Fil said.

Jesus Christ, Tracy said.

Alone in the oak-paneled den, among the piles of Barron’s and the Journal, the weekend’s cigar stubs leaning like drunk, fat little men against the ashtray’s marble walls, Albert reached for the Bakelite radio on his reading table, and his fingers tapped against the grille but he did not turn it on. His daughters’ presence was still draining from the room. People left no truly meaningful remnants; a person was either there or she wasn’t, and a photograph or old dresses or drawers full of her stockings and sweaters were only artifacts, triggers for memories, and memories were morbid things, confirmations of loss. He had nothing left but absence. So it was just as well that he go.

Once he became accustomed to the room’s silence, it was as if they’d never been there at all. Outside, the usual symphony of horns and sirens. The roar and scrape of the plow trucks.

Through the French doors he saw the baby grand in the corner of the living room, and from there his eyes drifted back to the sofa across from him, the rumpled basins left by his daughters’ behinds. The Oriental rug, turned up at the corner, and on the coffee table, his own empty scotch glass. A water mark. He supposed the girl would put some mayonnaise on it, but as he filled his lungs with air to bellow her name, he wondered why it mattered.

All the same, he called after her, repeatedly, in a harsh, barking voice. She didn’t answer.

Oh. Yes. The girl is gone.

He went to the sideboard, poured a scotch right up to the rim of the glass, and sat back down. He sat in his chair for another hour, the leather creaking when he shifted his weight, fingering the rivets at the end of each arm, not exactly thinking but allowing thoughts to skip across the surface of consciousness. The girls; vague screwball theories about commodity prices; images from a trip to Ireland he took with Sydney in 1966. His son, who never visited. He winced when he thought about his grandson, and he invited the memory to submerge him. All along, his mind was rummaging around for the plan.

How did it start, again?

Another hour passed. He nodded off, snapped awake, repeated the cycle. More snow slipped by the window. Intonations drifted from the heating grates. The pipes knocked in the wall. Night soil sliding down to the sewer. What causes the vibration of pipes filled with human waste? Something to do with vacuums, air pressure, he couldn’t exactly be sure, but now he had an image, all the waste behind all the walls of his apartment, the dark mass in transit, surrounding him, a prison of excrement. When he’d arrived a scholarship boy at Tolver in 1918, he’d never used an indoor toilet. In those days, one became a man at thirteen. Today one could make a good living playing sports or popular music, one could dress in a T-shirt and tennis shoes, eat at 21 wearing blue jeans. Money had superseded the refinements of the upper class. Did this mean anything to him? No, only an observation. In this era a man’s chief aim was to remain a child.

He sneered and exhaled through his teeth. Wasting time. He hated wasting time. Where was the girl? He consulted the small notebook he kept in his pocket. It was Monday. Was it Monday? Yes. His scotch glass was empty. He got up and refilled it.

The girl is gone.

He’d dismissed her, had he? Things would be different for her afterward. His daughters might file suit, but what could they take from her, sheltered as she was by poverty? Would she miss him? Unlikely that she’d ever visit his final resting place, or glance mournfully out at the river. If he failed to complete his task, he’d be institutionalized. He’d never see her again, either way.

The girl is gone. Good. So you’ve taken care of that.

He was trying to puzzle out what hospital to call when Erica appeared, an apparition floating down the hall like a whisper, turning the corner into his study with an imperceptible sigh. Efficient as ever, she moved to clean up the decimated Times scattered on the floor beside his chair.

I’m still reading that, he snapped.

She backed away.

You didn’t use a coaster, she said.

It’s my goddamn table. Put some mayonnaise on it.

Did you have a nice visit?

Yes, he said quickly before scrambling to recall who had visited.

Well, that’s good. Did Fil make you something to eat?

He looked around, in part to gather more information so that he might answer, in part because he meant to show her that he couldn’t see anything she couldn’t, and that the question was stupid.

Doesn’t appear so, does it? I need you to go out and get me something to eat, Albert said.

Albert, she said.

I’m hungry for sesame noodles.

You haven’t eaten anything? It’s late.

Is it? he said, though he was already looking at the clock. I was waiting for you, he said.

She laughed. Waiting for me to get your dinner, you mean. Albert, the snow. There’s a blizzard. Nothing’s open, not even Golden Palace.

You’ve confirmed this?

Albert, nothing’s open.

You’ve confirmed it? he said.

Their secret: Albert survived on General Tso’s chicken and cold sesame noodles. Four, sometimes five nights a week, she called in the order. Albert refused to let her tip more than fifty cents, but if the weather was bad, she added a quarter of her own.

I’m sure they’re open. But they won’t deliver. Not tonight, he said.

You’re just making things up now. Stop it.

Prove me wrong, he said.

Fine. Let’s call and see if anyone picks up.

I don’t want to call them! Albert was gripping the armrests like a man undergoing a particularly hairy dental procedure.

Fine, Albert. Do you want to look at the photo album? Erica said.

Now? Albert said.

One last time before you go, she said.

Fine, fine, Albert said. What had she meant by that? he wondered. Did she know what he meant to

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