you phone Alaska Air and book two round-trip tickets from Spokane to Seattle.

Over lunch, you phone Delta and book two round-trip tickets from SEA-TAC to Newark.

Andi proposes that you wait until the weekend to give Grannam your flight information. That way, she says, you can pace the escalation of her excitement. You agree, and when you finally do call her you can hear her mood has ascended through happiness into elation.

She asks what Gen likes to eat.

You cite several brand names you remember from commercials between Saturday morning cartoons.

She started sniffling last night, Andi says on the other line. Her first cold. Cold or allergy. Either way, it’s the cutest thing. It makes you want to hold her twenty-four hours a day.

You couldn’t stand cat dander, Grannam says. You sneezed and sneezed. I thought your brains were going to fly out your nose.

That was mom, says Andi. Mom couldn’t tolerate cat dander.

The nights I stayed up with you…

I don’t have any allergies, Grannam. I love cats.

Why do you live in the middle of nowhere? she asks. There’s nothing there, sweetheart.

It doesn’t feel that way, Andi says. When you’re here, it doesn’t feel like nowhere at all. You look and then go away and come back and you still can’t believe your eyes, it’s so stunning.

There’s so much sky, you say. I didn’t think there could be so much sky in one place.

Does Anita need new clothes?

What?

Does she need new clothes?

Gen? No. She’s fine. She’s good.

What does she need?

That’s really nice of you, you say. Thanks for asking, but she’s good. She is. We’d tell you if there was something she could use. We promise.

You’re sure?

A hundred and ten percent, says Andi.

You can count on us, you say. Really. Don’t worry about a thing, okay?

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

THIS PHOTOGRAPH ARRIVES from the future.

It tells you what Gen will look like when she is four or five.

It tells you what she will not look like.

It tells you her hair will or will not darken from yours into Andi’s.

How she will or will not pose for you one day in front of her great-grandmother’s white-sided ranch home, all rectangles and horizontal lines, just like you and Andi posed for Jack Pederson in front of your cabin.

This photograph also arrives from the past.

It tells you about Andi’s relationship with the person behind the camera: her sense of anticipation, her eagerness to please, her hungriness to be daddy’s good little girl.

Look into her eyes and you can see it.

Listen and you can hear her father say Now don’t move as he steadies her in his viewfinder.

You can make out the quick fluster in the driveway on a sunny Easter Sunday before church, her pink costume against the holly-green hedge.

The bone-white house.

The diluted blue sky.

Hold it. That’s it…

A starter home.

The bland understatement of the plants, the bare treeless stretch of siding.

How the driveway on which Andi waits marches right up to the foundation.

In 1637 Descartes placed a dissected ox eye in the blind of a window.

Looking outside.

The membrane scraped from the back until it was thin enough to be translucent without ripping.

Hold it…

The camera aiming off-center as if Andi’s father were expecting someone else to step into the frame at the last second.

The room darkening.

The room darkening and the world turning upside down on the back of the ox eye.

What was left of the ox eye.

Perhaps he is distracted by the family dog, a manic dachshund named Dewey with a tail sharp as a spike.

Dark cousin Karla throwing a mangy gray tennis ball at Dewey in the yard.

Karla being a three-foot-tall egg with pudgy appendages today.

Dioptrics.

Maybe someone is speaking to Andi’s father while he is trying to take the shot.

The name of Descartes’ book in which he described the experiment is called Dioptrics, you suddenly remember.

Andi’s mother, say, near the black Packard grumble-chugging in the driveway.

One of Karla’s parents dressed elegantly beside her, restless to get this thing over, feigning interest in their daughter and niece while talking about pruning the new rose bushes or whacking golf balls down the fairway at the local country club.

A Packard or a Chevy station wagon.

Plato’s cave being an anachronistic metaphor for the shadows projected on the interior wall of a camera obscura.

On the interior wall of a camera obscura or on the interior wall of an ox eye.

One of them asking a question.

He answering as he sights and clicks.

It is difficult to tell without more information.

It is always difficult to tell.

But still.

The effect of the crop being to foreground Andi’s solitude, is the point.

The pathos of her pride juxtaposed against these visual badlands.

Three minutes (Andi narrates the rest of the story sitting next to you on the living room couch one evening, photo album winged open in her lap) — three minutes, and Karla and she take off after yipping Dewey in a fit of childhood.

Tearing across clipped grass.

Mothers yelling Stop, yelling It’s time to leave, You’re going to get your costumes all dirty, You’re going to be late for church.

But everything feels so sunny, so green, it only makes Andi race faster.

Race faster and reach out for no particular reason and plunge forward and grab Dewey’s spiky tail in her fist and yank him to a yappy struggling standstill.

Laughing on her stomach.

Laughing on her stomach, then laughing on her back.

Gazing up into that once-in-a-season sky and feeling so good.

Laughing and feeling so good until the shadow of her father’s hand swoops down just like that and she is a rag doll spinning in wide circles, her father the fulcrum.

Swats landing on her fanny each time she completes a full rotation.

The world polished through a tear-shine fish-eye lens.

The world polished through a tear-shine fish-eye lens and someone having unexpectedly flipped off the audio portion of this film.

The silent footage.

The silent footage, looping.

Look at her furry bracelets.

Her out-of-focus feet.

Look at her bunnied hands in their carpal curl, the L of her ears, the vulnerable bunching at her crotch, the slight bulge of her belly.

You can feel every muscle in her body prepare to accommodate the photographer, strive to remain the person she believes she is, become the one she wants others to believe she is, the one the man behind the camera wants her to be.

To be photographed, you spot her intuiting, means always wearing an expression.

To be photographed means always being an impostor.

Where your ideas end and other people’s ideas begin is impossible to tell, it almost (but not quite) goes without saying.

Somebody may have said that before as well.

Somebody probably did.

You spot Andi hovering between being a person and being a picture.

You can spot her dissipating into the sister of that other rag doll: the eyepatched specter bracing herself for who knows what.

The latent photographic image waiting to be developed.

Strolling through the front door one afternoon, sorting mail, you come across your wife lying on the couch.

Eyes closed, rubbing her jaw.

What? you ask.

I haven’t had a toothache since I was… I’ve never had a toothache, come to think of it, she says, and look at this: a toothache.

I didn’t know people got toothaches anymore.

People don’t get leprosy anymore. Toothaches, I think, they still get. Any good mail?

Shouldn’t you have that looked at?

She rises, drops her hand. Hair falling around her face. The late morning sun through the front windows bringing out all the colors: café noir, dark red, flaxen traces, even the first suggestions of zinc at the temples.

I think I’m grinding my teeth at night.

An Anacin wouldn’t hurt.

Today I simply won’t grind my teeth. I’ll walk around with my mouth open like a goldfish.

A cute goldfish, you say, taking a seat next to her, handing her the envelope from Grannam. Guess what.

Oh, no, she says, making the same traffic-cop gesture Jared did when she offered him a marzipan. You open it.

It’s addressed to you. It makes sense you should open it.

Sense schmense. Even unopened, it makes me feel like I’ve just eaten too much.

You want me to open it?

Open it. Don’t open it.

It’ll all be over soon, you know.

Tucking her hair behind an ear, she looks at you with hope alive in every feature.

How? she asks.

How what?

How will it be over soon?

You try to germinate an answer.

Okay, you say eventually. It may not be over soon. The truth is I don’t know whether it will be over soon or not. That’s just what people say at times like this in movies that touch the heart. It seems like a good thing to articulate.

It’s a check. It’s got to be another check.

I’m sure you’re right. To cover the plane tickets and travel expenses. It stands to reason.

She huddles in, presses her head under your chin.

My tooth is killing me, she murbles into your chest.

I’ll open it.

No, don’t. Did I make the point I can’t stand this anymore? I really can’t stand this anymore. You have to do something. Think about everything very carefully first, obviously, sleep on it, then do whatever needs to be done.

You sure?

Don’t act rashly, of course. Acting rashly never really accomplishes anything.

You stare across the living room, letting your eyes go in and out of focus, running down an advanced flow chart of decisions.

An Anacin wouldn’t hurt, you say after a while.

I’m on the edge here. Just to let you know. The stones are giving way.

A black bird whips by the kitchen window as if it has been shot out of a grenade launcher.

You continue working down the flow chart.

On the edge? you say.

Geronimo, she responds. Chief Joseph.

You rise without hesitation, walk into the kitchen, and do the first thing that comes to mind: you build two sandwiches.

You assemble double-deckers whose first decks are comprised of turkey, bacon, lettuce, and tomato, and whose second decks are comprised of peanut butter, mustard, pickle slices, and catsup.

Descartes’ book is called Dioptrics, and newborns who hear the funeral passages from Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique begin to squirm and cry.

You do not hold back on the mayonnaise.

You slather it on thick as wet cement on a brick.

Then you wrap the sandwiches in tin foil and fill one plastic container from the cabinet below the counter with potato chips, another with pasta salad, another with chocolate-chip cookies, jog down into the basement, locate your blue-and-white cooler, jog upstairs with it, dump all the ice from all the ice trays from the freezer into it, and cache two beers for yourself on the bottom, a flask of Jack Daniels’ for Andi, then the sandwiches, the chips, the salad, the cookies, two forks, a knife, plastic cups, and a fistful of paper napkins.

Dioptrics means something interesting, no doubt.

You jog into the loft and choose a number of tapes from your collection, emphasizing upbeat selections from the sixties and seventies.

Lupe refers to the special magnifying glass used to inspect an image on a contact sheet in detail.

You jog out to your Honda, open the trunk, slide in the cooler and day packs, jog around front, chuff across the seat, sort through the tapes like a poker player checking his hand, select The Beatles’ Revolver, pop the cassette into the deck.

Chinagraph to the wax pencil used to mark said contact prints.

When you jog back into the house to collect Andi, you discover her sitting exactly where you left her.

Dioptrics. Lupe. Chinagraph.

She looks like she cannot get used to earth’s gravitational pull today, like she is slowly being squeezed down into the couch.

Panting, you check your watch.

You think about how cheaply you and Andi could live in Kathmandu.

Kathmandu or Pokhara.

Your endeavor has taken twenty-three minutes.

This infuses you with a sense of gratification and achievement.

Andi’s back is straight as a Yogi’s, her mouth open slightly, just like she said.

When you approach, her eyes slidder toward you but her head remains fixed.

Hah I ooing? she asks.

You’re doing great, you say. You sure you don’t want to have that looked at?

Are ooou ki-ing?

No, you say. I’m a duke. Let’s rock.

Silver flecks swirl across the hood of your Honda like disco-ball dazzle.

Approaching Jack Pederson’s place, you cannot make out anything except a dust cloud. Then you see Jack navigating his riding mower among lodgepoles in the middle of the storm. He wears a red bandana across the lower half of his face, movie-bandit-style.

When he recognizes you are from around here, he briefly raises and lowers his cowboy hat in greetings and returns to work.

Alongside his house stands what is left of the log cabin his father built: ten feet wide, fifteen long, its wooden-shingle roof collapsed in on itself, a blue spruce emerging from the gray wreckage.

1895 carved above the door frame.

In Deary, you ease along the curb in front of the White Pine Market on Main Street and hop out. Four minutes, and you are back with two Snaggy Scree bars. You hand one to Andi and start in on the other yourself.

In 1908 a realty company began selling lots here on what had been the Joe Blailock homestead east of Potato Hill, an old volcanic vent which pitches up like a timbered thousand-foot-tall Vietnamese peasant’s hat.

Today the town is barely bigger than it was then, four or five square blocks of tidy unadorned mobile homes and wooden houses with tin roofs, a gas station at either end, the White Horse Café, the Mercantile, Fuzzy’s Fine Food and Bar, a one-room library that is never open, a fire station that doubles as city hall, a run-down motel comprised of a long rusty white trailer subdivided into five or six rooms, a shop no bigger than a closet that buys antlers and bear gall bladders from hunters.

