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Prologue

My name, a compound of my parents’ surnames, is an example of how they liked to invent symbols of equality where there was none. The result, Cookson Selway, sounds more like an industry than a person, I realize, and hints quietly of blue blood, though nothing could be farther from the truth. I was born, aptly enough under the sign of the bull, to a family of cattle farmers in the Deep South. I’m known to friends as Cook, and my wife, in bed, often calls me Cookie. (It has a strange, unnameable effect on a postorgasmic man, while he still tingles, to be called Cookie.) My mother, when I was a kid, did not call me Cookie, though she might have. The daughter of lazy, tyrannical people, she had quit school and married my father when she was fourteen, the foundation stone in what was to become a great monument of sacrifice to him and his ways and demands. She very soon gave birth to a boy, not me, then, eighteen months later, to a girl; a hiatus of some sort was struck, lasting eight years, then a new era of feeling ensued in which she gave birth to another boy, also not me, eighteen months after that, I was born, the fourth, last, and youngest child, a mutant, wrong-sexed. I was supposed to be a girl in order to satisfy my mother’s juvenile fetish for matched pairs, and already possessed of the deep-cut, heroic will of a virtuoso sacrificer, she wasn’t to be confused by the fact of my gender and raised me as a girl anyway. She wanted a girl, you see, and after everything she’d suffered, after giving up her youth, freedom, and figure, was this so much to ask?

Of course, my mother never actually had any freedom to give up. She was an incarnation of the old lines:

In the heart of Dixie, in the fifties, the roles of girls and boys were as avidly defined as those of race (I imagine they still are). While my brothers learned to play football, drive the combine, and operate the feed mill, I aided my mother in the house and studied piano. Eventually, at around the age of eight, I mounted the protest my father had failed to mount on my behalf and began acquiring all sorts of dubious skills proper to a man—how to assemble a forty-foot grain bin from corrugated steel, how to pull barbed wire taut around a creosote post and hammer in a staple, how to cuss out the help. But before that, during the important, formative, preschool years, something else altogether went on: when the menfolk weren’t around, which was most of the time, my mother and my teenaged sister would dress me in a pink organdy jumper, paint my nails, and serve tea in miniature cups to my sister’s half-dozen toddler-size bride dolls.

It is probably no surprise that these early experiences resulted in a few trouble spots during adolescence regarding my sexual orientation. I enjoyed a longer than usual adolescence (well into my twenties), assisted by the use of recreational drugs and the general sway of the counterculture, which, it seems to me, prodded all of us in the direction of puerility. For a while in my extended youth, I became what the army recruiting office calls a “practicing homosexual,” though I didn’t practice enough to get very good at it. Maybe my mother’s little games had given me a heightened sense of maleness and femaleness, and though sex with three of my male friends (the mystery of their willingness has earned them each a lasting place in my heart) answered some curious call I couldn’t possibly have named, having to do indistinctly with the failures of my father, I met with a recurrent physical awkwardness, a quandary about what went where and when and why. Trying to honor the maxim “If you think you might be, you probably are” required me to ignore the truth that I fell in love with girls at the drop of a hat, a truth I eventually embraced, and with my first, belated step into heterosexual waters (Linda Toadvines, 1974, Mount Tamalpais, dawn, her sleeping bag), I discovered what I suppose the rest of the world took for granted: matters of equipment were entirely self-evident. In any case, because of a weird childhood, I believe I came of age with capacities to be sexual in ways that many men would shun, and that many other men would claim to shun. I mention all this because it will count for something later on. If I didn’t mention it, some good nose would no doubt detect a whiff, later in the story, of those dark academic truffles, homosexual overtones.)

What else? My father bloomed into what I had long suspected him to be, a sociopath: In 1967, in a fit of temper, he strangled to death a Negro hired hand and was convicted by an all-white jury, who recommended mercy to a sympathetic judge old enough to remember Reconstruction. Daddy was sentenced to seven years in the state penitentiary (after all, the Negro had provoked him), paroled in two. I got the hell out of the South as soon as I could (the summer after high school graduation), moved to Venice, California, dropped out, turned on, tuned out, moved to Manhattan, sold cocaine for a living, made a lot of money, opened a restaurant (honoring the theory that we somehow live into our names, I suppose), got married (Ellen, a mystery writer), became a father (Jordan, a girl, called Jordie), checked myself into the detox unit at Saint Vincent’s (shortly after Jordie’s first birthday), got clean and sober, opened two more restaurants, made a shocking amount of money, sold everything, got the hell out of New York moved to Cambridge, Mass., bought a two-hundred-year-old house on a full-acre lot, got a dog (Spencer, a Dalmatian), and retired at the age of thirty-nine to manage my considerable (socially and environmentally responsible) investments.

