PREFACE

Your host proposes a toast.

The times are too depressing. You open a newspaper . . . can you believe these people? You pick up a novel, the characters get you down. What ever happened to the hero? Have no fear, your man is here, Anselm Thomas Merrywood.

Sitting comfortably? Feel free to fill a fortifying glass. And pull the curtains, turn off the silly show, boot the bothersome cat. I have taken trouble in the telling, deserve the fullest focus.

A tale of trouble? Why don’t you wait and see! But remember, a man who has been through bitter experiences and travelled far enjoys even his sufferings after a time. Yes, The Odyssey! You pay homage to Homer, will rejoice in this reprise. Oh really? Okay, while Ulysses cut the very figure of fortitude, crossing the wine-dark sea, the fabled hero failed to come across as a whole bundle of fun. You will find me a different story. At least you should.

How about the time and place? How about a little more patience! But I am a generous man, will offer up some bearings. Our voyage begins near the fine city of San Francisco, California, at the turn of the millennium. Ancient history, again? Well, the crew was already glued to the computer, if not yet appended to the phone. And did I have some company! Not easy to keep track? And you’d like me to tie your shoelaces as well! All right, all right, as another gesture of good faith, I will go to yet more trouble, compile a list of characters. The contemporary hero is also a considerate host.

Cheers!

(The list of characters follows. How do we open the page? Not again! Just see below.)

CHARACTERS

Top of the bill

ANSELM, that’s me!

Featuring

ALICE, a certain young lady

Supporting cast

BILL, that girl’s belligerent father

CHRISTINE (Chris), a former wife, and continued critic!

CORTÉS, a literary luminary                      

EDDIE (Squirt), a sorry acquaintance

GLORIA, the girl’s glamorous mother

GRACE, Gloria’s good friend, and my . . . ?

IVAN (The Terrible), an alleged employee

JILL, a meritorious manager, and impressive figure!

NICK, an aspiring young scribe

RUDYARD, my best friend

SONJA, my scandalous sister

Significant others

AGATHA, my beloved

BETTY, my dear mother

CHUCK,  Jill’s jovial husband

EMIL, a wretched restaurateur

ETHAN, a shape-shifting young man

GERTRUDE (Gertie), Agatha’s successor in my heart

JACQUELINE (Jackie), a misused mistress

LUPA, the girl’s comely companion

MAGNOLIA, a colorful gallery owner

MONTY, a curious little creature

MOSHE, my romantic replacement

ROBERT, a pompous professor

(Intrigued, already? Well, you should be! And you have an invitation. See below.)

CHAPTER I. THE DECK

Your hero extends an invitation.

A memoir. And what will you remember? Well, for a start, fellow bookstore owners can shelve me under Merrywood. With the other lions of literature. Though I answer in person, and proudly, to Anselm. A distinctive name! Thank you, and having introduced myself, I can introduce the story, with a further distinction. A good character also answers to a call.

I live in the city. So I had to take a drive. One invitation remained behind, in a desk drawer, the envelope of forwarded address. Another was fully on display, a festive deck her pedestal. And what a welcome! You too would toot your horn. At least you should.

Hallelujah? Well, mine eyes had seen a glory. Blue eyes, bountiful curls, button nose, and bantam figure, I paint the proof in worship. And she was some picture, mounted on a sturdy railing, framed by a cloudless sky. Out of this world? You might fancy a fairy, floating over a magic flower pot—a spring blossom opens in the sun! Our budding rose held some pale gold nectar, a goblet glinting in her grasp. And a playful tongue tickled the rim, twitching toes stroked the pottery, loose skirt teased the painter, breeze-billowed at the knees. A picture is worth a thousand words? Well, the bare feet made a statement. And the fluttering lips had something to say—the person of interest was talking to herself!

Like what you see? Join the party! A stained glass door slid open to a vibrant patio; a wrought iron gate swung onto a calmer colonnade. And the steady column of celebrants was escorting champagne down a private pathway to the beach. A yellow brick road? A golden promenade, everywhere you look! Sculpted shrubbery set the stage, rich redwood made the decking, emerald ivy garlanded the house, a wealth of wisteria crowned the colonnade. And purple parasols plumed a table circle, where white-jacketed waiters dazzled the drinkers, ruby cocktails bejeweling the ring. My potion packed a punch, loose laughter lent more warmth, and a little industry furthered the festival. A buzz was in the air? Indeed, a party of bees sounded out a swath of jasmine. You might hear a concert, playing in the petals. Nature had another show—a bluebird flitted from the fence, goldfinches livened the foliage, and a streak of red flashed across the flora, a carmine-throated hummingbird darting past the pollen to hover by a rarer nectar. A flower girl has an attraction.

Paradise? Well, a young angel looked over the garden. And saw that it was good. The free spirit commended my cowboy cool, I have every confidence. She could also observe some opulence: a tall man in tuxedo, his wife in strapless gown. The couple were delighting in a dance of love, to the timely encouragement of Mozart. And the bare batons of the conductor’s feet.

We were blessed. The party had a presence. The sea shimmered in salute. A spirit had moved across the waters? Well, she was transported by the waves—the waves of music. And her blessing was backed by a further beat, the breaking of the surf.

Fortune had a smile. The girl was something else. And the sun was shining, couples swaying, drinks were on the house. You get the picture. You also have an invitation. The party has just begun.

Merrywood! . . . Pretty picture, huh? . . . She has completely gone to your head!

CHAPTER II. THE DUMP

Your hero bares the truth.

We spoke too soon. Heraclitus, I hear you, the world is in flux, the weather will change.

And how! Feral winds had risen, tipping over the garbage, fogging out the sun. But the gales of laughter died, the dropping temperature displacing the drinkers, a remnant shivering in a silent vigil. The flight had one return, the fortune a reversal. The person of interest was back.

Invitation? The lips were black. The scowl withdrew all welcome. Your painter must now drain the canvas, dull the plumage, cloud the eyes to gray. And I will turn her wine to water, the minuet to a dirge, the dance floor to a dump—like sailors fleeing a sinking ship, the waiters had abandoned the deck to the debris. The sliver of flesh was still in evidence, but no longer licking a glass in mischief, the tongue stuck out in contempt.

The party was over? The house might still be hopping, for all I knew. But the sliding door, through which boozing butterflies had flit, was now a shutter of prohibition, the discolored panes a shield of grimly glowing stain. I might also remark the rebuff of a cold metal chair, the distress of an empty glass, the trespass of the litter. A wasteland? Well, it was April, the cruelest month of poem. But the destination was not an outright desert—you might see a penal colony, the remaining bodies under guard. The sentry was stationed in a corner, alone on her feet, her black lips serving notice, her restive eyes piercing the gloom. The lighthouse beam swept past my mooring, discovering my witness . . . exposing my guilt? I could not avert my gaze, pulled to her rocks over a forsaken table where shabby starlings were stabbing a plate of pastry shards. The stony edifice scorned my stillborn greeting, as attainable as Olympic medal to a bedridden invalid.

The deck was dead. And buried were the blessings. A wreath of smoke was conspiring with the fog. A funeral pyre? Well, no bonfire warmed the campers, no grill whet the appetite. The culprit stood downwind. But though her eyes were empty, her stained fingers held the evidence and black lips proved the vice. I disapprove the habit? I did have a fit—a fit of coughing. A cowboy reclaims his cool, needless to say.

You might presume a provocation. My fellow sufferers pretended not to care. Our scourge took a last drag, tossed the butt, tended to the business. With her foot. We could pretend no more. Some trash. So what, you say? I will tell you what: You profess a love of books. A good lover pays attention!

A foot trod on the glare. A foot trampled out the fire. A foot twisted on the smolder. And the foot was bare . . . a fact I fully exposed, already! I caught the eye of a neighbor, his cocktail in suspension, his arm around his date. The well-heeled executive had ignored my casual insurrection, now we had a bond. What is a man to do?

Merrywood! . . . Some advice? . . . You are beyond help.

CHAPTER III. THE PALACE

Your hero comes to the party.

The house was waiting. Pete beats a retreat? Well, he might, but Anselm is the name, and I take things in stride, as you will come to respect. At least you should. The sliding door made my entrance. Inside, a party was a-pulse, though the crowd was milling on best behavior—a palace commands respect.

Provisions were plentiful. Care to indulge? Truffles tempted, fine wine flowed, and the beef was prime. But one display was distinct. Our queen was circulating, her black hair, golden dress, glowing skin complementing the cut of her court. A proper palace? Well, forced laughter carried over the strings of a fiercely competent ensemble, whose formal attire and practiced indifference betrayed a foreign import. Her Highness livened the gala like a gust of summer wind through a cottonwood, introducing strangers, receiving tribute, dispensing charity. A monarch flutters with abandon! The courtiers welcomed her interruption, however fleeting the favor. I took up a station by the bar to follow the performance and wait my turn. The grandee did glance in my direction, but royalty pretends no common acquaintance. I knew no insult, trust me, the invisible man hewn of hardened timber. The gathering offered another feast, men foregoing West Coast indifference to wardrobe in favor of tailored sports coats, their partners a buffet of elegant dress, painstaking coiffure, and pampered flesh.

The store is open. The goods are on display. Andy craves some candy? Maybe so, but Merrywood is a man of more measure. And though my hands were empty, my head was quite content, I assure you. A hearty eater, I have found plentiful provisions, tasted a fair share of the sweetness. My own outfit might not conform, but so what, an outlaw quickens the maiden pulse! The rebel read the room, and women reciprocated my review, as you would only expect. But the browser was not buying, costly confectionery seldom worth the price. I speak from experience, trust me.

My parents married young. The nuptials were rushed by geographical exigency rather than biblical sin, the mother a nanny in London, on a temporary visa, where her future bridge partner had disembarked the Royal Scotsman to pursue his career. An intransigent Roman Catholic and an ornery Swede, their wedding vows sealed the triumph of first love over in-law reservation—bake a pie with chalk and cheese, why don’t we? The offspring knew an uneasy truce, alternate Sundays imposing the pomp of Latin Mass in the company of a crisp-suited father and the austerity of Methodist hymnal when kneeling with his wife, the chapel of clapboard construction after we migrated stateside on my tenth birthday. The feuding parties of the schism engaged in subterfuge, politicking, and defamation, but left the decision to the children. When they’re old enough to know their own minds. Unlike the lark, I have yet to find the exaltation. The dispute found no partisan resolution, the first-born sitting on the fence with Huxley, while his sister lost her religion altogether. But the damage was already done, Rome winning naming rights to the boy, the prairie to the girl. And to a lifelong misfortune, George Merrywood, a model of restraint and good sense, pillar of the community, member of the Chamber of Commerce, golfer of steady nerve, reserved his one moment of reckless abandon for the christening of his son after a twelfth-century saint, and author of an eponymous proof for the existence of God, foreword to the following chapter. Original sin was only the first offense. Anselm could easily reduce to Andy. I would willingly share a name with the wilderness photographer. Even Anse would be acceptable. But no, ever since kindergarten I have suffered the same indignity, the bane of my daily round, root of my distress. I may be the only man so burdened on the continent. The mockery arrives like a stomach pang, a burden I cannot dislodge and have done nothing to deserve. I boast a deep enough voice, guzzle strong beer, grow a full beard, know my way around a hardware store. Reginald changed his name, to become a rock star for the ages. I have considered the correction.

“Annie, dear boy, there you are.” The queen could no longer pretend; her peasant’s time had come. “Mr. Bookseller has come to the party.” She cast a long-suffering eye over my untucked shirt. Have no fear, I can afford a visit to a tailor, was just making a little statement. “And how is the Last Resort?”

“Refuge!”

“I do have a friend who reads, I should send her your way.” My promoter had yet to visit the store herself, to my certain recollection. “Dottie is single, and isn’t too particular.” Gloria squeezed my hand and pressed close. “Such a scoundrel!” And her eyes fastened onto mine, which I struggled to save from a southerly settlement, where the plunging neckline revealed a generosity.

“The Last Refuge prevails, like Old Faithful. Though I left my staff in charge, so I have to fear the worst.”

“Jolly good. And the dame?”

“Agatha is giving me grief, as usual.”

“You’re a lucky man.” The hostess evidenced no such fortune, inspecting my unshaven jowls.

“She was looking forward to this, likes to get out of town.”

“Naughty boy, you’re moving. I heard the news from Chris, but not a squeak from you.”

“I’ve sold the house, renting an apartment.”

“My invitation! Cost a fortune—”

“Has its pride of place. The post office was able to track me down. They still deliver behind enemy lines.”

“Silly boy!” She leaned yet closer—the nearby nobility need not know that a pauper had infiltrated their number. “Why does a single man need a house anyway?”

“The simple life worked for Thoreau. And he’d feel right at home. My landlord has a religious objection to modern convenience.”

“Sounds just darling. Do tell, where?”

“Dolorosa Street. No vacancies on Hope Road.”

“Super. Wait, you’ll be neighbors with another friend of mine. Have you met Grace?”

“A room with a view, according to his advert”—I had met Grace—“which is hard to disprove, if you think about it. I don’t suppose your husband would take the case.” A fixture chez Gloria, Grace would seek me out, making an assumption. The face of my future assumed a complexion. However, as far as I could tell, the worthy woman would not grace the present party.

“We were at Stanford together. Lovely person. Her husband died a few years ago. He was a lot older, mind you, could have been her father. Now she’s making quite a name for herself, freelance journalist. I should introduce you, she’s not afraid of a challenge, haha.”

“Honored, I’m sure.” I was introduced every six months or so.

“Isn’t the music heavenly? We flew them in from Germany. All the rage in Europe, you know. We’re so lucky they had the time. I asked them specially to play this piece.”

“Beautiful.” I was too numb. The Trout Quintet marks daring musical taste, you know.

“Sorry you couldn’t make it to celebrate New Year’s with us, and the new millennium. Quite the shindig, I still haven’t fully recovered.”

“Next time. Only a thousand years to wait.” My good woman, how could I make it without a word from you?

“Lovely crowd, don’t you think? At least one of us knows how to throw a party. Bill had a veterans’ reunion here last month, professional obligation. They fell on my spread like vultures, you’d think they hadn’t eaten since Vietnam. America insists on integrating the military! They had to bring their wives, so-called, he never listens to me. The resentment! You’d think it was a crime, having a beautiful house. We’ve earned our money, get over it.”

“Communists! I trust they didn’t loot the palace.”

“So happy to see you, Annie. How are you, anyway?”

Time was up. I have known the queen since she and Bill were dating. Her worst fear was his best man! Familiarity over many years has bred, not contempt but, well, familiarity. In domestic and sober encounters I am immune to her charms, often sweatshirt-and-sneaker muted. ¡Caramba tequila! Caressed by the coos, blessed by her bounty, a poor supplicant now soaked in a spa of stimulation.  

She pulled the plug. And a boyhood bane recurred, a mind to prolong the attention vying with concern lest a private protuberance provoke a public panic? Anselm, really! Have no fear, all eyes were on the level. And I will level with you, the dog is no excitable young pup. Maybe a smuggled flask of bourbon was to blame for any bulge!

“Actually, Gloria, I do feel a headache coming on. Better sit down.”

“Marvelous, I’ll see if I can find Bill. I’m sure he wants to catch up.” The congested room parted like the Red Sea, and a glory sashayed through, the splendid rump outlined through the cling of her dress.

Her husband was not her match. But his volume control was stuck on celebration, a fiftieth milestone offering them both an excuse. Gushing guests might spew their spectaculars, but in truth the oceanfront property is too much. Gloria had tasked the architect—a dear friend—with a merger of masonry and beach, and the conceit had been duly executed, as if a shipwrecked shelter builder had the means to indulge his every fevered fancy.

—Crusoe, I have you in mind, as often. You had to strip the ship to fix your habitation. And I commend attention to another episode. Of course, that footprint in the sand would leave you thunderstruck. But a single print has no natural explanation, there must be more to say. Unreliable narration? Well, no one is perfect! Your whole damn story is mere figment? Never let it be said!—

The design won an award. So what, I won a gold star in kindergarten! Driftwood beams provided irregular support, rocks jutted through the walls, stained glass sold a sanctity, and windows in the floor opened onto a spotlit tide pool, of evident manufacture. The supposed showpiece did somehow find a spread in a section of the Sunday paper, as an early morning phone call once brought to my attention. I am not remotely jealous, whatever they suggest. Gloria extols joint weekends on the coast, though I could little conceive her consort away from his desk of dividend, no matter how storied the retreat.

Looking for a rich husband? Gloria retained a promising lawyer, the continued contract conjugal. Fremont and Hayward is the firm, William Connor the name on the desk. And Connor has some clout, the senior partners in conspicuous attendance, their wives in showy attire. Some bash! And some more biography: I had not only come to Bill’s party, but belonged to the same alumni association, crossed the same Yard. Veritas? Well, I started the juridical journey, then pursued a purer path.

The state school grads met in One L. Merrywood nursed no chip, needless to say, but made few other friends, knowing neither secret handshake nor second home in the Berkshires. Connor roiled with resentment. Preppies and perfume! Aren’t we special? Be fucking you in the ass when I make it. We took the same classes, rode the same train, roomed together at the end of the T-line, where blue-collar locals cut down the Ivy League. One of us never cheated on the test, was generous with late-hour tutorials, worked pro bono, and played in a rock n’ roll band. The other serially failed the Bar; but with the compensation of bruising hours and an ambition pressing on pathology, established himself as the most sought-after litigator in the state, as his wife frames his repute. The boast has some material justification—witness the weekend house, the yacht, the ease with which they could summon self-important acquaintances to make a tortuous trip, over an hour’s drive from the city.

I did not make that trip alone. Sherman marched his army to the sea; Merrywood motored his lady up the coast. I am a knight of automotive steed, though the dame was in one of her moods and the going rough. Not all cars reach the destination. A soft-top two-seater hung over a sandstone bluff, the owner in a daze, staring at the road ahead as if stranded on the beaches of Dunkirk. If only I knew!

A lady has an expectation. But a ground campaign moves slowly, and we were already an hour late. A file of pedestrians crossing the narrow road came to an inconsiderate halt. I always make time for turkeys, but a truck was tight on my tail and the horn-blasting driver failed to share my fondness for the fowl. We had to make another stop, where my next foe lay in ambush: The tyke masqueraded as a gas-station attendant and rejected my card, muttering juvenile insinuation. Anselm Thomas Merrywood is the name on the plastic, and I would not budge. Waiting motorists grew restive until the dame persuaded her latest conquest to take a check.

To what end? The city’s movers and shakers had congregated in the big room to further some business, their circled backs forming a barrier that only Gloria dared penetrate. Less formidable attendees, some of whom I recognized, meandered through the house, clustering in respect of its curious invention. The architect, Japanese, long haired and even more sloppily dressed than I, indulged a succession of reverent passersby. A photographer from the paper was doing the rounds. The mayor was stopping by!

Jovial was the laughter. But I could not breathe easy, a menace threatening the celebration. You know the story. The hero faces a familiar ordeal, the enduring confrontation of good and evil. The road is unforgiving; villains wait in ambush, menacing highway and byway, their crimes shocking the civilized sensibility just like lightning bolts disturb a good night’s sleep. And then he crosses a woman.

“Hello, Anselm.” An alarm sounded to my rear. I held my breath. “Anselm!” Howls of laughter providing an excuse, I might slink to safety. “Don’t run away.” The summons drew near. I could as little escape as a rabbit in a steel claw.

CHAPTER IV. THE SHOP

Your hero gets down to business.

My mother is a Methodist. Her son still has a little fun. The man also has a métier. We will now visit the location. You will find a refuge, and that more amusement lies in store. At least you should.

Let’s get down to business! But bargain for no chain, I take you to a better place. Classical music, renaissance painting, vintage wine, the redolence of a gentleman’s club, the touch of fine vellum, The Last Refuge delivers. You fill up my senses? Annie’s song, but actually we privilege the mind.

“I find in Philosophy.” Blind to any business, Ivan had dumped his excavations, was thumbing through one find. “Saint Anselm”—you rang?—“Ze Proslogion!” The truant traced the timeless text. “A being greater than vich cannot be conceive.” The store’s alleged employee likes to read aloud. “Hah, this proof belong Shopping Network.” On occasion, his incursions into the thickets of the English tongue chance upon a clearing.

Merrywood! . . . Got a problem, bucko? . . . Mocking the Russian . . . He mocks me, without mercy.

You conjure up a vodka flask? I too am tempted, despite the haste of that generalization, my familiarity with his diction and faith that the plodding intonation betrays a poet’s soul. Ivan is resolutely sober, an abdication of national responsibility. The autodidact had pressed a lull in customer traffic to advantage, stumbling across my namesake in the alcove, which unauthorized reading now occupied the counter. The scholar is jealous of speech, a train of interior monologue rolling at the expense of outward expression. “Boss, you think saint really believe proof?” A rare remark will mitigate his commercial apathy, erratic work habits, and antipathy towards the paying public. “Or play viz vords?”

Giving offense! . . . The offended reader has a recourse . . . Your comments page? . . . Our self-help section!

“A distinction without a difference. The word creates the thing.” I turned over one volume, Russell’s History of Western Philosophy, $38 used. Bertrand had been sitting on the shelf for years, but lowering his asking price would deliver a slap to a Nobel face. “Although faith does face the question—Why would God have any patience for those foolish enough to believe in him?”

“Good von, boss.” Withdrawing a notebook from his jacket pocket, the poet jotted his first entry in nearly fifteen minutes. My words of wisdom are preserved for posterity. If you could only read the record! “Heaven and hell, ze jealous God!”