The thing that continues to surprise you is how this is the largest town from here on out.

It is the largest town until you are miles inside the Montana border.

Everything human shrinks after Deary, diffusing among trees and foothills, disappearing into a tangle of logging roads and wilderness.

In Manhattan, with its nine million people, you ride an elevator into the frontier.

Here, there is no elevator for thirty miles in any direction.

Fifty.

Shortly after you pick up speed again, other cars fall away.

Soon yours is the only one on the curvy two-lane highway.

Hilly bleached fields skimming past.

Farmhouses scrambling up at increasingly larger intervals and ducking down.

You rip by a pasture freckled with acorn-hided cattle, all sitting with their forelegs folded beneath them.

Three shiny black horses bobbing their rectangular heads over a barbed-wire fence as if watching traffic elapse.

In Manhattan, the sky is filled with people.

Here, pastures shapeshift into wide meadows behind which rise blunt forested hills.

Six or eight deer jerking up their heads.

Lowering them circumspectly.

You creep to a standstill at the one stop sign on the one fully paved road in Bovill, a townlet of a townlet with six bars, a boarded-up hunting lodge from 1907, a couple of swaybacked trailers, then you swing right onto an even less-traveled section of Highway 8 that almost at once hoists itself into mountains.

You clear-minded, like you can see everything there is to see.

The ten-foot-tall orange snow-markers along the shoulder.

The road picking up a wobbly creek to the left that crosses over to the right and then left again.

How the clouds are closer to the earth at this altitude, how microclimates function: how it is sunny where you are and precipitating iron mist a thousand feet above you to the north.

You and Andi begin to sing along with “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” on Sticky Fingers at precisely the same time.

A warm pause charging the cabin.

Andi no longer cocking her mouth open.

You feeling better and better about the day.

And now you both laughing, looking out the bug-spattered windshield.

A crow circling far above the trees like a tiny black grin.

A mile before Elk River, the last town this side of the wilderness, you slow and turn south off the highway and bump along a rilled dirt road for another mile and a half until the woods open into a makeshift gravel parking lot with two outhouses at the trailhead.

It takes you a few minutes to organize yourselves, stash the cassettes, roll up the windows, transfer the contents of the cooler to the day packs, make sure you have not forgotten anything.

You start off down a path that for the first few hundred yards is wide and true enough to allow a Jeep easy passage, then, as it initiates its rapid descent toward the lower of the three falls, narrower and increasingly snaky.

Neither of you speaks.

There is nothing important to speak about.

You can tell Andi is beginning to let her mind wander, thinking about the sunshine through the branches, the chitter of chipmunks, the sounds of you occupying this geography.

You feel content, insubstantial, like you are walking on a rubber gym mat.

Auztin’s ghost.

Auztin’s ghost unexpectedly lifting in your imagination.

A bag of some kind of unidentifiable purplish-blue chips in his hand.

He has on an over-sized t-shirt with a primitive red-and-yellow child-scrawl face on the front, below which it says in bold black letters: HE WHO LAUGHS LAST THINKS SLOWEST.

He is also wearing a pair of matching red-and-yellow splints that impedes his wrist movements, making him seem to some extent robotic.

You have been working at your computer in your office.

Idaho, huh? he says, probing his bag for a chip more special than the rest. Isn’t that where they like talk about basketball and corn?

You are disconcerted by the idea his chips may be grape-flavored.

That’s Indiana, I’m pretty sure, you say. Indiana or Iowa. Idaho is where they talk about landscape and fly fishing. Landscape, fly fishing, and the plight of the salmon. The endangered salmon, they say. The endangered spotted owl.

Right on. I ate salmon once. It tasted totally (he searches for the ideal word) fishy. So this is the state where everyone has different length legs?

That’s Mississippi. Mississippi or Alabama. What can I do for you, Auztin?

Just dropped by to say adios. It’s been, you know, fun and all.

Thanks. I’m sure we’ll stay in touch.

He ducks out, ducks in, continues to probe his bag.

But… I’m just curious here, okay? Doesn’t it like stand to reason that if you’ve seen one tree, you’ve pretty much got the arboreal business covered?

A lot of people think so.

He looks up, smiling too much.

So we’re talking upstate New York, basically, only with a greater resinous-sap concentration.

Have a nice day, Auztin, you say.

He scrinches his face.

Minuscule purplish-blue particles cling to his print.

His fingertips look as if he has dipped them in a bowl of Hawaiian Punch.

You’re a very strange little man, he says.

You turn back to your computer and examine what is on the screen.

A minute, and Auztin’s MessageWatch makes a sound like an emu behind you. You swivel in your ergonomic chair. Auztin pushes a few buttons with a gooey grape forefinger.

What? you ask.

Gotta move some bad bonds, he replies, backing into the corridor that mazes between cubicles. Have a good life, dude. Live it up. Sounds like you’re gonna have a regular fricking Mardi Gras out there…

The waterfall sneaks up on you: the distant rumble, the subway thunder, and whoosh: the trees parting and the expanse of blue-green mountains tossing all the way to the horizon and the colorful mist of flowers glissading down the slopes toward the black water turning foam-white as it launches into a hundred-foot plunge toward the pool below.

The problem being, it almost (but not quite) goes without saying, the digital organizers with four megs of memory.

The digital organizers with four megs of memory, rechargeable batteries, and those optional sleek aluminum cases.

The trail you are on concluding with a small fenced-in overlook.

You and Andi unpacking, passing utensils and food back and forth.

The problem being the way people wandered among cubicles poking at digital organizers with their slender styluses as if such a display of steady industry and status were customary at every point on the globe.

Andi goes for the scotch and the chocolate-chip cookies.

You open a beer, stretch out on the ground, slip a palm behind your head.

The problem being the way with each poke people said without using language, without using speech: Look at me. I have more appointments than you have. I’m busier than you — and my machine does spreadsheets, too.

Andi offers you a sandwich and you put the beer down to receive it, then listen to yourself chew wetly.

You scoop up a handful of potato chips, chuck them into your mouth one at a time, enjoy each salty paper-thin crunch.

Before long, you are watching your daughter again.

She is one and a half, rocking forward in her highchair at the dinner table, meeting your eyes with purpose and concentration, her face reddening as she unselfconsciously takes a dump in her diapers.

At some point realities have slid past one another and you find yourself beginning to love her.

As difficult as that may be to believe.

As difficult as that may at first be to believe.

Newborns who hear the funeral passages from Belioz’s Symphonie Fantastique begin to squirm and cry, while those who hear perfect fourths and perfect fifths begin to smile.

How can this be?

Gen is two, counting each stair as she warily mounts them on her ascent to your loft and, reaching ten, squats and begins to whimper because she lacks the word for eleven.

The air smells like dry sandalwood.

Pine sap.

Hot earth.

The problem, in other words, being that muscle mass peaks at twenty-five and then decreases by about four percent per decade until the age of fifty.

Then it decreases by about ten percent per decade after that.

Babies are born with black-and-white vision.

Out-of-focus black-and-white vision, like a photograph by Niépce.

Living in only one world when you can live in two.

This is the country where all animals are named the obvious names. If a black dog has a white throat, it is called Spot. If an orange tabby has prevalent stripes, it is called Tiger.

The country inhabited by Sparky, Bandit, Patches, and Snowflake.

Somehow it relieves you to know this.

Living in only one world when you can live in five.

Gen being two and a half, caterwauling awake in the middle of the night.

Lying there in the dark, whirling up toward action, you wondering what she can possibly already know at her age that can frighten her.

The perpetual fragrance of warm electronics in the office air.

A child’s vision is not as sharp as an adult’s until he or she is nine years old.

All that looking.

All that data flooding in.

You crayoning the letters M-O-M on a piece of paper and holding it out to her and asking her what it spells and she barking mom! You clapping and crayoning the letters D-A-D on the piece of paper and holding it out to her and asking her what it spells and she barking mom! You not clapping and crayoning the letters D-I-A-T-R-I-B-E on the piece of paper and holding it out to her and asking her what it spells and she barking mom!

The problem being the way you sometimes leaned back in your office chair and stared at your computer screen and felt yourself being enucleated by rays originating from computers all around you.

Being ground zero, in a sense.

How the artificial light among the cubicles remained exactly the same, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, twelve months a year.

A vibrant bluecheese-white glare.

The kind of light that made you want to wear sunscreen.

Only when Andi touches your belt buckle do you realize you have floated away from her.

Only when you hear your own zipper sizz do you open your eyes.

Then you are in the middle of making love.

Parched grass.

Licorice.

Shutting your eyes, holding her head in your hands, you let yourself spill into this moment, a person trying very hard to forget several things at once.

Now you are singing along with something by Led Zeppelin.

You are singing along with something by Led Zeppelin and Andi is swaying back and forth to the beat, playing air guitar, gazing around as if surprised to discover herself where she is.

You drum the steering wheel with the heels of your palms.

The road you are on curves and drops quickly by a two-story buttery-yellow schoolhouse into the jumble of Elk River’s gravel streets, vacant stores, one-room bars, and sixty people, none of whom are outdoors today.

A dirt landing strip.

Heavy clouds grazing mountain peaks.

Old pickups with flat tires and snowmobiles raised on cinder blocks scattered across weedy yards, hides tacked on metal roofs, animal skulls and racks fitted on fence posts and doorframes.

Dingy blue plastic tarps half-covering disorderly piles of tamarack, pieces of engines, oil drums, naked paint cans, sawhorses, dismembered motorcycles.

Here, people are comfortable with a certain degree of residential clutter.

It makes them feel like they belong, apparently, like they are here to stay and not simply passing through.

The part they might need is always within reach.

In front of the country store with a wooden sidewalk and weathered faux-western exterior, a sign reads: END HIGHWAY 8.

You park and step out.

Andi cracks her vertebrae with an abrupt twist at the hips.

You stretch by pushing your fists down behind you and arching your chest forward, your head back.

On the walls inside the country store are mounted the heads of elk, deer, and moose. Pelts of coyote and raccoon hang on either side of a stuffed cougar. The paneling has absorbed years of sweet smoke from a wood-burning stove.

Wandering rows of camping supplies, you try to take this all in without appearing to take it all in.

Pick up and examine an old-fashioned iron frying pan, put it down, touch a state-of-the-art camping stove, read the back of a bottle of iodine purification tablets, study a pocket knife that looks like it was designed by NASA.

The problem being sixty e-mail messages a day.

Seventy-five.

Split keyboards, vertical keyboards you typed on by resting your hands in karate positions on your desk, keyboards built into the armrests of your chair that made you feel like the captain of an intergalactic starfleet cruiser.

Andi is up at the counter, talking to a woman in skin-tight jeans and a blank white t-shirt whose dark brown hair is streaked with gray and cut in a seventies shag, short in front and on the sides, long in back.

Yeah, honey, the woman is saying. I’m smokin’ a lot more since I stopped.

Her laugh sounds sticky.

There being 525,600 minutes in a year.

525,600, more or less.

A foil lozenge of freeze-dried lasagna so sparklingly incorrupt you want to buy it just to have it nearby, a camouflage baseball cap, a combination sunscreen-and-mosquito-repellent with a red warning on the white back that blindness may result upon contact with one’s eyes.

Somewhere in the store a cat mrowling in heat.

The wooden floor squeaks when you shift your weight to reach for a clear plastic jar filled with marigold-yellow fish-egg bait.

You lift it, put it down, lift it, realize Andi is counting out change for two soft huckleberry ice creams in waffle cones.

How your young colleagues began staring through you as though you were a piece of furniture blocking the view of something interesting ten or twenty feet behind you.

How they appeared bored or ironic as soon as you started speaking.

How it became clear you did not belong to the same species any more, how they looked at you like the first homo sapiens must have looked at the last of members of homo erectus.

As you step up beside your wife at the counter, the woman in the gray-streaked shag says:

Hell, honey, I don’t believe in that daycare shit. My son sees plenty of other kids his own age on TV, don’t he?