Before Jordie came along, Ellen miscarried twice. Then Jordie was born with a ventricular septal deviation—a hole in the wall between two chambers of her heart. She also developed infantile dysentery during the first weeks of life, causing her to drop below her birth weight, and it seemed for some time that she might still be wrestling with the angels. She recovered from the dysentery through round-the-clock breast feeding, and the VSD slowly healed itself over two years. Growing up, she has been the subject of too much scrutiny from both Ellen and me—our focus on her, which should have been diffused among three children, has been too intense, at fifteen, she is overly demanding of herself and less self-confident than we would wish, but otherwise seems to have survived the grip of our love with a minimum of damage.

Some years ago, Ellen lost her closest friends (one to AIDS, one to breast cancer, both in their thirties), and during the same period, her parents were killed in a car crash, leaving her to disentangle the web of a shabby estate. Lines of chronic worry inscribe her face, and at least half of those lines have my name on them. Though she has grown more interesting, more successful, and more beautiful in middle age, the events of the story I’m about to tell have driven her into retreat—to a place somewhere off the mainland of our marriage. On our finer days, in the finer hours, I think I recognize in her eyes the recognition of our passion and history. But there are other times, and plenty of them, when she looks at me as if a memory of loss and disappointment were all that connected us. I believe that this is temporary. I cling today to hope as doggedly as I once chased after drink and drugs. As if it were all that mattered to me. As if it were my only friend.

Soon, God willing, I’ll turn forty-four. I still have all my teeth and a full head of hair. I’m in exceptionally good health (apart from a developing arthritis in my right shoulder), with an exceptionally good cholesterol level. I’m five feet ten and weigh in at 162 on the scale at the Mount Auburn Club, where I swim and torture myself on the Cybex machines. I belong to an all-day/all-night gun club in Dorchester, where I go with a friend about once a month for target practice. I own a thirty-nine-year-old Ruger semiautomatic .22-caliber pistol. I don’t believe in hunting for sport, but I do believe most of the Freudian stuff about why men (and some women) enjoy packing and shooting pistols. I read and appreciate poetry, chiefly because it’s short and invites contemplation. (I’m the only person I know who reads serious poetry, and I’m careful about whom I reveal this clandestine habit to.) My favorite modern poet is John Berryman, the drunk, though his being a drunk hardly distinguishes him among modern poets. My favorite poems of his are the “Eleven Addresses to the Lord,” in which he says, “I only as far as gratitude & awe/confidently & absolutely go” (he’s talking about God) and “Unite my various soul,/sole watchman of the wide & single stars” (also God). I am most at-home at home. Home is where my deepest interests reside—the garden, the kitchen, the library, the bedroom. I have become, and remain, a man I would have scoffed at and secretly envied only a few years ago, a simple, extraordinarily lucky man whose great loves are his wife, his daughter, his house, and his dog.

I’ve noticed that chronicling the past often makes all things seem fateful. Nothing in my background looks especially like preparation for a tryst with evil, and yet, afterward, some things do begin to glow that way. Before we went to England last year, I thought my future apparent, and I saw myself essentially formed, stationed at its helm, my most flagrant troubles already behind me.

Chapter One

ONE MONDAY MORNING ABOUT a year and a half ago, in late autumn, I woke with a vague awareness of a long dullish instrument of some kind, maybe the butt end of a medieval halberd, being alternately inserted and withdrawn at the small of my back. It was rhythmic and hot, and had I been sedated in just the right way—my personal choice: a bolus of morphine popped into an IV—I could have learned to live with it quite peaceably. I rose from the bed and walked into the bathroom, placing my hand at the pain’s nucleus and uttering some low, unidentifiable animal noises. It was not yet dawn, and I had to turn on a light. I was naked, and when I stood before the full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door, I was stunned by the extreme list of me. Overnight, I had changed from a reasonably vertical person into someone I hardly recognized—the offspring perhaps of an incestuous union, escaped downstairs from his mirrorless attic cell to view his deformity for the first time.

A half-asleep Ellen pushed open the door, displacing the ghoul in the mirror. She was wearing my favorite nightie, a tiger print. “Oh, honey,” she said. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t know,” I said, turning down the corners of my mouth in mock sadness, though I really was sad. “Look at me.”

She tried to match the expression on my face and, after a moment, said, “Sweetie, you’re bent.”

I felt a paradoxical rush of pleasure—despite the grim diagnosis—at having been properly diagnosed.

