"You shouldn't be going out with my brother," he heard himself saying. "It's not right. He's got a wife, a very nice wife. And his children . . . I mean, he's a happily married man. A father. Doesn't that matter? Don't you care? Don't you think that's important?"

"Well, I . . . I . . ." She turned and then hurried, almost running, back toward the parking lot.

The front door was locked. Delores had already left. She must not have needed him. She had already left. He felt agitated, yet strangely, euphorically, relieved. He had finally done something, the words having come so swiftly and from so deep within that only energy surged through him, a sense of expansiveness, as if there were nothing he could not do right now. He knocked again, then through the door gla.s.s saw Delores hurry from the back room.

"I didn't think you were coming!" she said, letting him in. She wore black pants and a black sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back from her face. Without makeup she looked younger, the way he remembered her in high school, freshly pleasant. "I was just starting to bring some things out to the car. The rest Albert can deal with." She gestured at the stacked boxes. "Most of it's all packed and marked." She sighed. "I don't know what else to do. I'm not calling him anymore, I know that. I keep leaving messages, but I guess this is the way he wants it." Covering her mouth, she seemed to take a deep breath. "Eleven years. It's hard to believe. Excuse me, Gordon, I'll be right back." She hurried into the office.

He waited a minute, then stepped into the storeroom. The bathroom door was closed. Water was running. She came out carrying a small round mirror framed in seash.e.l.ls. Her red eyes glistened. "I made this." She tried to smile.

"You did?"

She nodded. "I found all these sh.e.l.ls. Me and my sister and her husband, we used to rent this cottage two weeks in July, and every morning early I'd go for these long walks with my nieces and we'd pick up sh.e.l.ls, then on rainy days we'd make things."

"It's very nice."

"Here, then. You take it." She held it out.

"Oh no, I-"

"Please. Just take it. Please?" She looked ready to burst into tears if he didn't. He thanked her.

After they had put her possessions into the car, a rug and a small table and a few boxes, she locked the store, then jumped behind the wheel and backed quickly down the alley. "Boy, it's a good thing you're here," she said at the red light. "Because if you weren't, I'd pull right in there"-she pointed to the drugstore-"and buy a pack of cigarettes. That's what always happens, every time I quit the sky starts to fall, and next thing I know I'm lighting up."

"It's better than having to drink, though, right?"

She looked over and laughed. "I don't know. One kinda goes with the other when you're feeling like that."

He was surprised when she turned onto Clover Street. "Don't you want me to help you carry all this up to your apartment?"

She shook her head. "That's okay."

"I don't mind. In fact, that's what I thought we were going to do." He patted the musty rolled rug jutting out over the seat between them. "I mean, you can't carry this up all by yourself."

"I don't even want it. I don't want any of it. I just don't want to give him him the satisfaction of throwing it all out." She pulled up in front of his house. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm not my usual sparkling self tonight." Her forced smile dissolved in weariness. the satisfaction of throwing it all out." She pulled up in front of his house. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm not my usual sparkling self tonight." Her forced smile dissolved in weariness.

"That's okay. I understand. When you feel like this you just want to be alone, that's all."

"No. I hate being alone. I hate that more than anything. Sometimes I get scared and I think, What if I fall down and break my leg or pa.s.s out or something? No one would know. Or care, probably. Except the paperboy or the mailman." She tried to laugh, then quickly covered her face, struggling not to cry.

He didn't know where to look or what to say. Once again it was the wantonness of her emotions that most frightened him, her easy intimacy a contagion requiring constant vigilance. His mind raced to change the subject. Anything. "Oh. Yes, the mailman. That reminds me," he said stiffly as she wheezed and snuffled into her hands. "I was coming out of the post office and I saw that woman, the one with Dennis. It was awkward. I mean, it was the first time since that night at the Inn. And all of a sudden it just kind of came out of me. I certainly didn't plan to say what I did. And she was, well, dumbstruck, I guess." The oddest thing happened as he spoke. He didn't want to be telling her any of this, knew he shouldn't, yet he was relishing every word, savoring the moment relived, in a way that made it all seem not only quite right, but even better than he had realized.

"What do you mean?" She wiped her eyes. "Gordon." She touched his arm. "You actually said that? You told her to stop seeing your brother?"