“Insecure, more like. If I can create the whole damn world, would I really be so petty?”

“Mama!”

“I can’t take the credit for that one. The song of Sister Sonja, vile heathen that she is.”

“Sonja have soul like Russia. How is sister?”

The Terrible checks few boxes of regular humanity. An unkempt beard, balding pate, dime-store glasses, soiled suit, and tatty tie present a blend of indeterminate vintage. He has been working for me, in a charitable manner of speaking, since high school, when he arrived on these shores with his mother. The eccentric couple took up residence in the shop and regaled the shopkeeper—I had the wisdom of Tolstoy, the depth of Pushkin, the soul of Chekhov. And I found the son in my employment. The inquiry into my sister’s well-being affected nonchalance, but his ribs had felt the tickle. Sonja once passed an interminable half hour browsing in a revealing bend before the house poet, his typically inscrutable features teetering between temptation and terror. The sloppy presentation belies a strict personal hygiene, and after Sonja’s departure, Ivan had to pay his visit to the bathroom. Boss, hot today, must splash vater on face.

Some women wear the pants. Others choose the trousers, mama’s boy betraying the initiative of a rock-hidden beetle. But though his grammar comes scrambled, polyester pants pretends to regular conjugation. Sonja’s mischief recalibrating his nervous system, the store solipsist found his tongue, chatted merrily with the cash register, and on the following day sported a new tie of daring coloration. I had little heart for disenchantment. The woman has a weapon, her brother no deterrent. I did reprimand her after the fact, protective of the victim. You don’t find him attractive, surely?—Annie, all men are attractive. Like dogs! Her occupational lasciviousness has struck many a blow, redressing the imbalance of folklore. ­My brother, you have no vagina, you will never understand. An astute observation, but still . . . Ivan?

What have we here? The prescient ornithologist will have already made the identification. No bird of teeming species, I can readily introduce the remaining members of my flock. But don’t count your chickens, I might make a special friend while spinning out the tale! You will often find the birds at nest, the main thread of my story unwinding in the confines. I have yet to set the scene. All right, the design has won no accolades, but who needs the pretension! And we deny the dictatorship of letters, all books deserve a good home. But democracy has a downside; any simpleton can stray from the sidewalk, opinion in tow. Funny smell in here! The dull color of vintage wine disguises a treasure; what do they know? Got a flashlight, buddy? When the charmed archaeologist uncovered the gold of Tutankhamun, did he complain about a little dust? I can recommend a good cleaning lady. I pay no mind, trust me. Indeed, we curry their displeasure, motion them back to the mall. And that Health and Safety citation is really nothing to worry about, our city bureaucrats as forgiving as Carrie Nation in the brewery. What about Emil’s! His joint has never been inspected, though my store is spotless in comparison.

Let us take a tour. The street is named after a storied destination on the Iberian Peninsula, where mentally-challenged tourists run with the bulls. Forsaking the press of Pamplona, you push through a frosted-glass door, upon which The Last Refuge sets an expectation in gilt letters. You hear the tinkle of a bell but no chirp of greeting, suffer no unsolicited intrusion on your pilgrimage. Picture an ancient market town, growing haphazardly over the centuries around a bustling square, with a maze of narrow lanes disappearing through a crowded patchwork of overhanging dwellings. Hard to believe? Well, that picture is not sketchy, old photographs attesting to the bustle. As the door gives a squeak of welcome, you discover a dark forest of ancient woodwork, through which a clearing leads to the clouded glass of the counter, command center of the conclave. There you will find the scoundrel, a nameplate confirming the credentials in copper. Have no fear, I am taking refuge from the madding crowd, just as you are. Assorted wooden chairs, orphaned umbrellas, a serviceable couch, temperamental coffee machine, and beached bicycle line the thoroughfare, from which aisles of bookish enticement vanish into the tall but motley shelving. In the dim light, indolent hush, and narrow corridors, you will find your felicity, might even make merry with Monty. Our order might stray from the alphabetical, but the fortuitous discovery, the element of surprise! We might lack some modern amenities. Are you not a lover of books? You will feel at home.

“Ahem. The lady needs some assistance, I believe.” My raised voice broke a religious hush. I had been lunching with a klatch of local retailers gathered at the behest of Emil, drug dealer and owner of the bistro. Beneficiary of an early release program, the man was fully gassed, and his establishment had lately received a suspiciously glowing review in the paper, making his prattle only more punishing. The restaurant critic was a regular, undertaking extracurricular activity with Emil in the men’s room. Our merchant association makes common cause against venal landlord and bothersome official, and the parolee had pushed his better to call another meeting. Some leaders are born, some are made, some are chosen. Anselm was conscripted; the gang knows my good name, refuses to convene in my absence, and I have an obligation. We had no new business, Emil issuing the call to juice his bottom line with a check of no compliments. The Alhambra business district fosters a corresponding Mediterranean work ethic, and my fellow shopkeepers were extending their conference into an afternoon of barhopping, Magnolia and Mel the driving force. The Last Refuge allows no such respite. Already irritable, I barged through the door to find a well-dressed woman waiting at the counter. His nose in the same book, Ivan was oblivious.

“I apologize, ma’am, my assistant is brushing up on his ontology.” I elbowed our budding philosopher aside. A veritable cornucopia, The Last Refuge is a preserve of medieval thought. Bibliophiles also marvel at our military history section, illustrated compendia of world trains, and collections of explorers’ journals. At least they should. Our comely booklover was flirting with world literature. “Le Grand Meaulnes! You read French?” The owner was all business, of course.

She had come to the right place. The Last Refuge is known for a spread of languages, a source of pride more than financial reward. If Ivan owned the shop, we would only stock the original. The monk considers translation a moral affront, will break his vow of silence to berate an offending purchase. I had been perusing The Brothers Karamazov in anticipation of my forthcoming feature on the radio dial, and The Terrible had picked up the copy I left by the till. We English readers are given to understand that Constance Garnett serviceably renders the spirit of the Russian; he begs to differ. Dostoevsky? No vay!

“Naturellement.” Madame gave a gracious smile. “Je suis française.” And was that a Gallic wink?

“Formidable.” The entrepreneur rose to another challenge. The Last Refuge attracts foreign visitors, a choice selection with whom the multilingual owner engages in their native tongue. “Quel plaisir.” The entente was cordiale.

“Madame, bienvenue au pays de la liberté.” The wit has a way. “Wonderful little book, a treasure.” The wise know when to quit. “Shame he died so young . . . why doesn’t it get more attention? . . . I read it in French . . . I’ve written a novel . . . we carry it, if you want . . . though I find his achievement quite mysterious.” My extended eloquence owed nothing to her looks, needless to say. An ambassador has a diplomatic obligation.

“It’s for my husband. I haven’t read a book in years.”

Ivan’s threads hang in unchanging exhibition. The refusenik respects some rules, the funereal suit making the man, like the black habit the nun. His function in our economy cannot be transparent to the casual observer, still less the diagnosis of his complaint, a condition verging on coma. You have yet to make the acquaintance, but my otherwise imperturbable wife suffered ongoing conniption on his account: Was he blissfully unaware of workplace expectations, subverting the only token of capitalism that afforded an opportunity, or taking advantage of my indulgence, the latter hypothesis a truism for an engineer of no nonsense? I thought better of compounding her outrage, telling of the bathroom trips coincident with her visits. In any case, she was wrong; I can stand up for myself, take charge when his shelving is shaky. Ivan is Ivan, an enigma of no profitable interpretation. Yes, I fantasize about a severance, but the deed is humanly impossible, and not for want of spine. Though I write his paycheck and wield considerable advantage in years, he has inveigled a compact whereby proprietor demand constitutes a breach of etiquette, threat of termination a joke of low comedy. The grave is long dug, my prerogative stymied for want of reason why present offense ranks more grievously than past permission. In any case, his dispatch would unbalance an established order, The Last Refuge’s ambience no more feasible without The Terrible than blue cheese without the rot. Ecosystem and bellwether species evolve as one, and my scientist spouse suspected a similar symbiosis between the alleged antiquarian disrepair of the store and dilapidation of the employee’s suit. She may have had a point, but I fail to see the problem. I admire the poet. I have dedicated my life to books, yet my business calling is reluctant. I wish I could sell the shop, retire to my own monastery of the mind; Ivan does not compromise, Ivan does not care. His challenge has no answer, my penance to a better god. And the silence of his company has some advantage.

“How about making yourself useful?” I maintain a pantomime, for private amusement. La tristesse du jour had bid au revoir.

“What you want I do, boss?”

“Check the back section. Maybe Emil needs some help.”

The fellow has few redeeming features. When not exercising droit de seigneur on his unfortunate waitresses, Emil slouches into the shop, repairs to the back section only to wheedle for an indecent discount. However, he still brings some money my way; I may later divulge the arrangement. And seeking to better himself, he respects my predilection for the nineteenth-century English novel. At least he should.

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I also favor English beer. Please put down that phone, your congressman has better things to worry about! The dual citizen venerates Huck Finn, loves his car, and acts the jerk like a true American. But the apple pie does know other seasoning, my formative years suffering the blazer and cap of an all-boys primary school. And while I was declining Latin, playing cricket, and breakfasting on canned spaghetti on toast, the paterfamilias patented the device that secured his career and the optimal stream of subterranean sewer. Though her father in-law is yet to mark any museum, my normally unflappable wife fessed up to some flutter upon meeting George Merrywood, inventor of the same-named pump. He joined the company that allowed his family to cross the Atlantic and acquires the voting rights, but like the flow of a drain, DuPont expects mobility of management. The family made stops in Jacksonville, Florida; Annapolis, Maryland; and Detroit, Michigan, my mother’s home state, an unsettled history that she blamed for her son’s alleged inability to throw strikes against the girls’ team. Anselm, a nice-looking fellow like you! It should be easy to find a wife. All my friends at church have grandkids.—Don’t worry Mom, the mail-order bride says she wants a family.—And your silly jokes! You think you’re so clever, but no one has a clue what you’re talking about.

I had one redeeming quality. A Harvard law degree hangs front and center on her living-room wall. So after passing on the profession, I introduced her to The Last Refuge with the relish of Vladimir Putin’s gay son bringing his boyfriend home for dinner. Mom, it is a little quiet in the shop today, but at least we get to talk.—Anselm Thomas, you had an impressive career, I grew up on a farm. She will come around, someday.

Emil is a creature of habit. The reliability would little placate the mother, his habits descending from mere nuisance to the loathsome. The dog does not discuss his pedigree. If only the reticence in owning the accent extended to its employment; the septic tank overflows. The language is insulting, the jokes crude, the suggestions improper. I will spare you the proof.

We both have our stories. There is no comparison! I have so much to say, my shipment must be sparing; Emil plies the same package ad nauseum. A well-settled immigrant, I can tell it like it is, my good name accentuating his ill repute; the ungrateful import subverts the American dream while sniping at my business, his trademark tale an embellishment of native folklore, larded with Dickensian pathos. But no matter how often he spins the story, the fabulist finds fresh amusement, his telling a narcotic wreck of memory lapse and verbal diarrhea. A drop of Dickens? Well, if you insist, I will distill the spirit, providing a finer blend. But first—

CHAPTER V. THE CONFESSIONAL

Your hero faces his doom.

“Anselm!” The party volume was set to hubbub. “Anselm!!” But a summons sliced through the festive ferment. “Anselm!!!” A mistress was calling her dog to heel. “Anselm!!!!” She must have her say, the stray will obey, but delay can sometimes find a way. Permit me a little digression.

Nothing stops the march of science. Legends lead the charge: Galileo in his tower, training a heretical telescope on the heavens; Darwin in his cabin, poring over the notes that will change the world; Curie in her laboratory, peering at the test-tube radium that will send her to an early grave. No corner of the world escapes the investigation, from the galaxy at light-years’ distance to the amoeba on microscope slide. We read the works in wonder, marveling at the motion of the planets, complexity of the brain, origin of the species, structure of the atom. Yet the edification falls foul of the flesh; bodily functions also demand their reason. Serving the implacable god of knowledge, our scientists must drop their inquiring eyes from the mountain to the dung heap, descend from celestial observatory to basement lavatory. Have you ever asked yourself, how exactly do we know? A dated edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica ($89.99, possibly open to negotiation) has long occupied a forlorn shelf in the store, where the prurient schoolboy can browse entries on fornication and feces, and find the following under flatulence: “Intestinal gas comes from either swallowed air (nitrogen and oxygen) or the fermentation by bacteria of poorly digested carbohydrates in the colon, yielding a mixture of carbon dioxide, hydrogen, and methane.” Science demands deliberate experiment—imagine the necessary research! With what device did our die-hard empiricists collect their material? A desperate professor up for tenure pressed his failing students into service, plying them with beans and beer and exposing their rears for the duration, securing a plastic bag around the orifice of inflation? Inquiring minds might further read, “All the common intestinal gases are odourless; about 1 percent of the flatus consists of a mixture of other gases that causes the distinctive odour.” Wait a minute, now! Chemistry counsels careful consideration, cannot rest content with conjecture. There is no escaping the conclusion: the introduction of the nostrils of science into that plastic bag. Does a public-sector salary offer adequate compensation?

Trust me here. Fine sensibilities may bristle at this levity, but the ambush serves a serious purpose. Let us pass from pure science to the application. First, I will confirm your suspicion: I am a proud lion of tradition, though like others of crusty temperament, selective of review. The old guard looks fondly on the past, but must grant some promise to the present. I revere the Brontës, consider their nineteenth-century acquaintances holders of the rarest privilege, yet the villagers of Haworth, West Yorkshire, the sisters’ home on the edge of the moor, suffered an open sewer to run down the main street, drank well water contaminated with human waste, and lost appalling numbers of infants to disease. Genteel Charlotte had to squat over a hole in a freezing outhouse. Post-industrial man disowns his excrement, no sooner freed than flushed, and we charge our engineers, trustees of modernity, visionary designers of svelte airliners and luxury automobiles, with dispatching our effluvia to their final resting place. You take the works for granted, the accomplishment coming to the attention only in the breach, when swimming offshore you find yourself negotiating a raft of raw sewage. Spare a thought then for the sanitation professional, wallowing in the mire that you might forget your business. Imagine spending hours in the fumes, wading the sludge, showering with prophylactic soap. Does some psychological abnormality preclude more social career, do the public servants talk shop in euphemism, are their mothers still proud? Who are these curious individuals?

I introduce my wife. All right, technically I should say ex-wife, but we still address him as Mr. President. Christine Caprese, she never took my name, earned her MS in Civil Engineering from Stanford in 1986. Adding further injury to a life of insult, she shortens her first—Chris and Annie, I need not recount the innuendo. You might picture a Soviet-era athlete of dubious entitlement to the women’s squad, so I will immediately disappoint the presumption. Christine of my sorrows was strawberry blonde, soft of voice, comfortably curved, if her wardrobe did favor the practical over the preen. And the pragmatic woman knew no embarrassment. An enviable self-possession allowed her to publicly hold forth on her employment, in uncompromising vocabulary, without the slightest blockage. Was the sewage sweet! The proper matron nodded, the hipster canned his cool, the wag would never dream.

—Walter Elliot, the conceit! You paraded in front of the mirror, condescended to the lower-born industrialists eclipsing the landed gentry. Little disposed to favour, you were not fond of the idea of your shrubberies being always approachable. But good sir, even you would admire her gift. The sanitary engineer was not shy, pronouncing on her profession like a genteel visitor to Miss Elliot’s flower garden praising the perfume of the roses.—

Another knew her love. And he came first, getting her into bed—with one of his books! No longer of this world, the old-school baseball coach never left her heart. The bereaved still saw his worn mitts on the bench, dusty volumes on the shelf, antique maps on the wall. And she married into a traditional bookstore. Though not the most avid reader, the practical woman rose to a challenge: straightening the merchandise, stopping the leak of patrons, preserving the memory of a father—the one man who could do no wrong.

I met an inspiring woman. I fell for a serious scientist. I married a dedicated professional. That was then. No stranger to emergency, the city engineer faced a crisis of no mechanical solution, the midlife examination. Anselm, you can’t complain, didn’t you change careers before we met? All right, but a bookstore is a serious undertaking! You might hope that a steady New Englander would follow my example, investing her inheritance in some solid venture. You would be disappointed. Pulling up those roots, the transplant found her bliss, unhappily. In rank perversion, the same woman who had uncompromising expectations of a husband was fully forgiving of a friend. Melody hails from Marin, but that isn’t the worst of it. The libertine held me in contempt, helped herself to my liquor, introduced my wife to the Zen Center, and before you could say Adbhutadharmaparyāyasūtra, Christine had converted a shuttered church of Christ the Redeemer into a wellness studio. Hatha Flow has washed up down the street, and the yoga mats blocking the sidewalk incite the scorn of our more worthy customers. At least they should. We were divorced in less than a year.

“Oh, it’s you.” I turned to face my doom. “What luck, my toilet is overflowing.”

“Anselm, that was never funny. Gloria told me you’d been drinking.”

“Isn’t this a party? At least I showed—”

“Looking like a homeless person.”

“I thought we were divorced! In any case, Savile Row won’t extend me any more credit.”

“You still maintain the other woman, I hear. If only the shop—”

“If only you felt for the finer things.”

“Some of us live in the real world.”

“I thought you moved on a more elevated plane.”

“My studio does solid business.”

“Okay, one member of the family is enjoying her little success. Unlike Don Caprese—”

“Anselm, please. I didn’t come over here for another fight.”

“Have you tried the steak tartare? Very tasty.” I was looking at her plate of mushroom crepes. She went full vegan in the waning days of the union, a ground I generously forswore in the proceedings.

“Oh dear.”

Gloria let me know. Annie, you are such a lucky man. And my wife’s best friend was wont to plant a seed. Was I good enough? All right, Christine is popular, accomplished, nice-looking, intelligent, well-educated, articulate, dignified, self-reliant, energetic, patient, generous, resourceful, trustworthy, helpful, sociable, solvent . . . But if a woman is so damn perfect, does she really have to puff? And don’t even talk about her insomnia; both occupants of the conjugal bunk have to suffer. The doctor’s news affected me as well, of course. But who headed for the door!

Bo cannot let go? That may well be, but the name is Merrywood, and a memoir has the mandate. I might still think about the marriage, occasionally. So what, I still think about the accident! The car was totaled, but the crash wasn’t really my fault, and we walked away without lasting injury. Gloria pretending post-divorce that she wouldn’t take sides, I opened her forwarded invitation with a sinking heart, could only decline on pain of proving the presumption. She had really no need to warn me. How many times must I say it? How much supposed sympathy must I take? Yes, my wife walked out, but I have fully recovered, trust me. I harbor no resentment, since you ask. I never dwell on the past, if you must know. I just ignore the reminders—what reminders anyway? Can we please change the subject? I have plenty of other things to worry about. I have no need to talk about it, really I don’t. I hardly think about her, to tell the honest truth. Let’s just move on, shall we? I rarely think about her at all.

“I was hoping you’d be here.” She could never take a hint. “I hear Betty was in the hospital. I do miss your mother. How is she?”

“The poor woman has no private life, apparently. I’m well, thank you for asking.”

“The lowest form of wit.” No sad piano accompanied her reproach. “I do care, you know.”

Therein lies the offense. The bride reneged on the vow to her husband but still minds his business. And she had come over unaccompanied, sparing me communication with the individual who presently shares her bed. She had left him with a clutch of nodding women, frantic for some fodder.

I will take the stand. No matter what my former partner says, I am not bereft of social grace. Visit me in the store, and we’ll have some conversation! The good soldier is not adverse to a party, but the battle-tested regular made the drive with some damp. I would face inquiry into the health of my business. I would run into a tedious classmate, of illustrious career. I would be expected to lament the lax morals of the English au pair. Returning guests would not forget that unfortunate scene with the young district attorney, reincarnation of Elizabeth I, virgin queen of England. It was just a rhetorical question! Can’t anyone take a joke?

“They thought Mother had a heart attack. False alarm, nothing too serious, apparently. They’re keeping her for observation.”

“I miss her. And how’s George?”

“Just turned eighty, and still a swinger. Though now he’s all titanium.”

“I used to play golf with my father. He never let me use the ladies’ tee.”

I removed her clothes. But private indulgence provides poor compensation. Though she has discarded a husband, the deserter has kept her looks . . . with some exception. The married woman wore a short bob, which complemented her features; the yoga instructor had grown her hair out, to less success. Should I remark to that effect, in a public spirit? A history of marital misunderstanding counseled precaution. Why don’t her confidantes offer the hint, Gloria far from timid? The self-explorer and the socialite were close, apple and orange enjoying a rapport that defies all reason—Christine feted her friend’s fandango while treading on my toots! And if I divulge a further development, please suppose no spleen. Rubens would consider her a picture. But I never judge the exhibition, trust me.

“I see the masseur has a fan club.” I nodded in the direction.

“Anselm, it really doesn’t bother me. Just to set the record straight, Moshe is not a masseur. He runs a holistic health practice, and he’s very well regarded. You know that already, whatever you pretend.”

“Maybe he’d give me a discount. Friends and family.”

“You don’t want to talk, that’s fine. Say hello to your folks.”