She says this with her eyes shut and as if there is a microphone hidden in her right shoulder socket.

Thanks, Andi responds, handing one cone to you and accepting her change.

She frees two napkins from the dispenser on the counter, passes one to you, and wraps the other around the base of her cone.

Sweet smoke. Fried bacon fat. Damp tent canvas.

You have a good day now, the woman tells the microphone in her shoulder socket as you walk toward the door.

You too, Andi says.

Do what I can, the woman tells the mike. Do what I can.

Outside everything is different.

A cetaceous tourist bus across the street, chugging like the engine room in the hold of a supertanker.

Behind each tinted window, a camera pointed at you.

Flashes popping in daylight.

Andi freezes, lowers her ice-cream cone to her bellybutton, and stares.

It’s okay, you say, halting beside her. They’ve probably come from out east to see what the edge of the world is like.

Look, she says.

How the indigenous live…

No. Look. Look who it is.

Then you see what she means: behind every window a version of Grannam.

She is wearing so much makeup she appears clownish in her baby-blue pantsuit, pink scarf, and bulbous gold censer-earrings.

Some versions of her still wear mustard from lunch smeared on their cheeks. Some slump in a way that implies their backbones have been extracted. Some point at you. Some mouth words in your direction, reach around the seats in front of them and tap other versions of themselves on the arms and then mouth more words, pointing.

Flashes popping like methadrined fireflies behind the tinted windows.

Now the bus beginning to drag itself away from the curb, slouching up the road.

At the first corner, it swings wide to the left, then sharply to the right, onto the intersecting street, straining up a small incline, disappearing among rundown houses, gears ripping as it struggles to gain momentum.

Just like that.

It is not there. It is there. It is not there.

That full.

That empty.

You do not have another thought until a drop of melting ice cream drips on the back of your hand.

You raise it and lick.

Andi walks over to a trash can on the wooden sidewalk, tosses away her cone, walks back to the car, collapses in, and waits for you, staring straight ahead, rubbing her jaw.

You continue working down the flow chart.

The door brandishes open.

Andi scoots out.

She walks with deliberation over to the pay phone across the street in front of an abandoned antique store, searches through the phonebook with the stained powder-blue plastic cover hanging from a segmented aluminum cord, digs in the pockets of her jeans for change.

You join her and massage her upper back while she jabs in the number.

This is an emergency, she announces into the mouthpiece.

She listens.

Yes, she says after a while.

She listens.

Excruciating. I’d describe it as excruciating pain. When I was eight I once stapled my thumb to my desk in school by mistake. This pain exists within the same general sensory terrain.

She listens.

Lower right molar.

She listens.

Yes… Yes… No.

She listens.

Absolutely not.

She listens.

No.

She listens.

I’d say more like a white-hot poker. Yes. A white-hot poker. That’s correct.

Ninety minutes, and you are flipping through glossy magazines, trying not to pay attention to the toddler who stumbles among chairs in the waiting room, attempting to make eye contact with you.

Only you.

Among all these waiting people.

Only you.

As if it has perfectly reversed second sight.

Three-feet tall, it looks like someone has applied a coat of Vaseline over its face and hands, they are so shiny with mucus and semi-solids.

Its gender remains vague, its eyes washed-out blue.

Its mother is oblivious, naturally.

She is speaking with the oblivious receptionist.

The oblivious receptionist is explaining to the oblivious mother that in her experience the most frightening thing about giving birth is the fear of runny mascara.

I’m like totally vulnerable, okay? she says as she files her fuchsia fingernails. My legs are up in those saddle thingies, and I’m screaming for somebody to get me an epidermal because I’m about to die, and then my face starts totally dissolving.

The mother wears tortoise-shell glasses that are four times too large for her face.

They remind you of a snorkeler’s mask.

Her neck-length blah-colored hair is so filamentous you can detect large patches of scalp through it.

The waiting room smelling like chemicals whose functions you do not understand.

The toddler bobbing its head just outside your peripheral vision, wide expectant smile on its sloppy face.

You cannot believe what a bad sense of other human beings it possesses.

Sending it psychic messages to retreat, you read an ad for a blow-up dummy designed to look like a lumberjack which frightened single women can prop next to them in the passenger seats of their cars for a feeling of security.

Within ninety-six hours of birth, babies can distinguish their mother tongue from a foreign language, sucking more vigorously when they hear it spoken, and Andi has been gone nearly forty minutes.

And yet the thing is? the receptionist is saying. The thing is, with proper planning and sufficient attention to product peranimas it doesn’t have to be an utter disaster.

Among all these waiting people.

Only you.

As if this child saw the world precisely backwards.

White is black. North is south. You are nurturing.

Its eyes, you note, are nothing like Gen’s.

You read an ad for a one-time-use respirator designed to expedite escape in the event your house is engulfed in flames.

For a tool to remove blackheads from your nose by suctioning.

A drill whines to life down the corridor.

The toddler squats, hands on knees, rocking side to side, knowing you can see it, believing you think it is as cute as kids get, suspecting in less than twenty seconds you will look up and return with greetings from your solar system.

Getting everything categorically wrong, in other words.

You cannot believe what congenitally poor readers some people are.

A bearded man who cannot keep his hands still and every so often huffs through his mouth like a horse sits next to a Native American woman who is so large she actually occupies a chair and a half sits next to an elderly man with mulberry veins exploded across his cheeks sits next to a fifteen-year-old goose-necked girl humiliated by her braces and head gear.

The door to the outside opens.

Everyone in the waiting room looks like the winning serve might be delivered right now.

A baby raised for one year amid the sounds of English loses the ability to hear the sound of a Swedish vowel and a man with dandruff ashing his shoulders and too old to be wearing jeans but wearing jeans anyway tiptoes in, moves delicately as if he has hemorrhoids, lowers himself into a chair, crosses his legs, cups his right knee in laced fingers.

Crosses his legs the other way.

Puts both feet flat on the floor.

Puts his hands in his lap like two uncooked chicken breasts.

Covertly slides down until he is sitting on his backbone.

Everyone notices but pretends not to notice.

Everyone except the receptionist and the mother.

They are talking about creating waterproof-yet-gentle-to-the-skin foundations.

Everyone except the receptionist, the mother, and the toddler.

The drill down the corridor sounds like high-frequency terror.

On another page in another magazine you come across a computer-generated photo of a happy family on vacation at the Hanford National Theme Park, now slated to open next spring.

They are posing for a Kodak moment in full baggy radiation gear amid scree fields and sandstone months before any family will in fact pose for a Kodak moment there.

The toddler squats lower, rocking and bobbing.

Its nostrils are crusted with greenish-yellow childsnot that reminds you of the insect burrowing into the sand on the Caracas beach.

When you were growing up, the key to dental health was regular brushing.

When you went to college, it was regular brushing and occasional flossing and an annual trip to the dentist whose hands smelled like onions.

These days it is regular brushing, regular flossing, regular water-picking, regular scraping with a sulcabrush, regular prodding with a rubber-tipped instrument whose name you have never learned, regular mouthwashing with a rinse that contains chlorhexidine digluconate, and the regular insertion of a syringe tip up under your gums to squirt various antibacterial agents into developing pockets.

That you can remember the smell of your dentist’s hands, and not the more important details from your past, is shocking to you.

What is the purpose of memory, if this is an example of it?

When your father was dying in his hospital bed, you remember the doctors pumped in what seemed like pints of morphine.

They assured you and your mother repeatedly that he felt no pain.

They were wrong.

If things continue along their present course, it is possible there will not be time to accomplish anything else in a day.

Everything will be devoted to the mouth.

This is not a good sign for Andi.

The toddler squats so low its butt almost contacts the gray institutional carpet.

Your mother, on the other hand, died peacefully.

More or less.

You and Andi went to visit her at the assisted-living center shortly after dinner to relieve the nurse who was watching over her.

As peacefully as one can die under the circumstances, obviously.

She was in a coma.

Your mother was in a coma.

What does this sentence mean?

One you never thought you would be in a position to write back when you were, say, thirteen.

You were talking to her, holding her hand, Andi rubbing her shoulder.

She was in a coma and then it seemed like a charge of electricity passed through her, like someone had applied cardiac paddles to her chest.

She bucked and she stopped and her mouth opened slightly.

The cancer having spread from her breast into her spinal column into her brain.

Science fiction being a redundant genre, of course, given the real world.

Children, it strikes you, are walking petri dishes active with germs.

Real perhaps being too strong a word.

The drill sounds like a hornet stuck in a particle accelerator.

The receptionist says I’m like, major social faux-pop.

In another magazine you begin an article about William James Sidis, the arithmetical prodigy who lived from 1898 to 1944. By the time he was two he could spell. Eight, and he was inventing a new table of logarithms. Eleven, and he was enrolled at Harvard, delivering lectures on mathematics to the faculty.

Your mother was a person.

Your mother is a memory.

This is how people change tenses.

The toddler rocks and bobs, its face red and shiny with eagerness.

William’s father was an awful man. He drove his child mercilessly. He let the media hound him. William himself grew embittered and resentful. By the time he graduated Harvard at sixteen, he had lost all interest in mathematics.

The toddler rocks and bobs, its face sweaty and violet with anticipation.

A group of crows is called a murder, you recall for no particular reason.

Growing old isn’t for sissies, someone once said.

Someone besides you, that is.

William spent the rest of his life in mindless clerical jobs. His interests turned in on themselves. Twenty-eight, and he was writing a comprehensive book on the classification of streetcar transfer slips.

You like William.

You like the idea of William, at any rate.

Then you remember for no particular reason your mother standing on the porch of your house in the jungle compound in Venezuela, chopping up a black snake into one-inch pieces with a hoe.

The snake having wrapped itself around an empty Coke bottle in a carton of Coke bottles to stay cool, presumably.

How the pieces wiggled independently of each other.

Forty-six, and William was dead of a brain hemorrhage.

How your mother wore khaki shorts and a light pink blouse and a matching scarf and chopped as though she were chopping at earth in a garden.

You do not know why you remember her like that.

You have no context for the memory.

But there it is.

A group of crows is called a murder, and a group of finches is called a charm.

Growing middle-aged is not for sissies, either.

You jerk your head up.

Caught off guard, the toddler topples back onto his derrière in a pratfall.

At the same instant, a minimally stiff Andi appears in the doorway leading back into the complex of dental cubicles. She is just in time to witness how parents are immune to the howls of their offspring in public places.

The toddler’s mouth seems to grow to match the circumference of its whole face.

The toddler’s mouth actually seems to become larger than its head.

Its mother continues talking to the receptionist.

The receptionist looks over at the toddler, then back at the mother, and pronounces the words Mary Kay Cosmetics.

You think the reason there are stereotypes in the world is because there are people to fill them.

The toddler’s shrieks run up and down an imaginary graph in your mind.

Other people take note of the situation but pretend they do not.

A group of crows is called a murder, and a group of ravens is called an unkindness.

The toddler shakily rises and wobbles through the room, howling.

You stand and join Andi at the receptionist’s desk and listen to Andi spell out that she has received a temporary filling and would like to set up an appointment for the root canal as soon as possible.

The Why? questions tending to start at the end of the third year.

Let’s see, says the receptionist, checking her computer screen. This is Friday. We have an opening next Thursday…

Sooner, Andi says.

The receptionist’s eyes flick up to her, gauging, then back to her screen.

Tuesday?

The temporary will hold till Tuesday? Andi asks.

Oh sure. Three o’clock?

What a cutie, you tell the mother of the toddler who is staggering through the waiting room, weeping and hiccupping like a miniature Shakespearean king on a stormy heath.

Whatever, she replies.