"I had to. Dennis and Lisa, they're my family. I can't just stand by and do nothing. It's not right. I mean, you'd do the same. You know you would."

"No. No, I wouldn't do that that."

"Yes, you would. You care for people. I've seen you. You speak up. Like that time with Jada. You dropped everything. You came right over."

"Because you sounded so nervous."

"Because you care for people," he said, straining toward her, wanting to help, to convince her of her own worth.

"Because I care for you."

He had an image of himself as a child walking out too far into the pond and then suddenly having to tread water. And in his panic realizing that if he stopped for even a moment, it would be over. "And I care very much about my brother. And his family. Lisa and Jimmy and Annie."

Reaching over, she patted his hand. "Of course you do, Gordon. And even if he does get mad, at least you know you did the right thing. And that's really all that matters, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"And who knows, maybe it'll work. Maybe now she'll break it off, that . . . that what's-her-name."

"Jilly," he said, sinking into the warmth that came from speaking her name.

Delores touched his arm, stroking it with her fingertips. "Yes, and then everything will be the way it should be." She brushed her lips against his cheek. For a moment his eyes felt much too heavy to open.

She followed him up the walk. She said she had to go to the bathroom. He didn't believe her, and the odd thing was he didn't really mind. For the first time in a long time, he didn't want to be alone.

The minute the door opened, the sharp smell of mustard stung his nostrils. Then vinegar. He kicked something. The VCR. Why was it on the floor? He turned on the light.

"My G.o.d." He looked toward the trashed kitchen, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

"Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Delores muttered, stepping closer.

He looked at her. "Who?" She seemed to know what had happened here. He watched her pick up an unbroken saucer from the shards.

"Was there any money hidden in here?"

"No."

"That's why, then. They probably got mad."

"Who?"

"Kids, probably." She picked up an intact plate. Then a bowl. Another saucer. "Hopefully your insurance will cover it. You better call the police."

"No."

"But if you don't report it, then-"

"No. I don't want to."

"Well, you better look around, then. Check the other rooms."

He didn't move, though. He stood there surveying the incomprehensible.

"We should start cleaning this up." She stepped carefully through the mess. She righted the trash basket and began dropping large pieces of gla.s.s into it. It filled up quickly, and she removed the sagging bag, tied it, and set it out on the back landing. She shook out a new bag, which she began to fill. "d.a.m.n!" She sucked her thumb where gla.s.s had nicked it. She asked for a bandage. This snapped him from his paralysis. He hurried upstairs to get a bandage from the medicine cabinet. The phone was ringing. He hurried back down, but Delores had answered it. He was shocked to hear her glib invasion of his privacy. Had he come upon this alone, he would have told no one. No one at all. She had no idea how horrified he felt.

"It's absolutely unbelievable. . . . Yes, the whole kitchen. Everything. Even the fridge," she said, opening the door. The empty shelves were oddly dark. She peered in. "They even smashed the bulb. . . . No! I don't know, but I'm a.s.suming it was more than one person. . . ." Listening now, she looked at Gordon. Her mouth dropped open. "Are you sure? Well, tell Gordon, then. He's right here. It's your neighbor, Mrs. Jukas." She handed him the phone.

The old woman's voice cackled in his ear. "I knew something was wrong. I could tell just by the way she was running. Like a bat out of h.e.l.l, right down your back steps over into McGinty's. I should've called the police, but she's been over there before. You've even let her in your house! So I didn't know, I thought, What's he doing, just turning the place over to her any time she wants."

She was still talking as he handed the phone to Delores. He found the broom and began pushing gla.s.s-splintered pickles and glittering chunks of meat loaf into the dustpan.

Delores was telling the old woman she was sure it hadn't been Jada; her running through the yard was probably just a coincidence. He knew it wasn't. Of course it had been Jada. She was paying him back for the other night.

Chocolate syrup and tomato juice sloshed underfoot. Delores had cleared enough of a s.p.a.ce to open the back door. The soft chirp of crickets through the twilight was obliterated with each gla.s.s-rattling sweep of the broom.

"We're getting there," she said.

He looked at her.

"Gordon. It wasn't Jada. She adores you. In a million years she wouldn't do something like this," she said, shoveling two hundred paper napkins into a sodden mound. "If she wanted something, she'd ask you." She leaned the broom against the table. "Oh, Gordon!" She threw her arms around him. "I feel so bad for you. Here you are just getting started, then something like this has to happen."