Lew might stew. But I’m not remotely jealous, trust me. The philosopher views life’s vicissitudes with calm detachment. I knew she would bring her boyfriend, Moshe of the piercing desert eyes—I overheard the unhinged remark, unfortunately. My slight indisposition owed nothing to his presence, trust me. Gloria’s affairs are a bog of affectation. Yes, partygoers were warming to him, saying how happy they seemed, but I’m indifferent to the insult, really I am. He might cut a figure, but can’t they see the chin? If he was creating a little stir, then good for him, I say. I’m no insecure teenager, for heaven’s sake. I still carry a torch? Please, nothing could be further . . . ! She has moved on and I’m on my own, for all the world to see. So what! Does the lone wolf not inspire?

A bray bested the babble. A different beast bullied through the bustle. The lawyer’s clock is ticking and rations the minutes he allows for each guest, whether old partner in crime or recent acquisition. I’m not insecure. I don’t feel entitled to his time. Anselm Merrywood is secure in his sneakers, I can assure you of that. But at their parties Bill competes with Gloria, and his self-importance crescendos to an intolerable pitch. The birthday boy modulates the boast only for superficial banter, the moral degradation of which he is insensible.

“Merrywuss!” Must he always? A squat figure approached, on an evident mission. The incoming missile sported a plain open-necked brown shirt and pants. I suspect that Gloria presses underwhelming attire on her spouse, the better to set off her splendor.

“Happy birthday, sir.” I am the taller, but possess no advantage. A bulldog’s presence belies its actual stature.

“Yeah, yeah, fifty years. Nothing to sing about, as we all know.” He patted his stocky frame.

“I’m still shy, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Your years haven’t treated you too bad, skinny bastard.” Unlike the lady of the house, Bill took no offense at a guest’s workaday togs, rude rags read reduced resources. “And we’ve laid on another treat”—the meat was on the cutting board—“your ex-wife!” The knowing cook has a sharp knife.

“Connor, I do thank thee. It’s always a pleasure to see Christine. And she can’t stay away from me. The woman has a genius for walking by the store when we happen to want for customers—”

“Can’t stay away from her boyfriend. Check it out, all over each other.”

“Oh, that’s who he is. I was thinking some party crasher was hitting on her. I was about to do you a favor and kick him out!”

“She does like men.”

“Christine?”

“Just saying!”

“Listen, pal.” The slanderer led me aside. “My wife has invited the whole fucking city, as you can see. I have instructions, talk to every bore she knows, la-di-da. Going to be a long day. Before I mosey, got an idea. Let’s take the boat out again.”

“I love it, when we’re cruising together.” I serenaded a startled salon. “So long as there’s no company.” The last time he made the offer I found myself marooned with the upper echelons of Hayward and Fremont and came close to emulating Davy Jones.

“Just the two of us. Get out of your creepy shop for once.”

The Connor consideration carries no conviction. I am his best friend, on Gloria’s rehearsal, an honor compromised by lack of other self-respecting claimants. He has but one gear, unrelenting personal advancement. A boat trip spells submission to his every controlling fancy, the inevitable cock-a-doodle-do. You’re a lucky guy, my friend, this baby cost big bucks, got me half the fucking world begging for a cruise. However, I must overrule my pride, set my stomach for a surfeit. I needed his help. Were he sober on the day, the request would fall on deaf ears, Scrooge as generous with his scrip as the Virgin Mary with her favors. But we sail with some provision, the only time he indulges. In a crowd of celebrants Bill’s forbearance stands out, a circumstance he mordantly brings to the attention. Until the family doctor intervened, he was no stranger to the liquor store, and Gloria would have an Oscar-worthy meltdown over our maritime indulgence.

“Bill, you bring the boat, I spring for the booze.”

“No skimping, now. I know you!”

“Yes, you are a lucky man.”

“I only drink top shelf.” The rooster left me in peace.

 The house was packed. The party was swinging. The bar was well stocked. But my post told a singular story, Gloria somehow failing to weave my threads into the fabric. I have the recurring nightmare, naked in a classroom, and now experienced a like exposure, second-guessing my clothing calculation. A saving Grace typically appeared at this juncture; I should forestall her rescue attempt. My ride was waiting outside.

Mike takes a hike? That is not beyond the realm of possibility, but Anselm is another animal; the critter is no quitter. And flight only draws attention, good manners mandating interminable goodbyes. An ulterior motive? You will have to wait and see! However, I had been foraging on my own for so long that joining the herd would bleat of desperation, belated engagement surrender my cool. The crowd was too dignified to supply the entertainment of a belligerent drunkard, kids were forbidden, and the musicians had played their encore. Christine and paramour merged on the other side of the room. I could not miss his pat to her rear. You might come to his defense, see no semaphore, and I praise your propensity to forgive. I also could not care less, trust me. The later mishap was a total accident, whatever you might think.

CHAPTER VI. THE GULF

Your hero makes the move.

A memorable story has a moment. The world was hanging in the balance, when Eve eyed the fruit; the plot took a fateful twist, when Oliver asked for more; mankind made a giant leap, when Neil took a short step out the module. And you will hold your breath, when Merrywood makes the move.

The sliding door made my exit. O captain, my captain! Our fearful trip is done? Steady on, my hearties, the party might be painful, but a true hero has no fear. I just needed some fresh air. A few hands remained on deck, and your skipper stood apart, his back to squalls of laughter, his face to rumbling sea. If he gave the impression of deep and distant thoughts, then so be it. And I had a glass in hand, the navy needs fortification. The fog had not made up its mind, the more decided sun had disappeared behind the shingles, sending a shadow to the sand. A staff member clad in white jacket, pressed slacks, and patent-leather wingtips was lighting a heat lamp. The endeavor served little purpose, the deck was for the birds. All poor creatures need to eat, but another immaculately appointed waiter was shooing away a starving sparrow while he picked up the litter of indulgence. At least he was going through the motions..

The Pacific Ocean spread both vast and near. The seas swelled, the surf broke, the water glistened, but the scene was unequal to the competition. The pretty picture? She was still stationed in a corner, though might belong at some remove—penniless, stranded on a moor, at a place called Whitcross, where no tie held her to human society, no charm or hope called her to her fellow creatures. A novel heroine? Well, a cigarette pack lay on the railing, a cord led from her ears, black lips mouthed the music, a bare foot tapped in confirmation. Living in different worlds, standing on opposite sides of the deck, studiously ignoring each other, a dated drinker and a disaffected young smoker nevertheless shared a category: the only unaccompanied guests on the premises.

Your captain took the wheel? Well, a heat lamp warmed my watch, a whisky raised my spirits, a trumpet blew encouragement into my ears. What a wonderful world! Louis, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. But the hungry sparrow seconded the motion, provision on the boards. My own stomach was full enough. But another pang was plaguing, the fruit within reach.

Merrywood! . . . What’s up, now? . . . Fresh fruit can be bitter . . . I’ll be the judge of that.

The orchard gate is open. A shiny apple catches the eye of passing boys. Many are drawn to the tree; few risk the perilous pluck. Like the garden of Eden, big trouble lay in store? Well, my daring faced a further challenge.

Daring? . . . Just you wait! . . . Haven’t got all day!

We were not alone. The move would have a witness, the crew loitering on deck. I had nothing to feel guilty about. But really! Skedaddle, why don’t you!

The air was chilly. The breeze had picked up. The loiterers were dressed for indoor employment. And the exposed employees were lounging on the railing. The white jackets, polished black shoes, tidy hair might advertise a service, but disguised a sorry truth. The litter still needed attention. The house was full of demanding guests. The hostess would have paid good money. And the lazy so-and-sos could find nothing better to do? I should order a Corpse Reviver. And be quick about it, boys!

Nothing moved. The girl was lost in her headset. The deck was ominously quiet, our male company lingering in the cold. What was keeping them? The two may have known each other, but had no words to share. Suspicious, huh? Practiced criminals have no need to talk, their plan rehearsed, a private party at their mercy. I have suggested security, Gloria ridicules the need—Annie, really! My guests? Our suspects made a peculiar pair; the taller troubled like a tough, his sidekick assumed a more wholesome impression. But Clyde Darrow looked like a choirboy! A waiter’s uniform makes the perfect cover, an apron easily conceals a weapon.

The girl showed no fear. What did she know? I have admitted to a slight contretemps, at a previous party, with a young female guest. But really, it was all a mistake. I was now under surveillance? Gloria would never stoop so low, surely. Though her husband would stop at nothing. The supposed waiters studiously avoided my eye. A spy never gives the game away!

A party was in progress. The girl had come to play? The black lips toyed with a cigarette. The bare feet tapped to some beat. The bountiful curls swirled in the breeze. And she was making eyes at the boys? I love a man in uniform! The two smartly dressed young men might also come with tolerably good looks, though who knows? I had been impatient for a parting. They were all waiting for me to leave? Fat chance!

Bent out of shape? . . . The most upright of men! . . . Who never gets any action.

The door slid open. A sleeve emerged. A finger beckoned. The waiters scurried inside, tails between their legs. A girl stood at the railing. We were alone.

Terrifying! . . . Speak for yourself.

I did have some support. A cocktail always makes good company. And the female has no fear for me, needless to say. Although the face is an enigma. And blacks lips only add to the unknown. Should Merrywood mess with the mystery? A careful man takes no untoward risk. A considerate man will not impose. A wise man weighs his words.

Age builds a barricade! . . . Climb every mountain . . . Inhibition grows the gulf! . . . Ford every stream.

Nothing doing? I did say the deck was for the birds! The waiter’s exit had lifted my spirits, but left the pigeons in peace. The plates were not all cleared, and greedy gulls descended, to besmirch the hapless tables. The girl was standing motionless like a heron, staring at her feet. A chirping sparrow had usurped her previous perch, a feathered bundle of felicity.

The move! . . . I know what I’m doing here . . . Man or mouse?

History heralds a hurdle. Washington crossed the Delaware, Caesar the Rubicon, Hannibal the Alps. A new legend would make his mark? I did have a reckoning. Rows of planks marking the distance, the diligent mathematician cannot help but count.

Playing in his pants! . . . Excuse me? . . . Telegraphing torment! . . . Listening to you!

A wine glass was empty. A jacket was zipped. A girl has places to go?

Sentenced to solitary! . . . I enjoy my own company . . . But sensing a solace! . . . You’ll shut your trap? . . . The end of the ordeal!

Our tale started with a toast. Let us now drink to our health. I keep my waist trim, seldom call in sick, favoring the cocktail over the medicine cabinet. But though we benefit from the stance, the upright is a challenge to the human, my frame no exception to the rule. Gravity enervates my lower vertebral discs with a secret squad of saboteurs, set to strike on special occasion. The doctors are stumped, the x-rays no help, the gym a lost cause, a wife given to question—and her system is perfect? The discomfort comes and goes, although one thing is constant. I take it like a man. I do not complain. I seldom even make allusion, as you will admiringly acknowledge. At least you should. The pain might be prevalent in comely company, but some correlation is just coincidence, as we all know. Can’t a man indulge a show without immature insinuation?

“Happy birthday to you!” The strain was loud and clear, though stained glass blocked the passage. The starlings were unsettled, the statue less impressed. My lower back also clamored for attention. A cold wind induces the pangs. I am still fond of fresh air and developed an interest in the neighboring yard, where a silver Airstream interrupted the view of surrounding hills, a red-headed woodpecker beat a lonely drum, and a child’s swing hung from the leafless tree. In the corner of my eye, another spectacle stood motionless, before lighting another cigarette. The sparrow had been keeping her close company, enjoying full use of only one leg. The solitary scavenger now limped off the edge of the deck, a plaintive cheep sounding the retreat.

Make your own move, man! . . . A smooth operator takes it easy . . . Rooted to the spot . . . A successful suitor slows it down . . . Nailed to a cross!

Deliberation doomed the donkey; a medieval philosopher posed the paradox. Mind the mettle of the man; Merrywood has a more stirring proposition!

A young deer is skittish. The hunter must tread lightly in the forest, coolly lift his rifle, calmly draw a bead, patiently wait the instant of alignment. Surgical precision spells success. A true hero needs no help. A lone climber braves the mountain. A peak performer is a born artist of the move . . .

I am losing the train. But I found myself transported over the timber. The back protested, the gulls grumbled, the pigeons stirred in indignation. The girl noticed my approach, but added no further sign of distress.

“Uncle Annie!” She took a short drag, deigned a little dimple.

“Alice. Long time.”

CHAPTER VII. THE ROOST

Your hero counts his chickens.

The Last Refuge welcomes you back. Ivan was idling at the counter, for all the world to see. Emil prolonged his rear secretion. Would that the exceptional silence set to steady rule! His favorite fable, how many times do I have to listen!

A memoir is a record. And the writer has all rights. But suppose another would have a word? I am also a generous man, so I will open up the book. Emil’s allegory is insulting, the facts fanciful, the language improper. He has a half decent story? Let’s radically reduce that fraction!

I promised to tell the tale. So shelving my reservations, I will now share his liberties with American history, but purged of incontinent expletive, senseless digression, and infinite loop.

The Rockefeller story: Our legendary banker’s fortune disguised ragged origins, running with ne’er-do-wells on the Lower East Side. The ravenous crew could only afford the price of a grubby apple, one cent apiece on the curbside barrow. Forged of finer metal, the future tycoon would neither admit defeat nor allow despair. He tendered his only penny, but with the vision that set him apart and paved the yellow brick road. The other urchins, slaves to immediate gratification, sank greedy chops into their small nourishment, but our hero steeled himself against the growl of stomach, fixing on greater reward. The lad swaddled his purchase in a discarded newspaper, took leave of the gang, and set off across town, cradling the cargo in a tattered coat. Alas, the launch of his business career coincided with an early winter storm. The wind howled, freezing rain lashed his cheeks and pooled on the sidewalk. Starving, shivering, muttering to himself, the boy bent into the gale, splashed through icy puddles, and trudged the interminable length of unfamiliar avenue, a migratory bird homing by instinct on a more clement destination.

His compass was true. Hours later the clouds parted, and he found himself gazing at sunlit rows of uptown mansions, visual confirmation of street legend. His threadbare coat, inherited when a brutish father succumbed to tuberculosis, did not belong, but the ragamuffin installed himself on a busy street corner, polished up his apple, and boldly hawked his wares to passersby in varnished carriage or custom footwear. A novelty in these splendid environs, the spectacle generated amusement and open ridicule. But manifesting in embryo the discipline, grit, and self-assurance that would spur a relentless rise to the top, Rockefeller refused to relent. Satisfaction settled within the hour. A fine lady labored by, a wailing child in tow, and spied the gleaming red apple on an outstretched palm. She took possession; a colorful distraction might quiet infant cacophony. Bowing to his first customer, the nascent magnate pocketed his earnings, wearily retraced his steps, and it was nightfall before he collapsed into his rough cot, puffed up by his feat, two cents beneath his pillow, fairytale mansions before his eyes.

Force of will overcame protests of the flesh. The following morning Rockefeller hobbled back to the humble barrow. Selecting two apples of retail promise, he walked the goods uptown on blistered feet, beating a blighted path that would become a road to riches. A patrolling policeman approached his first choice of location, administering the boot. But his young determination failed to flag, and he returned home in the afternoon with a hard-won four cents. In just two days, a quadrupling of seed money, with continuing exponential prospect. The subsequent trajectory of his profit deviated from that curve. Already an astute salesman, he gauged the apple-buying public and varied his asking price to suit. But sales growth experienced interruption. Several days passed with no commerce. The policeman returned and exacted a bribe. Local hoodlums emptied his pockets and boxed his ears for good measure—anticipating the misfortune, he had stowed a goodly portion of his earnings in his shoes. The sun continued to shine, and at the end of a week his initial investment had increased twentyfold.

A business model must adapt. In due course he was dealing in quantity and able to extract disgruntled concessions from the apple vendor. Bulky merchandise requires supplemental transport. A delinquent orphan of his acquaintance suffered from pronounced limp and ugly cheek scar, to the prevention of gainful employment. The villain demanded five cents for a day’s work, but Rockefeller knocked him down to three and so had to endure the cripple’s constant cussing as they staggered under the bulge of sack. Contracting out the haulage increased his sales volume but proved a mixed blessing: While Rockefeller was conducting a difficult negotiation, his miscreant porter helped himself to the goods, forcing the entrepreneur into regular inventory. A month passed and he had made his first hundred, a princely sum for the streets but just a promissory note in his book. Success requires singleness of purpose. Resisting the urge to flaunt, he folded back all gain.

Winter wore on and turned bitter. The apprentice quit, the money inadequate compensation for the misery. Rockefeller’s bare hands could barely grip the produce as he braved snow and ice for the convenience of an affluent clientele. The city stayed indoors and business plummeted. Customers’ heavy fur coats, much less his own flimsy threads, were no match for biting cold. Holes threatened the integrity of his boots, his only cap vanished in another ambush, and his coat shredded under the weight of canvas sack. His imagined future allowed little indulgence; new garments would have to wait until he acquired his own cart. But though the cash flow was miserly and his ordeal unremitting, Rockefeller had invested too much to give up. If he could only make it to spring. His uncle had a heart attack and left him fifty mill.

A preposterous implication! Okay, I did inherit the purchase of my store from a proverbial rich uncle, my gambling godfather, but the good fortune was incidental. I took over an established concern: Herzog and Herzog claimed the mantle of oldest business in the borough and had supported my novel from the first. The brothers did solid business, but one Herzog discovered the pleasures of the other Herzog’s wife, and a misfortune at a pedestrian crossing put paid to the joint enterprise. Their lawyer urging a quick sale, they were taken with the idea of a writer-owned bookstore and agreed to carry a loan. We signed the contract before I even heard of my windfall. Emil scoffs, but has he ever tried to keep an honest house? Tell that to the city tax collector, he gloats. All right, I was a wanted man, but so was Dr. King! Big Brother is pitiless, bureaucracy blind to the finer things. Although officialdom has the sharpest eye for unlicensed liquor.

We have seen better days? Stuff and nonsense, your fine old leather shoes are only more comfortable for the wear. Clouds might hang over the accounting, but stormy weather is a temporary trouble. Emil casts further stones and they too fall short. Yes, the owner does place his book at the front of the window, but the display is no vanity, a novel never goes out of date. We sold a copy only last month. Yes, business has been more robust, but through no fault of management, the David of small bookshop facing the Goliath of chain store and death star of the internet. Yes, the couch is slightly worn, carpet faded in places, lighting somewhat dim, and cobwebs occasionally string the shelves, but the neglect is deliberate, allowing customers a comforting trip back in time, recalling the old study where grandpa hung his grainy photographs. The partial prove a pudding, and Monty’s daily sightings confer his seal of approval. Emil insinuates that the back section keeps us afloat. What does the creature know? That rare retreat captures his squalid sensibility like anus a mongrel’s snout, but makes little impression on our bank balance.

No matter the future! I have nurtured one of the few surviving bastions of fine books, runner-up in voting for best independent bookstore in the city a mere four years ago. We maintain a grove of literature in a wasteland of juice bars, video game outlets, and yoga studios. We feature inspired collections: Where else could you find the amusement of The Scoundrel’s Pick, The Gentile Reader, The Western Cannon? Yours truly is something of a local celebrity, women customers disposed to dally, as you would be sure to remark. And book lovers appreciate the opportunity to talk to a real writer, listen to me on NPR, browse their best hours away. At least they should. Not just a neighborhood institution, The Last Refuge enjoys a worldwide name, my photo adorning an in-flight magazine, to give just one instance. I can recall just two unattended book readings, the first due to a misprinted flyer. If Emil came into some money, a proboscis would be the principal payee.

‍ ‍

A considerate host? Yes, I gave the reassurance. I also claimed a crew of characters; you have only met a few. Your captain will now make good on the guarantee, take command of the introductions.

We keep the lamps down low. But an appealing face lights up a place of literature. “I saw the dame outside.” The handsome young bird had just flown in, although the regular visitor favors another means of motion. Nick’s bike helmet protects against the plentiful perils of the precinct. “Figured you wouldn’t be far away, Mr. Anselm.”

“No choice. The ladies won’t leave me alone.” I was attending to lunch, my daily cottage cheese and lettuce sandwich. “Agatha will have to wait her turn.” But I am no dull creature of habit, whatever they say. The adventurer has been known to chew a little cheddar.

The faces will become familiar. Birds of a feather? Well, a flock needs a place to roost, and The Last Refuge provides a home away from home. And continuing the introductions, our menage has some manager!

“There’s nothing like a dame.” She manages her manners, when talking to some men. “And Agatha does catch the eye.” The mature woman was shamelessly making eyes at young Nick. Should age not bring wisdom? “Chuck can’t stop singing her praises.” Jill is an imposing presence, the pillar of the establishment, Chuck her no less worthy husband. “I do get a little fed up, I have to say.” The stalwart is not shy of opinion, I am not reluctant to observe. “If only The Last Refuge shone so brightly!”

Don’t listen! Management ignores my monthly maintenance. Our executive branch also questions my nose for business, you will be dismayed to discover. The house only took cash before her regime, but my filibuster failed to stave off the inevitable defeat. I had to beg permission to signal the scoundrel? Not so fast, I am the boss, don’t forget. She bows to my encyclopedic knowledge of books. At least she should.

“The menagerie is open, Nick.” The manager never loses an opportunity.

“Monty nibbling on Little Women again?”

“It’s great that Annie is an animal lover, but some customers are scared of mice.”

“So are elephants.” I will not be denied. “We need to think ahead, in case they break out of the zoo.”

“Not a bad crowd last night.” The cyclist was helping himself to a fistful of mints. He stops by on the way to work to talk writing and maintain his blood sugar level.

“A two-pot night. Though what a circus.”