When you dial Grannam’s number that evening, you try to make your brain go blank as a computer screen after you have punched off the power. When she answers and tells you how excited she is, how she knows she will not be able to sleep tonight because she is so thrilled about meeting Gen tomorrow, you look at Andi sitting at the kitchen table, eyes closed, head lowered, wrists pressed against her ears, and you push on. That is what this conversation is all about, after all: pushing on. When you start explaining how that sniffle was not the sniffle of an allergy or cold but the sniffle of flu’s first announcement, you do not expect anyone else to understand. This conversation is not about understanding. When you start explaining how the fever continues to climb, how the doctor said what doctors are expected to say, how you are terribly sorry and would of course do something if you could, you are not sure you understand it yourself. When you hear her voice go numb, when you hear it take an escalator down several floors of emotion, when you hear it return to your level to say you are doing what any good parent would do, you try to make your brain go still as an unplugged modem. When you promise her that as soon as Gen is feeling better you can all think about rescheduling your visit, and Grannam says that would be wonderful, and then she thanks you for calling and hangs up, leaves you standing there holding the phone in your hand, waiting, because this conversation is about not knowing, and Andi barely squints open her eyes to see if the coast is clear, and you nod that it is, the flow chart having run its course, the flow chart having apparently run its course, and she slowly lowers her wrists from her ears and takes a deep breath, and you exchange looks, like sometimes very old or very young couples do, passing data back and forth with your eyes and with your eyes only, you do not expect anyone to get this.

That is not what this conversation is about.

You do not expect anyone to figure out what just took place.

Why would they?

They are not here.

They are not you.

You are not you either, presumably.

You do not feel like yourself.

It is easy to do some things in your head, you stand there thinking, holding the phone in your hand, speaking to Andi with your eyes.

It is easy to imagine yourself making certain gestures and uttering certain sentences when you are not really making those gestures and uttering those sentences.

It is easy to arrange simple plans in your head right up to the second you have to take them out of your head and put them into the universe.

Then you become someone else.

You become what they call confused.

Like Cratylus, the Greek philosopher who could not be sure of the relationship of language to things, so just pointed at what he meant.

Like a camera.

Like a human Fuji.

Later, you try to nuzzle back into Andi in bed and discover she is gone.

You locate her in the loft, crying soundlessly, watching television.

She is surrounded by a landfill of Kleenex.

The only light in the house emanates from the hyperactive screen.

An advertisement on the Home Shopping Network hawking an authentic zirconium necklace whose atomic weight, the announcer declares with pride, is 91.22, and whose boiling point is an unimaginable 3,578 degrees centigrade.

In other words, he explains, it can survive a catastrophic event on an airliner and still be worn to a dinner party the very next evening.

What? you ask, taking a seat beside Andi, putting an arm around her.

She shrinks.

The left side of my face, she says.

You steal a quick look.

I thought the receptionist said the filling was a shoo-in till Tuesday.

The filling’s fine. At least I think the filling’s fine. It’s sitting there, at any rate, filling-like. But something feels as if each time my heart beats it’s pumping ice water into my left temple.

Three minutes and counting, says the announcer.

You didn’t wake me? you ask.

It’s the middle of the night.

You should have woke me. Awakened me. That’s simple spousal protocol.

It’s the weekend.

You cup your hand to your ear, listen, and make a buzzing noise.

I’m afraid the judges won’t accept that answer, you say.

This isn’t helping, she says.

It isn’t? you say, hurt.

No.

Andi closes her eyes and evaluates her body in silence.

No, she concludes. Nope.

You trot downstairs and return with the cordless which you use to call the emergency room at the Gritman Medical Center.

Why isn’t your wife making this call? the doctor on duty asks.

Her left frontal lobe is about to explode. She’s literally weeping and watching the Home Shopping Network.

Are you thinking of ordering the zirconium necklace?

You do not say anything.

The doctor’s voice sounds like he should be doing talk radio.

Every night, pretty much, is a slow night, he explains. Except for maybe once a week, when the shit really hits the fan, pardon my French. I notice there are two minutes and fifteen seconds left… two minutes and twelve. I understand there’s going to be a great deal on a genuine Eskimo parka coming up within the hour.

You do not say anything.

Okay, he says. Look. It sounds like an abscess. Under the filling. No biggie.

You do not say anything.

Which means there are three things your wife can do.

You do not say anything.

First, she can wait till tomorrow. There’s a number I can give you that you can call for the dentist on duty over in Pullman, but they only answer from eight to five.

You wait a moment and then say:

What’s number two?

Number two is you can drive into town and I’ll take a look at it.

What would you do? you ask.

I’d do number three. Which I’d do it myself.

Myself?

Yourself. Herself. You take a pointy object, okay, as in a pin or a needle or whatnot, hold it over a flame for thirty seconds to sterilize it, let it cool, don’t forget to let it cool, scrape out the filling and remove the medicated thread packed inside. It’s really pretty easy. It sounds hard but it’s really pretty easy. Then have your wife rinse with warm salty water.

Holy cow.

Which sounds a lot worse than it is, I suppose. Except the root should already be dead. Dead or almost dead. Listen. Have you seen Marathon Man?

You’re kidding.

It won’t hurt that much. That’s your barometer. If it looks like it’s hurting that much, you’re doing it wrong. In which case get in the car and come see me right away.

You do not say anything.

She should be able to make it through the weekend with Anacin or Tylenol.

You do not say anything.

Anacin’s fine, but more doctors prefer Tylenol. Apparently. You now have less than a minute to order. You sure you don’t want to go for it? Impulse buying is like an injection of epinephrine.

You wait a moment and then say:

I’m not ordering.

You’re not even curious?

Not even a little.

Me neither, to be perfectly frank. Well, anyway, let me know how things turn out, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got an anchovy pizza, a Coke, and my credit card right here at this table I’m sitting at here. We’re talking real-looking seal skin.

Real or real-looking?

Have a good night. And don’t forget the warm water, okay?

Salty, you say.

You stroll past the bathroom door nonchalantly, reach the end of the hall, count to twenty, turn, and stroll past the bathroom door.

You have been doing this for nearly half an hour.

Ever since you hung up and reported to Andi, who listened attentively and headed in search of a safety pin.

You strolling past, reaching the other end of the hall, counting to twenty.

Now she leans toward the mirror over the sink, gaping, glare from the makeup lights sparking off the silver glint between her thumb and her middle finger, white flaky particles collecting with drool along her lower lip, spittling down her chin.

Intermittently, she makes guttural sounds.

You cannot watch, naturally.

You cannot listen, either: the rasping of the pin makes you want to hurry down to the basement and stand in the dark.

Yet you know it is important to show your support.

For this gallant action.

You know it is important to provide encouragement.

Gallant not being too strong a word in this case.

So you take a breath, stroll past the door, reach the other end of the hall, count to twenty, and say:

Great job! That’s the spirit! Keep up the good work!

Then you turn and stroll past again.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

THIS PHOTOGRAPH ARRIVES from the future.

It tells you what is about to happen to your wife.

What is not about to happen to her.

It tells you these things by telling you how photographs communicate distress by aestheticizing distress, placing a storm window between you and it, making distress finally a neutral proposition about layout and f-stops.

It tells you these things by telling you how photographs modify you into a tourist of reality and reality into a Mall of America where everything (including distress itself) can be appreciated from a comfortable distance, purchased, taken home, held, and used over and over again until it wears out, then slipped into a shoebox, a drawer, the attic, the garage, a photo album, only to be thrown away with old cotton balls and Q-tips in the end.

Where your ideas end and other people’s begin is impossible to say being another thing somebody besides you said, most likely.

This photograph also arrives from the past, telling you where your wife has come from.

Telling you who she has known and what she has decided and what she has done and what has been done to her. It speaks about the way what you see through the viewfinder is never what you encounter on the finished print. The tones cannot live up to your imagination, the angle, the atmospheric density, the resolution, the impressive sense of scale.

The relentless flatness of the photographed scene will always remain stunning.

The way things simply stop at the photographic edge so that your memory often stops there, too.

What you think of as your memory.

Andi walks over to you one evening while you are watching television, places this photograph in your lap, and stands back, appraising.

Two days and two nights after cousin Karla’s call.

Two days, two nights, and twenty-two hours.

Appraising, waiting for your response.

One set of fingers holds her belly in place, one set picks her lower lip.

There is Kool-Aid-purple damage beneath her eyes. A greenish-pale hue to her skin that reminds you of how the skin on certain people automatically turns unhealthy sometime past midnight. An inverted pinkish triangular patch encompassing her nose and mouth that reminds you of someone who has been wearing an oxygen mask.

Her eyes are smaller than you remember them.

She has not been eating.

Eating or sleeping.

She has been crying, instead.

Crying and walking.

Because if there is no one to remember a moment in the past, the past ceases to be the past.

Crying and walking and working in her studio most of the night.

You do not pursue her down there.

She presents you with an expression at the top of the stairs that says this would not be a wise idea.

But you hear things.

Things falling. Breaking. Things being rummaged through.

You hear her talking aloud to herself as she weeps and walks and works.

And so you watch television.

You watch television pretty much around the clock.

You do nothing but flip channels, go to the bathroom, flip channels, consult the blue digital clock on the VCR atop the console, flip channels, nod off and then lurch awake again two minutes later as though someone just elbowed you in the head, begin flipping channels once more.

All with the sound turned down.

All with the sound turned down so as not to disturb her.

With the mute on, now off, on, now off.

Look at her break-your-heart smile.

Look at her dark eyes feeling more than they have a right to feel at that age.

Look at her lips, always parted as if words wanted to escape but could not, the perplexity, the glistening mouth standing on its head, the way the collage changes emotion if you hold it upside down.

How there are, if you examine this piece closely, two collages in one, a perceptual cleft between them, two voices trying to inhabit the same emotional and aesthetic space.

Living in two worlds at once.

As in Kirlian photography.

Three.

As in a CAT scan.

You put down the remote and you put down the collage and you rise and enfold your wife in your arms, wishing you were taller than you are.

She continues picking her lower lip.

Bracing her belly.

You hug her and think about how you cannot think of anything else to do so you hug her.

She continues picking her lower lip.

And now you hear it.

At first you believe you are not hearing it, that it is an aural fata morgana originating in the pith of your brain, but now you hear it and you know you are hearing it.

You are hearing something so weak and high-pitched and unnatural coming from the back of your wife’s throat that you begin palming her head instinctively, rubbing her occipital lobes, trying to calm down whatever it is living inside her, trying to let it know everything is safe, it is okay, it can come out now.

You keep changing dreams.

Your television tells you that thirty thousand years ago in the Chauvet cave in southern France an eight-year-old child slipped, its skid mark in the hardened clay eight-and-a-half inches long.

A photograph in rock.

Twenty to thirty thousand years ago.

It is difficult to say without further information.

You keep changing dreams and your television tells you that kids whose mothers smoke a pack of cigarettes a day during the third trimester are twice as likely to become chronic criminals because of nervous system impairment than those mothers who do not smoke a pack of cigarettes a day.

You do not feel any better.

No matter what you do.

Not, for example, when you locate Nickelodeon.

Not when you see the camera on a public-access station panning the dim high-school gym somewhere in Wenatchee, Washington, documenting the congestion of the faithful.

Especially not then.

The Swarming, the newscaster who is not a newscaster but perhaps a wannabe actor is calling it.

The loyal multitude in the bleachers, in the aisles, pouring out onto the polished floor, dangling off window ledges, pressing against the doors.

The immense murmur of hope.

The low drone of conflicting prayers recited three days on end.

Especially not when you see the bright ring of light in the center.

The bright ring of light surrounding Anya Sanchez draped on her bed like a broken marionette in a white robe.

Her parents in the front row, dignified, stiff.

Marissa in a frilly flowered dress like Easter morning and Juan in an eye-achingly white shirt with the top button buttoned.

The top button buttoned and no tie.

That white.

That sad.

Kids in wheelchairs. Kids on crutches. Kids in bandages.

Noseless kids. Neckless kids.

Kids with flippers instead of legs, legs instead of arms, too many arms, not enough fingers, plenty of fingers but each of them shaped like a hammer, plenty of fingers and each shaped perfectly but curled into their chests like claws.