Later in the morning, I telephoned a friend, famous for his back trouble, who gave me the number of his chiropractor in nearby Lexington. Forthwith, I was examined, x-rayed, and interrogated about my recent movements, which included, by my lights, nothing remarkable. The day before, Sunday, I had raked leaves in the yard for a good part of the morning, read the Times for a good part of the afternoon, then Ellen and I had gone for an early dinner of rainbow trout at our favorite wood-grill restaurant, returned home, and made love before falling asleep. This roster seemed to me incriminating only in the degree to which it reflected a life of shameless luxury. But the chiropractor, a man about my own age, who wore the white turban and white tunic of what I assumed to be a Muslim sect, nodded knowingly and smiled at me with just the slightest hint of pity. With no apparent concern for the pain I was in, or for the difficulty I had driving a car, he told me to return the next day and we would look at the “film” (the X rays). He asked me to write a check.

The following afternoon, he put me stomach-down on his table and made a few painful adjustments to my spine—the usual chiropractic techniques—and to distract myself, I asked him some questions about his life. My face rested in a kind of face-size padded doughnut, through which I could study the arrangement of the tricolored tiles on the floor of his treatment room. I learned that the chiropractor had been born and raised in Minnesota, but his peculiar path had led him to become a Sikh. In keeping with the ritual observances of this sect, he’d grown his beard down to his belly button. His Panjabi name meant “tiger.” (It was he who introduced me, that morning on the table, to the concept of one’s growing into one’s name.) All in all, he seemed quite ordinary for someone who was dressed the way he was, his costume and his down-home Midwest way of talking (his garb and his gab) collided comically, as if he were en route to a Halloween party.

When we were finished, he invited me into his office, where we sat across from each other in identical black leather swivel chairs and looked at the X rays, a frontal view and a lateral, which he’d clipped up onto a light box. He told me that my sacroiliac joint on the right side was “all jammed up.” He accounted for the extreme deviation in my spine this way: “You are leaning away from the pain.”

I thought this explanation logical in spite of its New Age timbre, and though he went on a minute longer, I hardly heard a word: Immediately, I had been strangely moved by the portrait of my errant insides, and what demanded my attention now—all my attention—was the vivid image, in the frontal view, of an infant’s face, centered in the cavity of my pelvic girdle, a small face wise beyond its years, serious and purposeful, lips pursed just so, as if, in the moment of X ray, it had been on the brink of articulating some critical truth. I realize how this sounds, and the fact that the child appeared to be outfitted for commedia dell’arte clouded rather than clarified anything—my hip joints the padded shoulders of the child’s dress coat, the extravagant wings of my pubis bones a high-starched, bright-white Elizabethan collar.

I interrupted the chiropractor. “Excuse me,” I said, “but do you see that face—that child’s face—right there in the area of my sacrum?”

It was impossible to avoid the thought of male pregnancy, and from somewhere in the back of my mind I seemed to recall an Islamic belief that Muhammad, when he returned, would be born of a man. I think, in fact, that this is balderdash, insulting to Muslims around the world. I knew Sikhism to be an amalgam of Muslim and Hindu elements, but I didn’t know which Muslim elements it actually embraced. I hoped my question had not offended the chiropractor. He looked at me, not in an unfriendly way, but not entirely amused either.

He said, “You’re not one of those weirdos who see the face of Jesus in tortillas and such, are you?”

“Not yet I’m not,” I said, by which I meant simply that, so far, I had not seen the face of Jesus in a tortilla. I suddenly thought of the chiropractor’s Presbyterian parents, somewhere in the low green hills outside Minneapolis, still trying to figure out where they’d gone so terribly wrong. And I was fighting an urge to reach across the short distance between us—between me and the chiropractor—and give his long, long beard a little rank-pulling tug.

But driving home—or, more accurately, daydreaming in a bottleneck on Route—I thought, I am the kind of person who sees the face of Jesus in tortillas and such. That’s exactly the kind of person I am.

Over the next three weeks, the mysterious back pain slowly went away. I interpreted it as a rite of passage: in case I hadn’t already noticed, I was fully inside the door of middle age. I requested and acquired my X ray (the interesting, frontal-view shot) from the chiropractor. I had already told Ellen about the face of the child in my sacrum, and when I first brought the X ray home and showed it to her, she said, “Oh, yeah … I think I see what you mean … right there,” pointing to a different area entirely. I sometimes hauled the X ray out at Ellen’s dinner parties and showed it to the guests, but no one was ever especially taken with it, let alone awed or flabbergasted, as I expected and wanted them to be. I began to develop a sophomoric philosophy around the fact that I could see the face clearly when others apparently couldn’t—a philosophy involving questions about “reality” and the nature of seeing.

One night, after we’d had Ellen’s publisher and his wife over to dinner, I said to Ellen, “Isn’t it amazing that so much of what we see—so much of what we can see—is determined merely by what we’re inclined to see?”

We were in bed. She had been reading. I had been thinking, the blank, white-painted bedroom ceiling for a muse. “And so much of what we’re inclined to see,” I added, “is determined by what we have a talent for seeing.”

Ellen doesn’t especially like to be interrupted when she’s reading. Without shifting her eyes from the page, she said, barely audibly, “Yeah, life’s just one big Rorschach test, isn’t it.”