“No boss, von pot. First pot no good.” The Terrible is a stickler for the truth. Brewing coffee for book readings remains his one dedicated responsibility, though customer acclaim does not inevitably greet the execution.

“Not a bad crowd, but we could do better. This mule is so set in his ways.” The manager has an unfortunate fetish for change. “My husband is just the same. Chuck still brushes his teeth with baking soda. ‘My dear, if it was good enough for my mother!’”

“Yes ma’am, you have to adapt to survive. The modern business needs a web presence.” Nick does speak some gibberish.

“And the pope should rap his next homily?” Although somewhat traditional of temperament, I keep up with the tunes.

“We’re not called The Last Refuge for nothing.” Jill plays on the same team as Nick. Our pillar is also tall enough to make the ladies basketball squad, a daunting presence that restores order whenever the book-loving public gets out of hand.

“Mr. Anselm is escaping the modern world?”

“Stone Age man found a cave quite comfortable.” A tireless member of the offense, the manager always gives it a shot, with an assist from another player, to be named later.

“If those damn Neanderthals would just keep the noise down!”

We could do better! I had it coming? Well, who said that the women’s team always plays fair! ‍

Nick hails from Mississippi. A stately southern lilt sets off his aspiration as man of letters, although the creative writing program that peddled his diploma has since folded. The graduate retains the green Converse high tops, regulation backpack, and unsullied idealism of a permanent student, while a handsome visage buffs the humble verdict. And please suspend the suspicion, I am not remotely inclined that way, trust me. I might give him the occasional hug, but are fatherly feelings really any fodder? And you should really hold no grudge: Good looks may raise the eyeballs, but they only lower the estimation, in matters of the mind. Does a winning smile pay the bills? The next Faulkner waits tables at Emil’s while developing his métier.

“Nick, they’ll rot your teeth.” Jill dotes on the appealing young man. I cast no aspersions; she has no son and I have no doubt that her affection—like mine—is parental. “I don’t suppose Emil has a dental plan.”

Our youthful visitor returned the favor, brushing crumbs from her lapel. We compete for his attention? Please, if you’re looking for soap opera, you should pick up the remote. And the door is over there.

“Emil uses Mr. Anselm’s services, his own word. What did he mean by that, sir?” Nick holds me in special esteem.

“My literary expertise?”

“Annie loves the mystery section. I’ve heard him making some arrangement with Emil, but he won’t give.” The manager, too, has her suspicions. They have no need to know.

“So, the novel is dead?” The wishful writer is a regular at the readings.

“Poor thing.” I lowered my head. The previous night’s speaker, a city resident, had published a book of critical essays that was as likely to sell to our faithful as a bacon butty in a mosque. His wife, who introduced herself as his publicist, applied a press that overcame my better judgment; the letters on the cover of paperbacks optimistically piled on his table spelled my mistake. Michael Jackson’s voice impediment little hindered his searing indictment of the literary establishment, a diatribe greeted with quiet dissent from a handful of familiar attendees, but howls of laughter from an alien corner. The large and loudly dressed woman had found the book reading under the direction of evident mental distress, hooting in anticipation, drowning out the speaker with a discordant Billie Jean is not my lover. The more I insisted, the more unshakeable her conviction. I was the latest agent of a worldwide conspiracy! Fortunately, she had sufficient wit to grasp the concept of police intervention.

“I’m not giving up yet.” Nick carries a manuscript in the jealously guarded backpack. The stirring swain has some decency, will not open the zipper for just anybody. He bestows a special favor on his mentor, self-consciously showing me each newly completed chapter.

“The novel has been pronounced dead more often than you’ve had fried chicken, my boy.” I will take the pulpit, when my congregation has the need. “No matter how routine the obituary, the doomsayers are blind to metaphysics. The very idea of fiction already makes a misleading assumption; the novel brings us people as real as you and me, their world as solid as the clay beneath our feet.” I was rehearsing my thesis; you will read the full account. “That world will as soon disappear as planet Earth. Fiction is the gospel truth.”

“Mama!” Ivan keeps a record, as I already noted.

“I bring the glad tidings. You’re here to spread the news.”

“Big news, boss zink Pickvick real.” To the further security of his employment, The Terrible shares my fondness for the Papers. But his eyes betrayed a more ancient dalliance, my sainted namesake.

“And the proof needs no theological contrivance.” I acknowledged his page of concentration. Neither Nick nor Ivan are members of the club and so would not benefit from the scheduled presentation.

The club? It’s a secret!

CHAPTER VIII. THE WEB

Your hero makes a play.

Lung cancer claimed Grandpa Magnusson. We visited to the end and were spared little, morphine inadequate to the task. I have a dread of hospital wards. The parents caught Sonja smoking in the garage and pressed the warning. They should have known better, the rebel rarely relinquishing the chance.

Smoke hung in the air. Another girl was taking a drag. She made it her last, killing the light on the railing, declining the drama. The breeze could barely banish the breath of guilt. The consenting party had undressed . . . from her headset.

“Honored to have your attention.” I dared a dart.

“Yes, you are.” She spoke, in my direction. Short of stature, she failed to lift her eyes. The deck was growing dusky, although the late-afternoon fog cracked to spread a hesitant light over the carefully constructed boarding. But no precaution is perfect; nature’s trespass glinted in the speckled light, hanging in suspense. The fly has no escape, the fineness of the thread no measure of the danger.

“What happened to the party spirit?”

“Haven’t pulled out my machete.” A husky voice belied the tender years. Her glass of wine was still perched on the railing, in need of replenishment.

“Boadicea slaughtered a hundred thousand Romans. We should give thanks for your restraint.”

“Such a good girl! You should know, checking me out like a perv.”

“I had strict instructions. And then there’s black lipstick!”

“Not my fave, either. But my mother really hates it.”

“Explains everything. So, I’ve done my duty, leaving soon.”

“Isn’t he the lucky one? Gotta stay over. Lollapalooza dragging on all night.”

“Your folks throw some party, unfortunately. I should have brought a book. You remind me of a painting.”

“I am an artist.”

“Doesn’t Picasso feel cold out here?”

“She’s on fire. And Salvador Dali is the man.”

Gloria and Bill have three children. All were present, two were correct. Lily, the eldest, was following her father’s footsteps into law, though propelled by less venality of ambition. She featured cropped hair, square-cut jacket, businesslike blouse and slacks, and had invited a female friend of notably matching presentation to the party. This turn was news to me, and I would enjoy quizzing bombastic Bill for confirmation. Noah, the only son, had decamped to an East Coast prep school but had nevertheless managed to procure a brown-eyed Californian girlfriend, who was blindly trailing him around as if leashed to a guide dog. Lily and Noah mingled inside, reeling in a generous catch. The parents hymn their praises, Bill’s devotion to his children redeeming his extensive list of crimes against humanity. Offspring of some privilege, they were nevertheless likeable, had inherited neither Gloria’s artifice nor Bill’s ego. The affable pair had little enthusiasm for the early guitar lessons of my recruitment, but we formed a bond, greet each other fondly. They appreciate my avuncular advice. At least they should.

 Yes, Bill is devoted. But the fatherly favor is compromised. There is an apple in his eye. Another daughter holds his heart, a possession as publicly evident as privately denied. Mr. and Mrs. Connor rarely speak of the recluse. Family intimates know the drill, but a first acquaintance might suspect some guilty secret: a baby that they made her give up; a lover biding time in state penitentiary; a hit-and-run manslaughter that her father had contrived to dismiss? The girl is pleasant to behold, can carry a conversation, acquit herself with adult aplomb. And she is smart, accepted by the nation’s top public university, if her attitude does test the limits of standard teenage deviation. Gloria never delivers on the deviant, whereas her spigot is impossible to staunch over the other two.

“Uncle? I wasn’t expecting such respect.”

“Wish you could trade places with my real uncle. Don’t let it go to your head. Total douche.”

“Another contemptible Connor!”

“Daddy is an asshole. My rock! Hates his bro too. Could tell you some stories.” The news anchor nonchalantly shook the pack. “The guy now has stomach cancer, nasty business. I cried when I heard the news . . . with joy.” Cold lips took another Camel. “We had an issue. Never touched me though. Daddy would have cut off his nuts.”

“I’m happy you warned me.” I would be even happier to change the subject.

“You’re cool. Some chicks click with older guys.” She took a drag. “Don’t be getting ideas, my gangster.” The lighter added an exclamation point. “Ray was a cop, until he lost his badge. Not angry, I like men well enough.”

“Thank you for clearing that up.” The older guy also had an issue, his ground as solid as her smoke. “So, what hideous racket were you listening to?” I stroked her equipment.

“James Brown. Got soul, Uncle Annie?”

“Stay on the scene . . . uunh . . . like a sex machine.” I am not responsible. Did I write the damn lyrics? “I got the music in me. And no more Uncle Annie, please.”

“You’d like me to call you—”

“Sex Machine.” That chorus erupted again, with inebriated brio.

Oh God! What was I thinking? It meant nothing, you must understand. I’m perfectly innocent; Gloria had charged the waiters, no empty glass. It wasn’t my fault. Chip might lose his grip. But I’m a man of restraint, really I am.

Regret scalded my fibers. Party guests would have another story: A man of half century was hitting on a girl, his oldest friend’s daughter, no less. Defiling a treasure. The beloved child will rat and the father will have to punch me out, the paternal prerogative. The afternoon lurched from bad to worse, an abyss of stupidity. Oblivion, swallow me up. I finally find someone to talk to, if thirty years my junior, and scare her away like a homeless lunatic shrieking at a pigeon.

The bird giggled. “What happened to the foreplay?” The mirth blew in like a rain shower in the desert. “Mr. Sex Machine. Totally.”

“James Brown. My man.”

My cheer outlasted her chuckle. And I had to celebrate in silence, finding nothing to match the wit. A buzz animated the party hive, and lanterns shone through the stained glass as the fog enveloped two wayward insects and smothered the ocean waves. But a glow suffused my core. Who would have thought? I had last known a gawky adolescent, undistinguished to male survey. That small, skittish shadow had firmed into the sunlit form I had assayed from an earlier remove. With button nose, upturned lip, angle of assurance, and those eyes of enigma, she faced the world on her own terms, although proximity replaced the flattery of distance with some pallor. But a spring blossom possesses a pollen. And she knew.

The skin betrayed no blemish. And our solid deck gave onto a well-tended garden, no sore blighting the bucolic scene. The beach beckoned, waves broke steadily within earshot, and I heard another melody; we shared a taste in music. The surest web spreads gently. Arachne wove a tapestry. Trouble, Alice sung a song, Oh, trouble, set me free.

June sings a different tune. D-Day immortalized the month, thousands of Allied forces perishing on Omaha Beach. A long way from home, the GIs peered over the bow of their landing craft, where ominous cliffs concealed the artillery of hell. Earlier in the war, nearly half a million Allied forces were trapped on the beaches of Dunkirk. Out of his element, his defenses down, another valiant soldier surveyed his own fateful stretch of sand.

“Can I fill up your wine? Doing the math here, you won’t get me into trouble?”

“You should be so lucky. My mother said she wanted me to enjoy myself.”

“Very generous, given all the judges in attendance.”

“Reverse psychology. I’m onto her, as usual. I’m fine.”

She was fine. I withheld the quip; the older player should hold his cards. And he should not inadvertently brush her arm—even when she waives her right of recoil. You might suppose an understanding. However, pages had turned since we were playing hide-and-go-seek in their overgrown yard. I recalled a cycling route around the neighborhood, with a detour to the swings and slides of a small park. But in later visits to the family home, she was sighted as often as Huckleberry Finn in the employment office, her adolescence sequestered in a rumored attic.

—Huck, you came and went, of your own free will. You wore castoffs, one suspender supported your trousers, and your hat was a vast ruin. Luckiest of boys, the more properly dressed envied your latitude. Yet I have a sneaking suspicion: Becky Thatcher, of the lovely blue eyes, long blond hair, white summer frock, and embroidered pantalettes was in love with your friend, respectable Tom Sawyer. A vagabond will whistle, but didn’t you ever have the thought?—

“Your folks are really lucky, having this place.”

She turned her back. The banal remark placed me in exile. Silence hung over the deck with the thickening fog, though strains of laughter still escaped the house.

“Don’t want anything more to drink. Just jonesing for some weed.”

Drugs fuel the teenage fire. Dealt a royal flush, the poker player gulps. But I play my cards with calm, trust me.

“Here?” I shrugged. Suppose she lit up in front of me. I would be an accomplice, and I needed a father’s good grace.

“Timbuktu. I’ll borrow Daddy’s private jet.”

“Funny girl. I don’t suppose Daddy would be overjoyed, in full view of the—”

“I don’t suppose he’d be overjoyed.” She knew her scoff. “Walk on the beach. What can he do?” She rose to full contempt.

Troy falls for the ploy? Quite possibly, but I am Anselm Thomas Merrywood. A walk on the beach? The news aired with some static. She was Bill’s daughter. She had a worrisome way. But even a rebel respects one rule: A culprit might share the contraband, but a girl will never ask.

We studied the surf in silence. The wind was waning, the weed was waiting, but the woman withheld the wink. The warrior takes it all in stride, needless to say.

“Well, Alice . . . I’m actually in no big hurry . . . I don’t . . .” I am never at a loss, trust me. “I’m thinking . . .” I get right to the point. “If you . . .” I am a conversationalist of some cool. “If you want some company, that is . . .” All right, these words might seem a little wanting. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? But even the Bard would lose his facility, if thou blowest cigarette smoke in his face.

“Wild man! I’ll get my stuff.”

CHAPTER IX. THE COURTHOUSE

Your hero makes a pronouncement.

I pick up the introductions. The Last Refuge has another regular. He has a seat of honor, in Modern Classics. He has a special place, in his mind. A truth is discovered in the silence of disdain: Not all society is civil.

“I wish he was at the reading last night.” Nick gestured towards Literature, where the compact figure of its guardian kept a disdainful distance. “You should make him a deal.” Our dignitary was sitting on his throne, out of earshot, but always in the eye. Cordelio Cortés, the full name appears on the cover, the first is dropped in the flesh. “Señor would have put that guy in his place.”

“Señor would have made it all about himself.” Jill has little regard for the person, still less for the reputation. “Confabulations! Does anyone understand a word?”

A ruffling of feathers? Yes, it distresses me to confirm your suspicion. I have welcomed you into a rare retreat of books, which you might hope to find a model of peace, love, and understanding, but the model needs repair. Jill’s bone of contention is our de facto writer in residence and daily beneficiary of my largesse, though he never stays late. The readings take place after hours, and he dedicates the evening to his calling. Nick joshes with Jill, occasionally listens to my learning, but hangs on Cortés’s every last word. Our peculiar institution represents the young scribe’s literary archetype, a life dedicated to writing, given to gnomic pronouncement.

“Literature has no more faithful witness than Cortés.” I cast a careful glance. The witness had been wary, the seer denied the sulk. Do I care about every small-minded review? “But the man goes too far. He has transcended the human condition, prefers the company of long-dead writers to that of mortal flesh. He once told me that if a fire broke out in his building and he had to choose between saving his books or his lover, the written word would win. I think he was serious.”

“Seriously deluded. If we’re talking about his own work, I’d be tossing it into the flames.” Jill is normally even of temper.

“Cortés gets a lot of respect.” Nick is chronically nice, as I have noted. “Unlike some people. After his talk I googled Michael Jackson—”

“Young man, kindly keep your sexual fetishes to yourself. This is a family store.”

“Jackson’s written a couple of novels himself, out of print. And the reviews I found were not flattering.”

“There you go, Nick. Sour grapes. Instead of complaining that readers have been duped, write a great book yourself, why don’t you?”

“He did go rather quiet when you mentioned The Employment.”

“I’m under no illusions. My book is a good enough read, if I say so myself. I’ve never pretended a classic of world literature.”

I drew on the well. Nick aspires to the top shelf, writing his undergraduate thesis on the great American novel. His novel does sport some title. The Running Back starts on a hardscrabble Mississippi farm and details a football player’s steady fall as he ascends the ladder from high school celebrity through college to the Cowboys. The story should have wide appeal. Sex, violence, craven ambition, treachery: The ingredients are there. It screams Hollywood.

The manager has also read the manuscript. We are not on the same page. She presented a generous opinion. Annie, I think the Running Back has lots of promise. I never refuse a gift. A lot of promise, like a ticket for the Titanic. Bada boom! Don’t be so mean, Annie, it isn’t Nick’s fault he’s so handsome. Please, the author’s photo would grace the cover, but no resentment prejudices my reading, I have no need to insist.

I reopen the bird book. Ducks are colorful creatures, though differ in disposition: The wood duck, Aix sponsa, is a solitary specimen, the wigeon, Mareca americana, only seen in flocks. Our native birds, too, exhibit a varied nature: Cortés withdraws, Nick gives us the pleasure, but his company is a mixed blessing. Jill’s notion notwithstanding, I feel some fondness for the boy, yet my spirits drop when he pulls up with his pack. I have not told him of the club, lest he have a wish to share the work in progress. The Running Back drops the ball.

“Ahem, the bowl is empty.” Nick’s gluttony spares no sweet.

“The name of your next work?”

“No refills today, I’m afraid.” Jill’s look assigned the blame.­ “The cupboard is bare as well. Speaking of which, Annie, I ran into Chris—”

“No big surprise. My ex-wife parades past the window every day, with her puppy.”

“Moshe teaches in her studio.”

“Oxford has a college down the street, now?”

“Doing very well. Quite a crowd, waiting at the door.”

“As she never tires of sharing.”

“When did we last have a line outside?”

“Just a fad. When did you last break out that hula hoop?”

“Chris is a little worried about your drinking.”

“I had no choice. Mutual friends, the party was an obligation.”

“She wanted to say goodbye to you. Your car was outside, but you were nowhere to be found. A little concerning?”

“I took a little trip. Tell dear Christine I’m still alive when you just happen to run into her again. If anything, you should be worried for your friend. There’s a sadness in her eyes now.”

“Seems pretty happy to me.”

“Refill, señor?” The proprietor was plying the pot.

“Your mathematics selection is to be commended”—the scholar had a stack by his chair—“your coffee not. My stomach is ill-equipped for battery acid.”

“Ivan can be heavy handed. Doesn’t it make for an experience, though? Who knew that caffeine was hallucinogenic?”

“My imagination needs no further stimulation.” Cortés subjects his metabolism to meticulous monitor. The prize-winning psychosomatic selected a vial from the portable pharmacy of his shoulder bag, looking to brick his defenses against the onslaught of complimentary beverage. The Arabian Peninsula lies directly across the street, a hand-painted sign promising brews of distinction, but to my certain knowledge he has never deployed his wallet to the advantage. Our fixture shows up every day at noon and assumes his reserved chair after dismantling the pile of obscure volumes that he selected on the previous sitting, and never pays for lunch. And attempt no wit. The writer of a lauded short story collection honors The Last Refuge with his presence and will greet your dissident comedy with deserved contempt.‍ ‍

The work enjoys prominent display. He has the only label on the shelf, a benediction that fails to meet with unqualified managerial blessing, but makes the store his shrine. The person also enjoys his pride of place, in close company to his creation. A generous institution, we save the seat, no matter how unprofitable the favor. Should you possess the predilection, the author will graciously sign the rare purchase after you make the hesitant identification from a youthful snapshot on the promotional poster. I will not flesh out the picture, but through no willful tease; the face fascinates only for a formlessness of feature. An amorphous globe sits on slender shoulders, the writer saving all expression for the work. He once smuggled his dachshund past our interdiction and the seated pair made an impression, a face of fur the only personality.‍ ‍

The portrait is unflattering? Well, the painter is beyond reproach, as you know. I’m envious of the prizes, the critical acclaim? Absurd! I am happy for the recipient, honored by his residence, respect his retreat. If I have alluded to a negative review, I really pay him a compliment, if you think about it—does an easy A not cast suspicion on the class?

The very being is suspect? We’re expected to believe that famous novelist frequents an infamous hovel! Please, the joint has more juice than meets the jaundiced eye, so much more. Let’s put things in perspective. The owner is man of sympathy. I am prepared to flatter the Confabulist’s conceit. For all you know, the ingrate has imposed himself on other havens of literature—to less happy effect. At least we put up with him. Most of us, that is.

The biography is similarly blank. Although he does share an esoteric fancy with the Argentine laureate and acknowledges your praise in unaccented English whose propriety could only issue from the long study of a non-native speaker. The flow has a facility of which you will have plentiful occasion. But your offer of flattering handshake puts him in a bind, his constitution allowing no physical contact. Twisting the top off the amber bottle, he shook another capsule onto a diminutive palm.

“Order!” Cortés cleared his throat. A distinguished speaker expects undivided attention.

“Uh oh. Court is in session.” I had already taken a bench.

“A superior court.”

“Last week you sentenced Portnoy to purgatory.” I humor the conceit. “A little extreme, in my humble opinion.”

“The Last Refuge has the name. And suspicious characters take advantage.”

“Who’s in the dock today?”

“The defendant was about to face his justice. However, he died of coronary thrombosis, according to the editor’s note. He may have avoided the criminal trial, but cannot escape a reckoning. The accused left a statement, unfortunately.”

“Your honor, would you please repeat his name?”

“Humbert Humbert.”

“You’re a funny one!”

“The character has a reputation.”

“Envious?”

“Silence in court! The judge will read the verdict. Lolita, or the Confession of a White Widowed Male, fails to impress. The depravity is well received, but the words are too much.