CHAPTER 15.

Mosquitoes kept buzzing at her ears. If there were any crickets, the other night sounds drowned them out-a far-off burglar alarm, sonic bursts of music from car radios, the intermittent cries of a woman for "Melio! Melio!"-all to the beat of a dribbled basketball, the gritty sc.r.a.pe of running sneakers, then with every clung clung of the rim a scuffle of male voices. "Get that s.h.i.t outta my house!" one laughed now. of the rim a scuffle of male voices. "Get that s.h.i.t outta my house!" one laughed now.

"Yeah. Get that s.h.i.t outta my house," Jada whispered in echo, the dull incantation steadying her in the darkness of the bandstand steps. Her uneasy eyes scanned the street. The Navigator was parked by the Liberty Rooming House. It looked empty, but Polie said he'd be watching. The bites on the back of her neck stung as she scratched them with the rough edge of the beeper. Knees to her chin, she tugged her shirt over her knees and ankles to keep the bugs away. She hadn't been to school in a couple weeks. Not since her mother had been back. Vacation must have started, though. They'd probably keep her back again. If they did, she'd just quit and get a job. She'd be fourteen pretty soon. July 24, which shouldn't be too far off from whatever the h.e.l.l day or month this was. Like her mother would even remember. Like anyone would. "So f.u.c.k it," she said aloud, then laughed, said it again.

She'd seen Gordon from a distance, going back and forth to work, or mowing his gra.s.s, or bringing groceries to Mrs. Jukas. Last night Delores's car had been out there until midnight and Jada felt really jealous, then confused because she didn't know who she hated more, Delores for being with Gordon, or Gordon for being with Delores, or both of them for not being with her. She gnawed the side of her thumbnail until she tasted blood. She sat on her hands and waited.

A low red car slowed down. She stood up. She couldn't see if it was the Toyota Spider or not. No beep from Polie. The car pa.s.sed, so she sat down. Her hand closed over the bulge on her belly, the bag of rocks in her shorts. This deal was huge. She was supposed to count it first, twenty hundreds, before she pa.s.sed the bag. Beep, Polie had said, then head straight back. Any trouble, just keep on going right by the Navigator. Stuff the money down her underpants and run like h.e.l.l.

Polie and Feaster had bought her a Big Mac and a large Chicken McNuggets on the way here, but her stomach was rumbling again. She was hungry all the time now. Eating only made it worse. Maybe Polie would get her a c.o.ke or something. Water, even. She jogged along the path up the rise to the SUV.

"Jesus Christ! That's them!" Polie shouted as a red sports car stopped on the far side of the park. She ran back and sat on the bottom step.

Their headlights went off. She slapped her leg, and the mosquito flattened in a sticky mess. "C'mon! C'mon!" She ground her knuckles against the concrete step. Maybe they couldn't see her. She stood up with her hands on her hips to make as big a target of herself as possible. One of these times something bad was going to happen. She was getting in too deep, but her mother owed Feaster all that money from before plus for the crack she needed now, and that wasn't even counting anything for food or rent. Yesterday the electricity got turned off, but her mother called from a pay phone, crying and saying she had a new baby in the house. It came back on this morning. The sheriff had come by twice already with eviction notices, but they wouldn't let him in.

Both car doors opened. A runty guy in a shiny black shirt started down the path. Arms folded, the other guy leaned against the car, watching. Halfway along, the runty guy called out and asked if she had something for him. She said she did.

"Bring it here, then."

"First you gotta give me something." She came off the path a few feet, then stopped.

"C'mere, then." He gestured her closer. "Here. You gonna take it?" He held out a brown paper bag.

She grabbed the bag. It wasn't supposed to be taped up. "Stupid a.s.s," she muttered, ripping it open. She counted quickly: twenty hundreds. Well, twenty bills; it was hard to tell what they were. She tried to see.

"C'mon! Hurry up!" He kept looking around. "C'mon!"

She pulled the bag from her shorts. The white guy hurried down the path. The Navigator was gone. Polie had taken off. Something was wrong.

