hair, which his boss makes him tie back with a piece of leather so he doesn't offend the customers.
Antonia stares at him, hard, and discovers that Scott looks completely different and exactly the same. Out in the parking lot, Scott's summer partner, who's been driving this delivery route for twenty years and has never before had an assistant who received a 790 on his verbal SATs, leans on the horn.
'Work,' Scott says ruefully. 'Hell with a pay-check.'
That does it. Antonia follows him when he goes to collect his metal dolly. Her face feels hot, even though the air conditioner is switched on.
'See you next week,' Scott says. 'You're low on hot fudge.'
'You could come in before that,' Antonia tells him. There are some things she hasn't forgotten, in spite of her depression and this mess with her aunt Gillian and Mr. Frye.
'I could,' Scott agrees, realizing, before he heads for the truck, that Antonia Owens is much deeper than he would have ever imagined.
That night Antonia runs all the way home after work. She is suddenly filled with energy; she's absolutely charged. When she turns the corner onto her street she can smell the lilacs, and the odor makes her laugh at the silly reactions caused by some ridiculous out-of-season blooms. Most people in the neighborhood have gotten used to the incredible size of the flowers. They no longer notice that there are whole hours of the day when the entire street echoes with the sound of buzzing bees and the light turns especially purple and sweet. Yet some people return again and again. There are women who stand on the sidewalk and weep at the sight of the lilacs for no reason at all, and still others who have plenty of reasons to cry out loud, although none they'd admit to if questioned.
A hot wind is threading through the trees, shaking the branches, and heat lightning has begun to appear in the east. It's a curious night, so hot and so heavy it seems better suited to the tropics, but despite the weather Antonia sees that two women, one whose hair is white and the other who is not much more than a girl, have come to see the lilacs. As Antonia hurries past, she can hear weeping, and she quickens her pace, goes inside, then locks the door behind her.
'Pathetic,' Antonia decrees as she and Kylie peer out the front window to watch the women on the sidewalk cry.
Kylie has been more withdrawn than usual since her birthday supper. She misses Gideon; she has to force herself not to break down and phone him. She feels terrible, but, if anything, she's become even more beautiful. Her cropped blond hair is no longer as shocking. She has stopped slouching to hide how tall she is, and now that she's claimed her full posture, her chin usually tilts up, so that she seems to be considering the blue sky or the cracks in the living room ceiling. She squints her gray-green eyes to see through the glass. She has a particular interest in these two women, since they've come to stand on the sidewalk each night for weeks. The older woman has a white aura around her, as though snow were falling above her alone. The girl, who is her granddaughter and who has just graduated from college, has little pink sparks of confusion rising off her skin. They are here to weep for the same man—the older woman's son, the girl's father—someone who went from boyhood to manhood without ever changing his attitude, convinced till the last that the universe revolved around him alone. The women on the sidewalk spoiled him, both of them, then blamed themselves when he was careless enough to kill himself in a motorboat in Long Island Sound. Now, they're drawn to the lilacs because the flowers remind them of a June night, years ago, when the girl was still tender and awkward and the woman still had thick black hair.
On that night there was a pitcher of sangria on the table, and the lilacs in the grandmother's yard were all in bloom, and the man they both loved, so dearly that they ruined him, took his daughter in his arms and danced with her on the grass. At that moment, beneath the lilacs and the clear sky, he was everything he could have been, if they hadn't given in to him night and day, if they had once suggested that he get a job or act with kindness or think about someone other than himself. They're crying for all he might have been, and all they might have been in his presence and by his side. Watching them, sensing that they've lost what they had for only a brief time, Kylie cries right along with them.
'Oh, please,' Antonia says.
Since her encounter with Scott, she can't help but feel a little smug. Unrequited love is so boring. Weeping under a blue-black sky is for suckers or maniacs.
'Will you get real?' she advises her sister. 'They're two total strangers who are probably complete nut cases. Ignore them. Pull the window shade down. Grow up.'
But that is exactly what has happened to Kylie. She's grown up to discover that she knows and feels too much. No matter where she goes—to the market on an errand, or the town pool for an afternoon swim—she is confronted with people's innermost emotions, which seep from their skins to billow out and float above them, like clouds. Just yesterday, Kylie passed an old woman walking her ancient poodle, which was crippled by arthritis and could barely move. This woman's grief was so overpowering—she would take the dog to the animal hospital by the end of the week to put it out of its misery—that Kylie found she could not take another step. She sat down on the curb and she stayed there until dusk, and when she finally walked home she felt dizzy and weak.
She wishes that she could go out and play soccer with Gideon and not feel other people's pain. She wishes that she were twelve years old again, and that men didn't shout out their car windows whenever she walks along the Turnpike about how much they'd like to fuck her. She wishes she had a sister who acted like a human being, and an aunt who didn't cry herself to sleep so often that her pillow has to be wrung out each morning.
Most of all, Kylie wishes that the man in their backyard would go away. He's out there right now, as Antonia heads for the kitchen, humming, to fetch herself a snack. Kylie can see him from the window that allows a view of both the front and the side yards. Bad weather never affects him; if anything, he relishes black skies and wind. The rain doesn't bother him in the least. It seems to go right through him, with each drop turning a luminous blue. His polished boots have just the slightest film of dirt. His white shirt looks starched and pressed. All the same, he's been making a mess of things. Every time he breathes, horrible things come out of his mouth: Little green frogs. Drops of blood. Chocolates wrapped in pretty foil, but with poisonous centers that give off a foul odor each time he breaks one in half. He's wrecking things just by snapping his fingers. He's making things fall apart. Inside the walls, the pipes are rusting. The tile floor in the basement is turning to dust. The coils of the refrigerator have been twisted, and nothing will stay fresh; the eggs are spoiling inside their shells, the cheeses have all turned green.
This man in the garden has no aura of his own, but he often reaches to dip his hands into the purple-red shadow above him, then smears the aura of the lilacs all over himself. No one but Kylie can see him, but he's still able to call all these women out of their houses. He's the one who whispers to them late at night while they're sleeping in their beds.
Kylie has been watching him ever since her birthday. She understands that no one else can see him, although the birds sense him and avoid the lilacs, and the squirrels stop dead in their tracks whenever they get too close. Bees, on the other hand, have no fear of him. They seem attracted to him; they hover near, and anyone who came too close to him would surely risk a sting, maybe even two. The man in the garden is easier to see on rainy days, or late at night, when he appears out of thin air like a star you've been staring at but only now see, right in the center of the sky. He doesn't eat or sleep or drink, but that doesn't mean there aren't things he wants. His wanting is so strong Kylie can feel it, like bands of electricity shaking up the air around him. Just recently, he has taken to staring back at her. She gets terrified whenever he does this. She gets cold right through her skin. He's doing it more and more, staring and staring. It doesn't matter where she is, behind the kitchen window or on the path to the back door. He can watch her twenty-four hours a day if he likes, since he never has to blink—not even for a second, not anymore.
Kylie has begun to set dishes of salt on the windowsills. She sprinkles rosemary outside all the doors. Still, he manages to get into the house when everyone's asleep. Kylie stays up after everyone else is in bed, but she can't stay awake forever, although it's not for lack of trying. Often she falls asleep while she's still dressed in her clothes, a book open beside her, the overhead light kept on, since her aunt Gillian, who's still sharing her room, refuses to sleep in the dark and has lately insisted that the windows be closed tight as well, even on sweltering nights, to keep out the scent of those lilacs.
Some nights everyone in the house has a bad dream at the very same instant. Other nights they all sleep