Burned kids, bald kids, bug-eyed kids.

Kids with lizard skin, with elephant skin, with blotched or peeling or carbuncular skin, with exquisite skin but heads three times too large for their dwarfish bodies, old before their years, brainless, unable to hold up their torsos, unable to bend their torsos, unable to say their names, unable to stop saying their names, swollen, emaciated, hooked to stoma bags, droopy eyed, bent legged, in possession of more holes than a human body should have, not enough, exactly the right amount but arthritis at eight, nephritis at nine.

This is what hell will look like.

This is what Hieronymus Bosch saw when he went to sleep every night.

Now the rush of carbonation at the base of your skull.

The camera panning.

The rush of carbonation at the base of your skull, the familiar face, and the twinge of televisual recognition.

Monet’s world turning yellower and redder as cataracts grew over his eyes.

You can see it in his paintings.

Next thing you are leaning forward.

Next thing you are out of your seat on your knees in front of the set, touching the screen, realizing precisely how pixilated broadcast images really are, how difficult to decipher, why personalities never appear the same in real life as they do on TV.

Monet’s world turning yellower and redder and more abstract and Francis Bacon’s faces looking like cysts on ham.

And there is Jared among the throng.

An impressionist cloud of photons and electrons that is also your friend.

He is holding Nadie in his lap. His hands around her cloudy waist. Her eyes making her seem distracted, as if no one else exists around her, as if she is sitting by herself in her own bed, contemplating what to do on a rainy afternoon.

You can distinguish or think you can distinguish the expectation in Jared’s eyes, the excitement, the sense of being in a special place at a special instant in history.

Now:

There you are, on your knees, late at night, touching the radiance of your television screen, the special moment somehow already behind you.

Because you expected it to be Grannam when the phone stuttered awake at just past five in the morning.

Because behind the blinds, outside your open windows, magpies were screeching in the yard like always and Andi breached from beneath the quilt like always and she grabbed the receiver like always.

Except you could tell almost immediately it was not Grannam.

You could not tell who it was, but you could tell almost immediately it was not her.

Andi said nothing for a long time after she lifted the receiver and when she did say something it was a series of very short words broken by very long pauses.

When she put down the receiver she stood and began to dress like she only this minute remembered she had never officially quit her job in Teaneck and had to get to the office right away to tell her editor.

What? you asked from bed.

Andi was in a hurry.

She tugged on her jeans and tugged on one of your gray t-shirts and slipped on her clogs and headed out, face grim as a Navy SEAL’s on the way to a drop zone.

What? you asked from bed.

Only no one was in the room to answer anymore.

The magpies screeching.

Andi on the stairs.

Andi on the stairs and Andi in the foyer.

Andi was going, it occurred to you.

Andi was going.

Andi was gone.

You caught up with her halfway down the driveway.

You still zipping your fly when you pulled abreast.

Your All-Stars all untied.

You were not wearing a belt but your jeans fit snugly enough on your hips that this did not present a problem.

The October air early-morning cool.

Sand dry.

The sun orange as a LifeSaver lifting over the mountainy horizon.

Light changing heartbeat by heartbeat.

What? you asked, walking beside her. What?

Andi moved quickly, head down, arms clutched across her belly, holding her organs in place.

The autumn earth the color of potato skin.

She must have fallen during the night, Andi told her feet. Karla found her wedged between the bed and the wall when she stopped by on her way to work. She called the ambulance. Imagine her there, stuck.

I’m so sorry.

All night.

It’s beyond imagining.

She couldn’t reach the phone. She couldn’t unstick herself. What do you think she thought about in the dark?

Even if I tried, I couldn’t imagine.

At the bottom of the driveway Andi turned left.

Sunshine fidgeting through pines.

Light thinning, clarifying, whitening, concentrating around powdery branches.

You kept changing dreams.

Andi recalled how when she was five Grannam used to get down on the rug on all fours and Andi would climb up on her and they would play horsey until her father had had enough of all that guffawing and told Andi to put a lid on it and Grannam would stop and Andi would dismount and everything would grow severely still but then Grannam would wink at Andi from across the room quick as that and everything would be okay again.

You passed Jack’s place and kept walking.

No one was outside this early.

Andi said there would be no funeral and that is when she started to cry.

It sounded like her diaphragm had ruptured.

She looked like a leaking balloon.

She kecked and sucked runny snot up through her nose which she wiped with the base of her palm.

Bosch.

Monet.

Bacon.

You crossed the wooden bridge that arched over the abandoned railroad tracks and kept walking.

Andi said Grannam used to say she did not want to allow death to put on a show and then Andi cried harder.

Her arms dropped to her sides and her shoulders heaved but she would not stop walking.

She hung her head and aged ten years.

She descended to the abandoned tracks and turned left and kept walking.

She entered a small ravine and kept walking.

The small ravine opened out onto pastureland and hilly woods and she kept walking.

Andi told how Grannam would always slip her a five-dollar bill when she was leaving at the end of a visit. It became their secret game, as if Grannam thought the cash stood in for her love.

Here is the hardcopy version of my heart, she said with her eyes, handing over the money.

Andi once heard her mother tell Grannam she should not do that and Grannam promised she would not and next when she was about to leave Grannam hugged Andi and Andi felt Grannam’s hand slide into her back pocket and when she checked her jeans later there was another bill.

Crying, Andi told how once, when she had accidentally knocked into her glass of milk at dinner and it fell off the table and broke and her father sent her to bed without supper Grannam snuck up to her bedroom with a Snaggy Scree bar and split it with her in the gray-blue dream light and Andi asked Grannam what was the worst thing she had ever done as a child and Grannam told her about how she would sometimes eat sandwiches without removing her white gloves and that got them both laughing so hard her mother discovered them and would have been angry but they were laughing so hard she simply joined in.

Bear scat chocked full of huckleberries on the tracks.

Clumps of tall dry grass between ties.

Bear scat and spent yellow shotgun shells.

Crying, Andi told how Grannam wanted to be cremated and how Karla would display her ashes to the Atlantic on the Jersey shore without fanfare.

That is how Grannam envisioned it.

That is what she wanted.

Anita always wins, Andi said, crying. Do what you want, Anita always finds a way in.

She never gives up.

She is always waiting at the door, looking in at the window, cradling her box of super-rich cookies.

The day heating up around you, but less than you expected, like it could not quite catch its summer breath anymore.

You walking by the old Deary silos.

Behind the motel comprised of a long rusty white trailer subdivided into five or six rooms.

Breaking off from Andi, backtracking, you jogged down Main Street by the Mercantile to the White Pine Grocery Store and bought two bottles of water.

Jogging back, you handed her one and asked her to drink.

When she was done, you handed her the second bottle and asked her to drink that as well.

She kept walking and crying and drinking until ten when she halted and lowered herself onto the iron rails and you sat beside her and she started sitting and crying and drinking.

Twenty minutes there, and it was over.

Twenty minutes, and she was already someone else.

Twenty minutes, and she stood and you stood and then you walked home side by side.

She did not say a word on your return journey.

Your pace almost lazy.

She just climbed the porch steps and swung open the front door and cut through to the basement, which is where you did not pursue her because before descending she presented you with an expression that said this would not be a wise idea.

And so you climbed to the loft and sat down and made yourself as comfortable as possible and reached for the remote.

Hearing the first item break.

Hearing the first item and then the second.

The blue digital clock on the VCR atop the console says 3:33 when you finish hugging her.

By 4:04 you are on the road to Wenatchee.

Because sometimes traveling is the only response to a situation.

Duran Duran singing about being lonely like a wolf and you staring straight ahead at the vacant dawn road in your high beams.

Lonely or hungry.

You forget which.

Andi slouching beside you, seat reclined, exhausted, sleeping with such ferocity her fingers twist and poke as if they are using an invisible ATM machine in her lap.

Out east, people think Washington State is a synonym for lushness.

Say those two words, and people out east picture waterfalls, evergreen forests, and snow-capped peaks piercing vast oceans of woolly gray.

But that is only one channel.

There are many others.

Central and southeastern Washington is windy desert, haunted windy desert, trench-like canyons, scablands where patches of hard lava rock lie on the surface like geologic bedsores.

Driving into it from northern Idaho, you do a slow dissolve from a Swedish film into an American Western.

Winding roads straighten out and amplify into generic interstates.

Vegetation withers. Temperatures rise. Topsoil erodes.

Craggy volcanic slabs splitting caked earth.

You feel as if you are watching impressive TV footage telecast from a space probe on an asteroid.

Which is what you are thinking about when you begin picking up local Wenatchee news reports about the miracle.

The announcer sounding as surprised as you by what he is saying.

Miracle being too strong a word, presumably.

While the faithful slept in the bleachers or sprawled on the glazed-wood floor, the semicomatose girl rose two inches into the air above her mattress.

The event lasted seven seconds.

The event purportedly lasted seven seconds.

Fewer than twenty people noticed it and their reports conflict.

But still.

More cars have joined you. Some are choked with people — six, seven, eight of them in a single compact, all tidily dressed, all staring straight ahead with a creepy sense of destination.

I had the most intense dreams, Andi says, adjusting her seat, coming awake beside you. The colors seemed jellied, they were so vivid. You could taste them.

You were twitching, you were sleeping so hard, you tell her.

People walking west along the shoulder, mostly traveling in twos and threes.

Sometimes whole families are on the move.

All the women wearing dresses like Easter, all the men eye-achingly white shirts.

Some carrying colorful paper flowers.

Faces blank with patience and purpose.

Ahead, they are walking down an on-ramp.

They are cutting across the haunted windy desert toward the highway from towns or ranches you cannot see.

I slept so hard my feet are fizzing, Andi says, not taking her eyes off the slow coagulation of people along the roadside as the announcer announces that an old woman with very bad eyesight felt her vision improve marginally shortly after the levitation.

His voice sprightly now, like he is delivering a weather report about a string of flawless days.

A while, and the traffic slows to thirty miles an hour.

Fifteen.

Your speedometer can hardly register your forward progress.

A sixteen-year-old high-school dropout claimed that the Lord touched her uterus during the night and now she is pregnant.

Sleek black patrol cars approaching from the opposite direction slow, flip on their lights, carefully pick their way across the median, set up positions along the shoulder on your side of the highway.

State troopers in mirrorshades.

State troopers like androids in mirrorshades surveying what is happening around them.

It strikes you there is no longer any traffic in the eastbound lanes.

Did you pack my camera? Andi asks.

In back, you say.

Andi unfastens her seatbelt, climbs up onto her knees, turns around, begins digging through a pile of jackets, pillows, Snaggy Scree bars.

Now she is snapping photos.

She is snapping a skinny Native American man in his eighties stooped over his cane like a central European refugee.

Callers start phoning in saying they dreamed of Anya levitating before she actually levitated.

How can everyone dream the same dream? Andi asks.

They’re not, you say. They only think they are.

It doesn’t make sense.

Sure it does. There’s a word for this. A medical term.

What?

I don’t remember. But I’m certain there’s a term.

The oncoming lanes are filling rapidly with traffic heading the wrong way.

Click, click, click.

You pass people riding ten speeds, children being pulled in wagons, people with their arms wrapped around the waists of other people wobbling along at three or four miles an hour on motorcycles.

One family pushes an empty shopping cart before them.

A baby born this morning with its umbilical cord around its neck displayed a purple birthmark on its cheek in the shape of a cross.

A cross or an X.

It depends how you look at it.

You feel giddy at being part of this new westward migration.

Carried along like this.

Time on fire in your car.

What will people do when they finally reach the gym? Andi asks, clicking.

Sit, you say proudly. Stand. Mill around.

She lowers her camera, checking how many shots she has left on this roll, raises it and continues clicking.

Here’s an idea for a series, she says, adjusting the aperture ring: photos featuring famous people, only the famous people are absent, and you only see the reaction shots of the audiences watching them.

Brilliant, you say. How the president’s audience isn’t Radiohead’s audience. That’s brilliant.

