In the Night Room

saw his face, she said, “You really don’t want to do this, do you?”

Tim ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “I was a little dizzy. Let’s meet the groom.”

With a sudden desire for a show of ceremony, he took Willy’s arm and escorted her down the sidewalk to his brother’s house. The attention made her happy, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

A second after Tim rang the bell, the door flew open upon a transformed Philip Underhill. In place of a boxy suit, cheap white shirt, and deliberately nondescript necktie, a uniform Philip had worn nearly every day of the past twenty-five years, he had on a blue button-down shirt and khakis—hardly a revolutionary getup, but pretty radical for Philip. The rimless glasses had been replaced by tortoiseshell frames; his thinning hair was parted on the left and had grown long enough to touch the tops of his ears. He had lost at least thirty pounds. Most amazing of all was that he appeared to be smiling.

Although Tim had been prepared in advance by their recent telephone conversation, his first response to this transformation was to think, That woman ruined my brother! His second reflection was that the effects of ruination had been entirely beneficial. The immediate result of these changes in style had been to make Philip Underhill look more intelligent. He also appeared to be a good deal friendlier than his earlier incarnation.

“Boy,” Tim said, holding out a hand. “You aren’t even recognizable.”

Philip grasped his forearm and pulled him into an embrace. Well past the sort of phenomenon described as “astonishing,” this verged upon the miraculous. So did his greeting.

“Good, I don’t want to be recognizable. I’m so glad you’re here! That’s the perfect wedding present, Tim.”

“I’ll come to all your weddings,” Tim said.

Philip drew him into the house and demanded to be introduced to “this beautiful companion of yours.”

Tim’s efforts to think of some way to account for Willy disintegrated when he took in what had happened to the living room. “You changed everything. Where’s the old furniture?”

“Goodwill or the junk heap. China helped me pick out this new stuff. I want to know what you think, but, please, first introduce me to your friend.”

Tim pronounced Willy’s name and stalled, unable to think of what to say next.

“I’m one of your brother’s fictional characters,” Willy said, shaking Philip’s hand. “It’s a wonderful job, full of excitement, but the money’s no good.”

“My brother should pay you just for spending time with him.”

Another amazement—Philip had made a joke.

“Oh, he’s easy to spend time with. I’m quite attached to him.”

As Philip dealt with the possibilities suggested by Willy’s statement, Tim let his initial impression of the living room separate itself out into the details of what had stunned him. The transformation was so great that Philip might as well have moved to a different house. Prints and framed photographs hung on the walls. The floor had been sanded and waxed and polished to a warm gleam shared by the pretty little table before the window and the curving arms of several chairs. There were low lamps beside a soft, patterned sofa, a handsome leather chair of remarkable depth with a matching footstool, stacks of books, and vases with cut flowers.

“Philip, this room is beautiful,” he said.

“We’re happy with it. Won’t you please sit down? Can I get you a glass of wine or anything?”

Willy asked for a Coca-Cola, and Tim reeled before the evidence that this formerly fanatical teetotaler had alcoholic beverages in his house and was willing to serve them to his guests.

“I’ll have a Coke, too, Philip. We have an appointment for an interview at the Foundlings’ Shelter in about an hour, so it’s better if I don’t drink. But you’re one surprise after another.”

“Pop might have been an alcoholic, but there was no reason I shouldn’t let myself and my guests enjoy one of life’s simple pleasures. Why are you being interviewed at the Foundlings’ Home?”

“I’m not. I’m interviewing someone for a new project.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about it when I get back.” Philip smiled at them, let his gaze linger on Willy for a moment, then smiled again at Tim before he left the room.

Tim smacked his forehead. “That’s not Philip. That’s one of those pod people from Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Do you know the shit he used to put me through about drinking?”

“Dimly,” Willy said.

“She got him to change this room,” he said, musing. “That must have required brain surgery and a heart transplant. He would never have done anything to this room.”

“Who is ‘she’?” Willy asked.

Philip, carrying a tray with two glasses filled with ice and Coca-Cola into the room, had heard this question. “She, dear Willy, is China Beech, the woman who rescued me from grief and depression and made a human being of me. I wish she were here now, but she had some business to attend to. You’ll meet her at our wedding, though. I know you’ll love her. Everyone loves China.”

“What kind of business?” Tim asked.

“I’m not too sure. Something to do with one of her buildings, probably.”

“Her buildings?”

“China has buildings here and there, all over town.”

“What do you mean, she has buildings?”

“She owns them. Some are commercial, some are residential, but the apartment buildings are more trouble than they’re worth. I tell her she should cash out, let somebody inherit the worries, but she’s a little sentimental about those apartment buildings. They were where her father started, you know.”

“Your fiancee inherited property from her father?” Tim felt as though he were trying to run uphill through a muddy field.

“Well, yeah, Bill Beech.”

Apparently, land mines dotted the muddy field.

“China’s father was the William Beech?” William Beech had once owned half of downtown Millhaven.

“Didn’t I just tell you that? Willy, how did you and Tim get together? Were you a student of his? That’s how I met China—she was one of our student teachers, and I was, well, her mentor, I guess you could say.”

“We met at a reading of his,” Willy said. “When he learned that I was from Millhaven, too, we decided to drive out here together.”

“You drove?”

“All the way. I thought you told me that your girlfriend was an exotic dancer.”

“That was kind of an in-joke. She’s a tango dancer. So am I, although I’m not nearly as good as she is. She makes me look okay, though. We’re thinking of entering contests one day.”

Philip not only made jokes, he made in-jokes. He danced the tango. He was thinking of entering contests.

“You took me seriously, huh? That’s pretty funny. An exotic dancer is really a stripper, isn’t that right? China’s going to love that. I hope she gets back before you have to go.”

“How long have you known her?”

Philip looked a bit embarrassed. “I met China in September of last year. She helped me deal with my grief. I should say, she helped me to feel my grief.”

He paused. For a short time, it seemed likely that he would start crying. “I never dreamed a woman like that could want to marry me. It’s unbelievable. She let God into my life, and everything has been getting better and better ever since.”

“It seems to have done you no end of good.”

“ ‘No end of good,’ ” Philip said. “ ‘No end of good.’ What a beautiful phrase.” He hesitated. “I don’t suppose you’d like me to talk about my faith, and salvation, and Jesus Christ, and all that?”

“I want you to talk about anything you feel like talking about.”

“I’d like to hear you talk about God,” Willy said. “The god I know never explains anything.”

Philip smiled. “Tim, you’re just being polite. And Willy, one of the main problems with gods is that they seldom feel the need to explain themselves. If you have any genuine interest, ask me about it later. All right?”