She didn’t want me to bring out the X ray at her dinner parties anymore, I could tell.

I had grown up with a father, a murderer, who made no distinction between religion and superstition, and rejected both as the weak stuff of women. My mother, on the other hand, who also made no such distinction, heartily embraced both. She believed (and still believes, I suppose) in an Orwellian God who sees all our actions, hears even our thoughts, and remembers everything. We will be judged at the end of time and punished for our sins, sin being just what you would think: lying, stealing, cheating, taking the name of the Lord in vain, sex outside marriage, sex inside marriage if you enjoy it, wishing to lie, steal, cheat, or take the name of the Lord in vain, wishing for sex outside marriage, wishing to enjoy sex in marriage. She believed very strongly in the devil and explained to us children that my father’s powder-keg comportment and his other flaws were the result of his being possessed of the devil. She tended to see signs of the Apocalypse—unusual weather, the conflicts in the Holy Land—and to be actively waiting for it: not living, but waiting. She sensed vague forebodings and would cancel trips and even brief outings at the last minute because she had a “bad feeling.” Once, shortly after my oldest brother had gone off to college in Kentucky, I accidentally knocked his framed photograph off the piano in our living room, breaking the glass. My mother, nearly hysterical, beat me with my father’s belt, convinced that “something bad” would now befall my brother—and, as if shed caught me sticking pins into a voodoo doll, his ill fate would be my fault, the fault at least of my carelessness. To her, the invisible world was something you had to be constantly on the lookout for, something requiring extra vigilance. Most things were a great deal more than they seemed, having two lives: the apparent one and what the apparent one stood for.

This was an easy concept for a child to grasp—I gave myself to it thoroughly—because it spoke to how I experienced much of the world, as very large and layered, and full of marvels and horrors in which there was always more than met the eye. It was a childlike understanding, a newly immigrated understanding (young children are like immigrants), and it was unseemly in my mother only because she was supposed to be an adult. I don’t mean to say that a mature person doesn’t have religion or believe in the supernatural. I only mean that a mature person is able to distinguish between what’s genuinely spiritual and what’s hokum, and that the ability to distinguish is one of the things that define us as mature.

There was nothing especially supernatural about my sixteenth-century child of the X ray, my sacral prodigy. He was mainly, as Ellen had so subtly implied, a Rorschachian thing. But in his wake, some strange and forgotten moments from my childhood began to surface. I recalled, for example, a night when I was awakened by my father and told to go sit with my mother, Mother was sick, he was trying to phone the doctor (the only telephone in our old farmhouse was in the kitchen), and he didn’t want to leave her alone. Before I reached her bedroom—separate from my father’s—I could hear the frightening sound of her moaning. She lay on her bed, on her back, under the covers, her eyes boarded up by fear, uttering an alternately expiring and resurgent wail of pain, not exactly human, not exactly animal, more like a wind trapped in a cave, and every once in a while she would ride out words over it, always the same: “Oh please God don’t let me die, oh please God don’t let me die, oh please God don’t let me die …”

It turned out that one of her fallopian tubes had got twisted somehow, a problem that, like a great number of things in the South, led eventually to surgery.

I should say that I was seven years old. I never lost the memory of that night, striking as it was, and recalling it later in life, I reasonably concluded, from the fact of my father’s fetching the youngest rather than the oldest child, that she had specifically requested me. But inside the memory there was a moment I had mislaid, a moment when she reached for my hand and I withheld it, a moment when I exploited her extreme weakened state and refused, just this once, to let her touch me. For an instant, her eyes “opened,” for they were already open, and I saw, not shock or hurt or reprimand, but something like compassion. The room grew glaring white, we seemed to sit somewhere on a vast beach—white sand, white sky, the sibilance of a distant surf—and I could hear my mother’s voice inside my mind, compassionately, it said, I will not leave you though you want me to, and then we were back in the room, my father leaning over her, telling her that he’d been unable to reach her doctor and had therefore sent for his own. “I don’t want that quack … I don’t want that quack … I wouldn’t send a dog to that quack,” my mother bawled, and my father, having failed again, said, “Well, what the hell do you want me to do, Frances?” real, historical hatred in his eyes.

When I recalled this night from time to time over the years, it could be that these recollections included the weird transportation to the vast white beach. If so, I probably assumed that I’d dropped off to sleep for a minute on my mother’s bed and only dreamed the part about the beach. In my most recent recollection, however, shortly after my back trouble, this did not seem to be the case: I saw the fleeting vision of the beach as linked with the intensity of my mother’s pain and her extreme psychic energy at the moment of my refusing her hand, it seemed to me that we’d been pushed by the significance of the occasion into another spectrum, where we were afforded a kind of poetical elaboration of the actual, accessible events.