You pull even with a motel on the outskirts of Wenatchee.

The town is a small flat enclave sitting north of the Columbia River on the western cusp of this extraterrestrial region.

The motel’s parking lot is jammed with cars halted at myriad angles.

The faithful sitting on curbs, sitting on benches, standing in line to register although it is clear from the sign out front and the numbers of people assembling that there is no vacancy.

You crane back as you roll by and when you face forward again your car is not moving anymore.

Not even a little.

Traffic has stopped.

The palpebral fissure.

The palpebral fissure, you suddenly remember for no reason, is the term for the space between eyelids when they are open.

You examine the padded interior roof of your Honda, listening to Andi work.

Before long, the first car door swings open ahead of you.

Now others.

Feet on the asphalt.

People sniffing air like a landing party checking the atmosphere on a planet to see if it is breathable.

Now, tentative, they are stepping from their cars, testing the road surface for firmness, beginning to move up the highway, wandering among the jumble of abandoned vehicles.

Ten or twenty at first.

Fifty.

Now hundreds.

Sitting behind the wheel, you consider the wide barren arctic-ice sky above you. You have never seen a sky dominate a landscape so forcefully. It feels like the earth has become nothing but nitrogen and oxygen, argon and carbon dioxide, hydrogen and helium.

That you are walking on a crust a millimeter thick beneath an almost infinite blue dome.

The way things simply stop at the photographic edge and the way some narratives simply stop like that, too.

The steady dry breeze.

The blood-brown rocks along the roadside.

How once you strolled along the banks of the Bagmati in Kathmandu, watching cloth-wrapped bodies burn on the funeral pyres.

Families of the dead in prim circles, passing time.

Holy men spattering butter on the fires to help them burn faster.

You could hear steam building in the skulls as you strolled along.

Sadhus cooked bread by burying it among shards of smoking bones.

How guilt and happiness are not mutually exclusive emotions.

How a group of children stood knee-deep in the river.

How a group of children stood knee-deep in the river, oblivious, in the black oily water that used to be strangers.

Throwing a red rubber ball through gusts of coppery haze.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

THE REST OF YOUR STORY is as smudged as this photograph.

All the eyes have dropped out and been replaced with mouths.

All the seeing has dropped out and been replaced with speech — only the speech has to do with what has not been seen and cannot be said.

Maybe that is how it has really been from the beginning, of course.

Maybe the rest of your story is simply about what your story has always been about: what the camera does not know.

There is a reason, in other words, that most paintings are signed while most photographs are not.

Most photographs are not signed because they are about the thing itself, the incident or person being photographed, and not about the photographer.

Photographs, particularly documentary photographs, which comprise most specimens (family and scientific, military and journalistic, police and industrial), are about replicating the world, not creating a new one.

To the extent they imagine, they do not get it.

They are about neutralizing the photographer while recording, informing, chronicling, summarizing.

They are not about the summarizer except to the extent that the summarizer happens to exist on a specific day at a specific address.

He or she cannot help that, needless to say, but there you have it.

Rather, they are about the event being summarized.

Photographs are about incident.

Whoever said this originally, assuming someone in fact did say this originally, said it much better than you, presumably.

The photographer exists within photographs only as a vestige, an unavoidable afterimage.

More personality than that, and the thing being witnessed comes to feel impure, contaminated by a gangling act of selfhood.

Photographs are not about vision, though that is what they purport to be about.

They are not about seeing, to put it another way.

They are about copying.

They are not about production.

They are about reproduction.

They are not acts of dreaming, but of insomnia, about the inability to shut your eyes year after year.

And then naturally there is this one, all Andi, all the time, a twenty-four-hour non-stop Andi channel — yet almost unintelligible because your wife’s eyes are missing.

Her eyes are missing and so Andi is missing.

The focus that defines her mood, her age, her intelligence, her everything.

It is impossible to tell whether she is happy or sad.

Whether she is six or sixteen, bored or apprehensive, thinking or daydreaming, cute or lewd, angry or in love.

And that, it strikes you, is Andi’s voice precisely.

That is Andi all over.

Because some narratives simply stop and because on the far side of Moses Lake you simply veer into a Best Western and get a room.

It is after nine o’clock.

It is after nine o’clock and after ten o’clock.

Three times on the way here you had to pull over onto the shoulder and sit behind the wheel, just sit behind it, eating a Snaggy Scree bar, engine idling, U2 playing on the cassette deck, U2 or Garbage, eating another Snaggy Scree, traffic hurling past, then ease back onto the highway and continue your night ride, windows down and the cold desert wind rushing through the cabin like time itself, suspecting you might be the only couple left on earth.

Which is what your father did as well, you imagine, sitting there, it almost goes without saying.

But not quite.

Crunching to the roadside over crab shells, crab shells or frog backbones, it remains unclear which, sitting behind the wheel, smoking, everyone facing forward, rain beating down on the roof.

You, your mother, your father in a rich cloud of particulate matter.

In the middle of the night.

Just like his son.

Just like you.

Rain thundering down on the roof.

Many vehicles in the parking lot display bumper stickers bought in Wenatchee either yesterday or early this morning announcing they attended The Swarming.

Because you simply turned around at some point.

Because you simply eased out of traffic, bumped by the semaphoring state troopers on the median, and pulled into the eastbound lane.

Because the viewer of a photograph almost always has a privileged perspective.

He or she almost always knows how things will turn out.

J.F.K.’s head will snap forward in another second, snap forward and then snap back, and Jackie will clamber onto the trunk of the black limo.

Baryshnikov will lose to gravity.

Again and again.

Again and again and again.

Men and women in Anya Sanchez t-shirts roam the lobby purposelessly like protagonists in a B-film about voodoo.

The t-shirts salsa-sauce red with two bold vanilla-white fingers raised in a peace sign surrounded by a jagged vanilla-white cartoon aura.

Below the bold vanilla-white fingers and bold vanilla-white cartoon aura the bold vanilla-white letters spelling out: BE THERE.

How would you know? you wondered nearly thirty-five years ago in the backseat of that car, car or Land Rover, staring at the nape of your father’s neck, rain hammering the roof, he perhaps thinking along similar lines.

Thirty-five or forty.

You forget which.

Four elderly women dressed like Easter morning perching in a row on the couch in the lobby, staring at the tiled floor.

Driving at night, you cannot make out individuals behind windshields, everything being glare and dark shapes.

Headlights sweeping across landscape.

Every car could be empty.

This is one possibility.

Another is that every car could be full, but not with people.

Every car could be full, for instance, with entities that look like people but are not people.

This being a difficult proposition to prove one way or the other.

You ask for a complimentary tube of toothpaste and two toothbrushes at the front desk.

Because your sister, you see, was there beside you on the beach late one afternoon.

Your sister was there beside you on the beach in Caracas late one afternoon and then she was not there beside you late one afternoon.

Did you mention you had a sister?

Did you mention to your wife you had a sister?

You had a sister.

She was out in the ocean, waving.

Waving being what you thought at first she was doing, naturally, like a student at the back of the room wanting to ask a question.

Then you corrected your misapprehension.

The instant of correction lasting one lifetime long, precisely.

You cannot believe what poor readers some people are.

Your sister waving to you, apparently waving to you, as the tide hurried her away from today among a field of lilac jellyfish bladders bobbing on the glittering surface.

Your father sitting behind the wheel, smoking.

Smoking and thinking while trying not to think, apparently.

On your way back from the police station.

What passed for a police station.

His cells already beginning to misfire, one could in retrospect and with some leeway conclude.

Everyone facing forward as if in front of the family TV.

In your hotel bed, bedspread still taut, you and Andi lying side by side, fully clothed.

Your mouths tasting peppermint fresh.

Because where a particular photograph is viewed will determine how it is viewed.

She never screamed.

You remember this detail — actually, this lack of a detail — perhaps more than any other.

Your sister just waved.

Waved and floated away, to be sure.

Her head the size of the tip of your pinkie if you were to hold it up in front of you at arm’s length.

Surprised as everyone else by what was happening to her.

There being no lifeguards on this particular beach, it perhaps being important to underscore.

Your father frantically splashing into the surf in his baggy swimsuit.

Your mother and father.

How would you know if you were the last people on earth?

Her name was Rieña.

Your sister’s name, that is.

Whose body never returned.

You imagining it swollen with seawater and jellyfish stings.

You imagining it swollen with seawater and jellyfish stings in your hotel bed in the middle of the night.

Unable to shut your eyes, year after year.

Honey or auburn blond.

Either way, your parents never pronounced her name again.

Hair the shade that used to be referred to as dirty blond but is now referred to as honey or auburn blond.

Either way, Andi rolls over and curls into you.

You remain in this position five minutes, forgetting.

Forgetting being the opposite of a passive activity, general wisdom on the subject notwithstanding.

Now you roll over and curl into her. You remain in this position three or four minutes. Now she climbs on top of you and lies there. You lose your sense of time. Now she rolls off and you climb on top of her and lie there.

It could be two in the afternoon.

It could be eight in the evening.

Now you roll off and you both lie side by side, holding hands, fully clothed, and when you check the clock it is 11:11.

Holographic projections in a virtual world that only looks like the world you are familiar with, to cite another possibility.

Another possibility among many other possibilities.

Someone else’s dreams.

Your dreams, inhabiting your sleep, which you mistake for a state of wakefulness.

It could happen.

Anything could happen.

Anything does.

Always.

At the front desk, you ask for change for a ten-dollar bill tonguing from your hand.

On the way back to your room you and Andi duck into the startlingly lit vending machine cubicle burring like inside your head and buy four cans of Pepsi, a bag of high-sodium-and-saturated-fat butter-flavored popcorn which you nuke in the microwave next to the dispenser, and two more Snaggy Screes.

Somehow you cannot eat enough of them tonight.

When you enter the long windowless carpeted corridor, you hear what sounds like passionate love-making going on behind the door to your right, room 333.

You and Andi come up short, arms stuffed with junk food.

Then it dawns on you that the same sound is issuing from room 334.

335, 336, 337, 338.

The same woman is saying Yes yes yes fuck me harder baby fuck me harder and the same man is grunting like a water buffalo and there is a thwacking noise that grows in moist intensity.

All the way down the hall, like mirrors in a barber shop, only aural.

Pay-per-view, Andi whispers.

What? you say, too loud, then adjust your voice. What?

Channel eighteen. Channel nineteen.

You consider this.

Who are these people?

The faithful, most of them. I’m sure there are a good number of businessmen, truck drivers, and cosmologists mixed in as well.

This is what they do after what they’ve been through?

What else would you expect them to do? They’re frightened.

You stand there a minute, contemplating.

Wow, you say after a while, and recommence walking.

Wow? says Andi, matching your pace.

Making your way down the long windowless carpeted corridor that smells like the inside of a new car.

Affirmation climaxing all around you.

What the camera does not know is that Genia’s first joke will sound like this.

Would have sounded like this.

Gen: Knock knock.

Dad: Who’s there, sweetie?

Gen (tentatively): Knock knock.

Dad (patiently attentive): Who’s there?

Gen (more tentative still): Knock knock.

Dad (vaguely concerned): Who’s there, sweetie? Who is it?

Gen (almost a whisper): Knock knock.

Dad (openly concerned): Who’s there, honey? Who is it? Who’s out there?

Gen (in a very small voice): I forget, Daddy. I forget.

What the camera does not know is that most people employ universal babytalk when addressing the elderly.

They speak to them in disproportionately cheerful tones.

They use the royal we.

They repeat themselves as if repetition were a cure for deafness or the inability to concentrate.

Did we just spill our juice? they say, never anticipating an answer.

What the camera does not know is how Grannam was more like Gen than she at first appeared to be, the only real difference being that Grannam knew people were treating her like an infant but could not help it.

That is what cousin Karla tells you on the phone a week later, looking back.

For Grannam, she says, life was one patronizing slowing down.

