"When did you see it?"

"Yeah, when was that? I'm sure I must've seen it lots of times. I'm out here in the yard nearly every day sunbathing, so one day just blends into the rest. But anyway, it'd have to be within the last three or four days. The yard's a cat shortcut, all kinds of cats scooting through all the time. They come out of the Suzukis' hedge there, cut across our yard, and head into the Miyawakis' yard."

So saying, she points over at the vacant house. Same as ever, there's the stone bird with outspread wings, goldenrod basking in the spring rays, pigeon cooing away on the TV aerial.

"Thanks for the tip," I tell her.

"Hey, I've got it, why not come into the yard here and wait? All the cats pa.s.s this way anyhow. And besides, if you keep snooping around over there, somebody's going to mistake you for a burglar and call the cops. Wouldn't be the first time."

"But I can't just hang around waiting for a cat in somebody else's yard."

"Sure you can, like, it's no big deal. n.o.body's home and it's dead boring without someone to talk to. Why don't we just get some sun, the two of us, until the cat shows up? I've got sharp eyes, I'd be a real help."

I look at my watch. Two thirty-six. All I've got left to do today is take in the laundry and fix dinner.

"Well, okay, I'll stay until three o'clock," I say, still not really grasping the situation.

I open the gate and step in, following the girl across the gra.s.s, and only then do I notice that she's dragging her left leg slightly. Her tiny shoulders sway with the periodic rhythm of a crank grinding mechanically to the left. She stops a few steps ahead of me and signals for me to walk alongside her.

"Had an accident last month," the girl says simply. "Was riding on the back of someone's bike and got thrown off. No luck."

Two canvas deck chairs are set out in the middle of the gra.s.s. A big blue towel is draped over the back of one chair, and the other is occupied by a red Marlboro box, an ashtray, and a lighter tossed together with a large radio-ca.s.sette player and some magazines. The volume is on low, but some unidentifiable hard-rock group is playing.

She removes the clutter to the gra.s.s and asks me to sit down, switching off the music. No sooner am I seated than I get a clear view of the pa.s.sage and the vacant house beyond. I can even see the white stone bird figurine and the goldenrod and the chain link fence. I bet she's been watching me from here the whole time.

The yard is large and unpretentious. The gra.s.s sweeps down a gentle slope, graced here and there with plants. To the left of the deck chairs is a sizable concrete pond, which obviously hasn't seen much use of late. Drained of water, it presents a greenish, discolored bottom to the sun, like some overturned aquatic creature. The elegant beveled facade of an old Western-style house, neither particularly large nor all that luxurious, poses behind a stand of trees to the rear. Only the yard is of any scale or shows any real upkeep.

"Once, I used to part-time for a lawn-mowing service," I say.

"Oh yeah?" says the girl without much interest.

"Must be hard work maintaining a yard this big," I comment, looking around me.

"Don't you have a yard?"

"Just a little yard. Two, three hydrangeas, that's about the size of it," I say. "You alone here all the time?"

"Yeah, you said it. Daytime, I'm always alone. Mornings and evenings, a maid comes around, though otherwise I'm alone. Say, how about a cold drink? There's even beer."

"No, I'm fine."

"Really? Like, it's no big deal."

"I'm not thirsty," I say. "Don't you go to school?"

"Don't you go to work?"

"No work to go to," I admit.

"Unemployed?"

"Kind of. I quit."

"What sort of work were you doing?"

"Lawyer's gofer," I equivocate, taking a slow, deep breath to cut the talk. "Collecting papers from city-hall and government offices, filing materials, checking case precedents, taking care of court procedures, busy work like that."

"But you quit?"

"Correct."

"Your wife work?"

"She does," I say.

I take out a cigarette and put it to my mouth, strike a match, and light up. The wind-up bird screeches from a nearby tree. A good twelve or thirteen turns of the watch spring, then it flits off to another tree.

"Cats are always going past there," the girl remarks apropos of nothing, pointing over at the edge of the gra.s.s in front. "See that incinerator behind the Suzukis' hedge? Well, they come out from right next to it, run all the way across, duck under the gate, and make for the yard over there. Always the same route. Say, you know Mr. Suzuki? College professor, on TV half the time?"

"Mr. Suzuki?"

She goes on in some detail, but it turns out that I don't know our Mr. Suzuki.

"I hardly ever watch TV," I say.

"Horrible family," the girl sneers. "Stuck-up, the whole lot of them. TV people are all a bunch of phonies."

"Oh?"

The girl picks up her Marlboros, takes one out, and rolls it around unlit between her fingers.

"Well, I suppose there's decent folk among them, but they're not my type. Now, the Miyawakis, they were okay people. Mrs. Miyawaki was nice. And Mr. Miyawaki, he ran two or three family restaurants."

"What happened to them?"

"Don't know," said the girl, flicking the end of her cigarette. "Probably owed money. There was a real commotion when they left. Been gone two years now, I guess. Dropped everything and just left. The cats just keep multiplying, no consideration. Mom's always complaining."

"Are there that many cats?"

She puts the cigarette to her lips and lights up with her lighter. Then nods.