Then I recalled another, similar experience, in which I was “spoken to” by a young man on a bus. I was probably about twelve and was taking the county bus downtown to the Roxy, which was running a horror film festival, spotlighting Vincent Price, today’s bill a double feature of House on Haunted Hill and Horrors of the Black Museum. Though I had made this trip on the bus a few times with my mother or older brother, this was my first solo flight, and I was preoccupied with the need to signal the driver and get off at the right stop. I wasn’t a fan of Vincent Price—frankly (may he rest in peace), I thought he tended to ruin whatever movies he was in by overplaying every scene. I suppose I had already begun to recognize that ghoulishness wasn’t truly scary. Scary was the surprise lurking beneath the altogether ordinary surface, the earwigs writhing inside the mailbox. (What I remember of Horrors of the Black Museum—which didn’t have Vincent Price in it—is the moment when a character lifts a pair of binoculars to her eyes and two tenpenny nails pop out, stabbing her blind.) On the bus, a frail-looking black boy, a teenager, sat several rows behind me; he wore a white dress shirt, buttoned primly at the neck. Near the end of the ride, he and I were the only passengers left on the bus. Secretly, I had begun to panic, for nothing I was seeing out the bus window seemed the least bit familiar to me; I feared that I had missed my stop already, and though I could have simply asked the driver to let me off at the Roxy, some shyness bordering on paralysis prevented me. Several times I turned around and looked at the teenager—I don’t know why, I felt compelled in some way—and sure enough, on the fourth or fifth glance, the sound of the bus’s engine grew muffled and distant, there was a change in the light as if the sun had gone behind a cloud, and the boy leaned out from the waist, tilting his head toward the center of the aisle. It suddenly seemed to me that I was at the bottom of a well, looking up, and that the sides of this well were lined with shelves, the boy, perched like a bird on one of these shelves and looking down at me, spoke to me without moving his lips. “Next stop, sonny,” was all he said—not exactly something to inscribe in stone, but just what I needed at the time—and then everything went quickly back to normal. I pulled the cord to signal the driver. Before getting off, I looked once more at the boy, he was smiling a kind of pointed, naughty smile, as if something taboo had passed between us.

I recalled maybe a half-dozen similar experiences, none any more significant than these two, and I wondered what, as a child, I had made of them. I thought I’d been an easily frightened boy, and yet here, in the memory of the bus, I found myself at the age of twelve going alone to horror movies. It occurred to me that by this time I had made a friend of fear, the way a soldier, thrown by fate into constant, isolated companionship with a captor, will grow to love what he’s supposed to hate, his enemy. Fear was, after all, a kind of eternal flame in our house, fueled by my mother’s otherworldliness and my father’s rage, the abiding promises of doom and disorder. The frayed string between life and death, stretched taut across my daily conduct, got plucked with regularity. Death was as ready as the nearest electrical outlet, the lye beneath the kitchen sink, bluing atop the washer, oily rags in the attic, the mad dog run loose in the road, the drunk-driven truck, lightning in a storm, the escaped convict, the gulf with its undertow and sharks and hurricanes, the pond with its cottonmouths and plain sucking bottomlessness. The supernatural had quite a candle to hold up next to such formidable agents of the natural world, and I suppose those occasions of apparent telepathy didn’t seem as noteworthy then, when they happened, as they did when later recalled.

In any case, the eventual result of all this recollection was the development of a personal theory: I came to believe that as a child I had possessed a small gift, an extrasensory capacity, not exceptional, but actual, my drinking and drugging, which began early in adolescence and burgeoned for more than fifteen years, pickled this gift, put it in a preserving sleep, and after almost thirteen years of abstinence, it began to reemerge.

I can tell you the exact moment when the random pitches of this theory formed a coherent melodic line. It was the dead of winter, in Cambridge, early February, eight months before we would leave for England. Just recently, we had finally arrived at the decision to allow Jordie, the following autumn, to enter a private boarding school, a two-hour drive away, in Connecticut. Jordie had been at us for some time about where she would go after graduating eighth grade, her desires advanced to us in idioms of dire urgency. Her two best friends in the whole entire world, to whom she was totally close and from whom she was totally inseparable, were going to the school in Connecticut, she would come home every single weekend if we absolutely insisted, it wasn’t as if she were still a baby or something, she would never ever be happy anywhere else, and quite simply, if we didn’t let her go, she would be depressed for the rest of her life and die. Of course Ellen and I yielded in the face of such persuasiveness. And about a week later, Ellen said to me, in the kitchen, “Cook, I’ve been thinking …” She didn’t look at me as she spoke, but went on rinsing plates in the sink and placing them in the racks of the dishwasher. It was pitch black outside, however, and I could see her face reflected in the kitchen window behind the sink. “By next fall,” she said, “Flora will be on her way to London.” (Flora was Ellen’s character, the young Episcopal priest who did the sleuthing in her mystery stories.) “If Jordie’s going to be away at school, I was thinking we might—”

“Well, it would make that part of the story much easier to write,” she said.

