one after my mother died. Alma implied that the Judge was lonely, and, looking back, I can see that he probably was. Now and then he would show up at an important dinner or theater opening, some famous conservative woman on his arm, invariably a citizen of the paler nation, but he always managed to convey the impression that these were mutually useful escortings, nothing romantic or sexual. I am aware of no girlfriend: if he had one, he kept her well hidden.
I decide that I do not want to know.
The notes: nowadays, Kimmer leaves on my pillow only articles torn from popular magazines, offering assistance in dealing with the death of a loved one, for she believes I have grieved insufficiently, or perhaps incorrectly. There is no serious scientific evidence that grieving in fact possesses the famous five stages, but an entire industry of counselors makes a fortune insisting that it is so.
“Go to bed,” I remind myself, lest I forget why I came upstairs.
I glance out the bathroom window into the yard. All seems to be at peace. At last I return to the bedroom and crawl between the sheets. I am so, so sorry, I whisper to my sleeping wife, but only in my mind. I didn’t mean it to go this way. I lie still, I say my prayers, and then I gaze at the ceiling in the darkness, sensing more than feeling my wife a few feet away, not daring to reach out to her for the comfort I crave to give, and to get. My mind refuses to settle into sleep, still besieging itself with all the guilt I can heap on my own head, which is quite a bit. I turn toward Kimmer again. Where did you go for three hours this afternoon? I ask her in my mind: for she was not at her office and did not answer her cell phone. It has happened before. It will happen again. How did we get here, darling?
I try another position, but sleep refuses to come, and the answers I crave remain as elusive as ever. I am doing little work. My reputation is crumbling around me. I am becoming known as the mad law professor who skips classes, makes nutty accusations, and gets beaten up in the middle of the Quad.
And no human being, certainly no wife, to comfort me in my depression and distress.
Ah, Kimmer, Kimmer! Why do you do… what you do? Again I remember, uneasily, our relationship in its youth, when opening my eyes each morning to Kimmer’s smiling face was all I asked of the world. I hear the rumbling of a train passing, but it is only the blood pounding in my head. I open my eyes, but my wife’s face is hidden. The bed is suddenly too vast, the distance from Kimmer too great. I turn onto one side, then the other, then back again, as my wife rolls over and mumbles something unintelligible. I wish I could believe she was telling me, in her half-sleep, that she loves me. I wish I dared reach out to her for comfort. I wish I knew why I have the sense that I have been played for a fool by forces larger than myself.
You and your family are perfectly safe.
Well, he said nothing about humiliation or the ruin of my career.
Longing for my wife’s unyielding body, I know the despair of the stateless refugee, praying that he might, against all expectations, reach once more his war-torn home, a cold, unfriendly territory from which he has been excluded. But out there in the darkness, I sense the forbidding barricades I cannot see. When one of my feet touches one of hers, Kimmer stirs and shifts her leg away, even in sleep rejecting my presence. For a long moment, I consider waking her, to argue my way back to my homeland, or perhaps to beg. Instead, I turn away from the border of the lush and sensuous land that once welcomed me, close my eyes, and hope not to dream.
CHAPTER 31
“That’s an interesting story,” says John Brown.
“It’s not a story. ”
“It’s still interesting.” He sets himself in the middle of the driveway, shoots the basketball, misses badly. I grab the rebound, dribble to the edge of the grass, try a jumper.
Swish. I point my finger at him. He laughs and slaps it away, then high-fives me.
It is Friday afternoon, three days after Christmas, although Kimmer sometimes insists on celebrating Kwanzaa, too. Two nights ago it snowed three inches, but the unpredictable Elm Harbor weather has once again turned fair, warm enough for this Saturday barbecue. The slushy remainder of the storm splashes and runs under our feet. Not quite a white Christmas, but we didn’t miss it by much.
The Christmases of my childhood were grand and joyous affairs, the Shepard Street house decorated by my mother with freshly cut garlands and poinsettias and mistletoe, a tree of intimidating size glowing in the two-story foyer, the downstairs full of boisterous relatives and friends, with more reciprocal visits to come in the days to follow. We children dozed through midnight mass at Trinity and St. Michael and rose early the next morning to find the gigantic tree surrounded, as if through wizardry, by a small mountain of gifts. Even though we knew the greater part of the festively wrapped packages would turn out to hold clothing and books, we always imagined them full of beautiful toys, which some of them were. And the Judge-in those early days, merely Daddy-would sit in his favorite armchair in slippers and robe, the pipe he smoked back then held fast between his teeth, relishing our love and gratitude, rubbing our backs as we hugged his strong legs.
At Number 41 Hobby Road, Christmas has always been a more staid affair, as Kimmer and I exchange token gifts in front of the small artificial tree on which my practical wife insists, pointing to the time, trouble, and what she calls the risk- Water and electricity together? Forget it! -of the real thing. With Bentley, at three years and nine months, old enough to appreciate what is going on (although it is Santa, not Jesus, he seems to appreciate), Kimmer and I both tried to be a little more upbeat this year. Wrapping our son’s gifts together on Christmas Eve was actually a joy, and, in bed later on, as we lay awake listening to the wind, my wife kissed my cheek and told me she is glad we are still together. I told her I am glad, too, which is the truth. I have worked hard over the past couple of weeks to keep my promise to Morris Young by treating my wife to love rather than suspicion, and she has responded with a lighter, happier mood. I have the unexpected but reassuring sense that whatever man she was involved with she has put behind her, perhaps as a New Year’s resolution, or even a Christmas gift to her husband. At the same time, belowdecks, I have tried to think of a way to move forward on cleaning up the mess into which the Judge has drawn me.
Telling John Brown a little of what has been going on, as I promised last month I would, seems to me a sensible start.
“So, what do you think I should do?” I ask John as I shoot again. The ball clangs off the rim and crashes down on his dark blue Town amp; Country minivan. He scoops up the ball before it has the chance to knock over my rusty but trusty grill, where orange flames frolic over freshly lighted charcoal.
“Nothing. Leave it to the FBI. There’s nothing to be done. Interesting shot.” As laconic as always. John does not believe in using two words when one will do, and will never substitute three syllables when two are sufficient. We have been shooting hoops so that we can talk without fear of interruption. John has been urging me to tell the authorities about everything, but I have not committed myself to anything. “You need an expert, Misha. And they’re the experts.”
I nod thoughtfully. I am not the sort of man who easily befriends other men, but my relationship with John has been an oddly enduring thing. I have known him and his wife, Janice, since we were all college freshmen together, Janice the most sought-after among the black women in the class, John easily the most studious of the black men. Today John is an electrical engineer, which is what he always planned, and Janice is a full-time mother, which is what she always wanted. Now that he is at Ohio State, they live in Columbus, we see them only once or twice a year, usually just after classes end for the holiday. They are wonderful people. Kimmer likes them, too: Even though you brought them into the marriage, she likes to quip.
“I don’t know,” I say finally, the Hamlet of Hobby Road.
John’s eyebrows go up. “What, you don’t trust the FBI?” Another shot. Bumps around the rim, then drops through, bounces on the pavement, and rolls into the wet snow that still obscures most of the lawn.
“What if the FBI is part of it?” asks Mariah sharply from behind us, taking us by surprise. “How can we leave it to the FBI?”