"All kinds of cats. Some losing their fur, even a one-eyed cat ... big lump of flesh where the eye was. Gross, huh?"

"Gross," I concur.

"I've got a cousin with six fingers. A girl, little older than me, has this baby pinkie right beside her little finger. Always keeps it neatly folded under, so you can barely tell. A real pretty girl."

"Hmm," I say.

"You think stuff like that's hereditary? Like, you know ... runs in the blood?"

"I couldn't tell you," I say.

The girl says nothing for the moment. I smoke my cigarette and train my eyes on the cat path. Not a single cat has shown the whole time.

"Hey, you sure you won't drink something? I'm going to have a cola," says the girl.

"No thanks," I tell her.

The girl gets up from her deck chair and disappears into the shade, dragging her leg; meanwhile, I pick up one of the magazines lying by my feet and flip through the pages. Contrary to what I'd expected, it's a men's monthly. The center spread has a woman sitting in an unnatural pose, legs wide apart, so that you can see her genitals and pubic hair through a sheer body stocking. Never a dull moment, I think, and put the magazine back where I found it, then redirect my gaze toward the cat path, arms folded across my chest.

After what seems like ages, the girl returns, gla.s.s of cola in hand. She's shed her Adidas T-shirt for a bikini top with her shorts. It's a small bra that shows off the full shape of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, with tie-strings in back.

For sure, it's one hot afternoon. Just lying there in the sun on the deck chair, my gray T-shirt is blotched dark with sweat.

"Tell me," the girl picks up where she left off, "suppose you found out the girl you liked had a sixth finger, what would you do?"

"I'd sell her to the circus," I say.

"Really?"

"Just kidding," I come back, startled. "I probably wouldn't mind."

"Even if there's the possibility of pa.s.sing it on to your kids?"

I give it some thought.

"I don't think I'd mind. One finger too many's no great harm."

"What about if she had four b.r.e.a.s.t.s?"

I think it over a while.

"I don't know," I say.

Four b.r.e.a.s.t.s? This conversation's going nowhere fast, so I decide to change the subject. This conversation's going nowhere fast, so I decide to change the subject.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen," the girl answers. "Just turned sixteen. Freshman in high school."

"But you're taking time off from school."

"Can't walk too much before my leg starts to hurt. Got a gash right by my eye, too. It's a pretty straight school, no telling what kind of trouble I'd be in if they found out I hurt myself falling off a bike ... which is why I'm out sick. I can take a whole year off if I want. I'm in no big hurry to graduate from high school."

"Hmm" is all I can say.

"But anyway, back to what we were talking about, you said you thought it was okay to marry a girl with six fingers, but four b.r.e.a.s.t.s turned you off."

"I didn't say it turned me off, I just said I didn't know."

"Why don't you know?"

"I can't quite picture it."

"But you can picture a sixth finger."

"Sort of."

"What's the difference? Six fingers or four b.r.e.a.s.t.s?"

Once again, I give the matter some thought, but can't begin to think of how to explain.

"Tell me, do I ask too many questions?" the girl asks, peering into my eyes from behind her sungla.s.ses.

"You been told that?" I ask back.

"Sometimes."

"Nothing wrong with asking questions. Makes the other person think."

"Most people, though, don't give me much thought," she says, looking at the tips of her toes. "Everyone just gives the usual nothing-doing answers."

I shake my head vaguely and to realign my gaze onto the cat path. What the h.e.l.l am I doing here? There hasn't been one lousy cat come past here yet There hasn't been one lousy cat come past here yet.

I shut my eyes for twenty or thirty seconds, arms folded across my chest. Lying there, eyes closed, I can feel the sweat bead up over different parts of my body. On my forehead, under my nose, around my neck, the slightest sensations, as if tiny moistened feathers had been floated into place here and there. My T-shirt clings to my chest like a drooping flag on a doldrum day. The sunlight has a curious weight as it seeps into me. I can hear the tinkling of ice as the girl jiggles her gla.s.s.

"Go to sleep if you want. I'll wake you if I see your cat," the girl whispers.

I nod silently with eyes closed.

For the time being, there isn't a sound. That pigeon and the wind-up bird must have gone off somewhere. Not a breeze, not even a car starting. The whole while I'm thinking about that voice on the telephone. What if I really did know the woman? What if I really did know the woman?

Yet I can't recall any such woman. She's just not there; she's long departed from my consciousness. Only her long, long shadow trailing across my path, a vision from Chirico. An endless ringing in my ears.

"Hey, you asleep?" comes the girl's voice, so faint it's almost no voice at all.

"No, I'm awake," I answer.

"Can I get closer? It's easier for me to talk in a whisper."

"Go right ahead," I say, eyes still closed.

I listen as the girl slides her deck chair alongside mine, hear the dry clack of wooden frames touching.

Strange, I think, the girl's voice with my eyes closed sounds completely different from her voice with my eyes open. What's come over me? This has never happened to me before.

"Can I talk some?" the girl asks. "I'll be real quiet. You don't have to answer, you can even fall right asleep at any time."