“Cortés the contrarian! I find the writing unsurpassed. My own pronouncement is . . . perjury! I don’t believe a thing.”

—Humbert Humbert. Nailer of nymphets, I’m sure! Did you even know a girl? If so, we are brothers in bewitchment, though fail of fraternity. You are an old-world peacock, lover of conceit; yours truly is a bird of plainer plumage, but much the better man. All right, you might seduce the reader, a wizard of words conjuring away contempt. A fellow fool is baring himself, at risk of summary judgement? I trust my travails will temper the taunts. And unlike you, poet of reprobate lust, I stayed within the bounds. At least my love was legal! Though she pushed a law-abiding citizen to the limit . . . of his endurance, that is to say!—

“Court is adjourned!” Twisting the top off the amber bottle, Cortés shook another capsule onto a diminutive palm.

“I was just getting started.”

“So Cordelio, what is your pleasure today?” I had underwritten the reading material open on his lap. He hoisted the volume for my inspection; Kline’s Mathematical Thought from Ancient to Modern Times is very reasonably priced at $19.95, though the paying public steadfastly spurns the opportunity.

“I have reached the ‘Stagnation in Mathematics.’ Here is Augustine: ‘Whatever knowledge man has acquired outside of Holy Writ, if it be harmful it is there condemned.’”

“Jolly fellow. And so Christianity’s first millennium extinguishes the candle of learning, first lit by the Greeks. We thank the Arabs for keeping the flame.”

“Suppose they were not alone. We talk of the Dark Ages—has darkness not just fallen on the truth?” Cortés has eyes of Andean basalt. The lava of invention stirs, the volcano only dormant of face. “I penetrate that darkness. I see a clandestine academy, a hive of activity, a fount of invention, until some resentful second-rate thinker betrays his better to the clerics.”

“Unfortunate consequences?”

“Not only for the person. An unprecedented wealth of mathematics is consigned to the flames, irretrievably lost.”

“We would never know.”

“I will give him the memorial he deserves. For I see a monk, secreted in an abbey, leading a double life. The thinker discovers calculus, five hundred years before Newton. Received history only tells of a heretic, tortured and burned at the stake. I see him rushing to hide his scrolls, when he hears the sharp knock on his chambers—”

“Cortés, I rarely presume. That reviewer said your stories lack female interest. Maybe she had a point?” I never look for trouble. “Your thinker could be an abbess.” I have an aversion to conflict. “Go for it.” Provocation is the last thing on my mind. “She would do you proud.” A man of sensitivity just cannot hold his tongue.

“Mathematics, Physics, Philosophy . . . ” He perused our periphery. “And the women?”

“How much have we lost!”

“Women. Spare me the sermon. Sentimentality is the death of literature. One of them calls herself your manager”—he directed his disdain at the counter—“has that woman ever opened a book?” Cortés’ low estimation fails the physical facts: The man looks up to this object of his scorn.

“Reading right now, is she not?”

“Some infantile genre, no doubt. Is she lost in fantasy, hanging in suspense, haunted by horror?”

“She has found romance.”

“I rest my case.”

“Cordelio, welcome to the modern world. Most novelists are women.”

“And most whores.”

“The manager is a master, degree in English.”

“So silly Sally says.”

“Jill! As you well know. You hit her up for ten bucks only this morning.”

“Which she summarily denied. Shouldn’t such an impressive education command a more generous salary?”

“Maybe working in a distinguished bookstore is enough. The characters!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure!” His lids drooped. “An abbess!” His voice trailed off. I know the sign, made no protest. Like a city metro, his train of thought will disappear underground, to reveal itself down the line in one of his “peerless” Confabulations. He deflects personal inquiry about his writing, although gives the occasional guarded report in the safekeeping of club meetings.

“I leave you.” He flipped his silver pocket watch. Cortés’s work requires an unbending routine. I have never seen the inside of his residential hotel room, but he speaks of a typewriter and oak desk, where he must be seated every evening at six. Mathematical thought joined the medicinal contents of the leather bag. My merchandise regularly leaves the premises in that transport, though I have never made the offer and he is yet to return the loan. He found a pressed handkerchief, but the coughing that signaled his departure carried little conviction.

“I’m looking for Joseph Campbell.” A light brightened my day. The girl was new to the store; I would have remembered a previous visit. Straight black hair, oval face, warm complexion and dark brown eyes—neither overly friendly nor entirely dismissive—orient the compass, but sometimes you can’t be sure. Entering the rarified world of books, the girl regretted her superficial fashion statement. At least she should have.

“You just missed him. He was here a minute ago.” What a wag!

“Josef Campbell? Ve have good selection, miss. You find in Religion.” The Terrible’s notebook lost the battle. “You vant I help you?” He jumped up from the stool, his first discernible move of the day.

“Er, no thanks, I’ll be fine.” She escaped towards the back of the store. “I’m sure I’ll find the switch.” An ensemble of black tights, knee-length boots, and short skirt lays down a law. Perched behind the counter, two thirds of The Last Refuge’s salesforce monitored the bookcases in her direction until the vision made the turn and disappeared into the penumbra of mysticism.

“Josef Campbell, pfff.”

“Appearances can be deceptive. She might be quite the student.” I managed a chuckle, though my back was acting up again. Please, wipe your smirk of speculation! In reality I had not slept well the night before, should really get a new mattress.

“Back section, vot she vant.”

“We can but dream.”

Scholarship imposes a regime. But proximity to female contour loosens Ivan’s tongue, the severity of his wardrobe belying a baroque imagination. His stunted English, seldom employed in legitimate customer service, imposes little handicap in verbally bending women shoppers over the reference shelves. I offer no encouragement, though must nod to the gusto of invention. But the bravado covers a pity, one of the most woefully undersexed vitae since The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of the Mariner.

—Crusoe, trust me, I have nothing but respect. The very name of self-reliance, your surprizing adventures issue a challenge: How long could modern man survive without the trappings of civilization, endure the solitude? Although given the benighted bent of our literary studies, some obscure journal paper will have cast tedious aspersions on you and Man Friday. Don’t take offense; publish or perish, the sheep will say anything to find favor with the herd.—

Mother and son live in the same apartment. I see them at the supermarket, The Terrible still clad in suit and tie. And I hear her distress. Such good boy, what will become? Mr. Anselm, you know American girl who not smoke the drug or have sex orgy?

Merrywood! . . . Not again! . . . You make mock . . . A little harmless fun . . . Who is the real object of ridicule?

I redress the reproof. My own worldly career may have fed no tabloid frenzy, but is discretion not the better part? Ask Jill, I have ample opportunity; any number of women visit the store on my days of schedule. Magnolia, who owns the art gallery across the street, has suggested dinner. She has her charms and can carry a conversation. If I have yet to make a more intimate acquaintance, the reservation has a reason. The artist possesses a laugh. And takes advantage of her license.

“Eeek.” A shriek shattered the silence.­ “Attack!” The news came from History. She returned with some dispatch, but no purchase. The fashion boots flashed by the till. “Mouse!” The thrill was gone. And my back pain also left, if you must know.

“Monty checking her out.” I heard the door expel another empty-handed customer.

“Must take break, boss.” The Terrible stashed his notebook and made haste for the bathroom.

The window told the story. Our counter commands a view of parking spaces, where a distinguished automobile did the honors, the same model as mine. Our small nation has a camaraderie; I always wave. This beauty was convertible, permitting inspection of the driver, who displayed no desire to depart his seat. The worthy individual was my contemporary, favored the same straw hat and was studying the store, sharing my love of books. The good man caught my eye, and we nodded in mutual respect. However, The Last Refuge would not enjoy his business at this juncture. The sitter stirred, and his sojourn explained itself as he got out of the car to open the passenger door for our fleeing customer. A father would share her features, so he must be an older friend, or boss. Or a kindly member of her book club had offered her a ride? Yet again, given her looks, she might need an agent. In any case, the man did have some manners. Tipping his hat in my direction, he chaperoned his charge, civilly took her coat, carefully cleared her seat.

Our tableau takes a twist. A gentleman shut his door; a rascal opened my eyes. The overexcitable young woman retreated to the safety, pointing an accusing finger at the scene of a bestial crime. The menace of Monty! Her middle-aged companion shrugged, reached for the ignition, and a throttle sped his face out of sight. Although a revelation remained, a mug of signal satisfaction. A grizzled hunter can bag a trophy. A fawn had planted a kiss.

—Humbert Humbert, the name of notoriety, redoubled. You too are a revelation? Well, you open a can of worms! Confession of a White Widowed Male, the proceedings are preposterous. We can only imagine the debacle driving the deceit. Solipsistic free-fall, libidinal famine, impotent panic . . . A dreadful breakdown sent me to the sanatorium. And the stay signaled the lasting loss of all sense?—

CHAPTER X. THE BEACH

Your hero takes a trip.

We’re going for a walk! Merrywood is the name, and I’m in charge around here, lest you forget. But though Canute was king, he could not command the waves. And what about the women?

The invitation! Well, the picture had seen some change. The girl now came with a worn cardigan, her feet with tennis shoes, the lips with natural color. The daughter still had a privilege, could pick a private path. But we walked through no wisteria. A high wall secluded the property, a small door at the end. I lifted the latch. “Freedom!” She bolted through the hole, to find another world.

“Good morning, America!” Alice in Wonderland? Well, a young citizen was correct about her country, if confused about her day. “Partay!” A daughter had escaped; a girl was in her element. “Get a whiff of that!” Another perfumed garden? Not exactly. We had emerged onto the neglect of a beach access road, to the dismay of my nostrils and indignation of the locals. A rat scurried down a ditch, a skunk slunk into the weeds, a snake slithered behind a boulder of graffiti. But a badass has the baddest moves. “Crazee!” She pirouetted past a Porta-Potty, negotiated some broken beer bottles, flirted with an abandoned flatbed truck. I followed her through the dunes, where worn steps led down to the public beach, and a mother’s contempt. Frightful people. No respect for common decency, there should be a law. It is a tsunami zone down there. We can only hope! A flock of seagulls was reasonably well-behaved, and solitary strollers were exercising their birthright to the sands. But the sea had first dibs on my sneakers!

The air was fresh. The prospect was more pleasant. So I will paint another picture. The sea meets the sky in hiding, a band of fog smudging the horizon; dark strands of seaweed draw a line between the elements, which fades into the haze. In the corner of the eye, you might make out a row of prudish properties, poking their heads over the dunes, brandishing NO TRESPASSING signs. Look, a man might have some young female company, but it’s really none of your business!

Two figures feature in the foreground. And make a singular impression? Well, you might see a merry maid, smallish of stature, dark brown waves falling over a black leather backpack, skipping through the shallows, sympathize with a long-suffering knight, lanky and laconic, shivering in a white denim shirt, looking down on her mischief. A good cover for the book.

“C’mon, mister.” A woman took the lead? Of my own choosing, needless to say—the rearguard gets a gander! But let’s change the subject. “Gonna fly away!” Her sweater was flapping in the wind, her bare feet splashed through the surging water; my sneakers, retrieved from the car, were soaking. A man was getting his feet wet? I have plenty of experience; a woman has her way! The incongruous pair ambled over to a driftwood trunk, plopped down on the seaward side, where a depression hid them from the righteous real estate. 

She was a girl. I was lying next to her. But Anselm Thomas is a man of calm, self-control and sound mind, so don’t get too excited—at least not yet! I found a safe distance, where a small blackened stub stuck out from the sand.

“Not the first time, apparently.” I waved the evidence.

“Not me, dude. Lizzy hangs out here, with her hoebags.”

The ceremony calls for concentration. She extracted a small cigarette from a Ziploc bag, flicked open the cardboard folder, struck a pliant match, and brought the cradled flame to a pout. A small cough followed the intake, and the pungency of infraction marked off our lair from a disenchanted world.

“Wanna hit? Hella strong. Don’t want an old geezer going apeshit on me.”

“You’re kidding me!” I smoked pot with the band, it must have been twenty-five years. “Stronger the better.” All right, I did spend the night in the woods, aborting our rehearsal. But I wasn’t disoriented at all, just have an affinity for owls.

She passed the baton. Our fingers touched. Lungs burning, I hacked against the log.

“Another one?” The gremlin has a grin.

“I’m good. More for you.”

We had touched. She took a deep draught, crushed the end against the wood, and fell into a spasm of dry cough. “Don’t do this every day.” Her fit faded. “Or do I?”

“Smoking up a storm back there.”

“Trying to keep the bugs away. But here you are!”

She closed off the investigation. I sketched an outline under her outfit and praised our privacy. My transportation yet to arrive, the driver was fussing over nothing. Her hands wrapped her knees while feet massaged the sand.

“Nice spot.” I am well-versed in the travel section. “Quiet.” A pod of surfers bobbed in and out of view, but the beach was deserted.

“Quiet.” She lay back on the sand, head pillowed in hand, and an open cardigan fell to either side. “Just what we need.” A girl can give an eye!

Stay calm man, stay calm. Tobacco breath affirmed the suggestion. No one would see, the log completely shielded us from the view of any window, and the surfers would be otherwise occupied.

“Brought Cedric here once.” She evidently made a habit of it. Who am I to . . . ? “But he just drinks Coke. My mother wouldn’t have him in the house—”

“I’m not surprised. Coke!”

“She’s such a bigot. You’re different. Boring old fart, but at least you don’t impose. We’re good.” Her scrutiny did impose, guaranteeing our goodness. “What are you thinking?”

“Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?”

“Wanted to be nice.” She gestured towards the twinkle of party lights. “For Daddy’s sake. You’re only fifty once, don’t be harshing the mellow.”

“Your mother went all out, wanted a memorable occasion, she told me.”

“So she throws the most boring party in human history, for the win. The old cronies are all the same, what am I going to do when I graduate? I’m like, going to fuck like a rabbit.”

“I thought the men looked excited.” One man tried to stay calm.

“Wish I’d said it. What am I going to do when I graduate? Where’ll that bird be tomorrow?” A solitary tern swept over the breakers, blown here and there on the wind.

“Amen.” I nodded in sympathy. And I had to give thanks, about to pursue the same line of inquiry. “They’d have got more joy from your siblings. Speaking of which, I noticed Lily has a friend.”

“Julio, the dealio?” Nefertiti traced a slow rune in the sand. “The folks went to visit her, Cambridge. Daddy never shuts up, but he doesn’t want to talk on the phone, and as soon as they walk through the door, oh my God. My mother’s totally pissed, Lily lives on the fourth floor, no elevator. Daddy goes, ‘your sister’s decided she’s a dyke.’ Got a mouth, gotta love it, but jeez! I’m thinking, curtains for Lily. Then he goes, ‘I’m okay with that, her life.’ But I guess we’re talking major scene. My mother likes to yell, you should see how she treats the housekeeper, makes me vomit. And Daddy, poor guy.”

“Daddy can do no wrong.” I happened to notice the skirt. “Just like me!” The hem was enjoying a little hike.

“Daddy’s all wrong.”

“Birds of a feather?”

“I don’t really belong.”

“Hell is other people?”

“I like everyone. They just don’t like me.”

“Just quoting. Plenty more where that came from. You should visit my bookstore. We welcome the student.”

“I’m not spoiled. Working in a coffee shop.”

“Helping Starbucks take over the world?”

“My boy Pedro owns a café, in the Mission. Great guy.”

Cafés offer a place to meet. But a great guy? I was unable to find the words to ask about the establishment, without intrusion, without interrupting the precious silence, without indicting a tedious old man, without making appalling suggestion, without falling off an existential precipice, without remembering what I wanted to ask in the first place, and the verdict was in. A bird was flying high. Someone lay back and gazed at the fog streaming inland overhead. How could he cultivate his mystery, how much silence is golden, had he outstayed the welcome? They had been quiet for hours, whose voice was this, why do others always take charge, had he done something wrong? What was he doing here, who is this girl, what does she want? Ding-a-ling, he doesn’t understand a thing. I’m high, how do I know I’m high, everything is so clear, what was the question . . . ?

“Feeling anything yet?”

“Never affects me that much.”

“I don’t do drugs, I am drugs. That was Dali.”

“My feet are feeling kind of cold. I can’t find my shoes.”

“Don’t look at me, my dude.”

“Maybe they fell off in the water.”

“Good riddance. Ugly as shit.”

“A present from my mother!”

“Figures.”

“Mister, where you going?”

“Just a little walk. I want to check out those birds. I think I saw a phalarope.”

“We’ll say goodbye then.”

“Might have just been a common sandpiper.”

“Sex Machine!” She chuckled in reproof. “Looking forward to calling you that, in front of Daddy.”

“Do you need to call me anything?”

“For real. Who else could I be talking to? Except myself. And the ocean. You’re Mr. No-Name.”

Triumph turns transcendent. We had a deep connection, understood each other perfectly, without verbal compulsion. She was wise beyond her years, but only I could see. She needed me. Right here, right now, there is no other place I’d want to be. Thoughts chased each other’s tails and disappeared, like the strands of fog overhead.

We had company. A pair of beady eyes was spying on our council from a post at the end of the log. The girl had a feathered follower, the spy its handicap. The limping sparrow showed no fear, shuffled closer to our hollow, studying the strange birds. And one study was ready, reached for her backpack, unwrapped a paper bag, withdrew a fistful of some mix. I was witness to a ritual. Saint Francis preached to the birds; his daughter fed the faithful? The little cripple fluttered to the floor, found some hallowed ground, awaited the consecrated bread. To witness was a privilege, the world worshipping as one.

“Stupid bird!” She smacked away a pest. The fragile felon narrowly escaped with its life, flapping frantically for freedom. A comedienne collapsed into giggles, sinking chops into the candy.

“Good grief, Alice!” The witness was beside himself. “You think that was funny?”

“Told you, I don’t really belong.”

“Stupid bird!” I too found myself in tears. The choir joined in celebration, laughter howling from the hollow. A charmed exit leads off the congested freeway, invisible to the daily traffic.

“Mr. No-Name, you make all good and proper. Tell me something depraved. And I mean depraved.”

Pity the poor mouse. The most tempting piece of cheese lays a mortal trap. If I took the bait, I would reveal myself a pervert, if I refused, a bore. Surf pulsed over the sands, and a chill blew through my bones. An enormous seagull hovered overhead, with a mew of menace. The cruel vulture attacks a stricken deer by first pecking out the eyes. I should sit up, shield my sight, show some sign of sentience, but could not stir. My feet could take no walk, but my fancy would still wander, watching the whirling wings, a wisp of waders wending over the waves. Christine shut the door on our marriage, sentencing me to exile with neither fair hearing nor hope of reprieve. Anselm, I’m sorry. You’re a lovely man, but I’ve got to move on. Your road runs straight, my road is winding, and I need to see what lies beyond the bend. The girl wanted depravity. A good hour passed, without a word. My tongue had frozen, the canvas of my thought splattered like a Jackson Pollock. Or was it just a second?

“You’ve got to tell me one too.” My tongue paid another visit. “Fair’s fair.”

“Tell you what?”

“The worst thing you’ve ever done. We had an agreement.”

“Liar. I only make oaths in blood.”

She was a woman. And she lay with her back to me, ringlets parted to reveal the pale skin of her neck.

I have a hand. And I accepted the invitation with a gentle scratch. I was high, but this was no hallucination. His Highness scratched her neck.

“All right, Alice, you asked for it, depravity. I was an Aztec high priest in a past life. The gods demanded human sacrifice. And I was preparing for the festival, held a beautiful virgin captive in a private chamber of the temple—”

“My nigga! Against the rules to talk about your past life. Want to know about this man here, not no fucking Aztec.”

“You run a tight ship. How about this, I once tried to murder my wife.”

“Now we’re talking!”

“Christine was the name, cheating the game.”

“Still in love.”

“You know the guilty party, she came to your house often enough. At least she enjoyed some people’s company. We were sitting at home one evening, I’m reading my paper, she’s all tense, not talking. She spills her tea, never happens. She wants a divorce, seeing another man. She was going to live in the guest room. I didn’t get any sleep for weeks. Couldn’t take it anymore, so I crept into her room in the middle of the night, smothered her face with a pillow—”

“Bad boy.”

“I felt like a zombie. And I didn’t know what to do next. Should I drive to the bridge and jump off? I opened a bottle of whisky and drank myself to sleep. Next morning, she was up and cooking breakfast.”

“You gave it a shot.”

“Your turn.”

“Listen up, America. You want to know what I’m going to do when I graduate? Maybe I don’t dig your wonderful careers.”

“Yeah, yeah, everybody thinks they’re different.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Your depraved thoughts?”

“See myself as a hooker.”

“Don’t all girls have that fantasy?”

“Doing my daddy. You know he doesn’t get enough.”

“You win.”

“Francine says I have the complex.”

The sand was steady. The surf broke in regular time. The world walked upright. A young man wandered past, his nose in a book, but betraying no other sign of aberrant psychology. My back was all bother, a ringed plover could still balance on one leg, glowing fog confirmed the sun’s steady descent, yet we knew a different law. Alice had introduced me to Wonderland. I had stumbled into another realm, a place where girls lie next to older men, no secrets are kept, no wishes forbidden. This world had been here all along, waiting the key. A girl had let me stroke her neck.

 She was staring at the breakers. “Wonder what it’s like to drown. Only the dead know for sure, and I haven’t asked them.”

“I’ve never drowned, myself.”

“Shall we try?” Her whisper presaged an anguished confession, or meant nothing. “What do you think happens—”

“When we die?”

The meaning of life. Her enlightenment posed a risk: I was well baked. I might rise to brilliant disquisition. She would hang on my every word, place me among immortals. I might spew out gibberish.