That flash in the movie theater when the film begins slipping in the projector and the actors’ words relax into thick dream-speed and the image stutters and you know two seconds later the world will freeze and darken.

Again and again.

Again and again and again.

Bibs, diapers, unselfconscious farting in public.

Farting and burping.

Gas creep, Karla calls it.

She remembering the last time they were together before the last time.

Grannam wheelchairing through the gleaming Safeway with her, a pair of Depends taped in place beneath Grannam’s pantsuit, pulling everything at eye-level off the shelves and chucking it into the shopping cart Karla pushes beside her.

Safeway or Red Lion.

Canned green beans.

Neosporin.

Rust remover.

Macaroni and cheese.

Macaroni and cheese.

Macaroni and cheese.

The sky becomes a pink-streaked exhibitionist in drag. The sky lowers. The sky thickens and opals into an upside-down topographical map.

And now misty drizzle laps over northern Idaho.

Late every drizzly afternoon Andi greets you with a handful of collages, shards of photographs of her at various stages in life, some scrawled across, some with huge mouths pasted over small mouths, some torn, some neatly scissored, some almost nothing but white space interrupted by a shred of elbow or ear.

When Jesus walked among us on earth, the condolence card one relative sends you reads, He took special care to nurture those who were sick. I pray that He will hold you close now as you make your way through this difficult time.

Hunters patrol your road in flat-green pickups, firing randomly into the trees.

The wind hurls against your house. The walls creak. The blinds clack even though the windows are shut and latched.

One night you are awakened by Genia wandering through the murk, talking with imaginary friends.

Your consciousness trembling between sleep and not-sleep.

Her sour milk breath.

Her hair like sweaty child skin.

That real.

That unreal.

You reaching out to pat her arm and then Andi announcing from the shower I have literally hundreds of ideas. Virtually every day I think of another ten.

Good, you say, finding yourself hunched over the sink, waterpicking. That’s good.

Photography, it strikes you as you stoop there, means Drawing with light.

But it’s the choice that scares me, she says. How many lives do we get to lead? How many people do we get to be?

You’re amazing, you say.

Oof, she says as if she just punched herself.

What? raising your head, waterpick suds spilling freely from your mouth.

Drawing with light or Writing with light.

Either way.

I just had another one, she says. While I was talking to you, I just had another. They keep coming. They just keep crowding me up.

You learn visual receptor cells called cones function during the day while those called rods are extraordinarily sensitive to dim illumination.

When the cones function, you see colors.

When the rods function, you see everything in black, white, shades of gray.

How seeing is living in two places at once.

As in an x-ray.

Three.

How everyone possesses a blind spot, a small, circular, visually insensitive region in the retina where fibers of the optic nerve emerge from the eyeball.

You learn there is something you cannot see in every scene no matter how hard you look.

You’re in my thoughts and prayers, the condolence card another relative sends you reads. Rest easy in the bosom of the Lord.

Floaters are specks or small threads in the visual field, usually perceived to be moving, that are caused by minute aggregations of cells or proteins in the vitreous humor of the eye.

The retina, it turns out, containing about one hundred and twenty-five million receptors.

All that information.

All that data flooding in.

Every instant your eye is open.

It is difficult to think straight, once you become aware of such a fact.

Now you stroll through the front door late one drizzly afternoon, unzipping your light blue windbreaker, and come across Andi talking on the cordless.

She is lying on the couch, one hand behind her head, feet on the armrest.

She listens and talks, listens and talks, reminding you of a teenager after school.

You hang up your jacket, wander into the kitchen, wash your hands, explore the refrigerator for interesting items, return to the living room carrying a carrot from your garden.

Chewing, you pick up the latest Newsweek and begin thumbing through it.

The mice at Hanford have begun eating the radioactive ants, thereby becoming radioactive themselves, and moving into the community.

Cats eat the mice.

Children play with the cats.

Chewing, you chuck the Newsweek onto the coffee table and walk back into the kitchen and out onto the porch which seems bare and sad without any furniture on it.

Bear Creek has picked up speed and mass with the autumn rains.

It gargles and sloshes over the softball-sized rocks.

Low branches from fallen trees and leafless bushes bobbing in the rushing water.

Chewing, you watch, let your eyes drift up into the woods on the other side of the gully, up again into the late-afternoon sky.

It is only four o’clock and already it is twilight.

It is only four o’clock and when you return to the living room Andi is off the phone.

Your cheeks feel like cool plastic to your touch.

Andi has turned on the lamp beside the couch and poured scotches for both of you.

Wild Turkey.

Chewing, you take your seat and ask her who it was.

Benn and Branda, she says. They heard about Grannam and called to commiserate.

That’s sweet, you say, chewing.

Branda said she knew Grannam was happy wherever she was now and that she was sure I’d see her again one day.

She didn’t.

She used the phrase join her in the sky. Those were her exact words. Join her in the sky. Bonnie’s fine, by the way. She’s taking tumbling lessons. Tumbling lessons or aerobics lessons. Are you ever going to finish that carrot?

It seems like the more I chew, the more carrot there is in my muh…

The cordless stutters awake again.

She lifts it, clicks it on, says hello.

Immediately her voice drops. Hardens. You can hear it gaining calluses.

She sits up and leans forward like she is on the toilet.

Her abundant hair covers her face.

Suddenly Andi is monosyllabic.

Fine, she says from beneath her hair, monosyllabic. Yeah…………… No…… no. Absolutely not………………… I don’t care……… No. I don’t care…

Concerned, you finish your carrot and wash it down with scotch.

You examine the ice in your glass, you examine Andi, you examine the ice in your glass.

Out the window, everything has turned blue-black.

It is as if someone has shut off the switch to the world.

Five minutes, and Andi lowers the phone, holds it between her knees with both hands.

She seems to be reckoning its engineering.

What? you ask after a while.

Andi shakes her head and raises it and she is smiling the way cynical people smile when their worldview has just been confirmed by a new hostage situation in a nursery school.

You won’t guess, she says.

What?

Go ahead. Guess. Try. It’s impossible. I’ll give you a hint. My father. After all these years, there he is on the phone, trying to make small talk as if maybe we forgot to call each other last week.

How’d he find our number?

What’s new? he asked. Karla. She’s been going through Grannam’s address book, phoning people. Now he wants to come visit. He says he’s Gen’s granddad and he has the right to see his granddaughter. His words.

I’ll call him back. I’ll tell him that isn’t going to happen.

He says he’s already booked a flight.

I’ll call him back. I’ll tell him to unbook it.

He says he’ll be here for Christmas.

I’ll call him back. I’ll tell him to cancel his ticket.

He says he’ll get a lawyer.

I’ll call him back. I’ll tell him we’ll get a lawyer, too.

He says he’ll take us to court to get visitation rights. In these cases the grandparents always win, he says. Because most judges are grandparents themselves.

Andi puts down the phone on the coffee table numbly, no, indifferently, no, tensely, no, angrily, no, and puts her head in her palms.

Muffled, she says:

What?

What what? you ask.

What are we going to do? I’m looking, but I don’t see any options.

You’re not looking hard enough.

Okay, she says, considering. Okay. Here’s an option. We tell him the truth. We go ahead and tell him the truth.

Which it goes without saying means telling everyone the truth.

Which means… what, exactly? What exactly does it mean, telling everyone the truth?

You think, sipping Wild Turkey.

You think some more.

The window behind Andi is a blue-black mirror. You see the back of her head reflected in it. You see yourself, slightly to the right, sipping and thinking.

Telling everyone is Plan A, you say.

Andi raises her head and looks at you.

There’s a Plan B? she asks.

Sure, you say, improvising. Sure, hon. There’s always a Plan B. Isn’t there?

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

THE REST OF YOUR STORY, in other words, is unreadable.

In a manner of speaking.

In a manner of speaking, it is the shot that failed to turn out.

The one on the roll that was not developed.

Maybe it was the first shot.

Maybe it was the shot exposed precisely as it should have been exposed except that someone opened the back of your camera prematurely, assumed there was no film in it, assumed the film had already been rewound, made no assumptions whatsoever because he or she was busy considering something more important instead.

The iridescent mountain bluebird balancing among branches in the bushy ponderosa across your yard, say.

In any case, it is the shot whose print never arrives.

You took it. You know you took it. This is not the question.

You remember where you were and what you were doing and how carefully you checked and rechecked the light meter, the focus, the framing before you pushed the trigger.

Yet when you see your prints, this one is not among them.

It takes some time for the realization to sink in, naturally, but when it does you are surprised you almost missed this photograph’s absence.

Because, with that, the rest of your story becomes a black box.

Maybe this is what it has been from the beginning.

Maybe the rest of your story is only about what your story has always been about: transformation and the inability to discuss the process of transformation.

Things change. Things change. Things change.

But why?

What do those words mean?

Your story has always been all about the description of input and output, but it has been unable to relate the two.

You learn an 8” x 10” digital image of reasonable quality uses one megabyte, the equivalent of five hundred double-spaced pages of text.

One hundred thousand words, to put it another way.

To put it another way among many other ways.

There is no reason to produce the photograph that occupies this black box because it exists only for you. For you and Andi. To everyone else, it would be just another snapshot.

To everyone else, it would seem ordinary.

This is not a photograph.

This is not that.

At most, viewers may be attracted to the way it fixes a particular person or group of people in a particular landscape at a particular point in time, if that is in fact what it does.

Did.

If that is in fact what it did.

Because, in discipline, it is the subject who has to be seen.

His or her visibility assumes the hold of power that is experienced over her or him.

Because memory jumps from photograph to photograph like connecting the dots in a cheap, mass-produced drawing, only what happens when a photograph is missing?

The obvious assumption being that the person who originally said this said it much more eloquently than you.

This assumption being a given, of course.

So to speak.

Viewers might note with bland curiosity the subject’s clothing, say, the historical dynamics of the scene, the angle from which the shot was taken, conceivably even some background feature that might have eluded you.

The composition.

The way the cold silver light falls.

For them, this photograph would never be more than a visible object of analysis, something to deliberate upon briefly and then put down in order to move on to something else.

You cannot accept this about people.

All that information.

All that data flooding in.

There is a reason that most visitors to museums stand in front of a masterpiece for an average of thirty seconds.

You have read about the study that confirms this.

About how the researchers set up hidden cameras to monitor the viewers’ eyes.

How the viewers spend almost as much time reading the plaque on the wall next to the masterpiece as looking at the masterpiece itself.

Because, perhaps, they believe they have better places to go.

Because they merely want to say they have been there, done that.

For them images will always remain a place to visit, not dwell in.

Viewers want to see, but after the seeing they do not know what to do besides articulate that seeing has taken place.

To everyone else, this would be just another snapshot.

It would amount to one more picture among many other pictures.

To you, it represents everything that is important about your story.

To you, it depicts a universe that could have existed but for many complex reasons did not.

One future among those many futures you are unable to enter.

A kind of incandescent prospect.

Yes.

That is what you think about as you stand there.

That is what you think about as you stand by the fresh grave, head lowered, December snow twinkling in the air around you like a flurry of mica chips.

That is what you think about as you stand by the new white lozenge of marble in the cemetery on the other side of the gully, surrounded by a small circle of friends and family from back east.

That and poker tells.

That and poker tells and the weather.

The weather has been so cold lately that you had to drive into Deary yesterday to purchase a pick ax to break up the winter earth.

Your hands numb even now.

Your nose running.

The gravestone surprisingly easy to acquire.

Branda stands winged beneath Benn’s right arm, her face primrosed with grieving, stands next to Kysha and Thom, handkerchief bunched in his fist yet stoically tearless, stands next to Karla, leather-gloved hands clasped before her, stands next to Andi, rubbing her jaw again, you notice, in an automatic gesture.

In the look away what is interesting is that players reflexively glance aside from the table when dealt a monster hand, faking indifference.

It is Sunday.

Flakes of ice complicate the afternoon.

You stand there, thinking and waiting.

