'No,' he said.
'You promise?'
'I promise.'
'Okay then.' She tried to sound breezily confident. 'I'm trusting you, Ray Grant.'
She stood up slowly, then turned into the hallway. I must be crazy, she told herself. This is the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life. She pretended to walk down the hall but stopped. She heard the little musical chime of his cell phone being turned on.
'Hi,' came Ray's voice, echoing from the kitchen. 'I'm going to be late… no, no, the house is fine. The roof has a few years to go. I'll be there before nine… Did she clean you?… Good. How's the pain?… Remember, the doctor said you could-I'll come home now, Dad, if it hurts too-… well, okay, but I want you to please please take it if- there's no reason to-okay?… I think they're playing Baltimore again, just turn it on… Yeah, okay, I'll see you then.'
She heard him snap the phone shut and she hurried to her bedroom. She kicked off her shoes, pulled back the covers.
'Hey there,' Ray said in the doorway.
'Hi.' She turned around. It had been years since she'd been undressed in front of a man. She didn't look as good as she used to, no getting around it. 'You promised, remember?'
He flicked off the light. They kissed in the darkness, then she pulled away and sat on the bed to finish undressing. 'Honestly, I never do this,' she protested aloud. 'It's not like me at all.'
He didn't say anything.
'Is your silence judgmental?'
'Nope.'
'What is it?'
'Confessional,' Ray said.
'That's a funny word. What are you confessing to?'
'My own weaknesses.'
'You don't look weak to me.'
He had undressed and came now and stood before her. She put her hands on his chest first and felt the warm firmness of the muscles there. He was relaxed, which relaxed her.
'You surprised me,' came his voice. 'Didn't see it coming.'
'You might be lying,' she whispered. 'But I appreciate the attempt.' She leaned into him and kissed his belly and drew her hands down the rippled flank of his stomach and felt a long section of puckered, knotty flesh.
'Oh,' she said. 'What?'
'Scar,' he answered in the dark, voice soft. 'Old scar.'
'What did it?'
'Something very hot.'
But she barely heard this. She drew her hands around the hard arc of his buttocks, felt the muscle there. Now her eyes were closed. She felt a little dizzy. Someday I will be an old woman and will need things to remember, she told herself. This makes me happy. She moved her hands again.
'That's good,' he said.
Later, after he had not killed her, she rolled in the damp sheets. Rolled ecstatically, as if at the edge of a far dream. I had forgotten, she thought, I'd actually forgotten.
'You hungry?' she murmured. 'We never had dinner.'
'Absolutely.'
They stood languidly, in no hurry. In the half-light she saw the scar on Ray's stomach. Patchy skin grafts, maybe a couple of operations. What did it feel like to have the front of your stomach burned off? Don't ask him, she told herself, he doesn't want to talk about it.
She pulled on a robe as he slipped into his pants. In the kitchen he sat in a wooden chair while she made pasta and a quick salad. He also knotted his shoes, slipped his cell phone into his pocket, and put his baseball cap back on. For a moment she worried that he was eager to leave, that she had disappointed him somehow. But then he leaned back in the chair and her anxiety passed. She lit a candle and opened a bottle of wine. I'm going to make a little toast to the pleasures of sexual intercourse, she thought. She took out two glasses, poured wine in them, and set the table, feeling better than she had felt in-oh, God, in years. Maybe we'll do it again tonight, she hoped. I'm going to keep this guy here to the last minute. She glanced at the clock, knowing her mother would call before too long, exactly what she didn't want. This reminded her of Ray's father.
'Do you need to call your dad?' she asked.
'He's probably watching the Yankees game. I'll need to check in, though.'
By phone? Or did he have to go back to his father's house? She was about to ask when she noticed car lights slide up her driveway.
'Weird.'
'What?' asked Ray.
Holding the steaming pot of pasta, she glanced out her kitchen door.
'It's a limousine in the driveway. A man is getting out. More men.'
She took a step backward.
'You're not expecting anyone?'
'No.' She looked again. 'They're checking out your truck.'
'I forgot to lock it.'
'They're not opening the-they're coming here, I think!'
The large figure knocked on the glass of the door. Ray stood up. Now a hand pounded the glass.
'Hello?' she called anxiously. 'Who is it?'
The pane of glass above the door handle shattered. She screamed and jumped back behind the kitchen table.
A gloved hand reached in past the broken glass and unlocked the door. The hand disappeared. In stepped a big Chinese man in a black suit. He moved to one side and three more Chinese men came in.
'Ray,' said the first man, pointing. 'You go with us.'
Ray moved between her and the men, protecting her. 'Who are you guys?'
They didn't answer. The first Chinese man pulled back his coat to show his gun. Two of the others slipped behind Ray.
'Miss lady,' said the Chinese man. 'Do not call the police. Or we will come back here and'-he saw the pot of pasta in her hand-'and we will eat up your bad noodles.'
The two men put their hands on Ray's shoulders. A tremor ran through him, she sensed, a desire to respond violently that he repressed right away. He looked at her. 'It's all right,' he said. 'Don't call the police. I mean it.'
But she knew it wasn't all right. She stood at the kitchen door as they dragged Ray down the steps and into the limo.
Was this really happening?
She wanted to scream, she needed to scream. They were taking him away! The doors shut, and the long car reversed smoothly out of the driveway, then disappeared.
What to do? Shouldn't she do something? She gazed down at the broken glass on her kitchen floor. Her hands shook. They could have hurt her. What were they going to do to Ray? He didn't know the men, but-but what? He accepted their presence, she realized, as if he had quickly figured out who they were. She picked up the phone. Ray said don't call, so I won't, she thought. No, actually I will. She started to dial the police. But stopped… maybe it would make things worse for Ray, and she couldn't take that chance.
Instead she slipped the phone in her robe pocket and went out the kitchen door. Ray's red truck sat in the same place in the driveway parallel to hers, and she tried the passenger door. It opened. She stepped up high and climbed inside, aware that the cab light inside illuminated her to anyone driving by or looking out a window. She was expecting to find fast-food wrappers, coffee cups, all the usual guy-in-a-truck junk. Instead she found a clipboard with Ray's father's name and address on it and notes Ray had taken on the house. She inspected his tight, careful handwriting. Under the clipboard lay three books, one on the effect China was having on the global economy,