Jordie, who from an early age had perfected the ability to hear every word of our conversations from several rooms away, appeared from nowhere, throwing open the kitchen’s swinging door with a kind of body block. Bare-legged, barefooted, she wore an enormous black sweater, the sleeves of which hung down about a foot below her hands, keeping her hands inside the sleeves—using them like flippers—she took a glass from the cabinet, opened the refrigerator, poured some orange juice, said, “I think it’s a fabulous idea,” and left the room.

And thus the plan was hatched for us to go to England. We would take a flat somewhere in London for about a month, Ellen could do research and write, soak up the atmosphere she needed for her book, and my life (of chiefly improvisation) would continue as it usually did, only in a different setting. We both felt excited by the prospect, and yet there was the melancholy signal too—in the fact that we could go to England for a month—of our lives changing drastically with Jordie’s departure, and sooner than we’d expected.

Later that same night, I dozed off on the couch in the library, where I’d been reading. When I awakened, it was after midnight, the house entirely quiet, Ellen and Jordie upstairs asleep. Spencer, my Dalmatian, slept at the hearth, loyal to what was left of the fire, a few large, still-glowing, still-smoking chunks beneath the grate.

My sitting up roused him, and he quickly executed his yogalike stretches, front and back legs. I let him out the library’s French doors into the yard, which was blanketed with a good half foot of snow. The floodlights were on, and I stood at the doors for a minute, watching him sniff around the fir trees at the back of the lot. The quiet of the house, the snow’s general insulation, the late hour, my newly wakened state, the dreamy floodlit yard with its long, hard shadows, all combined to make me susceptible to whatever might come along. I could almost say I was meditative—certainly there was that oddness of being poised on the cusp between two worlds, looking from a warm room onto a frozen terrain. Perhaps my eyes drifted away to the dying fire for a moment. Then Spencer was on his way back to the terrace and the windows, and I opened the door a few inches in anticipation.

But was it indeed Spencer, our sweet-tempered Dalmatian, who was headed for the door? The beast trotting toward me in the snow was a dog, no question about that, but larger, taller, rangier than Spencer, and entirely white, without spots. I thought my eyes failed me—in a second, he would look as he was supposed to look—but instead, as the animal gained the terrace and the brilliance of the floodlights, I caught sight of its own eyes, which were albinic pink and trained directly on me. I slammed the door shut and experienced a momentary blankness—my blood had abandoned me, my adrenal glands were running the show now, every joint in my body went weak-kneed—and then suddenly there was Spencer, spots and brown eyes intact, perplexed at my slamming the door in his face, and breathing little foggy aureoles onto the glass panes near my feet.

I allowed him back into the house and gave him many apologetic hugs and kisses. When I went upstairs, my heart was still racing. Ellen had left on a lamp in the bedroom for me and was sleeping with a pillow over her head, to shut out the light. When I climbed into the bed, she stirred, came out from under the pillow, opened her eyes, squinting in the light, and said, “She’s out on the ledge….” Then she rolled over, turning her back to me.

At the sound of my voice, she turned again and looked at me. “Oh, hi,” she said. “Isn’t it late?” Suddenly she raised up on one elbow. “Cook, what’s wrong?” she said. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Lying in the dark a few minutes later, listening to her regular breathing, I would form my theory—or rather, the theory would seem to form in me—of the child’s once lost, now rallying gift, small but actual, nipped by drink in its bud. But in response to her question, I kissed her cheek and said, “Nothing’s wrong … go back to sleep,” for though I still trembled from the fright I’d just had downstairs and could have used some comforting, I felt consumed with shame, as if I’d fallen victim to a squalid crime, as if I’d somehow brought it on myself, through negligence or recklessness, and now I needed to keep my part in it a secret.

Chapter Two

IN AT LEAST ONE instance, I’ve already misrepresented myself. I’ve said that I retired at the age of thirty-nine to manage my investments. Technically this is true, but I managed them for only about three months. Very soon I hired two men for this task—Mike Gildenberg, a tax and investment consultant, and Tony Rosillo, a broker. Mike and Tony telephone regularly, go through the motions of conferring with me, and I enact my part, taking time to consider a suggestion one of them has made—sometimes I’m given a multiple-choice question, a, b, or c—but in the end I do what I’m told. Tony Rosillo lives in New York. We’ve seen each other, briefly, twice in five years. Mike Gildenberg lives in Seattle. I have never actually met him, I’ve never even seen a photograph of him. My connection is to these men’s voices (to their voice signals, actually, bounced off a low-orbit non-synchronous relay station), and I trust their voices in a way I probably wouldn’t trust the men themselves, if I can make that distinction. (Putting the emphasis on the first syllable in Rosillo, Ellen refers to Tony and Mike as “Rosillo and Gildenberg”, if I say to her that the time has come for us to upgrade her Macintosh, she says, “Is that the word from Rosillo and Gildenberg?”) After these several years, their advice frequently reaches beyond the borders of tax and investment. When I mentioned to Mike that we would travel to London in October, he told me which airline had the most legroom, which restaurant in Chelsea served the best Dover sole pan-broiled with garlic, which tobacco shop near Saint James’s Palace had the really good Havanas. When I mentioned the trip to Tony, he told me where we had to stay—a small, quintessential British hotel near Sloane Square, which had a reasonably priced, full-size flat available if you booked far enough ahead. “The Willerton,” he said. “You’ll love this place … it’s like something out of Masterpiece Theatre.”