"C'mon, give it over! I ain't got all day!" The runty guy stepped closer. The other guy had a beard and his hair was longer. f.u.c.k! It was the cop who'd chased her and Thurman on their last deal together. His arm went out. Thinking he had a gun, she threw the bag and the beeper in his face and ran toward the Liberty. They were close on her heels now. Cars came at her from both directions as she ran into the street. Men yelling.

"Stop, you little a.s.shole! Stop! Police! Stop! Police! Police!" Holy s.h.i.t! She had their money. Horns blared. A car braked onto the sidewalk. She opened her fist and flung the money up into the air before darting down the alley behind the Liberty. She ran and she ran, all the way to Gordon's garage. Hours later, when no one had come, she ran home and fell onto the couch, exhausted and still shaking.

CHAPTER 16.

The still morning air was soft with the fragrance of roses. Gordon was spraying the bushes with his baking soda elixir when he saw a long broken cane on Mrs. Jukas's side. It had been split at the base. Last night Delores had brought a slice of cherry pie over to Mrs. Jukas. Instead of using the walk, Delores must have blundered her way between the bushes. Typical, Typical, he thought as he pruned off the perfectly healthy cane. In her slavish need to please, she did more harm than good, he thought, then immediately flushed with guilt and desire for her. he thought as he pruned off the perfectly healthy cane. In her slavish need to please, she did more harm than good, he thought, then immediately flushed with guilt and desire for her.

Delores was the first woman he had ever slept with. The experience continued to be both profound and disconcerting. Though he wasn't naive enough to think he was her first partner, he was sure there hadn't been many others. She just didn't seem the type. The s.e.xual aspect of their relationship was far more exhilarating than anything he had ever imagined. He had never felt so much a part of another human being, so vulnerable and yet so strong. But the moment it ended he would be overcome with desolation. She would curve her body to his, wanting to be held, wanting to talk, when all he wanted was for her to leave so he could be alone. As soon as she got home she would call, and he would force himself to answer the phone. She deserved the same unfailing kindness and tenderness she gave, but it just wasn't in him. Maybe it never had been. Maybe he had achieved nothing and this was all a charade, everything, everything about him. Maybe he would always be a shadow trailing truer, more substantial lives than his. Emotional intimacy came easier for women, Delores had said last night in another attempt to get inside his head. He couldn't tell her how that kind of talk frightened him, left him feeling shallow and inadequate, wondering which realization was worse: that he had nothing to give or that there was nothing he wanted or needed from her. Or from anyone else, for that matter.

When he stirred now in the depths of night, it was Jilly Cross's sweet face he saw in his dreams, and this was deeply disturbing. He would wake up feeling like a hypocrite, unprincipled, corrupt. In his prison fantasies he had struggled to be faithful to the same centerfold women. When he did have to replace one, it was always with guilt and self-loathing. Paper-worn but ageless, his women never parted their legs for the camera's ugly eye or touched themselves or stared out with brazen seduction. Instead they gazed off shyly, bodies turned ever so slightly as if they had been just about to cover themselves when the shutter clicked.

He was finishing his cereal when the doorbell rang. He rinsed the bowl quickly and was on his way into the other room when the frantic banging started. Ever more cautious since Jada's night here, he checked the window. His brother's car was in the driveway.

"Dennis!" he said, opening the door.

Dennis rushed inside. "What the h.e.l.l's wrong with you? Don't you ever think anything through?"

"What do you-"

"She's scared out of her mind! What're you doing, following her now? Stalking her?"

"I wasn't-"

"She just told me! She comes out of the post office and there you are? Warning her? Telling her to stay away from me?"

"I just told her . . . I said you were married, that's-"

"Like she didn't know that, right? Look," Dennis said, shaking his head in wordless fury. "I don't know how else to say this to you. But you can't be doing this. You can't keep f.u.c.king up my life! I can't handle it anymore. I mean, all these years I've been trying to put it all back together. You . . . you can't do this! If you want this to work, if you want us to have any kind of relationship, you've gotta stay way, way out of my way, Gordon! Do you hear me? Do you know what I'm saying?" He threw up his hands. "Jesus Christ, are you even listening to me?"

"I just don't want anything to happen to you and Lisa. And the kids. You're my family."

"Nothing's going to happen. There's just some things you don't understand. Just because you want things a certain way . . . I mean, life's not like that-I'm not like that." not like that."