“I want to come back as a swallow.” My tongue now took flight.

“Nice to meet you, my swallow. What’s up?”

“I’m heading for the moon.”

“Tell me about the dark side when you get back.”

“You’re a funny bird.”

“My personality is out of whack with my age, my mother keeps saying.”

“And ground control would like a word.”

“She wants me to talk like a teenager.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Dysynchronicity!”

“Is that a word?”

“It is now.”

“Fucking showoff!”

“You’d like to be a swallow. Praying mantis over here.”

“Some boy making you miserable?”

“Men have it easy.” She would unburden, as I wrapped a friendly arm around her muffled sobs.

“No question, I haven’t had a bikini wax in ages.”

“Dudification! Often take a dip when I come here. No checking me out, my swallow.” Her dress revealed no swimsuit. The garment in backpack, she would have to get changed!

“I’m game, if you’re going for a swim. I’ll jump in just like this. I’ll be driving home in wet clothes, what the hey.”

She yawned. I had made a complete fool of myself. I had to get away. I joined the gulls, looking down on a displaced soul with terrible clarity. The detachment folded in on itself. Why did she want to drown, should I follow up, or was I just incapable of insight? I was too high to figure out if I was too high to figure if I was . . .

“I am he, as you are he, as you are me, and we are all together.” The girl has a voice.

“I am the walrus.” And I would keep following her lead, no matter how cursed the road, how heavy the toll. What did I ever see in her? The truth is blindingly obvious: a complete mystery. A voice carries part of the blame. She could sing the song.

“Yes, you are. Happy you’re here, my swallow. Good talking to you, and not talking to you. Thank you.”

Sand broke my fall. The lights came up for intermission. I lay back to review the show. They will jump to conclusions. All right, I wear no wedding band, spend evenings behind a nameplate, but the scoundrel was not always single. Party of one, the waitress relegates me to the end of the counter, pours my coffee with a hon’. If only she could see the dame! Music please, Gilberto. The girl had let me stroke her neck. At least I think she did. Working in a coffeeshop. Words drifted away, leaving a pleasant tickle. The ambient noise resolved into breaking waves, retreating waters, mewing gulls, and shouting surfers. In the Mission. And I heard the sound of her breath. And I felt her warmth.

I woke to darkness. A strip of lighter sky lay beyond the fog bank; the sun was gone. The tide had risen, though water’s edge kept a distance. Surf glistened in the twilight. I was fully conscious. I found a mother’s presents. And I felt another’s presence? Well, I found myself alone.

CHAPTER XI. THE BAR

Your hero takes a shot.

I aim to please. You have met my circle, enjoyed the company. At least you should have. We have discussed literature, philosophy, science, touched on religious belief, and you expect the conversation to continue on that level. In which case, you deserve due warning.

I have another acquaintance. “Nothin to worry about, bub.” He has no acquaintance with the truth. “Yer in safe hands.”

“Said the captain of the Titanic.”

“I’m here for ya.”

“The work needs serious application, and a steady hand. So the answer is no.”

“Yer lucky day, bub. I have a lil free time. Start tomorrow.”

“My mind is firm, as usual.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The voice is vexing. “My dick is hard, as usual!” And the diction is a hardship, as usual.

“No vital qualification for the job.”

“Gimme a break, bub.”

“I gave you a break last year. Against my better judgment.”

“Last year is last year. I’m clean now.”

“My friend, look at the state of you. You’re a wreck. You’re shaking. You can’t look me in the eye. Can we get serious for one second? The dog had diarrhea last night. You’re as clean as the basket.”

“Medical condition, bub. Born shaking.”

Is there a doctor in the house? A tremulous emergence from the womb seems a stretch, although the dissolute creature can control neither limb nor tongue. So they find him irresistible. Or so he says. I shut up shop Mondays and we were fronting the bar at Dick’s, a nondescript tavern holing a wall on El Camino, my drinking companion overstaying his welcome at the city’s more particular watering holes. Eleven thirty in the morning, the establishment had no other sign of life. We were supposed to serve ourselves? Dick himself hung in a frame, at the wheel of a faded Coupe de Ville. An inflatable Elvis in full Vegas lorded over the desultory dance floor, and snowboarders hotdogged across a humongous screen, the hour offering little live sporting diversion. The Yankees had won another World Series, as they have to remind us. 

Better days have blessed the bookstore? Well, a Pamplona Street business enjoys a lasting benefit. The proprietor’s perch at the counter gives onto the evidence—the district is desirable, the street safe, the neighborhood nice. The owner had now traded one stool for another. The bar was on the fringes. And the dive was deep.

The door burst open. “I run a respectable establishment!” The buxom brunette betrayed some pain of facial feature. But the wronged party was not unpleasant to behold. I nodded politely, my companion whistled his welcome. “A threesome?” She acknowledged our presence. “Disgusting!”

“Excuse me, ma’am?” I might be keeping questionable company, but really!

“Lowlifes!” She pointed a finger. “I’m a decent woman!” The bejeweled instrument was directed out the door, where a white van slowly pulled away, the King of Pop blasting through a rolled down window. I wanna rock with you. The decent woman took a stand on the business side of the counter. All night!

“Begorrah!” My companion had his own business in mind. “Top of the morning to ye, me lass.”

“Missy!” She wiped the counter. “You don’t mess with Missy.”

“I’ll keep that in me mind.”

“What will it be, gentlemen?”

“I’m thirsting for a lovely Guinness, if ye please.”

“Irish, huh?”

“And very proud, I am.”

“We have a band here weekends. The Dubliners.”

“Grand music, I have no doubt. Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling.”

“The girls do love the accents.”

“Ye should visit us sometime. The Emerald Isle! A bonnie lass is always welcome, she is. Don’t forget to kiss the old Blarney Stone.”

I issued a warning. My companion is an exception to the rule, the acquaintance unrewarding. And the creature is an unusual specimen, in manner of the mouth. Mother Nature has her magic. The monotonous chirps of the Northern Cardinal, Cardinalis cardinalis, modulate to lilting courtship song in spring. The guttural croaks of an American toad, Anaxyrus americanus, transform to tuneful trill in mating season. Not to be outdone, the inarticulate grunts of a common pig, Porcus vulgarius, resolve into sweet Irish brogue, in the presence of the female.

“Trying to make ends meet.” Missy was mistrustful, likely taking me for an undercover cop. “A girl has to take what comes.” The respectable establishment provided some half-decent liquor, so I made no further inquiry into ownership. “I’ve seen some things, I tell you.”

Her customers could say the same. A bartender must keep things clean. Bending over the sink, she gave her jugs an extended rinse, her charitable top offering an eyeful, her inclination food for thought. In contemplative silence, your philosopher studied the scene. My fellow student favored the dialogic mode. “Ye can’t win them all, me lass.” The scholar is also a fount of wisdom.

Our joint enjoyed a jukebox. “I fought the law”—Missy’s belt was off-key and unabashed—“and the law won.”

“Ain’t that the truth, begorrah!” My compromised company claims long experience. “I was mixed up in the Troubles, so I was. The military police were about t’ throw me in the slammer. Torture, I have no doubt. I had to get me breeches out of the old sod quick.”

A wanted poster? Well, Eddie is the name, Squirt the sobriquet. And the sorry character needs no further encouragement. A pair of diseased lungs added to the cacophony, and I took the law into my own hands by ordering replenishment.

A man has needs. But though he creates us equal, God does not equally distribute the wealth. Sharing the tribulations of single motherhood, the raconteuse bent before the needful, to the good fortune of one and forlorn hopes of the other. A physical impediment abets his wandering gaze, the cross of tangled eyes. The runt boasts of manly success, but they just pity the sorrow. At least they should.

A man will take a shot. “Missy, I bring you good news.” The blessed took an emphatic belt of bourbon. “My bookstore has a welcome mat.” For the record, the owner is tall, features distinguished graying hair and blue eyes, and had ordered top shelf. “You should come over and enjoy the riches.” And as you can see, he has a silver tongue. “We take pride in the women’s section.” I had her full attention. “You’ll find it most extensive.”

A third party was also impressed. And a lost soul found his tongue. The echo had an accent. “Lassie, I also bring ye good news.” He took a sloppy slug of beer. “And me house has a welcome mat” He has a house now? “Ye should come over and enjoy the riches.” Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery? “Ye’ll find it most extensive”—he had her full attention, unfortunately—“in me trousers, b’Jaysus!”

“Sir, I told you! A respectable establishment! For shame!”

Speaking of shame! The theft was brazen, the thief returning to brag. I have put his offense behind me, really bear no grudge. Yes, I was wronged, but heedful of eudaimonia, no true Aristotelian obsesses over sin. I rarely think about the crime, to set the record straight. And justice has been served. Just look at the wretch! A scrawny frame twitched on the stool, thin hair hung in a ponytail, hollowed chest expelled a horrible hack, and an unkempt mustache glistened with my subsidy. Damaged goods find female forgiveness, to believe the blowhard. But he can’t even buy a beer.

The widescreen went to wrestling. And the narrow saloon saw more business, an elderly patron with a stick and baseball cap shuffling through the door. “Mornin, Frank.” Our comely concierge acknowledged the old-timer without a glance, preoccupied with a fresh tale of woe. Frank’s impatience grew and grew until the cane rapped on the counter. After an interval adequate to her displeasure, Missy upended a bottle of well whiskey over a shot glass in his vicinity.

“Do a bang up job for you, bub. I need cash, bad.”

“I’m not an ATM.” Anselm Thomas withheld the full truth.

“Trying to make an honest living. No work in this town. Fricking economy, what can you do?”

“The economy, my grandmother’s bunions! I’m not a complete fool.”

I am a complete fool. My resolve would suffer the fate of an iceberg in the tropics. Practically pleading for punishment, I would give him the project and plunge into an inextricable vortex of melodrama, incompetence, and need.

Noblesse oblige? Steady there, Freddy! I may enjoy a higher elevation on the social ladder, but my sideboard boasts no silver spoon. Great Uncle Horace did sit in the House of Lords before the foxhunter fatally lost his saddle, but no snobbery runs in the family, trust me. I may have bristled when the working stiff chatted up my wife, but the wretch would make Karl Marx reconsider. We formed the band in my first years at law school. Squirt was born Edward, and a card, pinned to the board of a Boston music store, made a call. Ramblin’ Eddie is looking to sing the blues. A relish for the roots overcame my better judgement. And my other life dispensed some cool in the regard of fellow law students, my Fender making regular inroads into the female cohort, as you would only expect. We were the 69th Airborne, other personnel drifting in and out. I wrote the songs and Squirt fronted the outfit with a shirtless abandon that compensated for our inability to provide fans a stable lineup. The Airborne enjoyed a local following, free beer, and a write-up in the alternative weekly. Squirt was banking on a future as the next Robert Plant.

The Airborne flew a regular circuit. We knew the drill, drank with the bouncers, and found familiar faces on smoke-filled floors. And we could hope for wider renown, our self-proclaimed manager—Squirt’s equally wastrel brother—somehow scoring us a spot opening for Creedence at a cavernous club on the shore. The Airborne overshot the runway. But the story gets it all wrong. I really heard no jeers, although the misfortune did close that chapter. I was well-enough attuned, the band a diversion, and I put the debacle behind. But the other founding member never escaped a rut of fantasy and substance abuse. Squirt attempted to keep the Airborne aloft, but encountered crippling turbulence, my guitar-playing replacement stealing the equipment. The stymied vocalist parlayed his local notoriety into a gig as a late-night deejay, but the broadcasting career was cut short by a penchant for inviting listeners—underage daughters of Boston bluebloods—back to the studio for a full board of debauchery. He followed me out West, where he formed a one-man band of petty criminal, incompetent handyman, and skilled welfare recipient. The hound dog casts a doleful eye—I could have been somebody!

You let him down? Joe, just let it go! Guilt, too, fails as an explanation—I have already suffered a surfeit; my conscience is clear. That failure is fate; our acquaintance brings no profit, you can only scratch your head. And the analyst has nothing more to go on, as you can take on another authority: The Last Refuge offers a haven for my fellow philosophers, and for a reasonable $17.50 you could benefit from A Treatise on Human Nature—the real cause is fool’s gold, a tale told by a third party. But suppose the party is closer to home, a man doesn’t know his own mind? He just has more stake in the story.

—Fair enough, Holmes, you did deduce who done it, but what about the why? That question is another story. The corpse is cold, to the confirmation of your touch; the murderer left a footprint, for the inspection of your glass; the weapon is lodged in the back of the victim, for the gawk of any witness. But what about the motive? That curiosity lies in the eye of the beholder.—

I compromise myself in his company? Sam, get with the program! Let’s stick to the subject at hand. In any case, can the anthropologist not live with a cannibal tribe without developing the taste? And the student of primitive behavior has no need to voyage to New Guinea, the dive bar has its natives.‍

“Too late, my friend. I’ve already talked to a moving company.” I had talked, but balked at the quote. Have no fear, I could afford the service, would not suffer the gouge. Christine and I bought, before the present boom in real estate, a modest two-story next door to a kindergarten that offered safe parking, but little peace. I leveraged the equity to pay off the divorce settlement and rented the top floor to her cousin, a reserved teacher fleeing the war zone of inner-city high school for the quiet of seminary. The sale spared me some reminders, but not all debt, and I duly joined my housemate in an inhospitable rental market. Chancing on a small apartment in need of repair, I haggled the slumlord into waiving three months for the work, but had little time for manual labor, still less the inclination. Kowalski keeps it close, but he was honored to acquire a distinguished tenant. At least he should have been.

The giggling was grating. But Missy was pleasantly plump, the years little wearing out the cushion. Her big brown hair agreed with lipstick of auburn hue, and her perfume offset the vinegar we had liberally sprinkled on fish and chips, risked from the adjacent takeout. Diligently polishing the counter, she appreciated the visit of respectability to her poor premises. The hard luck story she was spinning both lowered her in my estimation and raised my worldly hopes. Opportunity came knocking. Old Frank downed his whisky and took his leave of her lounge. And she bounced my clueless competition. The episodic Irishman had compounded his verbal offense by lighting a cigarette under her No Smoking sign.

“Your friend needs to watch his tongue.”

“I hardly know him. And believe me, if I’d any idea he’d . . . ”

“A decent woman!”

“I cannot apologize enough.”

“I couldn’t believe my ears. Irish, too!”

“Missy, we have the same problem. Great minds think alike!”

I could now give her undivided attention. Taller than the bum, she found me more pleasing to the eye and rewarding of conversation. A cool customer complimented her fine establishment and extended the comedy to his own flourishing concern. My wallet holds a few vintage business cards, one of which was now destined for a purse. If she must insist! I alluded to the radio show, brought up the success of my book, gave her to believe that I owned a house on a desirable street—a claim not literally false, the sale yet to close.

The table was set. The counter was mine. The goods were on display. False advertising, you say? Maybe I will silence your skepticism, before the night is through! My interlocutor was a well-rounded conversationalist, whom I engaged with admirable aplomb, given a lower back distraction. Curtail your conjecture, the bar stool has no mercy! The bar steward was more forgiving, greeting my literary license with no discernible distress. And she inspected my card with some interest, filled a new glass with a knowing smile. Missy was no miser, gave a generous pour.

“Quality residence, bub.” We were inspecting the damp rooms and discolored walls of the suite on the third floor of the Dolorosa Apartments. “As soon as I work my magic.” The forensic team was now drawing up the report, over a wobbly kitchen table. The supposed contractor had been scribbling a series of vital repairs on a legal pad that I had just purchased at the corner store. A fresh coat of paint and working sockets were all I wanted, but my grill lacked the chops.

“Pass me a brew.” The poet laid the pen on the parquet, his well of invention dry. King Edward was enthroned at a banquet table, ceremoniously popped a Bud Lite. “Home Desperation, I’m there, first thing tomorrow. Give ya a special deal. We go back.”

“The last time you gave me a deal, I ended up in court.”

“There was excrementing circumstances, bub.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. In any case, I’m not bankrolling any more drug abuse.”

“Gotta eat.”

“Even if I were completely soft in the head, I can think of far more deserving recipients of my charity.”

“Cold!”

“Freezing, in here. So you won’t need a fridge. We’ll take a trip to the corner market. But forget about booze.”

“A professional never parties on the job.”

“I ain’t no millionaire’s son.” The acceptance letter from Harvard Law, opened in a suburban kitchen, occasioned both joy and calculation. The parents could help, but Uncle Sam must also lend a hand. Pursuing the career of preparation, the law school graduate returned to his summer internment camp. Fanshawe, Fanshawe, Elliot, and Cooper occupied the top three floors of a high-rise overlooking Boston Harbor, though my modest office was untroubled by the light of day. But a regular disturbance made up for lack of visual stimulation. A law firm cannot discriminate, and so the whole floor heard Fosburgh berating secretaries, paralegals, clerks, and junior associates alike. One of the oldest firms in the country, the institution is prestigious, the work of handsome pay, and minimal fulfillment. I had breezed through the previous summer on their books, but was now staring at life as a corporate lawyer. Fanshawe was representing an international pharmaceutical company, their malaria pill implicated in third world birth defects, whereupon my inflexible sister launched a blistering attack on my very being. The case dragged on, met with complication, and a favorable outcome would establish my reputation. Despite my recency of recruitment, I had full rein, and a recurring migraine. Gordon had been my doctor since law school. He played guitar; our bands had regularly shared a bill. I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in. Confound the condition! We talked music; the rotund reveler knew my combo rocked the harder. At least he should have.

A magazine needs a winning cover. The handsome tennis champion flashes a boyish grin and lofts the gleaming trophy, champagne wetting the broad chest of his sponsor’s T-shirt. The newsstand features the iconic photo, to the swoon of female fans. And what does the picture say?

He is the Man! Spare a thought then for his opponent, alone in an anonymous hotel room. The ball took an unfavorable bounce, he was battling the flu, he tripped at match point. The misfortune warrants no mocking nickname. The word is unworthy, the sentiment unjust. Prize tulips bloom late; hasty judgment speaks ill only of the judge. You should really know better.

No man is a loser.

 I never call in sick. I allude to a doctor only to forestall sorry speculation. The maligned cannot control all rumor, but can return a low volley with a shot of honest accounting. Gordon wrote his note. However, the case was coming to a close, the firm could ill afford delay, and the music club debacle still festered. Plane Crash—a local rag sparking the wildfire—I would add no further fuel. I could pay off my loans in less than two years and dragged my reservations back to work. So there!

Wanton tongues will wag. Bill never lets me forget, my sister has little more sympathy, my wife got wind. The world insists on Annie, but call me what they will, Merrywood faces adversity like a man. The very name of calm and courage? Well, I might be disturbed by a certain soda, but the distress has a good explanation, trust me.

The fall proves no exception. I was under inhuman strain. Whatever the idle gossip, I had no nervous breakdown. Absurd! The custodian did find me on the floor, but the part timer just panicked. I was drained, not overwhelmed. All right, I was hardly able to move, temporarily, but had gone months with little sleep and no proper nourishment. I did briefly collapse, in a manner of speaking, but would have recovered just fine. I didn’t need the ambulance. A chance mishap fells the sturdiest of men. And it never happened again, I can assure you.

Let’s put things in perspective. I spent just two nights in the hospital. Will a mason not disappear from sight to work steadily on the foundations? And after a week at home, I had completely recovered. The firm found me other work, to which I was able to give my full attention. Only Fosburgh cast aspersions. Working all night was not enough, my briefs were subjected to minute and terrifying scrutiny, but the despot rages over a split infinitive, to properly assign the blame.

The decision was all mine, trust me. Most partners were understanding, sorry to see me go. One of them offered to use his connections, put in a good word. What more proof do you want? Corporate law is a trap. But a wily fox sees the glint. And he found employment on more forgiving slopes of the income-distribution curve.

“When ya movin, bub?” One eye pursued the interrogation. The other wandered off on a mission of its own.

“I’m at your mercy, unfortunately. How long will your exquisite craftsmanship take?”

“Honestly? Won’t tell ya no lie, shitload of work here. I’m a professional, gonna bust my balls. Have the place ready in a week. Gua.ran.tee.”

You see the problem. Fluffing the figure by a factor of fifty would likely still lowball the longevity of distress. I had to be out of the house by the end of the month. The budding tenant would be bunking in a building site.

The great outdoors! I joined the National Park Service. My migraines disappeared, along with the smoking habit. I even moderated my alcohol consumption, though soon came back to my senses. Family and friends discovered that the proud holder of a U.S. passport had willingly traded the tailored suits of a promising legal career for park-ranger green. They saluted my spirit, envied my freedom, respected my integrity. At least they should have. At the beginning of the adventure, I phoned home regularly, telling the mother how the magnificent scenery and wide-open spaces had expanded my own horizons. She kept coming back to Disneyland. I opened the address book, mailed postcards of invitation from Joshua Tree, Yellowstone, Mt. Rainier. I received no reply. Annie had taken a back road to nowhere. The hippie would come to his senses, the insurrection run its course.

 “Let’s wrap it up. I’m tired of this dump already.” A bulb hung from the ceiling, and its harsh light made the cramped kitchen even less welcoming. I was squatting on the worn linoleum, my back to the yellowing varnish of an ill-fitting cabinet door. We had finished off another six-pack.

“Okay to drive, bub?” The derelict has some presence. I occupy a pedestal, testament to the world of legitimate income.

“I’ll get a cab. Need a ride?”

