in my ear, I regret that I will not be able to make it. Indeed, while a student at Princeton, I took a vaginal oath that forbids me to date two types of people: First, men from Harvard. And second'--here she starts shouting--'sons of self-important, pretentious, trumpeteering parents who think that just because they know how to get preview-night seats at the trendiest restaurant-of-the-moment, the entire free world must have a price tag on it! Sadly, their darling Jake qualifies for both! Sincerely yours, Nora. P.S.--You're not hot shit, the Hamptons are overrated, and no matter what the maitre d' says, he hates you too!' Glaring furiously at the receiver, she shuts off the phone.
'Sorry about that,' she says to me, still breathing heavily.
I'm breathing heavily myself and can hardly hear over the thump of my own heartbeat. 'Nora, I have something impor--'
Once again, the phone rings.
'Damn!' she shouts, grabbing it. 'Yes . . . ?'
As Nora grudgingly agrees to another round of fund-raiser appearances, my eyes roll over to the two framed letters on her nightstand. The first one's in bright red crayon and reads, 'Dear Nora: You're hot. Love, Matt, age 8.' The other reads, 'Dear Nora: Fuck 'em all. Your friends, Joel & Chris.' Both are dated during the first months of her father's administration. When everything was fun.
'You've got to be kidding,' she says into the phone. 'When? Yesterday?'
Listening, she walks across the room toward an antique desk and rifles through a pile of newspapers on top. As she pulls out one of them, I see that it's the Herald. 'What page?' she asks. 'No, I got it right here. Thanks--I'll call you later.'
Putting down the phone, she thumbs through the paper and finds what she's looking for. A wide smile breaks over her face. 'Have you seen this?' she asks, shoving the paper in my face. 'They asked a hundred fifth-graders if they wanted to be me. Guess how many said yes?'
I shake my head. 'We'll talk about it later.'
'Just guess.'
'I don't want to guess.'
'Why? Afraid to be wrong? Afraid to compete? Afraid to--'
'Nineteen,' I blurt. 'Nineteen said yes. Eighty-one would rather keep their souls.'
She throws the paper aside. 'Listen, I'm sorry about yesterday . . .'
'This isn't about yesterday!'
'Then why're you acting like I stole your Big Wheel?'
'Nora, this isn't the time for jokes!' I seize her by the wrist. 'Come with--'
Once again, the phone rings. She freezes. I refuse to let go. We look at each other.
'Are you sleeping with Edgar Simon?' I blurt.
'What?' Behind her, the phone continues to ring.
'I'm serious, Nora. Say it to my face.'
Nora crosses her arms and stares blankly at me. The phone finally quits. Then, out of nowhere, Nora laughs. She laughs her heartfelt, deep, little-girl laugh--as honest and free as they come.
'I'm not playing around, Nora.'
She's still laughing, panting, slowing down. Now she looks into my eyes. 'C'mon, Michael, you can't be--'
'I want an answer. Are you sleeping with Simon?'
Her mouth clamps shut. 'You're serious, aren't you?'
'What's your answer?'
'Michael, I swear to you, I'd never . . . I'd never do that to you. I'd rather die than be with someone like that.'
'So that means no?'
'Of course it means no. Why would I--' She cuts herself off. 'You think I'm working against you? You really think I'd do that?'
I don't bother to reply.
'I'd never hurt you, Michael. Not after all this.'
'What about before all this?'
'What're you saying? That I had my own reason to kill Caroline? That I set this whole thing up?'
'You said it, not me.'
'Michael!' She grabs me by both hands. 'How could you think that . . . I'd never . . . !' This time, she's the one who won't let go. 'I swear to you, I've never touched him--I'd never want to touch him'--her voice cracks--'in my life.' She drops my hands and turns away.
'God,' she says. 'How'd you even get that in your head?'
'It just seemed to make sense,' I say.
She stops where she is. Her whole body locks up. Facing just her back, I can tell that one hurt. I didn't mean to--
'Is that what you think of me?' she whispers.
'Nora--'
'Is that what you think?' she repeats, her voice quivering. Before I can answer, she turns back to me, searching for the answer. Her eyes are all red. Her shoulders sag. I know that stance--it's the same one my mom had when she left. The posture of defeat. When I don't answer, the tears trickle down her cheeks. 'You really think I'm that much of a whore?'
I shake my head and go to reach out. When I'd thought about how she'd react, I always assumed it'd be raging anger. I never expected a breakdown. 'Nora, you have to understand . . .'
She's not even listening.
Stepping into my arms, she curls into a ball and presses her face against my chest. Her body's shaking. Unlike with Pam, I can't argue. Nora's different.
'I'm sorry,' she sobs, her voice once again cracking. 'I'm sorry you even had to think it.'
As her fingers brush against the back of my neck, I hear the hurt in her voice and see the loneliness in her eyes. But as she nuzzles in close, for once, I hold back. Unlike before, I'm not as easily convinced. Not yet. Not until I talk to Vaughn.
* * *
Although my destination is the Woodley Park Metro stop, I hop off the train at Dupont Circle. Throughout the twenty-minute walk between the two, I weave through sidestreets, cut across traffic, and race against the grain of every one-way I can find. If they're following me in a car, they're lost. If they're on foot . . . well, at least I have a chance. Anything to avoid a rerun of the zoo.
Walking past the restaurants and cafes of Woodley Park, I finally feel at home. There's Lebanese Taverna, where Trey and I came to celebrate his third promotion. And the sushi place where Pam and I ate when her sister came to town. This is where I live--my turf--which is why I notice the unusually clean garbage truck that's coasting up the block.
As it stops on the corner, I barely give it a second glance. Sure, the driver and the guy emptying the nearby trash cans look a little too chiseled, but it's not a weak man's job. Then I notice the sign on the side of the truck--'G & B Removal.' Below the company's name is its phone number, which starts with a 703 area code. Virginia. What's a Virginia truck doing this far in D.C.? Maybe the work's contracted out. Knowing D.C.'s public services, it's certainly possible. But just as I turn away, I hear the broken-glass-raining-bottle-sliding-garbage sound of the metal-can being emptied into the back of the truck. Sound of the city. A sound I hear every night, just as I go to b--My legs cramp up. At night. That's when I hear it. That's when they come. Never during the day.
I spin around and look down the block. On the far corner, there's a trash can overflowing with garbage. That's where the truck was coming from. A full trash can. Behind the truck. Pretending not to notice, I dart into the video store midway up the block.
'Can I help you?' a girl wearing head-to-toe black asks.
'No.' Holding imaginary binoculars in front of my eyes, I press them against the plate glass window, block out the glare of the sun, and stare out at the truck. Neither of the two men has given chase. They're just sitting