By late spring, all our arrangements were made: passports, airline reservations, house-sitters, and dog-walkers. I booked the flat at the Willerton, mailed in a hefty deposit, and was faxed back a confirmation. The flat, as described to me by the hotel manager, comprised a bathroom, a small kitchen with eating area, a sitting room, a formal dining room, and two bedrooms. It occupied the top floor of the hotel, with northern and southern exposures, and it would be ours for the month of October.

Then a long, slow-moving summer ensued, in which the most momentous event was Jordie’s finally getting her ears pierced. From the age of eight, she had nagged us to let her have it done, and when she turned ten, we consented. Armed with our permission, she confronted for the first time her actual fear of the procedure, and it was another four years before she bravely entered the piercing chair at The Earring Tree in Harvard Square. She had the right ear done in June, the left in July. (That way she always had one unsore ear to sleep on.) By August she was tanned from visits to the Cape, her hair sun-bleached, her eyes intensely clear and bright. She wore a gold hoop in one ear, a crystal heart dangling from a little chain in the other. I could hardly bear to look at her. All of August, there was almost nothing she could do, no way she could be, that didn’t seem to break my heart. Midday on a Saturday, I would walk into the library and see her out in the sun on the terrace, white tee shirt and shades, languid in a recliner, book unopened in her lap, lemonade and cordless telephone on the paving stones near to hand, while she lay dreaming, infatuated with her immediate future, I stood frozen, ambushed by loss in my shadowy room with its familiar scents of ash and leather. For the first time I experienced our large house as ridiculously large, profligate, I didn’t walk its halls, I roamed them, and everywhere I seemed to encounter the sound of Jordie, singing behind a closed door. Ellen, meanwhile—an alumna of the school Jordie was about to attend—revisited through her daughter’s preparations a happy time in her own youth. For about three weeks she and Jordie were inseparable. They shopped for winter clothes, new bedding, new luggage, packed cardboard boxes with books and tapes and CDs, and endlessly, they talked. They went together for lunches in the Square and talked. They went to movies and somewhere afterward to talk. They went swimming in Walden Pond, and to the hairdresser’s, and talked. Occasionally, I was summoned and asked to get down something—the old humidifier, a folded garment bag—from a high shelf in Jordie’s closet, or sent to the hardware store for more strapping tape. Ellen would beam me a comforting, employer’s smile, the smile a woman gives a workman repairing something in her bedroom, and Jordie would say, “Thank you, Daddy,” in her new, adultish voice, overly sincere.

I took my misery to the Dorchester Gun Club and shot .22-caliber holes in reams of paper targets, sulking and firing away, exactly like a frustrated kindergartner, but for the actual gun with its real bullets.

Labor Day weekend, the last weekend before we would drive Jordie down to Connecticut, three days of rain set in, torrential, mind-boggling rain that saturated the earth and turned the streets to rivers, rain that continued unbroken for hours, that paused for maybe three minutes midday on Sunday, then started up again, harder than ever. Though we weren’t to take Jordie to the school until Tuesday afternoon, she and Ellen had completed their work, bags packed and ready to be carried out the door. The combination of the rain (of being stuck in the house more than usual) and the sight of Jordie’s baggage upstairs in the hall put Spencer in an agitated state. He had difficulty choosing a room to settle in, and once he’d chosen, he couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position. I suppose I overly identified with him, when our eyes met, it was excessively soulful, and his sharp little insistent complaint (which I thought sounded like a large metal wheel grinding to a halt) might have come from my own pinched voice box. With his chronic circle-turning, his throwing himself on the floor with a thud only to rise and move again to repeat the procedure, he seemed to be acting out my feelings precisely. This made me uneasy, this overidentification with the dog, and I seized on the kitchen as a place of worthy purpose. I spent hours preparing dishes chosen for their difficulty and time-consumingness; Ellen would wander in wide-eyed to find me deveining shrimp, skinning tomatoes, coring artichokes. I focused on details, taking solace in the way a caper tossed into hot oil opens and becomes a perfect little black crispy flower.