“I like to walk. Good for the ole bean.” Squirt jealously guards the location of his living quarters. The lodger pays no rent, mining an inexhaustible resource, the forgiveness of a woman. I’m the gangster of love. Oh please, they only see you as the tapeworm!

“I’ll need a key, bub.” Our roost had been interrupted only by trips to the market for chips and alcoholic refreshment. A churlish Mr. Choi dragged his eyes from a tiny television to view us with suspicion, likely attributing the repeated visits to preparation for a heist. Squirt updated me on his conquests and elaborated, as usual, on his exploits with the Provisional IRA. And, as usual, the shoe and sock were shed to showcase the missing toes. His yarns wander haphazardly and contradict each other to the extent that I have long ceased to believe in any vicinity to a peat bog, let alone a paramilitary brigade. Ireland, the home of blarney.

And does the toeless wonder toot! The boasts would make Casanova blush, put the sheikh to shame. I’m not remotely jealous, needless to say. Like the concoctions of a certain literary character—and I think you know who I mean—why suppose his reports have the remotest resemblance to reality? I have my own success with women, trust me. In any case, who is better off, really? Look at the state of the man!

The pot was a-boil. The stew was rank. I suffered in silence, a stir only releasing further effluvium. But we had indulged, and liquor loosens more than the tongue.

“Tearin up, bub?” Alas, he does not rest content with autobiography.

“A man can’t wipe his eyes, without spurious accusation?”

“Still keepin the flame!” As usual, his barge has lost its moorings. The bookseller might be burdened with some feelings, but boys don’t cry. Please!

“I’m just fine. Although your nonsense would make a stone statue weep.”

“I met yer wife once. Ya done well.”

“She has some good qualities, so I’m told. Although that’s neither here nor there.”

“Cutie pie. I’d give her one.”

He wants to be a paperback writer? Since you ask, I wanted gold records on the wall, more than anything else. But a published novel would spell redemption. The park ranger looked beyond the boundary. A wagon train was crossing the high desert, carrying a rough load, painted in bright colors, as you have come to expect. The adventure would resonate with telling detail, the womenfolk valiantly attempting to keep up appearances in dust and drought, their men hunting for food in the dry scrub, but returning empty-handed after draining a whisky bottle. The pioneers schooled their children, prayed to their God, and worried over debt. The reader would be privy to jealousy and petty squabble, an intimate domestic round set off against a bleak landscape. Youngsters would grow up fast, fall in love, snatch any moment of privacy that the wagons permitted. High drama would punctuate days of boredom, a son’s challenge to his father’s leadership, resolved in the elder’s favor by a brutal fistfight. Facing daily adversity, we would salute their survival, indulge their weakness, ache for their loss. I would wait until the very last page to drop the bomb, stranding the party I had brought to life in a blizzard on Donner Pass.

A telling story demands authentic set. The family station wagon once plied the entire Eastern Seaboard on vacation, but my worldly knowledge never made it through the Cumberland Gap. I now pored over a National Park map and bought a one-way bus ticket to Zion Canyon. The uproot spent his first week working a concession stand, my only memory an awkward encounter with a law school classmate who felt morally diminished in my presence. At least she should have. I acquired a ranger’s hat, rose before dawn for the folding table that did duty as a writer’s desk. The endeavor proceeded apace, slowed down, and gave out altogether. I had no trouble painting a landscape, conveying a sense of place. But my rugged individuals were sketched with a generic pencil; the wagon train connected formulaic dots. I lugged a suitcase and guitar to the Greyhound station in St. George. The pattern repeated itself in Death Valley and the Grand Canyon. I migrated from Utah to California, Arizona high desert to Wyoming geyser, running into the same youthful German tourists and RV-driving retirees. The intended quarry remained elusive. My suitcase held one change of clothing, a few toiletries, packages of writing paper, and a portable typewriter over which I spent my free time, holed up in the spartan accommodation of the seasonal employee. The sheaves I carried over state lines recrossed largely untouched.

The ranger was a quick study. My visitor center lectures were attentively received, the same audience taking up their seat day after day, little motivated to abandon the cool theater for scorching heat outside. I led nature walks and entertained campers around the fire circle, my rendition of park fable accompanied by the crackling of burning logs and nocturnal forest music, the smell of lighter fluid wafting through the campground over pine needles and lichen-covered rock.

“Give ya a buzz mañana!” Weeks would pass before he made any attempt to reestablish contact. We were parting company on the corner outside the apartment building. The degenerate would win no Boy Scout badge, but can hold his liquor. A more upright citizen was steadying himself against a telephone pole.

“Well, look who’s here. Good evening, Anselm. How lovely to see you.” The woman was approaching on the sidewalk. A silver swirl framed her features, a couple of handsome boxers followed on a leash, a long skirt and sensible shoes furthering the distinction.

I have already prepared you. The person never made the party, and my previous memorandum left out a statistic of vital impression, the information having little bearing at the time. And in truth, I am poorly fitted for assessment. Have you remarked the conundrum? You notice a thing at some remove from normal expectation. Should you care? Maybe you are bothered by the mother berating her child on the sidewalk, the couple smooching at a fine-dining table, the teenagers gossiping in a quiet library room, though the public makes no protest. Are you making a big deal out of nothing? Like the opinion that others hold of you, you can never know. Grace is the person, of most appropriate appellation. Although she does walk the earth on legs of mismatched length, with no enhancement of heel. I have an admiration for the stance, the indifference to cosmetic expectation, but no idea how to hold the handicap. I share the observation in the interests of full disclosure. No one else makes remark. Is it just me?

“Hello Grace, nice to see you too.” Suffering my own impediment, I enunciated with care.

“Sorry I missed you at the party. Gloria told me about your move.”

“Indeed, I now rent an apartment. She had to quarantine me.”

“I’m actually quite envious. Owning a house is a burden when you’re out of town. Tanzania is a little far away, haha. I’m working on a story, African women running their own business.”

“Not easy for them, I’m thinking? I hope we’re giving good support.”

“We would best get out the way—I’m walking a fine line. The New York Times seems interested, cross fingers. I hope you like the neighborhood. We should have coffee sometime.”

“Um, this is Edward. He was just leaving. Eddie’s a contractor, going to do some work for me. The apartment could use a little touch-up.”

“Delighted to meet you, Eddie. I’m Grace.” She risked a hand.

“Dapper dogs, milady. Ye keep a right good eye on them, I can see that.”

“I’d like to take the credit, Eddie. They’re not mine. I belong to the local Presbyterian Church.”

“I hear grand things, milady.”

“I’d love to see you sometime. For the service, of course. The minister is at a retreat, and I volunteered to walk the boys.”

“Ah, I used t’ have boxers meself.”

Claptrap! The sole animal he ever owned was a pit bull that had to be put down after relieving a concubine’s corgi of an ear. I only heard the story after he begged me to cover a five-hundred-dollar fine. Gullible Grace beamed at the bricolage. Merrywood has his morals and the righteous will take umbrage, trumpet truth to lie. But the bottle betrays the bugle boy. Her fuss had always prompted flight. I now had to share the attention, and she represented all that was good in the world.

“I enjoy a good walk, now that I’m on my own. Dogs are such good company, don’t you think, Anselm?” My imbalance needed the lamppost, but she had no idea. The animals sat patiently, fixing me with an alert stare. Why can’t Rudyard do me proud? “Well, gentlemen, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got work to do. Here’s my card, Anselm.” She reached into a canvas shoulder bag. “Do give me a call.” The churchgoer smiled warmly and allowed the young men to lead her away. I waited for Squirt’s heartless joke as we followed her limp of departure.

“Classy broad. And she likes you, bub.”

“That comes as a surprise?”

“Nice looking, too.” He would follow with some vile suggestion. “Don’t let this one git away. Lady save yer sorry ass from yer books. Ain’t natural, bub.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“Outta here.” He saluted. The derelict took one direction, Grace the other, while I shivered in place. Underdressed, overwrought, decision-impaired, I was cemented to the sidewalk, following a gradual reduction the length of Dolorosa. A new bow pulled my strings as the dusk disclosed the undulation. She must live in that direction. The card remained in my clasp as the form dissolved from view.

CHAPTER XII. THE TRAP

Your hero takes a shot.

Just the facts ma’am? Well, I do not preach, as you know. However, I should not shy from protest, when the people need a word.

A magazine has a winning cover. The handsome tennis champion flashes a boyish grin and lofts the gleaming trophy, champagne wetting the broad chest of his sponsor’s T-shirt. The newsstand features the iconic photo, to the swoon of female fans. And what does the picture say? He is the Man! Spare a thought then for his opponent, alone in an anonymous hotel room. The ball took an unfavorable bounce, he was battling the flu, he tripped at match point. The misfortune warrants no mocking nickname. The label is unworthy, the sentiment unjust. Prize tulips bloom late; hasty judgment speaks ill only of the judge. Let us stop the nonsense.

No man is a loser!

“Quality residence, bub.” We were inspecting the damp rooms and discolored walls of the suite on the third floor of the Dolorosa Apartments. “As soon as I work my magic.” The forensic team was now drawing up the report, over a wobbly kitchen table. The supposed contractor had been scribbling a series of vital repairs on a legal pad that I had just purchased at the corner store. A fresh coat of paint and working sockets were all I wanted, but my grill lacked the chops.

“Pass me a brew.” The poet laid the pen on the parquet, his well of invention dry. King Edward was enthroned at a banquet table, ceremoniously popped a Bud Lite. “Home Desperation, I’m there, first thing tomorrow. Give ya a special deal. We go back.”

“The last time you gave me a deal, I ended up in court.”

“There was excrementing circumstances, bub.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. In any case, I’m not bankrolling any more drug abuse.”

“Gotta eat.”

“Even if I were completely soft in the head, I can think of far more deserving recipients of my charity.”

“Cold!”

“Freezing, in here. So you won’t need a fridge. We’ll take a trip to the corner market. But forget about booze.”

“A professional never parties on the job.”

“I ain’t no millionaire’s son.” The acceptance letter from Harvard Law, opened in a suburban kitchen, occasioned both joy and calculation. The parents could help, but Uncle Sam must also lend a hand. Pursuing the career of preparation, the law school graduate returned to his summer internment camp. Fanshawe, Fanshawe, Elliot, and Cooper occupied the top three floors of a high-rise overlooking Boston Harbor, though my modest office was untroubled by the light of day. But a regular disturbance made up for lack of visual stimulation. A law firm cannot discriminate, and so the whole floor heard Fosburgh berating secretaries, paralegals, clerks, and junior associates alike. One of the oldest firms in the country, the institution is prestigious, the work of handsome pay, and minimal fulfillment. I had breezed through the previous summer on their books, but was now staring at life as a corporate lawyer. Fanshawe was representing an international pharmaceutical company, their malaria pill implicated in third world birth defects, whereupon my inflexible sister launched a blistering attack on my very being. The case dragged on, met with complication, and a favorable outcome would establish my reputation. Despite my recency of recruitment, I had full rein, and a recurring migraine. Gordon had been my doctor since law school. He played guitar; our bands had regularly shared a bill. I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in. Confound the condition! We talked music; the rotund reveler knew my combo rocked the harder. At least he should have.

 I never call in sick. I allude to a doctor only to forestall sorry speculation. The maligned cannot control all rumor, but can return a low volley with a shot of honest accounting. Gordon wrote his note. However, the case was coming to a close, the firm could ill afford delay, and the music club debacle still festered. Plane Crash—a local rag sparking the wildfire—I would add no further fuel. I could pay off my loans in less than two years and dragged my reservations back to work. So there!

Wanton tongues will wag. Bill never lets me forget, my sister has little more sympathy, my wife got wind. The world insists on Annie, but call me what they will, Merrywood faces adversity like a man. The very name of calm and courage? Well, I might be disturbed by a certain soda, but the distress has a good explanation, trust me.

The fall proves no exception. I was under inhuman strain. Whatever the idle gossip, I had no nervous breakdown. Absurd! The custodian did find me on the floor, but the part timer just panicked. I was drained, not overwhelmed. All right, I was hardly able to move, temporarily, but had gone months with little sleep and no proper nourishment. I did briefly collapse, in a manner of speaking, but would have recovered just fine. I didn’t need the ambulance. A chance mishap fells the sturdiest of men. And it never happened again, I can assure you.

Let’s put things in perspective. I spent just two nights in the hospital. Will a mason not disappear from sight to work steadily on the foundations? And after a week at home, I had completely recovered. The firm found me other work, to which I was able to give my full attention. Only Fosburgh cast aspersions. Working all night was not enough, my briefs were subjected to minute and terrifying scrutiny, but the despot rages over a split infinitive, to properly assign the blame.

The decision was all mine, trust me. Most partners were understanding, sorry to see me go. One of them offered to use his connections, put in a good word. What more proof do you want? Corporate law is a trap. But a wily fox sees the glint. And he found employment on more forgiving slopes of the income-distribution curve.

“When ya movin, bub?” One eye pursued the interrogation. The other wandered off on a mission of its own.

“I’m at your mercy, unfortunately. How long will your exquisite craftsmanship take?”

“Honestly? Won’t tell ya no lie, shitload of work here. I’m a professional, gonna bust my balls. Have the place ready in a week. Gua.ran.tee.”

You see the problem. Fluffing the figure by a factor of fifty would likely still lowball the longevity of distress. I had to be out of the house by the end of the month. The budding tenant would be bunking in a building site.

The great outdoors! I joined the National Park Service. My migraines disappeared, along with the smoking habit. I even moderated my alcohol consumption, though soon came back to my senses. Family and friends discovered that the proud holder of a U.S. passport had willingly traded the tailored suits of a promising legal career for park-ranger green. They saluted my spirit, envied my freedom, respected my integrity. At least they should have. At the beginning of the adventure, I phoned home regularly, telling the mother how the magnificent scenery and wide-open spaces had expanded my own horizons. She kept coming back to Disneyland. I opened the address book, mailed postcards of invitation from Joshua Tree, Yellowstone, Mt. Rainier. I received no reply. Annie had taken a back road to nowhere. The hippie would come to his senses, the insurrection run its course.

 “Let’s wrap it up. I’m tired of this dump already.” A bulb hung from the ceiling, and its harsh light made the cramped kitchen even less welcoming. I was squatting on the worn linoleum, my back to the yellowing varnish of an ill-fitting cabinet door. We had finished off another six-pack.

“Okay to drive, bub?” The derelict has some presence. I occupy a pedestal, testament to the world of legitimate income.

“I’ll get a cab. Need a ride?”

“I like to walk. Good for the ole bean.” Squirt jealously guards the location of his living quarters. The lodger pays no rent, mining an inexhaustible resource, the forgiveness of a woman. I’m the gangster of love. Oh please, they only see you as the tapeworm!

“I’ll need a key, bub.” Our roost had been interrupted only by trips to the market for chips and alcoholic refreshment. A churlish Mr. Choi dragged his eyes from a tiny television to view us with suspicion, likely attributing the repeated visits to preparation for a heist. Squirt updated me on his conquests and elaborated, as usual, on his exploits with the Provisional IRA. And, as usual, the shoe and sock were shed to showcase the missing toes. His yarns wander haphazardly and contradict each other to the extent that I have long ceased to believe in any vicinity to a peat bog, let alone a paramilitary brigade. Ireland, the home of blarney.

And does the toeless wonder toot! The boasts would make Casanova blush, put the sheikh to shame. I’m not remotely jealous, needless to say. Like the concoctions of a certain literary character—and I think you know who I mean—why suppose his reports have the remotest resemblance to reality? I have my own success with women, trust me. In any case, who is better off, really? Look at the state of the man!

The pot was a-boil. The stew was rank. I suffered in silence, a stir only releasing further effluvium. But we had indulged, and liquor loosens more than the tongue.

“Tearin up, bub?” Alas, he does not rest content with autobiography.

“A man can’t wipe his eyes, without spurious accusation?”

“Still keepin the flame!” As usual, his barge has lost its moorings. The bookseller might be burdened with some feelings, but boys don’t cry. Please!

“I’m just fine. Although your nonsense would make a stone statue weep.”

“I met yer wife once. Ya done well.”

“She has some good qualities, so I’m told. Although that’s neither here nor there.”

“Cutie pie. I’d give her one.”

He wants to be a paperback writer? Since you ask, I wanted gold records on the wall, more than anything else. But a published novel would spell redemption. The park ranger looked beyond the boundary. A wagon train was crossing the high desert, carrying a rough load, painted in bright colors, as you have come to expect. The adventure would resonate with telling detail, the womenfolk valiantly attempting to keep up appearances in dust and drought, their men hunting for food in the dry scrub, but returning empty-handed after draining a whisky bottle. The pioneers schooled their children, prayed to their God, and worried over debt. The reader would be privy to jealousy and petty squabble, an intimate domestic round set off against a bleak landscape. Youngsters would grow up fast, fall in love, snatch any moment of privacy that the wagons permitted. High drama would punctuate days of boredom, a son’s challenge to his father’s leadership, resolved in the elder’s favor by a brutal fistfight. Facing daily adversity, we would salute their survival, indulge their weakness, ache for their loss. I would wait until the very last page to drop the bomb, stranding the party I had brought to life in a blizzard on Donner Pass.

A telling story demands authentic set. The family station wagon once plied the entire Eastern Seaboard on vacation, but my worldly knowledge never made it through the Cumberland Gap. I now pored over a National Park map and bought a one-way bus ticket to Zion Canyon. The uproot spent his first week working a concession stand, my only memory an awkward encounter with a law school classmate who felt morally diminished in my presence. I acquired a ranger’s hat, rose before dawn for the folding table that did duty as a writer’s desk. The endeavor proceeded apace, slowed down, and gave out altogether. I had no trouble painting a landscape, conveying a sense of place. But my rugged individuals were sketched with a generic pencil; the wagon train connected formulaic dots. I lugged a suitcase and guitar to the Greyhound station in St. George. The pattern repeated itself in Death Valley and the Grand Canyon. I migrated from Utah to California, Arizona high desert to Wyoming geyser, running into the same youthful German tourists and RV-driving retirees. The intended quarry remained elusive. My suitcase held one change of clothing, a few toiletries, packages of writing paper, and a portable typewriter over which I spent my free time, holed up in the spartan accommodation of the seasonal employee. The sheaves I carried over state lines recrossed largely untouched.

The ranger was a quick study. My visitor center lectures were attentively received, the same audience taking up their seat day after day, little motivated to abandon the cool theater for scorching heat outside. I led nature walks and entertained campers around the fire circle, my rendition of park fable accompanied by the crackling of burning logs and nocturnal forest music, the smell of lighter fluid wafting through the campground over pine needles and lichen-covered rock.

“Give ya a buzz mañana!” Weeks would pass before he made any attempt to reestablish contact. We were parting company on the corner outside the apartment building. The degenerate would win no Boy Scout badge, but can hold his liquor. A more upright citizen was steadying himself against a telephone pole.

“Well, look who’s here. Good evening, Anselm. How lovely to see you.” The woman was approaching on the sidewalk. A silver swirl framed her features, a couple of handsome boxers followed on a leash, a long skirt and sensible shoes furthering the distinction.

I have already prepared you. The person never made the party, and my previous memorandum left out a statistic of vital impression, the information having little bearing at the time. And in truth, I am poorly fitted for assessment. Have you remarked the conundrum? You notice a thing at some remove from normal expectation. Should you care? Maybe you are bothered by the mother berating her child on the sidewalk, the couple smooching at a fine-dining table, the teenagers gossiping in a quiet library room, though the public makes no protest. Are you making a big deal out of nothing? Like the opinion that others hold of you, you can never know. Grace is the person, of most appropriate appellation. Although she does walk the earth on legs of mismatched length, with no enhancement of heel. I have an admiration for the stance, the indifference to cosmetic expectation, but no idea how to hold the handicap. I share the observation in the interests of full disclosure. No one else makes remark. Is it just me?

“Hello Grace, nice to see you too.” Suffering my own impediment, I enunciated with care.

“Sorry I missed you at the party. Gloria told me about your move.”

“Indeed, I now rent an apartment. She had to quarantine me.”

“I’m actually quite envious. Owning a house is a burden when you’re out of town. Tanzania is a little far away, haha. I’m working on a story, African women running their own business.”

“Not easy for them, I’m thinking? I hope we’re giving good support.”

“We would best get out the way—I’m walking a fine line. The New York Times seems interested, cross fingers. I hope you like the neighborhood. We should have coffee sometime.”

“Um, this is Edward. He was just leaving. Eddie’s a contractor, going to do some work for me. The apartment could use a little touch-up.”

“Delighted to meet you, Eddie. I’m Grace.” She risked a hand.

“Dapper dogs, milady. Ye keep a right good eye on them, I can see that.”

“I’d like to take the credit, Eddie. They’re not mine. I belong to the local Presbyterian Church.”

“I hear grand things, milady.”

“I’d love to see you sometime. For the service, of course. The minister is at a retreat, and I volunteered to walk the boys.”

“Ah, I used t’ have boxers meself.”

Claptrap! The sole animal he ever owned was a pit bull that had to be put down after relieving a concubine’s corgi of an ear. I only heard the story after he begged me to cover a five-hundred-dollar fine. Gullible Grace beamed at the bricolage. Merrywood has his morals and the righteous will take umbrage, trumpet truth to lie. But the bottle betrays the bugle boy. Her fuss had always prompted flight. I now had to share the attention, and she represented all that was good in the world.