A group of crows is called a murder, and a group of lapwings a deceit.

A group of turtle doves is called a pitying.

You have shaved your head.

Eventually, Branda says:

I, um… I’d like to say a few words, if that’s okay and all.

There is no clergyman present, to make the perhaps not completely unpredictable point.

No clergywoman, either.

You told everyone on the phone this would be a private nondenominational memorial service. Everyone is, therefore, dressed down. Everyone except Kysha and Thom, both wearing dark blue suits and dark blue full-length coats as if ready to walk into a country club.

Excluding Kysha’s quilled hair which reminds you of an amethyst mace.

You are wearing jeans and a ski jacket.

Jeans and a ski jacket and sneakers and your head is one-hundred-percent bald.

Please, you say to Branda. Absolutely. By all means.

In the freeze bluffing players confronted with an opponent’s big bet involuntarily cease movement and hold their breath.

To insure the desired exposure you should take one shot at what you perceive to be the correct exposure, then one above and one below that first reading.

This is called bracketing.

Branda begins to speak. Speak and grieve. She explains, grieving, how she never got a chance to meet Gen but had heard so many stories about her over these past months she felt she already knew her.

How Branda had really wanted to get to know her better and thought she would some day but how every now and then we do not have the time we thought we would have to do the things we hoped to do.

How nonetheless she is certain Gen is somewhere special.

Branda can, she alleges, feel her.

Branda can feel, she says, grieving, Gen’s presence all around us.

It’s like… um, she doesn’t know how to say it. It’s like…

May God grant you healing and all the graces you need through the intercession of our Lady of the Miraculous Medal, the condolence card one relative sends you reads.

As Branda speaks, your nose begins to run harder.

It is difficult for you to determine whether you are crying, too, or simply very cold.

The weather being what it is.

You cannot put your finger on it, strictly speaking, but somehow the day suddenly feels so long and gray and dismal.

Andi looks over at you, taken aback.

You can tell she is trying to figure out what is going on.

You take a tissue from the pocket of your ski-jacket and blow, which makes your eyes begin to redden and water.

Maybe you are catching the flu, you think.

Maybe you are not.

Gen: Dad. Daddy. Dad.

Dad:…

Gen: Da-ddy. Daddy. Dad. DADDY. Hey, Dad.

Dad: What is it, honey?

Gen: What did Cinderella say to the photographer?

Dad:…

Gen: You can’t think about it, Daddy. You have to just say the answer right away.

Dad:…

Gen: You can’t think about it. Come on. Guess. Make a guess. Guess. Come on. Do it. Guess. GUESS.

Dad: Okay. Let’s see… How about, hmmmm. How about: Some day my prints will come?

Gen (crestfallen): Someone told you. Someone told you the answer, didn’t they? Someone told you.

Dad: It’s just an old joke, honey. That’s all. It’s just a really old joke.

Some things, in any case, you cannot control, it occurs to you.

Your sinuses are related in intricate-if-difficult-to-articulate ways to your chest muscles, the anatomy of your lungs, the snow picking up speed and density around you, what a small circle of friends these sorts of events come down to in the end.

Kysha and Thom look over at you sympathetically.

Just seven people, you think.

Karla looks over at you and her dark eyes go oily with sorrow.

Seven people.

That is it.

That is all.

This is to certify that your name has been placed at the National Shrine of Our Lady of the Flowers to share in the prayers and masses offered there each day, the condolence card another relative sends you reads.

You try smiling at them all reassuringly, which only makes your nose run harder, harder and faster, which only makes you for some reason see Gen tumescent in her pink down coat and pink down pants and pink down hood and pink down booties.

Not so much an angel as the scale-model replica of an astronaut.

She is playing in the yard just off the back deck early one morning, first sunlight flaring through fog between dense lodgepole pines, collecting small smooth stones in her mittened scale-model astronaut palm.

You see yourself pulling the blinds closed and continuing to wash dishes, wash dishes or prepare breakfast, wash dishes or prepare breakfast or read the want ads, and then from an omniscient perspective you see your daughter beginning to wander away, onto the foggy gravel driveway, lifting this stone, that stone, testing its heft, evaluating its beauty, letting it drop, lifting another.

You see her squatting.

Squatting and then standing.

Waddle-walking toward the road at the bottom of the driveway.

Never aware, of course, of that flat-green pickup plunging up behind her.

The driver saying later he never saw her, as drivers often do say in such situations, apparently.

He seemed like the kind of man you could trust.

Visibly shaken, he would always carry this conversation with him.

He simply never had any idea she was there.

He took the curve, which your daughter happened to be occupying, and the day’s first foggy sunflash turned his windshield into a white mirror.

That was it.

That was all.

The two hunters riding in the bed saying it sounded like what they imagined hitting a three-foot-tall water bladder would sound like.

They actually used the words water bladder.

They actually used them right in front of you.

In the flair players who move chips with panache while betting signal they are in reality insecure about their hand.

Four hours later you called Karla. It was well past noon in New Jersey. Your voice shivering so badly it must have given the impression you were standing outside in falling snow in your jockey shorts.

Interpreting this as evidence of emotional exhaustion, Karla volunteered to phone your family and friends on your behalf.

Your behalf and Andi’s behalf.

You thanked her and told her you would never be able to repay her.

You were right.

Your family and friends and Andi’s father, who failed to call you back.

There was, you imagine, no real reason.

There was no real reason excluding compassion, of course.

Excluding compassion and excluding tenderness.

Concern.

Things like that.

Unless his not calling had more to do with the opposite of indifference.

This is not that.

This presumably is not that.

Your parents pronounced your sister’s name one last time at the police station, at what passed for a police station, and then they never pronounced it again.

Kysha is speaking now.

She is talking about how this moment is what friends are for.

People believe friends are for the good moments, she says — the vacations, the dinner parties, the weddings, the sharing in happiness and success.

But friends are really for these moments, these awful moments, these moments you cannot begin to believe you are actually experiencing.

Seven people.

One for every day of the week.

That is what it finally comes down to.

Did you just see what I just saw? is what tourists ask their partners over and over, traveling.

The shitting fields, or how the machine-gun-toting guard pulled you out of line at customs in the Belize airport and made you stand off to the side for nearly an hour before it dawned on you he was waiting for a bribe.

Made dangerous by his own poverty.

How that night you were awakened by a noise in your hotel bathroom, what passed for a hotel room, and when you investigated you discovered a rat chewing on one of Andi’s used tampons in the spilled trash can.

You spent a small portion of the money in the special account you set up for Gen to stage this scene.

Did you just live what I just lived?

On the phone calls, the gravestone, the pick ax you purchased in Deary.

On the drives to and from the airport and on the food.

The food and the hotel rooms.

You will give the rest to charity.

A children’s charity, it almost (but not quite) goes without saying.

Look at us, Thom is saying, his own voice shaking like yours shook when you phoned Karla. What a bunch of basket cases. I mean, seriously. Come on, guys. We can do this thing.

The December light cold and gray.

How tourists are always condescending toward other tourists, as if they are not aware of their own tourist status.

Cold and gray and twinkling with mica chips which are catching on your shaved scalp, on the shoulders of your ski jacket, on your cheeks and the back of your neck.

Thom coaching us toward less hurt, as if coaching people toward less hurt somehow involved the notion of volition.

In the stare down players who draw bad cards glare at their opponents, implying they possess a better hand than they in truth do possess.

Andi drops her mitten from her jaw and reaches for yours.

When she squeezes, your nose runs harder.

Harder and faster.

You hear Jack Pederson’s ATV slow down on the road at the end of your driveway, creeping along, figuring.

You have never felt so sorry for yourself in your whole life.

And now it is over.

It is done.

Almost over and done.

You usher your friends and family into your house. Andi serves them chili and beer. You sit in your living room, listening to full mouths moving food around inside them, paper napkins crinkling.

Then you drive everyone two by three to the hotel in Moscow where they will spend the night to catch flights out early the next morning.

Standing in what has become the first storm of the season, you hug each friend or relative goodbye.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

Sensing the weight leaving you.

Sensing the weight leaving you all.

These events happen.

These events are falling into the past.

No matter what you do, they slide down the tracks until you can barely make out their luminous white nightgowns fluttering in the blackness.

Then you are in your car, reaching for the door.

Air compacts in your ears, and there you are again, gripping the wheel, striking precisely the same pose you found your father striking after your mother had gone inside and gone to bed, what passed for going inside and going to bed, and you are watching the snow revolve in your headlights.

White winter moths.

Thousands of white winter moths.

Home, you turn on the television and meander from bright room to bright room, removing child-proof locks from cabinets and drawers.

Andi assembles in the kitchen doorway, wiping her wet hands on her jeans and before long joins in. She dismantles the gates at the top and bottom of the stairs leading to the basement and loft. You collect and throw out the plastic covers sealing the empty electrical outlets.

A familiarity reenters your house.

A comfortable sense of subtle disorganization.

Tomorrow you will call the phone company and have your service disconnected.

The late news comes on.

Behind the anchorperson floats the mug shot of an Asian man.

He appears to be in his early sixties and wears that tired, irritable, undershaved and poorly lit aspect people in mug shots wear. He resembles Oliver Stone if Oliver Stone had come from Cambodia. Across his chest stretches a long white number in a narrow black rectangle.

The news anchor is explaining that Dr. Kompong was arrested late Saturday afternoon for embezzling more than two hundred fifty thousand dollars from Gritman Medical Center over the course of the past seven years.

Embezzling is not the word the legal people in Idaho use any more, you learn.

Grand theft is what they use.

Dr. Kompong faces from one to twenty years in prison.

It’s Dr. Doomdoom, you say.

Will you look at that, says Andi, cleaning.

Which is what you think about as you stand there.

That is what you think about as you stand by the new white lozenge of marble in the cemetery on the other side of the gully, surrounded by a small circle of friends and family from back east.

The future and poker tells and the weather and the architecture of jokes.

Things, in other words, the camera does not know.

How, for instance, the day after tomorrow you will sit down at your computer and write this line:

The way the sheen on the grass looked like spilled white paint.

How you will write:

The electric stutter of the phone.

And something will have begun.

Things change. Things change. Things change.

But why?

It will be Christmas Eve then, by the way.

Outside the cloudy light will be failing at four o’clock.

Afterwards you will jog up to the loft and slip Miles Davis on the stereo and jog down to the kitchen and pour a strong scotch for Andi, for Andi and for you, naturally, and commence fixing an Italian dinner.

Jim Beam.

Your hands moving.

Penne, a light marinara sauce, baby shrimp.

A salad with bushy lettuce, spinach, cucumbers, oil-and-vinegar dressing.

For dessert, an airy lemon sorbet.

Success, you realize, chopping and dicing, amounts to nothing more than luminous stills like the one you are inhabiting.

The clink of scotch glasses, for example.

The way the candlelight catches them.

How Andi will meet your eyes at the table, you sitting there, breathing out and breathing in, listening, laddering down the flow chart, waiting to determine what these vertebrae of overlit seconds might resolve into.

Which is when you will sense the camera beginning to leave you.

That is when you will sense it beginning to pan back.

To include the wood-slatted blinds behind you, the dinner table in front of you, the cloud of light expanding where your hearts are beating.

Which is where it will stop.

That is where the shutter will open so quickly it is difficult to perceive unless you are staring directly at it.

Click.

Your puzzled face.

Andi’s hand self-consciously reaching for her jaw.

Your glowing red pupils.

Like the couple at a party who never saw their friend the photographer step from the clatter and hum to bring them into clarity.

Which is what you think about as you stand by the new white lozenge.

Over the empty grave.

How you will continue to examine this photograph as closely as you like, but will not be able to locate the child in it, will not be able to locate anything that will ultimately become important to you, no matter how hard you try.

How the light fails in many surprising ways, over and over.

Over and over and over again.

How they say the camera catches you, but how in point of fact you will always be able to get away.

Content

Lance Olsen
Girl Imagined by Chance

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~