The rain continued into Monday night. Around eleven-thirty, unable to sleep, I lay on the glider under the covered part of the terrace. If I hadn’t given up cigarettes and booze, I would have been smoking and drinking. Everything about the setting—the time of year, the time of night, the warm air, the sound of the rain—inspired nostalgia, a kind of catchall longing that included cigarettes and whisky and a younger, less levelheaded Ellen, who, instead of saying to me, “Don’t stay up too late,” would have been there next to me, getting good and messy about Jordie’s going away the next day. My longing, which I imagined as a mob of angry men swaggering down a street and growing stronger as they went, suddenly arrived lustily at Ellen’s bedroom door, fully focused now and pounding fists. So after a minute, when I heard the terrace door open behind me, I kept my eyes closed and whispered sexily into the dark, “I conjured you,” smiling and very pleased with myself.

She walked over and stood directly in front of me. A lamp was on in the library, which provided enough light through the windows for me to see the blue fuzzy bathrobe she was wearing, one of her and Ellen’s new purchases.

She lowered her head and began to push her toe against the stone floor, ever so gently, to start the glider moving. “Daddy,” she said after a moment, “my ear hurts.” She touched the lobe of her right ear, gingerly. “I think it might be getting infected again,” she added in an entirely uncommitted tone.

She stopped touching her ear, bringing both her hands to rest in her lap, and said, “I did already.”

The subtler nuances in this little exchange didn’t escape me, its sad attempt at reaching back to an earlier time in our lives, when she had a pain, and I had a remedy she hadn’t already thought of. “Jordie,” I said, “I’m going to miss you.”

“God, Daddy,” she said. “I’m not dying, I’m just going to Connecticut.”

“This rain,” she said, “it’s unbelievable. Do you think it’ll ever stop?”

I hadn’t noticed it before, but indeed I was wearing a shirt Jordie had given me in the spring, something called a Chinese Fortune T-Shirt, mine read, “Sing a song, your creative juices are flowing. Lucky Numbers 18, 28, 3, 9, 51, 38.”

For about ten years, Jordie had lived with the horror of my singing, lived in fear of my bursting into song in any public place. Walking down a street, I would begin to hum “The Way You Do the Things You Do,” quietly to myself, and she would squeeze my arm. “Daddy,” she would whisper, desperately. “Shush.” Driving car pool, I would sometimes begin to sing along with the song on the radio, mortifying her in front of her friends. When she told me to shut up, I would say in my defense that she was repressing my creative juices. Thus the T-shirt.

She bent down and lifted up one cuff of my jeans. “I don’t believe this,” she said. “I gave you those socks.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said. “You’re wearing practically everything I ever gave you.”

“What’s weird?” I said. “I happen to be wearing a few things you gave me. I don’t see what’s so weird.”

“I don’t know,” she said, “it’s just—I don’t know—like I died or something. It’s creepy. I’m just going to Connecticut.”

There was a flash of lightning, followed by a kind of slow-mounting thunder that sounded like a giant boulder rolling closer and closer toward us. And someone turned up the volume on the rain. I thought for a moment that I was beginning to get one of my mother’s “bad feelings.” It occurred to me that if, say, next week, after Jordie was gone, someone should knock her picture off the piano and break the glass, I might beat that person with a belt. I could see myself doing that—not to a child, of course, but possibly to a careless grown-up.

“Jordie,” I said. “I’ve already confessed to the crime you seem to be accusing me of. I’m going to miss you. I freely admit it.”

Her eyes clouded over. “But I don’t want you to,” she said, almost pleading.

Then, suddenly, she was crying and saying what a terrible mistake this had all been, how could she have ever thought for one nanosecond that she could live apart from her mother and me, she’d been foolish and selfish and stupid and totally wrong about everything—all of which caused me to switch sides inside myself and begin to sing the praises of the school, to argue the wisdom of our decision.

“Oh-h-h,” she said, shivering, and I held her for a while as we sat listening to the rain—during which time she grew happy again and was soon kissing me good night, cheerfully, eager to return upstairs, where she would lay out her clothes for the next day. She’d only had a spat with her dashing new love, the future—she’d glimpsed him as the heel he might truly be, she’d come to me to complain, and I’d reassured her that he would probably turn out fine, now, restored to her former bleary-eyed infatuation, she couldn’t wait to return to his arms, penitent over having doubted him.

The next morning, the rain had stopped. The yard was full of apples of an unknown origin, washed down to us from higher ground. They were Baldwins, I think, scattered singly all around and congregated on the uphill side of trees and shrubs. Amazed, Jordie and I did the only sensible thing we could think to do—we gathered them and made a pie for her to take with her to Connecticut.

A Face at the Window

A Novel

Dennis McFarland

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two