“I enjoy a good walk, now that I’m on my own. Dogs are such good company, don’t you think, Anselm?” My imbalance needed the lamppost, but she had no idea. The animals sat patiently, fixing me with an alert stare. Why can’t Rudyard do me proud? “Well, gentlemen, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got work to do. Here’s my card, Anselm.” She reached into a canvas shoulder bag. “Do give me a call.” The churchgoer smiled warmly and allowed the young men to lead her away. I waited for Squirt’s heartless joke as we followed her limp of departure.

“Classy broad. And she likes you, bub.”

“That comes as a surprise?”

“Nice looking, too.” He would follow with some vile suggestion. “Don’t let this one git away. Lady save yer sorry ass from yer books. Ain’t natural, bub.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“Outta here.” He saluted. The derelict took one direction, Grace the other, while I shivered in place. Underdressed, overwrought, decision-impaired, I was cemented to the sidewalk, following a gradual reduction the length of Dolorosa. A new bow pulled my strings as the dusk disclosed the undulation. She must live in that direction. The card remained in my clasp as the form dissolved from view.

CHAPTER XIII. THE BASEMENT

Your hero has a secret.

The Pickwick Club survives. You prize the original; you will savor the succession. The Samuel Pickwick Appreciation Society was holding its annual meeting. Welcome to the club.

“Order!” She takes unhesitant charge. Sister Dorothea—we stand on ceremony—ascended to the chair only last year, but rules like a hereditary tsar. The club elects its officers by secret ballot, and I can only attribute her failure to win unanimous decision to marital discord. No diplomat, she had unilaterally evicted her deadbeat stepson from permanent residence in front of the living room television, and cantankerous Brother Henry is more than capable of delayed retribution. He has further cause for complaint. The couple’s offspring having all decamped, she had elected to rent out a room to a lodger, to a penalty of litigation and our present disturbance. The novice landlady voices no misgiving, referring to her whimsically paying guest only as that man.

Clandestine is the club. We were convening in their basement. Standard access is provided by a carpeted staircase, leading down from the garage. Today that route meant detection, so upon arrival Dorothea smuggled us into her laundry room, to tug at the trapdoor, from which covert portal a set of rickety steps leaves the ordinary world and plummets into darkness. Our subterranean retreat was ringed with folding chairs and a miniature couch, presided over by a rusting water heater and lit by a bare bulb; shafts of brighter light betray. His wife abominating the gridiron, Henry has to obey the sporting call in domestic exile, and an old television sat on a box-like fridge, whose powerful hum belied the sorry source. Two cords arced across the wall through a blanket of cobwebs to an outlet by the staircase door. Already hampered by electric buzzing and crepuscular illumination, our concentration had to contend with an intermittent thumping that shook the plaster overhead. That man had installed a sound system and set of weights in the garage. And energized by the beat of seventies disco, the brute was now pumping his already swollen musculature in ignorance of the finer sensibility under his flip flops.

“Order”—the chair is notoriously abrupt—“please!” Standing members cut short their conversations, hurriedly took a bow, and carried their glasses over to the assigned seating. A hush settled over the still creatures of the grotto, though the Bee Gees were staying alive.

“The first ray of light”—Dorothea broke the silence—“which illumines the gloom”—our obedient echo following her cue—“and converts into a dazzling brilliancy, that obscurity”—The chair’s recitation was word perfect, as always—“in which the earlier history of the public career”—The assembly lowered their heads and raised a chant—“of the immortal Pickwick”—a ritual that united bodies present and past. The same incantation opened club meetings for our forebears, summoned a timeless company, and warmed to a Disco Inferno, burning overhead—“would appear to be involved”—We needed no prompt, new recruits having to recite extended passages of the masterwork from memory—“is derived from the perusal of the following entry”—I had shortly to give the annual address but forgot my nerves, lost in the chorus—“in the Transactions of the Pickwick Club”—Her vocal lead continued uninterrupted as the mistress of ceremonies retrieved Sister Cecilia’s fine cognac from the fridge top and dispensed the potion into upheld tumblers—“which the editor of these papers feels the highest pleasure in laying before his readers”—A few years ago, we began to emulate the immortal with regular libation, and attendance halted its slide, though the returning delinquents swore to coincidence—“as a proof of the careful attention, indefatigable assiduity”—I have to note that on this occasion, careful attention and indefatigable assiduity fell short of uniform display—“and nice discrimination with which his search”—an unmistakable snore coming to the attention— “among the multifarious documents confided to him has been conducted.”

To take advantage of a gentler descent, Dorothea had urged early arrival on the more senior cohort, Cecilia and her eighty-year-old husband. Junior was now taking a nap on the couch, a further auditory distraction that we tolerate without complaint. Their cocktail cabinet enables the toasts. My forgiveness owes nothing to the fact, of course.

The Society meets twice a year. As you have surmised, the need for concealment militates against more auspicious venue. A portable heater would have taken the edge off the underground chill, though no shivering soul saw fit to complain. A particularly violent crash overhead dumped flakes of plaster on Sister Jocelyn’s newly styled hair, but she silently brushed off the deposit. You might then wonder, Why the commitment? A hardened Mafia family resists betrayal with a terrible test; the member must murder to belong. Reclusive religious cults are held together by an otherworldly faith; the more strenuous the stretch, the more tenacious the hold. The animating beliefs of our society are no exception to such exacting rule, our claim to a world-famous founding father easy for the outsider to ridicule. You would scour biographies in vain, but that silence is no proof, Dickens covering all tracks. Yes, the world at large knows nothing of the club, as you can vouch for yourself. That ignorance has good cause, the meetings of this chapter of the Pickwick Preservation Society closing with a renewed vow of secrecy. Our tight lid is no small achievement. Rumors circulate, inquisitive young Nick has made conjecture, my ex-wife submitted me to interrogation, and a lingering customer once pointedly winked on sharing her fondness for Pickwick. I deflect all suspicion. You have a special privilege.

No man is perfect. At confession, the sinner has no secrets. I earlier let slip the club’s existence, a storyteller losing all bearings in the isolation tank. Without due reflection, I hinted at an esoteric wisdom. And that blunder now leaves me in a bind. In sharing these proceedings, am I not reneging on the vow? Yet if I say no more you might suppose me a shallow tease, withholding the riches of that knowledge. I have decided to flutter the veil, but with misgiving. You might suspect vain puffery, as if a high school classmate, whose photo goes unremarked in the yearbook, were to corner you at the reunion and prattle of Hollywood celebrity. You might question our illustrious origin. You might doubt whether law-abiding citizens could maintain such an extraordinary double life. I offer a little circumspection. During Prohibition, an unsuspecting pedestrian passed a quiet street door, which a special knock would open onto the riot within. A passenger walking the rainy deck of a cruise ship glances over the side, where a gray monotonous sea conceals the vibrant colors and teeming life of coral reef beneath. Your own world may know its dissimulation. Like Thornfield Hall, a solid family house on your street might cage a lunatic.

—Jane, please forgive my liberty. The memory must sear,. A mad woman burned the house down; a passionate admirer has just struck another match?—

Who knows? The kindly old man who sells hotdogs in the park might be a concentration camp guard; your darling daughter, educated in Catholic school, enjoying an envied career, might plunge late night into a cesspool of anonymous depravity. Your own town might boast a chapter of our society and you would never know. Am I then claiming a worldwide diaspora? My lips are sealed.

“Brothers and sisters, I have to apologize. I ran out of paper. I will have to ask you to share.” Dorothea sent the clipboard and documents on a tour of the circle, a journey made to musical accompaniment. We are family, I got all my sistas an’ me. My feet were not tapping, really, just experienced an involuntary twitch.

We signed the sheet. Though bound to discretion, I can safely suggest that viewers of a local cooking show might recognize one name on the list. Repeated and unexcused absence can result in termination, as Brother Ellsworth, our former historian, found to his cost, though his disgrace may not have been unrelated to some ill-fated liberties with Dorothea during a period of conjugal stress. Brother Henry got his revenge by taking over both the duties of his misguided rival and credit for the annals. Dim light already strained the eyes, and as a further ordeal, Dorothea insists on printing the business in miniscule font. A puddle had seeped onto the concrete floor of the basement, and so the paperwork clung to the precarious dry land of our laps. Despite the makeshift accommodation, society meetings adhere to strict order, though the governance knows neither formal regulation nor concrete constitution. Unwritten rules bind only the tighter.

The member must be sparing. The memoirist can tell you this much: Like Dark Age monks on the furthest Celtic isle, we shelter the flame passed down the generations; like the Incan priesthood, we affirm our devotion through demanding ritual; like aristocrats of the Hell Fire club, we lose ourselves behind closed doors. But needing neither virgin sacrifice nor orgiastic debauch, the members of the Samuel Pickwick Preservation Society bond by reading aloud from the liturgy, cover to cover, an ordeal of sleep deprivation that on the legendary and fractious year of Anna Karenina lasted over two days and nights.

—Anna Arkadyevna, you are the very name of tragedy; I would never make light. But like an unhappy family, every fellowship is unhappy in its own way.—

The Society practices a rigorous regime, pledging allegiance to a select library, which titles make our better world, furnish our saints, and outside of which any reading is confessed to our fellows as readily as bible study to the Taliban. Our dedication is hard tested. We are pressured by unknowing forces and beset by temptations of which Lady Marmalade could have no idea. Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir? Pah! My vocation affords an unofficial dispensation, and so when Sister Coralynne caught me in flagrante delicto with young Hermoine Granger on an aisle seat of a Los Angeles flight, she never broadcast my guilt, in gratitude of which I moved her own compendium, Coral’s Cat Chow, to the front of The Last Refuge’s window. Chains fail at the weakest link, and we guard against corrupting influence by admitting new members only by invitation. Brother Benedict, our most recent addition, received Dorothea’s endorsement three years ago, his interrogation lasting long into the night, prompting a recourse to several bottles of single malt and a review of The Scarlet Letter’s place on our top shelf.

—Hester, rest easy, you have no more ardent champion. Like a determined cardinal importuning the Vatican, I begged for your beatitude.—

We have built our retreat on a rock of shared faith, but unlike the more promiscuous, feel no urge to grow, call to preach, need to compromise; treasured knowledge remains the more secure, the more jealous the custody. Modernity starves for lasting nourishment, and if the word escaped, who knows what mobs of unworthy supplicants would come pounding on the door? However, just as the poor light rendered the present company indistinct, I must keep you in the dark about their features. And as long as I withhold full names and certain identifying eccentricities, betray no special signs, pass over the fortuitous bookstore conversation that led to my recruitment, make no further mention of a member’s local celebrity, remain silent on a history that spans continents and centuries, I see no harm in cracking open a window.

“Samuel Pickwick, we salute you.” Standing tall by the water heater, Dorothea made the sign of commencement.

“We salute you.” All members took to their feet, save one.

“Samuel Pickwick, we bless you.” Dorothea raised the chalice.

“Bless you.” The club turned to face his presence.

“To a better world.”

“A better world.” At some risk of discovery, we loosed a cheer. The uproar roused Junior from his slumber. And as the bodybuilder dislodged another plate of plaster, the faithful downed their fortification in one draft, otherwise decorous women finding permission in the bonds of ritual.

“I have to amend the agenda.” Officious Dorothea could not hide her disappointment. “Brother Cordelio may not be able to join us this evening.” A murmur met the news. “He called me on the telephone, and I can attest to a cough. Our esteemed brother suspects walking pneumonia. In any event, his voice is not up to the task.” Cortés allows the first name in the sanctity of the club. And he relaxes his rigid routine twice a year to read from his work in progress, an honor enjoyed by no ordinary reader. The lauded writer and I owe our original acquaintance to the Society, though make no mention of our secret life when communing in the store. Other members visit the refuge, but unwritten rules deter outside interaction.

“Can we move to a vote?” Dorothea removed her reading glasses. “All in favor?” The chair could show more patience. Sister Jocelyn had redacted last year’s minutes in excruciating detail, and I still had a good page to cover. Secretarial duties are assigned by lot, Brother Thomas having the misfortune to draw the short straw in the cavernous gloom.

“Madam Chair, I must register my dissent.” I traced the offending lines with a deliberate finger. The meeting betrayed no consternation, my notice posted in advance.

“Brother Anselm, be so kind—”

“Madam Chair, fellow Pickwickians, we need to set a precedent, record an unequivocal message, for the sake of posterity. I refer to the unfortunate affair of the excommunication. The minutes now before us read, ‘a dispute arose,’ but with no adjudication.”

“Brother Anselm”—Dorothea measured her tone. The softness of delivery little compromised the force—“I remember the unfortunate affair only too clearly. The former member resigned before the meeting considered any motion.”

“Madam Chair, your observation is technically correct. But with respect, I also remember that the meeting shared my point of view, after the fact.”

I must confirm your suspicion. Even the most august of bodies, drawing on uncommon reverence for literature and offering the rock of shared faith in a better world, provides no shelter from the ill winds of personal animosity. The former member never accepted the legitimacy of my membership. But like other irreconcilable conflicts, the origins of the feud have long faded into oblivion. Our meetings provide a moveable feast, as Cecilia’s arthritis flares up in wintry weather, and I had volunteered the store for the occasion. The Society appreciates the necessities of my trade, but the former member was impervious to reason. Like knights of old, the Pickwickians prove our devotion through stringent self-regulation, submitting to lifelong proscription of the tawdry pleasures of science fiction and horror, the routine recipes of romance, and the detective novel.

—Sherlock, don’t swallow that pipe. I only said routine. Our society has some sympathy for the sleuth who set the stage.—

Yes, I accept that categories lend themselves to interpretation, lines may blur. But some cases leave no doubt. And so when the former member found Danielle Steele hiding in the shelves and proceeded to mockingly read aloud during my treasurer’s report, the challenge allowed no standard response. The Samuel Pickwick Preservation Society, nearly razed to the ground in the Henry and Ellsworth conflagration, could no longer accommodate our joint membership. I am still troubled by the calm with which the former member strode out the door, by the last remark he flung, I haven’t lost this one, my friend. Who knows to what betrayal the villain might stoop, what calumny spread? Worse, suppose the traitor has formed a breakaway sect, a Pelagian Heresy, leading wavering members down the road to perdition, compromising the one true church. We could never know. Crazy talk, you say? I ignore the impudence, though wish you were right.

“Next item”—Dorothea squinted at the agenda—“this year’s reading. Brother Lamar, will you make your case?” The meeting had overruled my request for a more favorable statement, so I could only record a protest.

“Madam Chair, I thank you”—Brother Lamar rose to his feet, the Society allowing no informality of address—“from the bottom of my heart, for the kind words.” Our brother has some hearing! His oration rose to full voice until Dorothea tamped the volume with a warning palm. “God bless you, ma’am, and all who sit before you.” Lamar likes to talk. Despite the Freak Out! of musical encouragement, members resignedly settled in for the hearing.

“Brother Lamar was unusually reticent about his proposal. The brevity of announcement on the agenda was his doing.”

“Madam Chair speaks the truth. I have it with me now.” Lamar comes equipped with a black attaché case, which now perched on the tenuous ledge of his vacated chair. “Let no brother or sister entertain suspicions of precipitation. No one is more cognizant of our exacting standards than Brother Lamar, no one. I am honored to count myself a member of the Preservation Society, I hold every man and woman before me in the highest respect, and I hear your reservations, I hear your reservations.” Knowing nothing, we had yet to vent the merest squeak, but the orator had just begun. I must conceal biographical details, though were you to hazard his occasional ministry at the United Tabernacle Church of Judah, in a neighboring city, I would not squelch the speculation. Brothers Lamar and Thomas became members in succession; the club sees only the local color of literature. “Baseball aficionados among us still lament the expansion of the major leagues, an unforgivable dilution of talent from which the American pastime has yet to recover. What’s done cannot be undone, as Lamar knows only too well. Yes, I too have sinned, good people, I too have sinned.”

“Brother Lamar, in the interests of closing before midnight, could you please just name the work?”

“Madam Chair, Lamar understands the gravity. The admirable Winston Churchill proclaimed, after the outnumbered Spitfires of his glorious Royal Air Force had beaten back the Luftwaffe swarm, that never in the course of human history had so much been owed by so many to so few. I was stationed in England, that noble isle of freedom, and followed dogfights in the blue skies over my head with eyes of consternation. I was just a pup, but knew right from wrong and had volunteered, putting my mortal soul at risk, to rid the world once and for all of the evils of Nazi Germany. And I was rarin’ to go, would have landed on the beaches on D-Day, were it not for the debilitation I sustained in a military exercise—”

“My brother, you was a cook.” Tommie and Lamar go back. Armed with nothing but pen and pad, our scribe was facing his own bombardment.

“So many to so few. By the same token, the many strengths of our society vary in inverse proportion to the works we treasure. I have studied Brother Henry’s careful research, the list is engraved on the tablet of my soul. Our sacred books are few in number, and I appreciate the necessity. The proof sits here before me, in the continuing vitality of our remarkable association. Change for its own sake is human frailty that we must fight at all costs.” Patting the leather case, he solemnly lowered his head. “Good people, I feel the weight of history—”

“Brother Lamar, please, can we move it along. Just tell us the work.”

“Over a year has passed since our last decision. Members present will recall the painstaking deliberation, the heat of debate, the agony of conflict. We knew full well the stakes; no mere addition, but revision of very first principles—”

“And I still take that decision personally. I love Candide like one of my children, the Enlightenment on holiday.” Childless Jocelyn is a retired teacher. She is fond of a revealing tank top, and the darkness could little deny an axillary abundance. “I disagreed with the decision then, and I disagree with it now.” The radical caucuses with our minority expansionist faction. “We risk irrelevance if we cut off the life blood of essential reading.”

—Candide, vous avez déjà suffert sans fin. So it pains me to add to the load. For I bring you bad tidings. At our last conference, a committee impugned the virtue of your story, questioning the development of your character.—

“And we risk dissolution if we kowtow to popular taste.” Henry is our only self-confessed Republican. “We define ourselves in isolation from the herd.”

“I must call the meeting to order, again.” Dorothea all but had to hiss. “We made our decision, the matter is closed. Now, Brother Lamar, if you would tell us of your proposal, we might avoid another outburst.”

“If I could just offer a little disclaimer.”

“Absolutely not. For the last time!” The chair was rocking. The Society possesses a gilt-framed oil painting of our rotund captain and his gentlemanly cohort, stiffly spruced in bygone tailoring. The precious portrait now hung incongruously on the unfinished basement wall. His oversight curbs unruly inclination, and Dorothea’s pointed glance invoked that rein.

—Pickwick, your good humor needs no proclamation. You will surely forgive a little levity.—

“Brother Lamar! Which work?”

“Very well, ma’am. You will have it, Lord of the Rings.” The words dropped like a guillotine. The audience shifted to the squeak of a metal chair. “I say it loud, I say it clear. Lord of the Rings! Brother Anselm will shortly shed light on the truth of Samuel Pickwick and extended company, and I propose that we welcome Bilbo Baggins into that fold.” Lamar’s concentrated beam circled the table, proof in rapture of the startling pronouncement.

—Baggins, your turn has come. I will content myself with this greeting. Another admirer has plenty to say on your behalf.—

 “Capital suggestion, young man.” Junior had just woken. “Grand slam.” Junior and Lamar share a vintage and love of the game. But poor light could not conceal the more prevalent unrest. Jocelyn stared at the floor, as if finding that our foundations were fashioned of sand. Other eyes strayed to Lamar’s empty glass, in search of extenuation. My graph, too, registered the seismic shock, but I will confess also to a certain relief. On Sunday, Lamar reads from King James, to an expectant congregation. Less formally attired, he can leave the pulpit behind.

“Brother Lamar, your proposal is duly noted.” Dorothea stepped into the breach. “I pass no judgment. Protocol, unfortunately, requires that you attest to the lasting moral influence Mr. Baggins has exercised over your own character and conduct. I will permit no further digression.”

“My pleasure, Madam Chair, my pleasure. Members of the Samuel Pickwick Preservation Society, my eyes behold a vision of love, but I also see a question on those faces, I feel a trouble in your souls. Is Brother Lamar playing a trick, you ask, has he lost his mind? No, good people, I have never felt stronger of conviction. But I stand before you with a cry for help. I have come to beg, I repeat to beg, for your compassion. I have in my possession a source of grave distress, the root of tribulation.” Lamar laid a tender hand on the attaché case. “Lord of the Rings. Yes, the book is popular, but you must not harden your hearts. Bilbo’s popularity rages without check, a millstone around his neck, a curse upon his name.” Lamar held forth without restraint. The music overhead had ceased along with the nerve-racking thumps, to the indication of a deserted gym, and abandoned competition. “They have graven his image onto candy bars, Corn Flakes boxes, Happy Meals. They have spread false tidings on video screen, I have witnessed the torment with my eyes, my own grandchildren play the game. Members of the Pickwick Preservation Society, we must come to his rescue, offer him sanctuary—”

“My brother, they my gran’kids. Your chicks flown the coop.” Tommie fails to fully credit his friend’s generosity of spirit. Like Socrates, Lamar considers the whole world family.

“Madam Chair, you would have me speak to his moral influence, an obligation which I will discharge with gratitude. For that influence has no parallel, I owe him too much to express in these brief inadequate words. The good Bilbo never asked for his fame, he suffers the gravest injustice through no fault of his own. The world does not care, the world takes advantage, the world offers him no peace. And that treatment has taught your humble brother a most cherished lesson. Brother Lamar worries not what the world thinks, he cannot control his fate. Brother Lamar can only be true to himself. And for that wisdom, Bilbo Baggins, I thank you. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”